精华热点 
彼得·波伊尔，澳大利亚著名当代诗人，创意写作博士，出版了十一本诗集，曾获新南威尔士州长奖和昆士兰州长奖等奖项，作品被译成法语、西班牙语、瑞典语、马其顿语、俄语、韩语、越南语和中文。彼得多次在国际诗歌节朗诵个人诗作，包括哥伦比亚麦德林国际诗歌节、马其顿斯特鲁加诗歌之夜和魁北克国际诗歌节。他精通法语和西班牙语，翻译出版了九本诗集，包括委内瑞拉诗人欧亨尼奥·蒙特霍和阿根廷女诗人奥尔加·奥罗兹科的作品。
生日倒序
让我再次坐在你的身旁，
如母亲布满繁星的花瓶下
飘落窗前的缤纷花瓣。
在梦中你如期而至
点燃我第一个生日的烛光
在蛾鱼与芦苇的刀丛中间
河流负载夜晚漫入地下。
梦中我几乎触摸到
你的背影，几乎品味到
白色涟漪荡漾的忧郁
仿佛苍茫的湖泊忘记
湖水纤柔的重量。
我的身体已片片支离——
一根指头，一颗牙齿，
一条手臂，半边面孔。
而你目光里
假戏真做的鸟儿
以骷髅刹那之间
血流如注的方式
在你面前的镜中破碎。
世事难料
也许岩石城中等待你我的
是一圈燃烧的光明。
My birthdays in reverse
I would like to sit with you again
as petals from my mother's star-flecked vase
drift and spin against the window.
I'd dreamt you'd returned
to light a row of candles
for my first birthday among the dragon fish
and knife-shaped reeds of the river
that carries night under the earth.
In the dream I am almost touching
your back, can almost taste
the white shimmer of sadness rippling there
like a vast lake that's forgotten
water's too fragile weight.
Part by part my body falls away --
a finger here, a tooth, an arm,
one side of my face.
The birds of make believe shatter
at one glance from your eyes
the way a skull will bleed
suddenly, all at once,
into the mirror before you.
It's possible a halo of fire
awaits us both in the city of stone
but nothing's guaranteed.
远房兄弟
光，如水，是神奇的造物。
以为日子除了渐渐变冷之外终将一事无成，光忽然出现了，从掩身的树丛后信步而出，莅临房前窗外无所不在。恍然间已经穿堂入室，此时栖息于地板上一小块长条的光斑。转眼间又闪烁其词轻轻安顿在我脚下的地毯。
所有的造物中我对光最缺乏了解。以我之见它即便恣意率性，童趣盎然，依然是生命中最庄严肃穆的旅伴。
这会儿它又坚定果断起来，稳稳抱起东窗上的蛛网和划痕。光堪称唯一本心奉献的造物，可是我必须避免太多相关的话题，因为如果出言不慎遭到误解，它可能会义无反顾地弃我而去。然而自降生以来，周而复始，我的心灵每每为之飞扬。它肯定知道我多想与它随行。我心底里也确信我们是骨肉至亲。
My distant brother
Light, like water, is a strange creature.
Suddenly, when I thought the day could do nothing but steadily get colder, light appears, stepping beyond the trees that seem to block it to become a presence all along the front windows of my house. Then I notice it has already stepped inside and is now inhabiting a small oblong stripe on the wooden floor. A moment later it's settled into a glittering half-presence that gently laps the patch of carpet at my feet.
Of all the creatures I know it is the one I least understand. I could call it wilful as so it seems to me, but it also strikes me as the most solemn of life's companions though not without a distinct flair for playfulness.
And now it turns firm and resolute, holding the scratch marks and spiderwebs of my east-facing windows in a steady embrace. I think it must be the sole creature whose only instinct is to give. At the same time I am loath to talk about light too much. For fear my words might be judged ill-considered and it would turn its back on me forever. Yet, over and over, since my first days my heart rises to meet it. It surely knows I want to follow it. Somehow I trust that we are kin.
雨珠
我戴上雨珠的项链，
经大地顽强的引力塑造，
由天空不负重荷的平衡
打磨，粒粒比泪珠更圆。
当我返身入室，雨珠
依然在窗外流连，为永诀
署下纷乱无序的条痕。
我无法挽留任何一滴，
没有足够的时间
吟诵一篇短小的祷文。
凝视之下的存在
个个完美，具有长空
赋予最低等生物的絮语——
蜒蚰、蚂蚁、毛虫、蚱蜢
以及树叶摇摇欲坠时
伸展的手臂。
Raindrops
I am wearing a necklace of raindrops, more judiciously
rounded than teardrops, moulded into shape
by the greater gravity of earth and the sky's
overburdened need for equanimity.
And when I come back inside
raindrops linger for a while along the windows
to sign their disappearance with random streaks.
I cannot hold onto a single one of them
long enough to recite even a short prayer
for their death.
Gazed at for the moment of their being
they each have the perfection of utterances
the sky makes for the lowliest of creatures --
the slug, the ant, the caterpillar, the grasshopper
and for the outstretched hands of leaves
also waiting to fall.
成树
玲珑走廊里群星密布，
失去的世界在我眼前
重现。采摘一颗，
剥开，向下折叠每个角落，
观看那成灰的蝴蝶
蠢蠢挣脱
闪亮的纸棺。
你所在之处
树叶是否也知夏天？
经常来信啊——告诉我
你在地底世界的际遇。
Becoming tree
The lost world is there again
before me in this small corridor
of stars. Pluck one and
open, fold down at every corner
and watch the butterfly of ash
wriggle free from its glittering
origami casket.
Is it summer
in the leaves of where you are? Write to me
often -- tell me of how
the underearth is treating you.
向独角兽道歉
向独角兽道歉并非轻而易举。我们的良苦用心它们很难理解。温情款款往往被错认为故作姿态的恐惧，欲将本身或对方置于死地。交通高峰时段独角兽睡得最为香甜，上班族旁若无人地低吟浅唱，对它们视而不见。在森林里寻找独角兽恰似希望自己说着英语入睡，说着流利的普什图语醒来。也许真有这样的先例。独角兽洞察我们渺茫的自我，缺乏归属感，不善于在奇迹面前顺其自然。赤裸到原始的亵渎，我们的心灵依然渴望独角兽。在天空撑开的池塘，我们拖着云翳的水鉴。独角兽绝不向我们寻求食物或栖身之所，却难以割舍关于我们的传说。唯一的童真是在我们降生之前。
APOLOGISING TO UNICORNS
Apologising to unicorns is problematic. They rarely understand our purposes. Tenderness will often be seen as the manipulative gestures of a fear that seeks death - for itself and others. Unicorns sleep most comfortably in heavy traffic where the hum of self-absorbed commuters leaves them invisible. To find a unicorn in a forest is like falling asleep in English and waking up fluent in Pashtun. Someone may well have done it. Unicorns sense above all our uncertainty of ourselves, our not belonging, our poor talent for letting the miraculous be. Stripped back to primal desecration, our hearts still yearn for unicorns. We trail our clouded mirrors in the waters of sky-stretched ponds. Although they will never look to us for food or shelter unicorns are reluctant to abandon their legend of our existence. Our one virginity is that we are not yet born.
凌晨时分
凌晨三点
很多钟点不会有你的一天。
你所在之处
步行的双脚还沐浴着昨日的艳阳
而今晚听着你的声音
我担心终有一日
将失去所有挚爱的形象。
外面的城市依然骚动不安：
出租车亮丽机敏如金鸟
等待黎明的嗟来之食。
五十五岁，我对如何生活知之甚少。
城市的咖啡店里
恋人手牵着手
杯子平衡在桌子边缘。
黑暗如柔软的雪在四周飘落。
窄床边的夜灯
目不转睛凝视着我。
我将竭尽所能长久回忆你的声音。
当我酣然入睡你会继续前行
脚下步步绽放白色的花朵。
IN THE SMALL HOURS
It’s three a.m. in the morning
of a day you won’t enter for so many hours.
Where you are
yesterday’s sunlight still bathes your feet as you walk
and tonight hearing your voice
I worried that one day
I’ll lose my images of all those I love.
Outside the city’s still restless:
taxis alert and shiny as golden birds
waiting for the crumbs of dawn.
At fifty five I know so little how to live.
In cafes across this city
lovers still hold hands
and cups balance on the edges of tables.
Darkness falls around me like soft snow.
Beside the narrow bed
my night-light is staring right into me.
I will hold your voice inside me as long as I can.
When I sleep you’ll go on walking
through a steady explosion of white flowers.
天下攘攘
世界压倒进来，
高耸的瓦砾之河闪烁
连绵不断爆破的斑点。
所有人都在变形，
每张面孔重叠多张面孔，双眼
从时间尽头瞻望。静坐，
听任肌肤从一个国度
漫游到另一个国度
而壁钟始终保持着
冻僵的秒针。
千年前的少女
从我们深处浮升
到表面，渐行渐近
满腔柔情令人战栗。
在我们忽然屏吸之处
一个孩子抬头观看
树木飞速旋转。巨大
空荡的思想酒吧里
骨架举着葡萄酒杯
对我们亲切颔首。
鸟儿飞进飞出
重重胸廓
在樊笼间穿梭。
喉间一声啼鸣
是白光足以刺透
黑暗的线索。
如此巨大，不可思议——
我们双手颤抖
捧着这个世界。
Crowded out
The world presses in,
a towering river of debris glittering
with specks of one on-going explosion.
All of us are morphing,
our faces layered with many faces, two eyes
gazing upward from the ending of time.
Our skin is travelling from country to country
even as we sit still
and the second hand stays
frozen on the wall clock.
From somewhere far inside us
a young woman from a millennium ago
rises to the surface, comes close
and we shiver with all her tenderness.
At the place where our breath is suddenly held back
a child is there, watching the trees above him
spin in fast motion. In the vast
empty bar room of the mind
a skeleton holding a wineglass
gives us a familiar nod.
Birds fly in and out
of the multiple cages
that are our rib cage.
A single cry from any one of their throats
is enough to thread
white light across the darkness.
So large, so impossible --
our hands shake
as we carry the world.
蝉
摇摇欲坠
倒挂在
自己的天堂
蝉放声歌唱：
“吃过了，肚子饱了。
真是
太好了。”
它的歌是唱给我们听的吗？
也许。
如果我们也曾被烈火洗礼，
也曾长时间在大地
无尽的孔隙里保持平衡
体会棺木里的节拍机
为变形计时的滋味，
如果我们的头和臂有时动摇
精致的甲壳浸透天空
意欲我们的一览无余，
如果我们能够想象干燥的风
在炎热的白昼里
在黑夜的火焰里
抚摸我们黑色的外壳
双眼成为黑硬的珠子
骨架破裂
迎接无家可归的风之语，
如果我们可以想象
成为外壳与肉身的组合
被漠然的生命随手散播，
如果我们能将这一切
称之为幸福。
Cicada
Hanging upside down
perched in its own
Heaven
the cicada sings:
“I have eaten and am full.
This
is good.”
Does it sing for us?
Possibly.
If we too have been touched all over by fire
If we have balanced for hours
on the infinite porosity of earth
and know what it’s like
to be the casket of a time-beat
ticking away at metamorphosis
If at times our head and arms have wavered
like a delicate carapace flooded
by all the sky wants us to take in
If we can imagine the dryness of wind
caressing our black shell
all through the hot days
all through the fire of nights
when our eyes are beads of hard blackness
and our frame
breaks open to the homeless language of wind
If we can imagine ourselves
an assemblage of shell and flesh
scattered by the serene indifference of life
If we can call all this
happiness.
罗伯特·弗罗斯特八十高龄
世上定有比我所知更伟大更神奇的诗篇。
为此我上下求索。
它们不在古籍苍老的纸页上
不在吟哦念诵的混沌口齿间。
也不在美人鱼的语汇里，
或尖嘴薄舌消失的形容词中。
仿佛是沿着铺路石断落逃脱的线索，
它们龟裂如同老人的脑壳。
在镜中它们呼之欲出，
五十岁，
八十岁。
我不断侧耳倾听
然而海滨寒冷。
海潮由远及近。
它们像乌鸦在板球场上迁徙。
乘我不在家的时候登门拜访。
我已不在意写作技巧。
如何抵得过狡黠的鬼魂
运用圆滑的悖论和巧妙的韵脚
将偏见翻云覆雨
成为似是而非的智慧翡翠?
即使将所有拥有或爱惜埋葬
即使我的肌肤比树木活得更长
即使诗行坠落如开山裂石
我依然对它们望尘莫及。
它们具有我见到过
但没进去过的房屋流畅的口吻。
它们是孩子聆听的声音——
水，下午，天空。
我看得到它们
在敞开的镜中滴落。
我们偶尔也许能够，但几乎永远难以
触摸到梦寐以求的渴望。
ROBERT FROST AT EIGHTY
I think there are poems greater and stranger than any I have known.
I would like to find them.
They are not on the greying paper of old books
or chanted on obscure lips.
They are not in the language of mermaids
or the sharp-tongued adjectives of vanishing.
They run like torn threads along paving stones.
They are cracked as the skull of an old man.
They stir in the mirror
at fifty,
at eighty.
My ear keeps trying to hear them
but the seafront is cold.
The tide moves in.
They migrate like crows at a cricket ground.
They knock at the door when I am out.
I have done with craft.
How can I front ghosts with cleverness,
the slick glide of paradox and rhyme
that transforms prejudice
to brittle gems of seeming wisdom?
Though I bury all I own or hold close
though my skin outlives the trees
though the lines fall shattering the stone
I cannot catch them.
They have the lilting accent
of a house I saw but never entered.
They are the sounds a child hears –
the water, the afternoon, the sky.
I watch them now
trickling through the open mirror.
Sometimes, but almost never,
we touch what we desire.
李牧原，原籍沈阳，现居悉尼，作家，创意写作博士。作品多次入选《澳大利亚年度最佳短篇小说》。短篇小说集《中国情结》于2016年出版。翻译诗歌和散文见于《世界文学》，《作品》和《悉尼书评》。2021年翻译出版爱尔兰作家塞巴斯蒂安·巴里的长篇小说《绝密手稿》。
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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“他山诗石”：汪剑钊 译｜二月，二月......——俄罗斯诗歌一束
