第二十二室诗

                                                  第二十二室诗

在睡眠的仁慈里

昨晚我拜访了你,你
如孩子般无拘无束地熟睡着,
随意地蜷缩在
被你的美丽镶嵌的被单里。
我把手放在你的脸上
动作尽可能轻地
抚摸你
好让你可以逗留在你的梦境里。
我听见柔和的低语声,只有天使在聆听他们的家乡时才会产生的。
于是我拿开我的手
担心我会弄醒你
尽管我已尽可能轻柔了。

但你停留在你的梦境里
而我看着它们
在睡眠的仁慈里找到了你。
然后我梦见我是你身体的回声
蜷缩在你身边,就象一个追逐财富的人
最终找到了他的金子。
听到你的呼吸声我几乎哭了出来,
但我安静得象一个冬天的湖泊,咬着嘴唇,
以免我被发觉。

我不想打扰你
于是我放下我的愿望
轻轻地从被单下面
拉出你的手握着。
一只进入到肉身里的手
一定是把我带到这里来的诱饵。
当我握着它
我记起了我为何来
感觉你的脉搏
和你沉睡中的心跳。
然后我记起了我为什么来到
睡眠的仁慈里–
握着你的手,抚摸你的脸
以及聆听天使的
柔和的呼吸,
如此随意地蜷曲在
镶嵌着你的美丽的被单里。

温暖的存在

我曾经戴着一枚护身符
用来提防人类的镊子。
它阻挡了狼群的进攻
狼群围绕着我如同客西马尼(耶稣受难地 – 译注)的幽灵。
幽灵们甚至至今
仍反复播放着它们的咒语,象吹螺号一样。

哄骗我走出去加入世俗一族。
裸露我无边的悲伤
象杨树的种子随风飘荡。

如今我聆听,观察着信号。
好在矛盾心理时展露隐士超然的洞察力。
铭记着要讲述那被锁锁住了的事物。
这全都被设计在电缆的外壳里了,
它将我们与文化相连接。

那将我们描绘成上帝的单一、黑色的线,
那支配着我们的形象
并引导着我们对牛仔裤的自然选择的DNA。

黑暗、不吉的雷声里
是否有歌声在低吟浅唱?
单调的云墙背后
是否真的有一个太阳
在敲打着亿万把光锤?
确实有细小扁平的牙齿流露着恶毒。
即使双手忙着杀戮
侩子手的眼睛里也有着未被亵渎的仁慈。
但却没有辩解留给
仅用眼睛来悲痛的窥淫癖圣徒。
只有一条道路可以追随
把你的手和眼相连
释放幻影。

这首诗是我心的一个影子
而我的心是我头脑的影子,
头脑是我灵魂的影子
灵魂是上帝的影子。
上帝,某种未知而难以想像的
智慧之丛簇,在那儿
星系只是宇宙身体里的细胞。
影子是互连的吗?
这个浩瀚、未知的丛簇是否能进入这首诗
将连接到一个神圣的接合点的词语组装起来?
这是我写作的原因。
虽然我不能说这个接合点曾经被
(至少被我)找到过。

更明显的是一只亵渎的手,
因黑暗而苍白,伸出来抛下它的悲伤。
一些小型的阴影或幻影
将我的手按在一个孤独的前哨
去认领一些错位的光明。
当它们低语时,幽灵努力聆听着歌声。
与搜寻的眼睛相配合。
它剥去外壳碰触柔软的果实。
将阴影焊接成一体。

我梦见我找到了一张赎金字条
是上帝亲笔书写的。
字小得我几乎无法辨认
上面写道:
“我拥有你的灵魂,除非你
在小小的、无名的诗里–释放
你所有忧伤的总数,否则你将再也
看不到它活着的样子。”

因此我写作,某些未知的事物萦绕在我周围,
不可见,然而让我的手无法抗拒。
更多的幻影从客西马尼来,以痛苦为荣
仿佛职业忏悔者迷失在他们的绝望里了。
我能够到向日葵大小的
月光,但我无法够着我全部的痛苦。
它们躲开了我
如同夜晚坠落在我窗外火花四溅的星星。

我的灵魂一定紧张不安。
即使对一个探索文化黑色脉络的诗人来说
赎金也太庞大了。

几年前我找到一个印记
–象是雪人–被某只动物,也许是鹿或熊
遗留在高高的草丛里了。
当我触摸它时,我感到的不是麦田圈冰冷的辐射
而是生命温暖的存在。
这温暖的能量只逗留了片刻
但是当它被触摸到时,它就永远持续下去了。
这是我所担心的事情:
我所有的痛苦也将永远持续下去。
当痛苦被触摸时,即使我的灵魂
已安然返回,
我还是只会记得那冰冷的辐射
而不是生命温暖的存在。

此刻,当孩子们唱歌时我哭了
将他们温暖的存在埋进我的心。
此刻,我感到上帝被阴影的源头
延后了。
此刻,我感到被缰绳拖曳着,
它们阻断我就象将野马
突然变驯服。

我不可能与幽灵作战
控制它们或让它们离去。
它们戳着我,仿佛岩浆就该
继续在寒冷的夜空里奔流
永不疲倦地移动。
永不停止搜索
一个可以成为雕塑的理想地点。
灰色风景的一个无名地貌。

如果我能找到我悲伤的总数
我希望那是在桥塔
我在穿越之前
能看到两条道路的地方。
在那里,我能看清伪造物
象易碎的海市蜃楼
从而摆脱束缚我的缰绳。
当我面对它时我需要狂野一些。
我需要看进它那
难以形容的光
解开所有象纸玩偶般连环扣在一起的阴影,
将它们从经验的多重宇宙里切下来。
让它们围绕着我
在响亮的合唱声中
带给它们觉悟,这样我
就能交出赎金,赎回我的灵魂。

当我所有的悲伤聚拢在
在一个完整的圆环周围时,我将用目光击退它们。
在它们后面第二个圆环等着,
仍然更大也更强有力。
它是生命温暖的存在之环
当悲伤在阴影的源头下面经过
象携带着彩虹天使的
沉闷蝶蛹般地转变。

 

 

 

 

In the Kindness of Sleep

I visited you last night when you
were sleeping with a child’s abandon.
Curled so casual in sheets
inlaid by your beauty.
I held my hand to your face
and touched as gently
as I know how
so you could linger with your dreams.
I heard soft murmurs that only angels make
when they listen to their home.
So I drew my hand away
uneasy that I might wake you
even as gentle as I was.

But you stayed with your dreams
and I watched as they found their way to you
in the kindness of sleep.
And I dreamed that I was an echo of your body
curled beside you like a fortune hunter
who finally found his gold.
I nearly wept at the sound of your breath,
but I stayed quiet as a winter lake, and bit my lip
to ensure I wouldn’t be detected.

I didn’t want to intrude
so I set my dream aside
and I gently pulled your hand from underneath
the covers to hold.
A hand whose entry into flesh
must have been the lure that brought me here.
And as I hold it
I remember why I came
to feel your pulse
and the beating of your heart in deep slumber.
And I remember why I came in the
kindness of sleep—
to hold your hand, touch your face
and listen to the soft breathing
of an angel,
curled so casual in sheets
inlaid by your beauty.

Warm Presence

I once wore an amulet
that guarded against the forceps of humanity.
It kept at bay the phalanx of wolves
that circled me like phantoms of Gethsemane.
Phantoms that even now
replay their mantra like conch shells.
Coaxing me to step out and join the earthly tribe.
To bare my sorrow’s spaciousness
like a cottonwood’s seed to the wind.

Now I listen and watch for signals.
To emerge a recluse squinting in ambivalence
inscribed to tell what has been held by locks.
It is all devised in the sheath of cable
that connects us to Culture.
The single, black strand that portrays us to God.
The DNA that commands our image
and guides our natural selection of jeans.

Are there whispers of songs flickering
in dark, ominous thunder?
Is there truly a sun behind
this wall of monotone clouds
that beats a billion hammers of light?
There are small, flat teeth that weep venom.
There is an inviolate clemency
in the eyes of executioners
while their hands toil to kill.
But there is no explanation for
voyeur saints who grieve only with their eyes.
There is only one path to follow
when you connect your hand and eye
and release the phantoms.

This poem is a shadow of my heart
and my heart the shadow of my mind,
which is the shadow of my soul
the shadow of God.
God, a shadow of some unknown, unimaginable
cluster of intelligence where galaxies
are cellular in the universal body.
Are the shadows connected?
Can this vast, unknown cluster reach into this poem
and assemble words that couple at a holy junction?
It is the reason I write.
Though I cannot say this junction has ever
been found (at least by me).

It is more apparent that some unholy hand,
pale from darkness, reaches out and casts its sorrow.
Some lesser shadow or phantom
positions my hand in a lonely outpost
to claim some misplaced luminance.
The phantom strains to listen for songs
as they whisper.
It coordinates with searching eyes.
It peels skin away to touch the soft fruit.
It welds shadows as one.

I dreamed that I found a ransom note
written in God’s own hand.
Written so small I could barely
read its message, which said:
“I have your soul, and unless you deliver—
in small, unmarked poems—
the sum of your sorrows, you will never
see it alive again.”

And so I write while something unknown is curling
around me, irresistible to my hand, yet unseen.
More phantoms from Gethsemane who honor
sorrow like professional confessors
lost in their despair.
I can reach sunflowers the size of
moonbeams, but I cannot reach
the sum of my sorrows.
They elude me like ignescent stars that fall nightly
outside my window.

My soul must be nervous.
The ransom is too much to pay
even for a poet who explores
the black strand of Culture.

Years ago I found an
Impression—like snow angels—left in tall grass
by some animal, perhaps a deer or bear.
When I touched it I felt the warm presence of life,
not the cold radiation of crop circles.
This warm energy lingers only for a moment
but when it is touched it lasts forever.
And this is my fear:
that the sum of my sorrows will last forever
when it is touched, and even though my soul
is returned unharmed,
I will remember the cold radiation
and not the warm presence of life.

Now I weep when children sing
and burrow their warm presence into my heart.
Now I feel God adjourned by the
source of shadows.
Now I feel the pull of a bridle,
breaking me like a wild horse turned
suddenly submissive.
I cannot fight the phantoms
or control them or turn them away.
They prod at me as if a lava stream should
continue on into the cold night air
and never tire of movement.
Never cease its search
for the perfect place to be a sculpture.
An anonymous feature of the gray landscape.

If ever I find the sum of my sorrows
I hope it is at the bridgetower
where I can see both ways
before I cross over.
Where I can see forgeries like a crisp mirage
and throw off my bridle.
I will need to be wild when I face it.
I will need to look into its
unnameable light and unravel
all the shadows interlocked like paper dolls
and cut from a multiverse of experience.
To let them surround me
and in one resounding chorus
confer their epiphany so I
can hand over the ransom and reclaim my soul.

When all my sorrows are gathered round
in an unbroken ring I will stare them down.
Behind them waits a second ring,
larger still and far more powerful.
It is the ring of life’s warm presence
when sorrows have passed
underneath the shadows’ source
and transform like the dull chrysalis
that bears iridescent angels.

此条目发表在分类目录。将固定链接加入收藏夹。

发表评论