秋风中的诗人

有些书是常读的，特别是诗。而且，只在某个季节读某个诗人。那些美丽的忧伤的诗句带着诗人的气息，体温和颜色，在我平常的日子里悠来晃去，和我一起坐车，逛街，洗衣烧饭，成为风景，天气和心情。比如，冬天读普希金，阿赫瑪托娃，俄罗斯白雪茫茫的大地，圣彼得堡穿皮衣长靴的漂亮女人就在炉火里暖和起来了。夏天读洛尔卡，就会想起西班牙残阳如血的黄昏里奔跑的野牛，热情饱满斜眼睛的卡门。春天读海子，面向大海，春暖花开，十个海子全部复活，而秋天呢？我读Mark Strand。

有一年的秋天我去了大西洋里的一个岛上。居民很少，家家院子里有很粗大的栗子树和栎树，白色尖桩的篱笆，矮矮的房子有很大的前廊，一个大摇椅，几个大南瓜，几盆菊花。弯弯曲曲碎石的小路通向大海，船停泊在港口，湿漉漉的甲板，桅杆耸立，海鸟在空中盘旋。靠岸的船总让我伤感，因为这时它在海洋和陆地，到达与出发，孤独与团圆之间，不知命运如何。蓝波临死前不停地问：“告诉我，什么时候才能把我送到码头?”

我却坐在码头上看捕鱼的人收拾他们的猎物，白花花的鱼在网里船底翻来翻去，离开了海水，它们就失去了呼吸。海水的腥气，血的腥气在风里弥漫，天空很低，一团团的雾。。。

我想起了Strand是这样说他捕鲸的父亲：

And my father, hunched over the oars,
brought us in. I watched him,
rapt in his effort, rowing against the tide,
his blond hair glistening with salt.
I saw the slick spillage of moonlight
being blown over his shoulders,
and the sea and spindrift
suddenly silver.

后来，他的父亲死了。他望着父亲的遗体，一遍一遍地重复：

The hands were yours, the arms were yours,
But you were not there.
The eyes were yours, but they were closed and would not open.
The distant sun was there.
The moon poised on the hill's white shoulder was there.
The wind on Bedford Basin was there.
The pale green light of winter was there.
Your month was there,
But you were not there.

那一年，我阿婆去世，家里人没有告诉我，只是后来寄给我一大叠照片，我一遍一遍地看着照片，用手指抚摸着阿婆的脸，眼睛，嘴唇，可她已经不在了。照片上却有她的床，吃饭的桌子，还有我买给她的一条金项链。

喜欢他是因为他的诗总是让我想起了我最爱的犹太画家夏加尔。有时我读着读着，就想起了夏加尔的某幅画。比如：

In the garden suspended in time
my mother sits in a redwood chair:
light fills the sky,
the folds of her dress,
the roses tangled beside her.

And when my father bends
to whisper in her ear,
when they rise to leave
and the swallows dart
and the moon and stars
have drifted off together, it shines.

夏加尔的“安息日”画的却是他爸爸坐在一张木椅子上，妈妈穿着花裙子站在门口，两根蜡烛闪闪发亮。

夏加尔的画里都是他白俄罗斯家乡一般的犹太小人物的生活，早晨去买面包，小孩子去亲戚家串门，小提琴手在屋顶上拉琴。而Strand的诗里也是北美的小人物，失恋的男人在星光下想着他爱的女人，可她却睡在另一个男人的身边，上了年纪的老人和死去的老友谈话，回老家的孩子：

Enter the kingdom of rot,
smell the damp plaster, step over the shattered glass,
the pockets of dust, the rags, the soiled remains of a mattress,
look at the rusted stove and sink, at the rectangular stain
on the wall where Winslow Homer’s Gulf Stream hung.

听过他朗诵自己的“From the Long Sad Party ”：

Someone was saying
something about shadows covering the field, about
how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning
and the morning goes.

Someone was saying
how the wind dies down but comes back,
how shells are the coffins of wind
but the weather continues.

。。。。。

到了最后，我已经泪流满面了，才知道他是在说什么。我们的生命在风里一秒一秒地失去，我们却惟有叹息，束手无策，走向死亡。

今天下班回家时，车上有一个50多岁的男人，头发花白了，穿一件墨绿色的夹克。他低头坐在那里，看上去很疲倦，也很悲哀。突然，他拿出手机打电话，声音非常地温柔。他说：“我现在就去看你，马上就到了，你吃饭了吗？吃的什么？”。然后就下了车，朝一座红砖楼走去。我知道那是一所残疾人的疗养院。天已经黑了，月亮和星星下，那个男人和那座楼都模糊不清了。

My son
my only son,
the one I never had,
would be a man today.

Strand特别喜欢风，到处都是有关风的句子：

“The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.”

“The wind comes from opposite poles,
traveling slowly. ”

“man in her room writing a poem, the moon drifting into it,
a woman strolling under its trees, thinking of death,
thinking of him thinking of her, and the wind rising
and taking the moon and leaving the paper dark.”

回到家也就7点多，可是，天已经全黑了。看到我的红色的房子在巨大的夜色里闪着一点点黄色的灯光，一只无家可归的野猫卷缩在草地上，觉得秋天才是我的季节。夏天太明亮，太喧哗了。而落叶和冷风，使我想到家乡，诗歌和情人。而Mark Strand， 就是我的秋风中的诗人吧。