[四川]绿袖子
异调—— （外四首）
无非像一节木头，在山谷
流云处，空荡荡地姓了一回断肠草
无非像一头狮子，在峡口
洪水处，突然跌落又荡起，姓了一回猛兽
那节木头，纹路深而有章法
它忍住对禅理的敏感，忍住神的考验
它终于成为狮子悲悯的
一小部分。我在它们中间
变换着角色——
如果，世界可以再轮一回
我愿意在那里做好永逝的准备
如果，能遇见你
我们在最痛苦的时候
姓一回蛇，或者青蛇
2014年4月修改
一些不朽的事物
大院失火的那天起
小阁楼，就不再只属于传统的陈列之物
它把羽毛摇了摇
就沿着一组古建筑群体飞去
沿着古典主义神话飞去
在一本《虚拟的寓言》：它寻找
寻找，可以落脚的地方
与沿途的那只手齐平
与沿途的秒针齐平
有时，面对黑夜中的言论，酒吧
和敏感之物
每当谈论起关于“洋白菜”
和红玫瑰——
一只鸟儿就飞动，飞往苍穹
它就此沉淀，沉淀在一些事物中
比如，想起失火的后遗症
2014年1月4日
——入殓师
真的不应该——
不应该看见那些寂寞一样的稻田，像落日，像死亡
蛊惑的大提琴，一会在d大调上停顿
遥想，沉默。一会是e小调
泪流满面，在田坎上和爱人挥动的情绪
恐惧的视线，往往藏着一坛湖水的自由，熟透了的自由
我喜欢他隐藏的一双手
还有陪伴他的一幅劳作之画。像大量的油彩
和一些不动声色的画笔，任由他临摹，意淫
像久石让的《礼仪师之奏鸣曲》——
我听着听着，夏就出现在眼前
看完一次，悼念一次，夏，瘦弱一次
包括生命的遗言，背影，脚步声——
有时候，一个镜头冲过来，像他额头上的比目鱼，封住一道道晚钟，罄，木鱼
包括远方的灌木，游客，小路，和寺庙
——仿佛宁静
仿佛歧途，仿佛万物无常
和那些唯美的音符比较，那些世俗又能左右什么呢
谁都不用说出口，他的夏天，落日，稻田——
往往比死亡要快，比生命要淡定
2013年8月16日
这一天
你仅仅停留了一刻
生命全都变了样——
这一天
对于南方的鸟巢来说
北方，属于银河系的另一处居所
信子飞来，地平线移动
是我想你了——
想你转身的动作，想你潮湿的毒气
这一天
——世界变软，也变成恨
祭祀坛上的月光
在麦田的祭祀坛上，月光
耕耘过的水，慢慢长出了细细的密纹
我把身子骨嵌入黑夜
一大把麦穗，高出祭品一头
仿佛有看不见的病理
开始是脚体的，心脏的，后又精神恍惚
我想，我是在等一条鱼的出现
和画布上的白，十分相像
一场古老的仪式，和
那些曾经在水面上收割月光的山体
不管它们残留着怎样的黑
我已习惯这独自的空虚
2014年7月修改
[Sichuan] Greensleeves
Different Tunes — (and other four poems)
No more than like a set of wood, in the valley
With clouds, is emptily named as Gelsemium elegans
No more than like a lion in the narrow
In flood, it, suddenly dropped again once more, named as the beast
On that set of wood, there are tricks of deep lines
It refrains its sensitive to Zen, and refrains from God’s test
It finally became the lion’s small part of compassion
I was in the middle of them
To transform the role —
If the world can round once again
I am willing to be there and ready to disappear forever
If I can meet you
When we are in the most painful time
Let’s named as the snakes, or green snakes
Revised on April, 2014
Some Monumental Things
Sine the day that a fire was in yard
Attic has no longer belonged to the traditional objects only for display
It shakes his feathers
Flying away along a group of ancient buildings
And flying away along classical mythology
In a Virtual Fables: it looks for
Looks for, a place that can stay
It’s flush with the hand along the way
It’s flush with the second hand along the way
Sometimes, to face with remarks in dark night, bar
And sensitive things
Whenever talking about “cabbage”
And red roses —
A bird is flying, flying to the sky
It begins to precipitate, precipitate in some things
For example, to think of the fire sequelae
January 4, 2014
— Departures
I really should not —
Should not see those lonely rice fields, like the sunset, like the death
The enchanted cello, pauses in D major for a while
Looking back and keeping silence. It will be in E minor for a while
In tears, waving at the ridge with his lover in emotion
In sight of fear, often hide a jar of free water and the mellow freedom
I like his hidden hands
And a labor of painting accompanied him. Like a lot of paints
And some quiet brushes let him copy, and to be obscenity
Like Joe Hisaishi’s “Departures” —
Listening and listening, the summer appears in front of me
After watching once, mourning once, the summer is thin once
Including the last words of life, shadow, and footsteps —
Sometimes, a shot lens rushing, like a flounder on his forehead, seal the curfew, chime stone, and wooden fish
Including the distant bushes, visitors, paths, and temples
— As if it’s quiet
As if it’s astray, and as if all things are in impermanence
To compare with those beautiful notes, what about those seculars can do
Everyone does not need to say, in his summer, sunset, and rice field —
Often are faster than death and calm than life
August 16, 2013
On This Day
You just stay a moment
All kind of lives have changed —
On this day
For the bird’s nest in the south
The north belongs to another home in galaxy
Windflowers flying, horizon moving
It is i miss you —
Miss your turning movements, and miss your wet poison gas
On this day
— World turns soft, and also turns to hate
Moonlight on the Sacrificial Altar
On the sacrificial altar of wheat field, moonlight
And cultivated water, slowly grow a thin microgroove
I put my body bone embedded in the night
A handful ear of wheat is a head higher than the sacrificial alter
As if there is the invisible pathology
At start, it is the feet body, the heart, and then trance
I think I’m waiting for a fish to appear
And it is very similar to the white on canvas
An ancient ritual, and
Those mountains that ever harvest moonlight on the water
No matter how darkness they remained
I have got used to this emptiness alone
Revised on July, 2014
(Translated by Sophy Chen)
