路云的诗(剑桥大学徐志摩诗歌节专稿)
路云的诗(剑桥大学徐志摩诗歌节专稿)
路云
生于1970年。受聘于湖南涉外经济学院讲授创意写作。诗文见于《云梦学刊》《山花》等。著有个人诗集《出发》(2005)、《望月湖残篇》(2011）
某年某月某日
黑暗中有一双疾走的胫骨，来到街坊，
某年某月某日，街坊空无一人，我不孤单，
也不急于离开。我只是一支啤酒的老顾客。
昨天夜里还在建湘路的白蜡树下，看见
一对恋人坐在那块石头上，我曾经有过的快乐
足以把这块石头碾成一只蝴蝶，另一对儿。
他们同样不认识我，也不知道这块石头的
某年某月某日。我沮丧我说什么都不是我所说。
我的恐惧，绝望和狂喜，她们都到哪里去了，
难道什么都不存在？我只是在回忆往事，
过去的一个女人。她带来的黑暗中有一双疾走的胫骨，
难道也变成了翅膀，昨天和风？这多奇怪，
事实上没有一个人的剧场。剧场上演的只是一个信息。
对于街坊来说，我来过爱过仅仅是一个简单的编码。
我试图挽回的是关于某个时刻某件随风涌动的裙带，
某种语气和呼吸，一缕微微升起的红晕和侧目。
不，不是另一个我的回忆和曾经的对峙。
我都说过什么，有过何种承诺，喝过多少瓶百威，
吃过多少姜辣蛇？这都是关于我的某个光点，
与爱情毫无关涉。假如我死去，我仍会来到这里，
只需换个发型，但黑暗仍在，那双疾走的胫骨
会停下来，某年某月某日，在那个石头上开出长长的花。
她并未消失，但愿我不会喊出她的名字，并跑上去，
用大笑把一切抹平。
Once Upon a Time
There was a pair of tibiae,
scurrying in the dark, came to the neighborhood,
where almost empty by once upon
that time, but I was not alone,
and not in great haste yet. I
was there just a regular customer of bottle of beer.
I had seen again, under the
white ashes of Jianxiang Road yesternight,
young couples squatting on
the boulder, which might be crushed
into butterflies, the another
couple, by my once joyousness.
They didn't know me, and did not
know anything about the boulder,
and the once time of it. But I
was frustrated by my tumbling words.
Where were they going, my fears,
my despairs and my raptures?
Was there nothing remain to
exist? I just got the idle reflections on the past,
the woman of the past, who once
brought such a darkness in which the shins hurrying around.
How could these vanished like a wind, or flapping their wings? How funny,
a mere theatre had been deserted, in practice. A theatre for a
single message to show up.
My veni vidi vici, and the once ego te amo of mine, all became a
simple code for the neighbors.
What I tried to retrieve meant some kind of a petticoat waving in
that once wind,
and a certain of intoning and breathing, and a dusky blush and a willful
glance.
No, no the retrospect of a second self, nor those disputes.
What had I said, and promised?
How many Buds being wasted,
and how many hot-ginger-snakes
eaten? All of these belonged to some data of my past,
and had nothing
to do with the love. If I were dead, I would haunt to here as often,
with a new haircut, whereas the lingering nigritude, and the scurrying leg bones
would be rest, one of these
days, upon that rock and bloom in longiflora.
And she would be never fade,
might I would never greet her name, and advanced to meet,
hoping to smooth everything with
cheerful mirth.
在郊外我是个小工
在郊外我渴望租用一个窄小的子宫，
生下爱情。郊区是我的初恋，
她的固执不合时宜。在郊外我是个小工，
把某些东西搅拌、碾碎，放进墙体，
墙面摇晃，有时候我被摇下来，
又摇下来，但我不曾动摇。
如果城整个塌陷，我仍会把筋骨挖出来，
那些不能丢，我也不会丢。
我会重新开始搭架，在各种目光中搅拌，
碾碎，放进墙体，墙面晃动，晃动，
我也晃下来，陷落，变迁。
像我一步步后退，随着郊区的节奏，
在某一天，靠着我的出生地和故居。
在这里，我会呆上一阵，当个义工。
那些磨灭的角线与墙体吸引我，我为之
震荡，像我不再谈论我的父亲和他的模架。
有一次，父亲用双手印平一口砖子，
大拇指顺手一摁，在右上角
摁出一个酒窝，那满盏笑意
印在我心上。那四角四印的砖坯，
比镜子明亮，可以看见我青春的全部。
有一些在暴雨中溜走，他们没有留下姓名，
有一些进入土窑，把水分挤干，
成为基脚，在这里我懂得火是基础。
大部分停在风中，进入墙体，
如果抚摸它，像刚出土的铜镜，
有些事情温热可辨。火与土居于最下面，
土和风在中间，风和水在上面。
那古老的手艺我不曾学会，渐渐废弃，
但我不会忘记，这样的爱和坯子。
他们是一个更大的镜面，照看我的小酒窝，
这隐约的居所，停在右上角，在某个墙体当中
成为空隙，被忽略不计，正是它在等着我。
I'm a Coolie of the Suburb
I long for a small womb in the suburb,
to bring me an affair. The suburb is my first love,
with her own obstinateness anachronistic. I'm a coolie in the
suburb,
make something crushing, and pour between bricks,
while the rickety walls sometimes make me toppled,
and toppled again, but I never weaken.
Ever all of the city went to collapse, I would dig out his bones,
which shouldn't be dumped, and I couldn't to do so.
I would rebuild the scaffold, under all kind of stares,
crushing and pouring, while the wall shaking,
and I shake down, sink in, and make a transition.
With the rhythm of suburb, I give way at every step,
until someday, go back to my native heath.
Where, I would stay, work as a volunteer.
Attracted by the worn corners and pillars, I felt
astonishment, like my long left father and his frameworks.
Once when he moulded a brick in clay,
flattened it with both hands, and then pressed at the top right
to make a dimple, a brimming smile
which impressed in my heart. Those regularly square bricks,
brighter than a mirror, reflect all of my youth days.
Some washed away by the rainstorm, and remained no name,
and some carried into the kiln, baked to dry,
and became part of pedestal, where I learned that the fire mean
the basis.
But most stayed in the wind, and melted into the wall,
while one touch it, like a bronze mirror just unearthed,
would sense something warm and hot within. Fire and clay rest
below,
clay and wind stay between, wind and water float upon.
The old craft I never learned, and long wasted,
but I would never forgotten such a love and moulder.
They make a greater mirror, shine upon my little dimples,
such a secluded corner, located at the top right, within some kind
of a wall,
and became a chink of it, be neglected, but still waiting here,
for me.
父亲，我父亲
我相信每一日的行走，都是深入泥土，风沙，
当触及腰身，我看见十字，停在大地当中。
这令我惊讶，泥土是银行，风沙是银行，
我把生命作为定期存进去，取走稻米，蕨类，
和一大早的鸣叫。父亲取走一大早的扁担，
那是一个旋转的十字，从上面看从下面看，
从左右两边看，它都在担当着什么，晃悠悠的，
从不走形。当他睡下，有一次，我拿上扁担，
横放在他肚脐眼的上面，又是一个十字。
我猜测父亲不知道，但我错了，父亲一醒来，
双手自然而然拿着它，显明那晃悠悠的十字。
这里面的变化我不懂，父亲明明挑起的是
井水和稻谷，怎么变成了生活、责任和爱？
当母亲把捣衣槌横放在父亲的换洗衣上，
我看见同样的十字，我偷偷看母亲的脸色，
是一个池塘大小的宁静。在夜色中，
母亲由南而北从对门山的菜地回家，
与踏着曙光的父亲不同，父亲从村西头走到东头，
开始一天的劳动。我站在屋前地坪的中间，
位于这个由脚步和小径组成的十字路口，
我徘徊，我相信每一日的行走是沿着父亲的目光，
沿着母亲的目光，通向明天一大早，
通向三公里以外的地方。当我迷途，我回来，
把那扁担，捣衣槌，随意放在什么地方，
甚至摆成一个十字，我会怔怔地望着，低下头。
想着腰身以上的不安和爱。
Dad, My Dad
I believe, my every step deep in the soil, and the dust,
when I raise my back, seeing a cross suspended upon the earth.
It make me surprise that, the soil is a bank, the dust is a bank,
I saving my life in the form of time deposit, withdraw the rice,
the fern,
and the twitterings of morning. But my dad drew out his carrying
pole of the morning,
which look like a twirling cross, either in top or bottom views,
in left or right views, and always undertaking something, in
swaying,
but never out of its shape. Once when he had slept, I took up the
pole,
laid across upon his navel, another cross again.
I supposed dad don't know, but I was wrong, and then my dad woke
up,
and held it instinctively in both hands, demonstrating the swaying
cross.
I wondered what of changings happen within, what my dad carrying
were evidently
the water and the grain, but how could them turned into life, duty
and love?
When my mom laid her washing mallet across my dad's laundry,
I saw the same cross again, and I glanced the countenance of my
mom,
a peacefulnesss in size of the pool. In the gloaming,
my mom home from the field across the opposite hill, from south to
north,
converse with my dad, who walked out by the twilight, from the
west end of village to the east,
and began a whole day's work. I stand at the threshing ground
before my home,
just at a crossroads of the step tracks and the rugged path,
in wandering, I believe my every step along down the gaze of my
dad,
and of my mom, reach to the morning of tomorrow,
to some site three kilometers away. While I lost, I would come
back,
taking the carrying pole, and the washing mallet, place randomly
at some where,
or even set as a cross, I would watch attentively, with a bowed
head,
thought of the ache upon my back, and the love.
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