直到如今

我依然记得你第一次着起了
火，几乎看不见的火苗在肩头和臂膀
显亮出你触碰到的一切，我也第一次看透
词语，进入它们的源起与核心。我看着
你伸向一只在空气中消散的玻璃杯，当你的
视线将一个淹没于雨水和花朵的四月世界
撕开许多孔洞。我们走过一个公园，在那里
你把手卡进一条小猎犬的口中，感受那
热热的粉红牙床和新生的牙齿，还有一个小女孩
穿着瓢虫斗篷飘落，在青草上唱歌，
就像一只蜜蜂嗡，嗡地飞过水仙花。我们开车
去乡下，走过田野和牧场
站在果园崭新的一张轻纱之下，你
说起了过去，捡起一块块时间宛如看不见的
果实，而我能感觉到河流与树木在刻蚀我们。
我们走进一座还未建成的房子，它被天空淹没，你
说：“那里，那里和那里，身体将会盛开。”
我记得雨是怎样下起来的，你却没有
淋湿。芳香的树林闻着像一个正在成熟的果子。
太阳升起正如暮晚伸长，你躺下
在田野里睡去的地方仅有一束红光
好似火中的煤，令我温暖，直到如今。

作者 / [美国] 马克·埃尔文
翻译 / 照朗

Even Now

Still I try to remember when you first caught
fire, the barely visible flames about shoulders and arms
accentuating everything you touched, and I first saw
through words into their origins and hearts. I watched
you reach for a glass dissolving in air, while your
sight tore holes in an April world drowning
in rain and flowers. We walked through a park where
you stuck your hand in a young retriever’s mouth, feeling
the hot pink gums and new teeth, while a little girl
wearing a ladybug cape swooped, singing over the grass
as bees droned is, is over the jonquils. We drove
to the country and walked through fields and meadows
and stood beneath an orchard’s new gauze where you
talked of the past, picking chunks of time like invisible
fruit, and I could feel the rivers and trees engrave us.
We entered a half-built house, flooded with sky, and you
said, “There, there and there bodies will blossom.”
I remember how it began to rain but you did not get
wet. How the fragrant wood smelled like a ripening fruit.
The sun came out as the evening grew long, and where
you lay down in the field to sleep there was only a red glow
resembling coals in a fire, a warmth I can feel, even now.

Mark Irwin

冬天的夜里适合来读一首暖和的诗。

一个人不在了，“躺在田野里”，免不了我们会想到他或她离开人世了。也离开了写诗的人，那位拥有这份回忆的人。

诗的前面一大部分，都是过往愉快的体验，它们那样细微，但是真切。我们记住抽象的概念是为了理解未来，而记住具体的细节才能理解过去。

一些记忆在筛选中存留下来，让人温暖，这是已经停下脚步的人，让其他人继续前行的惟一方法。

让我们这就开始，为未来造一些暖和的记忆吧。

荐诗 / 照朗
2015/12/17

题图 / Kazuo Shiraga, Fire Ritual, 1974