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Jinhua Fan 晚 餐 (为K而作,美国作家、普拉斯学者、西藏佛教徒)
秋夜浸泡在软软的摩洛哥音乐中。 昏黄的街灯在窗外的檐口下 有点晃眼且有一种沉甸甸的温暖。 窗帘上半叠起的图案拱着猫腰, 于是,那隔开两个世界的空间 有了绒毛的虚幻而触感。
在这里你将不计其数的下午坐成黄昏, 通常是这张餐桌,往往是这个座位。 你请客不多,所以总记得为了怎样的文字。 这儿的装修多年未变,还是 这样的东方风格。你知道墙上的花瓣如何打开、 香蒲如何垂下如刀的长叶。
适意的气氛如蛇一样在地板上蜿蜒 然后袅袅升起,好似隐匿的火舌。 你坐在这儿,便坐在它们中间,下巴 安置在掌中,手肘安放在桌上,听着一件轶事, 眼中漾出平静的笑意。画框外该是一个男人,
如我,此刻正看着这张静止的画面。晚餐已经结束。 他是否为你的魅力倾倒而敬你一杯?你们吃了什么甜点? 那个男人是否也是三十八岁,如我,将一个自杀 在三十八年前的女诗人转化成另一种语言?只是 他出生的国家从小就教育他 不相信报应和轮回。
你转过头来,犹如要躲开催眠似的竖琴, 决意不要尾随那无处不在的弹奏者的脚步。 你抿了一口红酒说道:你最好相信。 你的声音刚好穿透音乐,然后,空白 及时占据了你们之间的停顿。“现在你会认为这是 迷信,而明年你或许会认为这是巧合,而谁又能保证
再过一年会怎样?” 他说:这酒不错,爽口且味足。 于是他又啜了一口,说“我会相信”。 当你向后靠着椅背,窗帘上的花朵 被折叠得更紧。他从你让出的空间 看着窗外,街灯洒下浓厚的静谧。
A DinnerFor K, a Writer, Tibetan Buddhist, Plath Scholar
Autumn evening in Moroccan muzak. Outside, beyond the eaves, the streetlight Is yellowly dazzling and warmly heavy. Only the half-folded patterns on the curtains Can make the thin space between the two worlds Fuzzy and tangible.
You’ve been here, sitting through uncounted afternoons, Usually at this table, often this seat. You do not often treat guests, so you remember the words for Every occasion. The décor remains the same over the years, The same Oriental motif. And you know how the petals open On the wall and how the cattails droop their blades.
Easy air is serpentine along the floor Before curling upward, like invisible flames. You sit in it, and you sit among them, your chin resting In the right hand, and eyes smiling At an anecdote. There must be a man outside the frame, like me Looking at this pictured still.
The dinner is over. Has he proposed a toast To your glamour and grace? And what is the dessert? Is that man like me, 38, transcribing in another language A woman poet who was dead for 38 years? Was he, too, Born into a country that persistently educates him not to believe in Karma or samsara.
You turn your head like avoiding the mesmerizing lyre music, As if you will not be resigned to follow The omnipresent player. You raise the goblet and pronounce, “You’d better.” And then a blankness Takes over the pause. “Maybe it is mere superstitious, and next year You may consider it coincidental, and who could tell
The year after the next?” He says, “This wine is superb, mellow and crisp.” And he takes another sip, “I would.” As you lean back on the chair, the curtain flowers Are folding tighter. Through the space which your body vacates He looks into the outside. The streetlight is still and thick.
『作者简介』Jinhua Fan,在新加坡从事当代英语诗歌研究等。
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