精华热点 
肖恩・休伊特（Seán Hewitt）1990 年出生于英格兰切斯特郡， 现为都柏林三一学院英文系教授；是当代备受关注的文学创作者，其作品在诗歌与回忆录领域均斩获重要奖项，展现出深厚的文学功底与独特的创作视角。
他的首部诗集《火焰之舌》（Tongues of Fire，由乔纳森・凯普出版社于 2020 年出版），在 2021 年荣获劳雷尔诗歌奖（The Laurel Prize），同时入围《星期日泰晤士报》年度青年作家奖（The Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award），凭借灵动的意象与深刻的情感表达，为他在诗坛奠定了坚实地位。
2022 年，他的回忆录《暗夜纵深处》（All Down Darkness Wide，同样由乔纳森・凯普出版社出版）再获殊荣，不仅夺得 2022 年爱尔兰文学鲁尼奖（The Rooney Prize for Irish Literature），还入围爱尔兰图书奖年度传记奖（Biography of the Year at the Irish Book Awards）与福伊尔斯非虚构类年度图书奖（Foyles' Book of the Year in Non-Fiction），以细腻的叙事回溯个人经历，引发广泛共鸣。
此外，肖恩・休伊特的第二部诗集已确定由乔纳森・凯普出版社于 2024 年出版，引发文学界与读者的高度期待。
树灵
我记得她立在田野，周身覆雪 ——
每根枯萎的野花茎秆，都凝着厚霜。
山楂枝桠间，天空泛着粉，
白昼悬在破晓的光沿上。
她自橡树的躯干中被雕琢而出，
双脚（若真有双脚）埋进冬日
卸下的沉疴里。是谁将她从树中剥离，
便赠了她一枚光轮，
她双手捧着，贴近脸颊温柔的弧线。
她就立在那里，在(Broad Lane)凡俗大道旁
那半腐的阶梯栅栏边，头颅低垂，
仿佛在等候，要迎我们入前，
捧出新世界冰封的轮廓。
多年前 (我八九岁懵懂未知期) 学校曾在
她身后的林地播种，如今每棵树
都与我们同步老去。
我每每重返，都能见到我生命的某个片段
陈列在古老村落旁田野，记忆仍在生长。
十八岁上下，我常夜里与男人们同来
跌跌撞撞穿过低矮植被走进树林时，
途经她身旁总觉怪异 ——
像鹿群冲破湿枝，骤然坠落。
如今我想起，那些经 “清洗” 后
被迫流离的男人们，他们辗转于
城镇的幽暗角落，以守望的姿态
走向林地与旧庄园，走向白日沉落的气息里。
曾有一回，我与一个浑身是肌的男人同来，
他仿佛也自独木雕琢而成。
我全程伪装成他那样的男人
用深沉却陌生的嗓音，回应每一句谎言。
那时我怕他会杀了我，便走在他前几步，
听着他踏过泥泞草地的声响，
听他将脚从荆棘藤中拔出。
我们沉默着经过那女人的方向，她立在那里
裹着木质的衣袍，光轮托起青绿纹路的掌心
这里与世人常去的地方截然不同 ——
没有门，没有墙，更没有房间。
浓黑的阔叶枝桠向后拉开，像一幅
帷幕；内里是树林的暗室，被守护着
一片安然。草木与树木的共融之地
便是床榻，我们得以共享这方土。
而后我在他面前屈膝跪下，
秘密仍藏在夜的褶皱里，
努力克制着寒冷中的颤抖，
潮湿的地面潮气上涌。
我记得冷水在牛仔裤的纹路里蔓延，
像毛细血管里的冰。抬头时
天空被落雨般的叶子遮蔽，
每棵树都立在我上方，
与她的身形完美对称。
每棵树都像俯身的人，
静静凝望，轻轻晃动，
发出缓慢而沉重的叹息。
年复一年，我屡次重返，
屈膝跪拜，也受他人跪拜，
在隐秘的敬拜仪式里。如今
每片林地都悄悄浸着情欲的气息
不只是在欲望浓稠的时节，冬日里
性张力也紧贴着大地，沉沉扎根。
每次前来，我总隐约期盼
在林间相遇某个熟悉的灵魂
或在杜鹃花丛空寂的骨架里。
我不禁疑问：是否我已毁了这些地方？
是否我将每个秘密带给它们，用我
不堪承受的重量，压弯了树木？
可转念一想 一棵树、一株草，
若不是向大地跪拜的仪式，
又是什么？是邀引水流的方式，
还是以唇含住全世界的内核，将它
轻轻唤出的模样。不只是春日里
抽芽的新叶（带着痛感），不只是
如云的花粉，或是秋日里孩童摇落枝桠，
让种子如甘霖般洒落；有夜里在林间跪拜的人，
还有在门畔等候的女人，她向每位访客递出
世界的碎片，让他们得以在其中为生命而奔忙
幽灵
1.
醒来时，天色已近黎明，但房间里
仍是一片阴暗，一片金属般的沉寂：
在我的梦中传来一种声音，起初
只是微弱的呜咽声，随后变得像
人类的嚎叫，在外面的街道上响起
无人回应，接着又再次响起。我只穿着内裤
瑟瑟发抖地站在单层窗户旁，周围是停着的
汽车和树篱的黑色轮廓，我看不到任何人
便半裸着身子走了出去：双手颤抖着，
前门未锁便被推开，在门柱下，一束
橙色的光线中，一个年轻人瘫倒在地，
醉醺醺的，像他的整个人生都在化作声音般哭泣着。
2
此刻，我回想起那一个午后的情景：
放学回家后，父亲在花园里挖出一棵
针叶树的树根——我看到他抬起头
突然警觉起来，从后门离开，穿过
梯田后面的巷子，然后带着一个男孩返回。
我认出了他，和我在学校时差不多那个年纪，
他的头发是那种乌黑的长卷发，还有一缕
蓝色的挑染发丝； 但此刻他瘫软地躺在父亲身上
他的手腕垂在父亲沾满泥巴的牛仔裤和庭院的瓷砖上。
那时我就知道有关他的种种传言；当我们
把撕破的床单包裹在他破裂的血管上并固定好
我想着一旦真相大白，我们或许会建立起一种联系，
一种自愿的血缘关系。
3
后来的夜晚，我只能半睡半醒，一直期待着
随时能听到外面有脚步声传来，时间陷仿佛
入了循环，那个男孩依旧沿着规划好的路线
在黑暗的街道上； 在同一时间走向我的家门。
我再一次清理了窗户，静静地站着，等着
看他走来(也许)他是赤着脚，沿小路走来
每晚都没有任何动静，直到我心想，
也许只有我自己，或者是我自己的幻影，
每晚都在请求能在门槛处得到迎接，
被允许重新回到我这冰冷生活的房间中。
但随后，在我们每个人的心中，总有一处
创伤或者给予,总会有灵魂在身体的门边
等待要求被释放出来。
插曲（Interlude）
走向一抹抹温暖灯火；
走向沉睡中静谧的环路；
轻轻推开那扇门，走进去吧。
踏着沾满晨露的鞋子，穿过湿润的草地，
走向河流，走向蜿蜒的河湾，走向低矮的堰坝——
他在那里吗？
看，垂柳在微风中轻轻摇曳，
水面浮着淡淡的鹅黄花粉，
那是他留下的狡黠痕迹，
像星尘般闪烁，悄然飘散；
是他总在你抵达前就已远行的身影。
转身吧，请跟随岸边飘落的叶子，
穿过芦苇丛，那里有白骨顶鸡与田鼠安家筑巢。
找到那座铁桥，勇敢地跨过去。
走向教皇田里的云雀，
俯身轻嗅紫罗兰与白芷花的芬芳。
走向山楂树，为那被带走的孩子轻轻叩门；
走向圣栎树深处——
他在那里吗？
说吧，宝贝亲爱，我夜夜研读这座公园的圣典
熟知它的暗语，它的沉思；它的幽魂；它的游魂
那些守卫，还有门房里跳动的火焰。
即便如此，请继续前行——
走向那空旷而破旧的营房，
墙垣斑驳，雉堞被乌鸦啄蚀；
走向球场旁的停车场，
车灯静静亮着，引擎已熄，
挡风玻璃上蒙着一层薄雾。
站在树影后的寂静之地，
仿佛置身于等待与回望之间。
看，那个男人如天使般掠过窗前，
向每一扇窗温柔致意。
看玻璃缓缓降下，
仪表盘的光晕照亮一张张安静的脸庞。
但请小心，他们中或许有人是守望者，
正默默注视着夜色。
快些，跟上那盏颠簸上山的自行车灯，
奔向那些伫立的暗影
是他吗？在山楂树下，
手持打火机，夹着香烟，
戴着面具？
不是他，但不妨牵起他的手。
对他说：来吧，我们一起去找他。
小心脚下，穿过泥泞的小径，
穿过荆棘与犬蔷薇交织的灌木丛，
走向那隐秘的洞穴，
走向缓慢交缠的身体，
走向低语般的呻吟与呼吸，
走向那些睁着的眼睛。
凝视着散落的纸巾，和被磨出
痕迹的地面。看那个男人，就在那里，
弯下腰，将内心的沉重倾泻于大地。
向他展露你的伤痕吧，你这陌生朋友
说嘛“嗨 陌生人”请证明我的存在
告诉我，宝贝亲爱，我是否也如你一般
只是一个游荡的幽灵？
山楂（Haw）
我低下头，心中泛起一丝羞怯，
抬手轻轻摘下山楂树的一枚果实。
多想让那带着金属光泽的甜味在舌尖蔓延，
像一杯由野性之血酿成的酒，
缓缓饮下，把那份无法言说的渴望
藏进心底，独自沉醉。
男人们从我身旁走过，
在绿色迷宫的边缘驻足，
彼此交换着意味深长的眼神。
虽然无人挽住我的手臂，
但我仍渴望靠近那份温度，
如同酒液浸透果实，
被它的颜色染透，被它的气息填满。
我静静站着，看着一对对身影
消失在叶影深处。
那一夜，躺在床上，
膝上放着一碗山楂果，
我拿起一枚带刺的果核，
仿佛将尖刺反刺向自己，
让身体面对最柔软的部分，
轻轻地触碰，不再逃避。
消散之歌（Dispersion Song）
喔哦，食蚜蝇、小飞虫与蚜虫，
你们在柳林耕地上织出细密的旋律。
蚊子啊，请为他吸走我的血液，
让我化作一片轻盈的翼之云，随风而去。
喔哦，昆虫们，在悬铃木的暗影中轻轻摇曳，
为他编织一首无声的歌谣。
请将你们的面纱覆在我头顶，
娶我好嘛？今夜，我是你的新娘。
附：肖恩・休伊特 诗作原文
DRYAD
I remember her covered in snow in a field
where each dead stalk of wildflower was thick
with frost. The sky was pink in the hawthorns,
the day held on the light-edge of breaking.
A woman carved from the bole of an oak,
her feet (if she had any) buried in the winter’s
shedding weight. Whoever had turned her
from the tree had given her an orb
which she held in both hands, close to the gentle
curve of her face. And she stood there
by the half-rotten stile off Broad Lane,
head bowed, as though waiting to greet us
and offer the frozen circumference of a new
world. Years ago, our school had planted
the woods behind her, when I was eight or nine,
and now each tree ages alongside us.
Every time I go back, I see a part
of my life laid out, still growing in a field
by the old village. I used to come here
often, at eighteen or so, with men at night
and it was strange to pass her as we stumbled
in the undergrowth and into the woods
like deer plummeting through the wet branches.
And I think now of all the men forced outside
after clearing-out, into the dark spaces of towns,
how they walk in vigil to woodlands and old
estates, to the smell of the day settling. Once,
I came here with a man whose whole body
was muscled, as though he too had been carved
from a single trunk of wood. I pretended
all the time to be a man like him,
answering each lie in a deep, alien voice.
I think I was afraid he would kill me,
and walked a few steps ahead, hearing
him moving through the sodden grass,
pulling his feet from the bramble-vines.
We passed the woman without comment,
though she stood there in her cloak of wood,
the globe held in the lathed green of her hands.
Here was so unlike the places other people went,
a place without doors or walls or rooms.
The black heavy-leafed branches pulled back
like a curtain and inside a dark chamber
of the wood, guarded, and made safe.
The bed was the bed of all the plants
and trees, and we could share it. And then
the kneeling down in front of him, keeping
my secrets still in the folds of night, trying
not to shake in the cold, and the damp floor
seeping up. I remember the cold water
spreading in the capillaries of my jeans.
As I looked up, the sky hidden under a rain
of leaves, each tree stood over me
in perfect symmetry with his body.
Each was like a man with his head bent,
each watching and moving and making slow
laboured sighs. I came back often,
year on year, kneeling and being knelt for
in acts of secret worship, and now
each woodland smells quietly of sex,
not only when the air is thick with it,
but in winter too when the strains
are grounded and held against the earth,
and each time I half-expect
to meet someone among the trees
or inside the empty skeleton
of the rhododendron, and I wonder if I have ruined
these places for myself, if I have brought
each secret to them and weighed the trees
with things I can no longer bear. But then
what is a tree, or a plant, if not an act
of kneeling to the earth, a way of bidding
the water to move, of taking in the mouth
the inner part of the world and coaxing it out.
Not just the aching leaf-buds
in spring, the cloud of pollen, or in autumn
the children knocking branches for the shower
of seed, but the people who kneel in the woods
at night, the woman waiting by the gate, offering
to each visitor a small portion of the world
in which they might work for the life of it.
GHOST
i
Waking, close to morning but still
a shuttered, metal dark in the room:
a sound inside my dream, only a whimper
at first, then becoming human, a howl
raised in the street outside, left unanswered
then raised again. In my boxers, shivering
by the single-paned window, but seeing no one
among the black shapes of the parked cars
or hedges, I went out half-dressed: hands shaking,
front door unlocked then pushed open,
and by the column of the porch, under a cone
of orange light, a young man slumped,
drunk, sobbing like his whole life
was unfurling into sound.
ii.
And now, I am reminded of one afternoon,
home from school, my father digging out
the root of a conifer in the garden – I saw him
look up, suddenly alert, leave by the back gate
into the alley behind the terraces, and return
panicked with a boy in his arms. I recognised him,
about my age, from school, by his dreadlocks,
his turquoise streak of hair; but now lolling
under his own weight, his wrists draining
over my father’s mudded jeans and the patio tiles.
I knew, even then, the rumours about him;
thought as we wrapped and pinned torn sheets
around his opened veins, how we might share,
once the truth was out, a bond, an elective blood.
iii.
Nights later, I only half-slept, expecting
at any moment to hear someone again outside,
as though time might be caught in a loop,
the same boy walking the mapped route
along the dark streets at the same hour
to my door. Again, I uncluttered the window,
stood waiting to see him come, barefoot, maybe,
down the path. Each night, no sign, until I thought,
perhaps, it was only me, or a dream of myself,
asking nightly to be greeted at the threshold,
allowed back into the cold room of my life.
But then, in each of us, a wound must be made
or given – there is always the soul waiting
at the door of the body, asking to be let out.
Haw
I looked away, ashamed,
then raised my hand
to the hawthorn
and plucked its fruit.
I wanted this metallic
sweetness on the tongue,
a gin of feral blood
decanted
to carry my desire
inward, to self-intoxicate
a longing I could not
act out. The men
passed me, lingered
at the boundary
of the green labyrinth –
conspiratorial, holding
my eye – and though
I could not be taken
by the arm, I wished
at least to be proximate,
enveloped and sated
as the gin would be
by the berry, coloured
or infringed by it.
I stood as each paired off
and disappeared
behind the leaves.
That evening, in bed,
the bowl in my lap,
I would take
the pricked needle
like a thorn wielded back
to the fruit, would turn
the body against
its own tenderness
and violate it.
Interlude
Go to the lamplight
Go to the empty ring-road in its sleep
Go to the gates, go through
Go in the dew with your wet shoes
to the river, to the oxbow, to the weir –
Is he there?
See where the willows shiver
See the yellow of the pollen on the surface
of the water – stardust
of his slyness, his slipping away –
his gone-before-you-got-here –
so turn, so follow the cortege
of the fallen leaves from the bank,
from the reeds where the coots
and the water voles nest
and find the iron bridge, and cross it
Go to the larks in the Papal field
Bend to the violets and the archangels
Go to the hawthorn and knock
for the stolen child. Go to the holm-oaks –
Is he there?
Say love, I have read the sacred book
of this park each night, I have known
its shibboleths, its ruminations,
its ghosts, its undead – the guards –
the fire in the gatehouse
and still, go on to the empty barracks
decrepit and ruinous, to the rook-riven
parapets. Go to the car park by the pitch
with the headlights waiting, with the engines
killed and the windscreens all fogged over
Stand in the purgatory behind the trees
to watch the man passing the windows
like an angel, bowing to them
Watch each pane of glass lower
See the faces lit in the dashboard glow –
But stop – any one of them
might be a guard, sitting out, so quick,
run, quick, follow
the bike-light as it rattles uphill
to the standing shadows – is that him
by the hawthorn with the lighter,
with the cigarette, wearing his mask?
No, but take his hand. Say come, let us
find him. And careful now of the mud-slick
passage through the thicket, through the thorns
and the dog rose to the grotto, to the splay
and coil of the bodies moving, slowly,
to the groans and the breath, to the open eyes
watching, to the white tissues
and the scuffed ground
and see that man, there –
the one bent over himself, emptying
the animal of his body over the earth –
show your wound to him, stranger.
Say, Stranger, prove my body –
Say, Love, am I not a ghost –
Dispersion Song
O hoverfly and gnat and aphid,
stitched music of the sallow plough.
Mosquitoes, draw out my blood
for him. Make me a cloud of wings.
O insects, knitting a song for him
in the sways of the sycamore dark,
lay your veil across my head.
Marry me. I am a bride for you tonight.
Angel.XJ，中文名，廖锡娟; 银行与金融学教授、译者； 其主要学术研究方向聚焦于国际金融危机、行为金融学，以及金融科技的应用领域，并有一篇被广泛引用的论文发表于《行为金融期刊》（Journal of Behaviour Finance）。中英文诗歌作品曾发表于《星星》《诗刊》《幸存者》RainbowArchHall.com; Hello Poetry Foundation; Poetry Hunter; All Poetry 等中外诗刊;伦敦诗歌、苏格兰诗歌协会会员；出版有英文诗集 “Muse or Amuse, A Journey to Atomic Adventures” 中文诗集《摇滚学院与科学猫》；2024年入选《中国新归来诗人诗典》；获联合国世界丝绸之路国际诗歌艺术节，2025年欧洲年度诗人奖
让我对南方的钟情
成为绝世的传奇
——西渡
南方诗歌编辑部
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西 渡 臧 棣 敬文东 周 瓒 姜 涛
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《南方诗歌》2025年10月目录
“品读”：杨凤英｜从加里.斯奈德《松树的树冠》到雷默的“新禅诗”的现代禅意之间
“诗学观点”：高春林｜地铁、光影及新抒情——以子非花诗歌为例
