丽萨·札苒的诗（二十首）
丽萨·札苒（Lisa Zaran ，1969-）美国女诗人，评论家，作家和艺术家。著有诗集《有时是女孩》（the sometimes girl ，2004），《你有一颗可爱的心》（You Have A Lovely Heart，2004）等，2007年1月，她创办了一份诗歌杂志《当代美国的声音》（Contemporary American Voices）。她的诗受到人们普遍关注，许多诗成为中学和大学课堂的文本，引起广泛的兴趣和争议。
未卜
我独自一人。
已经很晚了，天空
酝酿着一场风暴。
有时，不知会发生什么事
反而更好。
自然将如何行动。
天是否会破裂
敞开，风是否会对着
我的小房子
投来一个小球。
命运是否决定
将我长得过于繁茂的牡豆树
推向邻居的院子，谁知道呢。
上帝发神经时，
我们不问为什么。
我们沉默。
我们等待。
Conditions Uncertain
by Lisa Zaran
I was alone.
It was late and the sky
was a storm.
It feels good sometimes
not knowing what might happen.
How the elements might act.
Whether or not the sky will crack
open or the wind will pitch
a hardball against the side
of my small house.
If destiny will decide
to topple my overgrown mesquite tree
into the neighbor"s yard, who knows.
When the gods act up,
we don"t ask why.
We keep quiet.
We wait.
梦
夜越来越深，
喧嚣渐渐沉入
唱片机的黑暗时刻。
醉酒
和香烟的时刻。
无所事事的时刻。
在我的梦中，
我仍然吸烟，一支接着一支。
这样很好，我正在做梦，
在梦中，吸烟不会杀死我。
外面很暖和。
我开着所有的窗户。
没有所谓危险的事物，
只有危险的美。
我在窗上荡悠
像一株室内植物。
吸着烟。
饮着酒。
月亮洒下淡蓝色的光辉，
野蛮的星星出来了。
每个傻瓜经过时
都会抬头对我微笑。
我向他们磕下烟灰。
有音乐从某处传来。
游丝一般，交织着甜蜜与苦涩的旋律，我
听不清歌词。
一阵微风
在我的头发上跳跃。
这是午夜潮湿温暖的空气。
这是时间自我膨胀的时刻。
这是现实与虚幻之间
柔软的时间带。
这是桌面一般光滑的梦幻时间。
这是你床垫上微弱的斑点，
你在早上发现了它，
并疑惑它是怎么被弄上去的。
这是不朽的一刻。
这是本质：现在看着我。
这是时间。
不是很可爱吗？唤醒星星！
不是很精彩吗？吻吻月亮！
那一架钟在哪里？它
总是跑在前面。
总想用它的未来
将我压垮。
Dreams
by Lisa Zaran
It is later than late,
the simmered down darkness
of the jukebox hour.
The hour of drunkenness
and cigarettes.
The fools hour.
In my dreams,
I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It"s okay, I"m dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can"t kill me.
It"s warm outside.
I have every window open.
There"s no such thing as danger,
only the dangerous face of beauty.
I am hanging at my window
like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.
The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by
smiles up at me.
I drip ashes on them.
There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don"t know
any of the words to.
There"s a gentle breeze making
hopscotch with my hair.
This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time
between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.
This is that faint stain on your mattress,
the one you"ll discover come morning,
and wonder how.
This is the monumental moment.
The essential: look at me now.
This is the hour.
Isn"t it lovely? Wake up the stars!
Isn"t it fabulous? Kiss the moon!
Where is the clock? The one that
always runs ahead. The one
that always tries to crush me with
its future.
女孩
她说她收集天空的碎片，
用银剪刀在上面剪出小洞，
她叫它们天堂的碎片。
每天一群鸟儿环绕着她的手指
飞舞，我的妇人合唱团，
她这样叫它们。从图书馆借来的书
满是灰尘，每天，她读里面的诗
坐在公园，对着经过的陌生人微笑，
而这并不能摆脱她的忧伤。
她说夜晚使她想起一只冰凉的手
温柔地拂过她滚烫的额头，她说
她喜欢睡在星空下，
它们的光芒使她相信
她也正在去往某个地方。无边无际，
她闭上眼睛低语，
坠入稀薄的空气中，而没有手臂
伸过来接住她。
Girl
by Lisa Zaran
She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.
叶子
我去寻找上帝
却我发现了你。
幸运或厄运，
由你决定。
被埋在城市的淤泥，
和煤烟之中，
为欲望而悲伤，
魔鬼在左，
天使在右。
你，连同你刺耳的节奏
悲哀的、午夜的旋律。
此前我的心
从未企图自杀。
Leaves
by Lisa Zaran
I went looking for God
but I found you instead.
Bad luck or destiny,
you decide.
Buried in the muck,
the soot of the city,
sorrow for an appetite,
devil on your left shoulder,
angel on your right.
You, with your thorny rhythms
and tragic, midnight melodies.
My heart never tried
to commit suicide before.
与骨灰坐在壁橱中并倾听的父亲交谈
死亡不是最后的话。
没有了耳朵，我的父亲仍在倾听，
仍然耸耸他的肩
当我问了一个他不想回答的问题时。
我站在壁橱前，手放在门把上，
臀部靠着门框，问他
怎么想伊拉克战争
怎么看待他的大女儿
嫁给在互联网上认识的一个男人。
没有了眼睛，我的父亲仍在四处察看。
他看见我打算做的事，知道我
随着他的去世，变得越来越积极，
知道我所需要的，仅仅是他能作出回答。
我想象他吸了一口气，
他的肺中再次充满空气，他的想法飘荡在空中。
Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen
by Lisa Zaran
Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn"t want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.
I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.
莫名
倾斜的嫩枝，
被风摇撼，掠过
反复无常的天空，像一本圣经中的
折痕。
父亲常常蓄满
橙色的怒火，像一辆
过山车，像一阵雨，对着我
猛扑而来，因为我无意中撕破了
他祖传的圣经，这本书
已传了好几代。
他挥舞着皮带，抽打
我的背，如同万能的神
直到我发出可怕的叫声
足以震破他的耳膜。
长大后，我莫名地
相信风，
总是期待一场暴风雨。
寂静的晴天
仍然使我惊恐。
Beyond Reason
by Lisa Zaran
The toppled, tender branches,
roughed by wind, reach across
the paltered sky like creases
in a Bible.
My father, whose orange anger
used to accumulate, descending
upon me like a roller coaster
of rain when I accidentally tore
a page in that great Holy book
passed down from his many generations.
Swift as almighty he removed
his belt, switching it across my backside
until my only cries rose violent enough
to crack and clear his hearing.
I grew up believing
in wind beyond reason,
expecting a storm all the time.
Silent sunny days
still frighten me.
继续
生为女人。继续
远不是看上去那样，
但是没关系。
信用卡被盗。
继续。
首先，记住
只要你哭泣，
丈夫就会转动眼睛，
而孩子们会担心。
继续。
你的父亲
死于肺病。
他爱你，至少你这样认为。
继续。
喝酒，抽烟，吸毒。
继续。
拖着你脆弱的骨架
上班去。背后
恨你的老板。当面
对他微笑。继续
吃。不吃。变胖。
变瘦。继续。
时间断裂。
空间破碎。
生活重叠。
子宫盛开
新的生命。继续。
等待。
坚持
Go On
by Lisa Zaran
Born woman. Go on.
It"s farther than it seems,
but okay.
Credit card"s been stolen.
Go on.
Above all, remember,
whenever you cry,
husbands roll their eyes,
and children worry.
Go on.
The father that was yours
gets killed by a lung disease.
He loved you, at least you think so.
Go on.
Drink, smoke, do drugs.
Go on.
Drag your crippled bones
to work. Hate your boss
behind her back. Smile
to her face. Go on.
Eat. Don"t eat. Get fat.
Get skinny. Go on.
Time fragments.
Space fractures.
Lives intersect.
Wombs bloom
with new life. Go on.
Wait.
Hold on.
无始无终
根据存在，古人的
智慧，或者上帝
之言，他的话语与他空洞的气息
一起存在于其他消遣中，
孤独的将永远孤独。
悲伤的将永远悲伤。
人到中年，我变得迷惘。
此刻，另一个十年
即将结束
很难去笑并保持开心。
快乐离开我
已有许多年头。
到现在，我也不懂爱。
我的一无所有，在我耳边
无情地絮叨。一天的最后时刻
我坐在忧伤的月光中，
吸烟，啜饮葡萄酒，
用一个局外人的眼光，研究星星，
仿佛它们是我从未拥有过的珍宝。
那么，梦又如何呢？
我甚至无法确定信仰。
追寻月亮那冰冷的凝视，
它始终在，只是暂时消失在
一片云层后。
许多白日涌来，穿过我的身体。
傍晚也有它的牙齿，我身上的齿痕
就是证据。午夜是我唯一的朋友。
和它呆在一起，我的生命几乎停顿了。
Endless
By Lisa Zaran
According to existence, wisdom
of the ancients, or something God
said, insisting with his windy breath
among other entertainments,
the lonely will forever be lonely.
The inconsolable forever sad.
As I grow older I lose perspective.
And it"s difficult now, so close
to the end of another decade
to laugh and remain glad.
Happiness has been avoiding
my companionship for years.
Here I am, illiterate in love.
Heartless, my ex once whispered
in my ear. At the end of the day
I sit in a blue vein of moonlight,
sipping cabernet, smoking,
studying stars, with an outsiders vision,
like they"re gems I"ll never own.
And what about dreams?
Belief is something even I am unsure of.
Seeking the cool, impassive stare
of the moon, which shifts just
that instant behind a cloud.
Days come and sink right through me.
Evening has its teeth alright, I have the scars
to prove it. Midnight is my only friend.
With it, I"ve almost stopped living.
冥想
人类不羁的心灵，发现爱
难以承受。人类谨慎的头脑
认为自己呆在一座不由自主的思想监狱。
时间消失，身体贬值。
伟大的人类存在，包含着
它的软弱和力量，
当幸福环绕时，也要挑剔，
要犯错，这种讨厌的习性，使人产生
幻灭，世界在它无限渴望的
摇篮中，摇摆。
喜悦很快消退。
与幸福产生、又被限制在思虑中
同样迅速，
将其看作整体仅仅是一种提议。
无人相信被误置的温暖。
我本应听从父亲的话：
在鸟和星星中，我们，也是孤独的。
Musings
By Lisa Zaran
Unbridled, the human heart finds love
unbearable. Meticulous, the human mind
thinks itself into a prison of involuntary thought.
Time evaporates, bodies devalue.
The great human condition considers
both its weaknesses and its strengths,
disillusions encouraged by an unpleasant
inclination to find fault, to err, even
as happiness hovers, the world rocks
in its infinite cradle of impatience.
Joy soon retires.
As quickly as happiness transpires
limited in consideration,
as a whole is only a suggestion.
Nobody believes in misplaced warmth.
I should have listened to my fathers words:
among the birds and stars, we too, are lonely.
顺从
无所宣言。
早晨来临，太阳照亮世界
和它的忧虑。
白日的漫游将逐渐显露它们的外形。
正如时间总在变迁中。
无所追寻。
甚至最大的价值也会阻挠它自己的走势。
技术性发挥着作用，产生波动。
甚至那无法计算的，比如，爱，虽然神奇而深刻，
也有它的限度，能降低为一次理性的交谈。
不过是一种礼貌的邀请。
Resignation
Proclaim nothing.
Come morning, the sun will light the world
and its anxieties.
The days" wanderings will shed their apparencies.
As always time is on the move.
Pursue nothing.
Even the greatest sum of importance thwarts its own inclinations.
Technicalities hover and happen like fluctuations.
Even that which is uncalculable, love for instance, has its limitations,
though magical and profound, can be reduced to a rational conversation.
Nothing more than a polite request.
温柔
我周围的一切，天空以及它深深的暗影。
星辰。
月亮以及它缩小的灵魂。
我能变成我所希望的样子吗？
不是妻子也不是母亲。
我不是谁，也不爱任何人。
我担心
当我发疯时，
我的父亲，会将他毛茸茸的头
藏在他银色的翅膀中，哭泣。
我的女儿，哦，我的女儿。
Tenderness
by Lisa Zaran
All around me, the sky with its deep shade of dark.
The stars.
The moon with its shrunken soul.
Can I become what I want to become?
Neither wife or mother.
I am noone and nobody is my lover.
I am afraid
that when I go mad,
my father will bow his downy head
into his silver wings and weep.
My daughter, O my daughter.
蓝调如昨
——致杰克逊·弗兰克
仿佛真的遥不可及，
难以置信，
谦卑的月亮如一个铜盘，散发着光辉。
这些蓝调。
这温柔的声架
在风中摇晃
好像是从山上孤独的
窗口倾泻而出
多么美，
你声音的幽灵，
萦绕在空空的山谷。
The Blues Are All The Same
~for Jackson C. Frank
by Lisa Zaran
It seems almost too far fetched really,
too difficult to believe.
This unassuming moon shining like a copper plate.
These milkcrate blues.
This soft trellis of sound
wobbling through the wind
as if pouring out from the window
of some lonely house on the hill.
How beautiful it is,
the ghost of your voice,
haunting this empty valley.
你是山
在沙发尽头
你坐着，沉默如一只枕头
被扔在那儿装点室内。
有时在你不知我看着你时
看着你，于是
我知道了。你是谁。
你是一个自立的男人。
坚耐。灰色的
石头，湿润的土。
灰白天空中一道长长的疤痕。
电视转到CNN。
世界的悲剧闪过
你的面孔像一些
外国电影。
你毫无表情。
你通常的姿势如泥土中的盐。
你如何向不了解你的人
解释你自己？
你如何对他们说，
这是我；那不是我。
然而无论何种语境下
你选择的一些话与
你使用的任何一个形容词
无法相提并论。
甚至描述着你的你
也不是你。
不完全是。
你的手
静静叠放在你的膝盖上。
我研究这些手
熟悉它们的每一条纹路。
你的沉默
一顶心爱的帽子，
你舒适地戴着它。
有时我禁不住想交谈
但是不知道我们
该谈些什么，如果我们已
耗尽了话题。
你是我探索的
曲线，我借用的
力量。你是山上升起的
红太阳。
你是山。
You Are The Mountain
by Lisa Zaran
At one end of the couch
you sit, mute as a pillow
tossed onto the upholstery.
I watch you sometimes
when you don"t know I"m watching
and I see you. Who you are.
You are a self made man.
Hard suffering. You are grey
stone and damp earth.
A long scar on a pale sky.
The television is tuned to CNN.
The world"s tragedies flicker
across your face like some
foreign film.
You are expressionless.
Your usual gestures ground to salt.
How do you explain yourself
to people that do not know you?
How do you explain to them,
this is me; that is not me.
However many words you choose
in whatever context with
whichever adjectives you use
could not compare.
Even you describing you
would not be you.
Not totally.
Your hands are folded
together, resting in your lap.
I study those hands until
every groove becomes familiar.
Like a favorite hat,
you wear your silence
comfortably.
I sometimes can not help
but wonder what we will
talk about if we ever
run out of things to say.
You are the curve
I burrow into. The strength
I borrow. You are the red sun
rising over the mountain.
You are the mountain.
缠绵
后来，当你一天行驶
75英里一心只为追上她
她的头发，被九月的阳光漂白，
飞扬在
风中，灰色的天空正倾吐出乌云，
当怀疑浮现，
坚硬如石头。
你到达时接近黄昏，
风暴已肆虐而过。
你不再属于你自己，
你是一个逃亡者。
但是，她在那里，就站在
你面前，被雨淋湿，如一根纤细的枝条。
你注视着她走来
而你的心培植着，绽放的红花。
Lingering
by Lisa Zaran
after, when you are driving
75 miles one way just to get to her
and her wind-touched hair,
bleached white by the September
sun, the gray sky coughing up clouds,
that is when the doubts surface,
hard as stones.
it is late afternoon by the time you arrive,
the storm has already been through here.
you are not in your own element.
you are a runaway.
but, then she is there, standing right in front
of you, wet with rain, slender as a branch.
you watch as she makes her way over
and your heart gardens, rupturing red.
我在彼处
是那样的夜晚：
星星出来了
摇曳着。刹时上千颗，
千万颗，每一颗
像一个记忆，天空满是
旧伤痕。
三个女孩走过，
怀着各自的心事，
彼此之间的
一些事。无法
忽略，我看着她们
走远。
一个轻轻撞了另一个。
她笑着。她们的过去
也许全是一些悠长、无星的下午，
与我所见全然不同。
There I Was
by Lisa Zaran
It was the kind of night
Where the stars come out
Swinging. Suddenly thousands,
Hundreds of thousands, each
One like a memory, sky full
Of old scars.
A group of three girls pass by,
Preoccupied with themselves,
With something within themselves,
With one another. Too impossible
To ignore, I watch them as they
Move off.
One bumps lightly into the other.
She laughs. Their histories are
Probably full of long, starless afternoons,
Like nothing I have ever seen.
自白
无论多么黑，多么复杂或平静
无论她的眼睛看上去
多么茫然，好像被雨水
洗刷过
她不想记起
任何事，
一扇蒙霜的玻璃窗。
无论她回答是或不
都好，仿佛什么都说了
或什么也没说，
盲目而谨慎，仿佛她是一个可耻的
生灵，
她躺在那里
怀着不受欢迎的情感，她的反感
她对你的爱与恨，
光彩夺目，在其他事物中，并不可怜。
无论多么残酷，当你告诉她
你爱她而她一边笑着一边用目光
在房间里逡巡，
皱着眉头。
Confession
by Lisa Zaran
However dark or complicated, and quiet
however vacant her eyes
must seem, as if they"ve been swept
with rain
she doesn"t want to remember
anything,
a glass window covered with frost.
However good she might be at changing
her answer from yes to no, which could mean
nothing or everything,
blind and discreet, as if she were a creature
of shame,
there she lies
with her unacceptable feelings, her objections
and her love-hate ideas about you,
color and charm, not sorry, among other things.
However cruel she can be when you tell her
you love her and she laughs while looking around
the room for something to cling to,
frowning.
头发
仿佛我们已得到
任何回应。
但，我们依然默示。
我所相信的
一切：
时间的尺度，
光的显现，
月亮，瞪着我们。
河对岸
一个女孩
用手指
梳理着齐腰的长发。
或者这也只是其他某物的影子？
多么迷人。我被她吸引。
她缓慢地分开
那发瀑。
分开月光，和它的渴望。
漫长岁月中的一天。
Hair
by Lisa Zaran
As if we have
any answers.
Still, we imply.
All that I have come
to believe in:
the measurement of time,
the presence of light,
the moon, gaping at us.
Across the lake
there is a girl
running her fingers
through her waist length hair.
Or is it a shadow of something else?
It"s intriguing. I am intrigued by her.
By the slow split she makes
in that curtain of hair.
By the moonlight and it"s cravings.
This has been one of the longest days.
河流
在这间屋里
我学会了撒谎，
学会了用衣袖
掩盖我的伤痕；
用沉默
掩盖我的谎言，
我学会了独自生活
不同于曾经的那样，
我学会了想象一个世界
流淌着鲜花，
密布林木，
城市满是高楼大厦，
比我的梦高十倍，
我的心灵充满河流
我知道，有一天我将渡河而去。
Rivers
by Lisa Zaran
In the room
where I learned how to lie,
to cover my bruises
with long sleeves,
to cover my lies
with a speechless tongue,
to invent a separate life
than the one I was living,
to imagine a world
fluent with flowers,
populated with trees,
cities with skyscrapers,
ten times taller than my dreams,
my mind filled with rivers
I knew I would someday cross.
花的减法
你能死去，为了它——
爱
或者完全拒绝它
懵懂无知
除了年轻的
冲动。男人
因为
年老
而孤独
在他们宽广的胸膛中
携带着
心灵的冷漠
而我们女人
过早开始
扫除
我们肩上的落叶，一旦
我们看见日出
就从盛开
到枯萎
首先是我们的眼睛凋谢
然后是我们的心灵
从一边无力地倒向另一边
我们切掉舌头
在夜晚的纠缠中迷醉的吻
以及皮肤的给予给予给予
作为女人
我们盲目希望
经历激情的高潮
当我们消失在一个男人的世界中
我们是他们身上抽去的肋骨
也许我们诞生于种子
我们的本质在茎梗上蔓延
将要喂养蜜蜂。
也许
你看见的每一朵花
都是一个女人
当
她进入花期
当她开出
红色的花
当她的绿叶在秋风中
扑闪
鼓动绿色的翅膀，是的
即使风企图羞辱她
也办不到，因为
她正爱着
她只为这种爱死去。
Subtraction Flower
by Lisa Zaran
You could die for it--
love,
or refuse it altogether
and know nothing
except the urgency
of youth. Men
have been
solitary
for ages
carrying the
stoniest of hearts
in their broad chests
while we women
begin too early
brush the brown leaves
from our shoulders, go
from bloom to fade
as soon as
we see the sunrise
We let our eyes go first
Then there is the limp lolling
of our hearts from side to side
the tongue we cut away
the blind kiss on the backlash of night
the giving giving giving of skin
As women
we blindly wish
past the climax of passion
as we vanish into a world of men
whose ribcages we were scraped from
Perhaps we are born of seeds
our essence crawling up the stem
to feed the bees.
Perhaps
every flower you see
is a woman
and when
she"s in bloom
and when she is blooming
red
and when her leaves are wingbeats
of green in the autumn wind
beating wings of green, yes
even as the wind tries to humiliate her
it fails because
she"s in love
and only she would die for it
我们何为
人们苍白的碎影
连同口红环绕的眼镜
香烟正在燃烧，
笑声在他们喉结突出的喉咙中
上下涌动。
这算什么，
鸡舍中的评论会？
父亲的声音在我脑后
说，忘记我已死去，如果你
无法假装。
我正站在
画廊外
在白桦树浓密的枝条下。
月亮漂浮在天空黑暗的怀抱。
我恍惚听见大海的叹息。
父亲，现在，我想问，
你脸上挂着什么样的微笑？
你的眼睛又是什么颜色？
你掉了几颗牙？
难道你不知道我渴望一个吻。
也许我不。也许我
不想站着，假装你
没有死去，当香槟酒
鲜活的瓶嘴告诉我
你的画多么棒。
当他们在艺术品的深度和色彩中，
呆若木鸡
忘记了言语。
父亲，我希望你的声誉能经受住他人的追捧
他们花一小时浏览你一生的作品，然后
作出铁一般的评论。
父亲，你在哭泣吗？
停止那种声音。
How We Are
by Lisa Zaran
Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?
My father"s voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I"m dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.
I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky"s dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.
Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?
Don"t you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don"t. Perhaps I don"t
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.
As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork"s depths
and colors.
Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour"s
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.
Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.
生活是矛盾并列的，爱也是
访谈对象：丽萨·札苒（Lisa Zaran）
访谈者：大卫·赫尔勒（David Herrle）
D：你的著作之一，《有时是女孩》现在是一所德国学校的翻译教材。请给我们说说这一趣事，它是如何发生的，这本书又包含了些什么内容。
L：大约一年前，我的一部书信集发表在小诗歌（A Little Poetry）网站。这本书信集名为《亲爱的鲍勃·迪伦》（Dear Bob Dylan），是我对这个男人及其音乐毫不掩饰的崇拜之作。我对他音乐的感受找不到表达途径，也不想在诗歌中掩饰这种情感，我决定给他单方面写信。这些信全部贴在我的在线日记上。我将这些信展示给读者看，但是我不接受读者的任何反馈。小诗歌网站的编辑发现了它们，说服我发表在那个网站。
一些认识我的人在那里读到它们，有人将它转载到“期待着雨”这一网站（Expectingrain.com），即闻名世界的鲍勃·迪伦网站。这个网站的制作人卡尔，将我的信链接到首页的每日新闻，通过这个链接，我大约看到了几百人的回帖。
其中一个人很特别，她是一名老师，居住在德国，也是鲍勃·迪伦狂热的崇拜者。我们开始断断续续的通信。几个月后，她提议用我的诗歌教授翻译课程。我欣然同意，不过她在讲授之前必须得到课程主管和学校负责人的批准。
审批通过之后，课程就设立了。这门课程面向所有选修的学生。从本月开始上课。每周三上午7:45分到9:20分。一共有23个学生，从8年级到10年级不等。
他们尝试翻译我的第一本诗集《有时是女孩》。这本书在德国，是我所有的书中销售量最大的一本。学生们计划在这本诗集中加入他们自己的翻译作品和照片。他们也给我写信，提问，其中有些同学还寄照片给我。整个过程令人兴奋。
《有时是女孩》总是吸引着年轻人。写这些诗歌时我自己也非常年轻，但是直到2004年，我35岁时，才出版它。我想，可能因为这些诗都很短，许多不超过两、三行，几乎像一些小插图，坦率而毫无保留地说出了“有时”的生活感受。
有一个人写信告诉我，他们买了这本书，却没有机会读它，因为他们年轻的女儿或儿子一直带着它。这是我得到的最好赞誉。
D：你喜爱的书和电影有哪些？
L：费尔南多·佩索阿（Fernando Pessoa）的《惶然录》（The book of Disquiet）。两年前我买了它，无论我去哪里都带着它。它的美就是它的忧郁。我在成长过程中一直依恋佩索阿。
歌德的《少年维特之烦恼》。这本书我读了两遍，每次读我都会流泪。这是一个无法弥补的悲剧。在许多方面，我感觉自己与维特相似。他对情感的沉迷，如此高贵，他为此忍受了最大的痛苦。
海明威的《老人与海》。我有这本书最早的版本，是我在一个旧书店花5毛钱买来的。它是一份珍贵的财产。
我也非常喜欢赫尔曼·黑塞（Hermann Hesse）的《荒原狼》（Steppenwolf）。
我刚刚读完了加西亚·马尔克斯的《百年孤独》，已经购买了他的第二本书。
迈克尔·翁达杰（Michael Ondaatje）的小说《经过斯洛特》（Coming Through Slaughter），是一本关于爵士乐先驱巴迪·博尔登的传奇故事。一本真正勇敢而优美的书。大卫，你作为一个爵士乐人，假如没有读这本书，应该找来读读。
我读了安妮·泰勒的每一本书。我认为她是一个了不起的故事家。她非常了解她的角色。她的故事从不让我失望。她的每一本小说都吸引着我，使我充满期待。
我对电影所知不多，因为我看的很少。我不是那种只要新片上映就要追看的女孩，我的观点总在变化。我喜欢伍迪·艾伦（Woody Allen）的所有影片。
《使徒》（The Apostle）中的罗伯特·杜瓦尔（Robert Duvall）是迷人的，我喜欢汤姆·休斯克（Tom Hulce）主演的《莫扎特》（Amadeus）。我的女儿和我刚看了《北国性骚扰》（North Country on HBO），我们都流泪了。我认为一部电影能使人流泪，就是好电影。
我是一个独立影片迷，我喜欢其中的许多。《吮拇指的人》（Thumbsucker）非常神奇。《羔羊陷阱》（Clay Pigeons），《拳击情缘》(Punch Drunk Love)，《冰血暴》（Fargo）很了不起！我喜欢《处女之死》（The Virgin Suicides），也喜欢肖恩·潘（Sean Penn）主演的所有电影，比如《死囚漫步》（Dead Man Walking）和《不准掉头》（U Turn）。我认为他的妻子是个美丽的女人，也是一个伟大的女演员。
我欣赏悲伤而大胆的记录片《布考斯基：生来如此》(Bukowski Born Into This)
当然，也喜欢《没有家的方向》（No Direction Home），由马丁·斯科塞斯（Martin Scorsese）拍摄的迪伦的纪录片。我大概将《不要向后看》（Don’t Look Back）看了不下三十遍。
D：虽然我收藏经典蓝调音乐，从李德贝利（Leadbelly）到大块头乔威廉斯（Big Joe Williams），但我更喜欢爵士，尤其喜欢收集约翰·科特恩（Coltrane）后期的音乐（沉思/太阳船时代the Meditations/Sun Ship days）。爵士是在蓝调基础上提炼而成的更珍贵的宝藏：是对所有种族和国家的艺术性救赎。我认为，蓝调是先知，爵士是救世主。对我而言，蓝调代表着一种绝望的表达方式，表达了肉体存在的不安和痛苦本质。蓝调（奴隶的后代，悲哀，禁欲主义）使人快乐，因为它是艺术，通过它的创造性给人带来希望，虽然它附带着古老的忧郁。蓝调经典的轻/重节奏（如同心跳和时钟声）代表着不可阻止的命运，正迈向衰老和厄运。然而，爵士，从受约束的心肌和时钟中解脱出来；它征服了必然性和悲悼。爵士能打破缓慢单调的鼓点，变成喷洒的玻璃，爆发出超自然的力量。
你坦率地表达了对蓝调的热爱。给我们谈谈这种热爱。随意一些。你也收藏爵士吗？
L：蓝调是音乐的灵魂。随着内战爆发，它产生于田野，黑人奴隶在那里为白人工作，他们没有表达意见或说话的权利。一些蓝调歌曲，吟游曲，民歌和圣歌，同时散播开来，成为这些男男女女表达心声、本质与灵魂的手段。对我来说，听见我喜爱的音乐而毫无感受是绝不可能的。霍林·沃尔夫（Howlin’ Wolf），密西西比·强·赫特（Mississippi John Hurt），吉米·里德（Jimmy Reed），也包括一些真正的古典蓝调。男人和吉他，他唱一句，他的吉他和一句。蓝调中充满了这个世上一切不幸灵魂的艰难、斗争和冲突。
我最近爱听的是R.L.伯恩塞德（R.L. Burnside）。当我驾车驶过菲尼克斯城混乱的交通时，我听了他两个小时。
迪伦的唱片中，我最喜欢的两张是他1992年的《像我一样对你好》和1993年的《世界有毛病》。《我眼中的血》尤其为我所爱。我曾经用这首歌做成了一幅拼贴作品。
我收藏爵士，但我不能说对它有多了解。我有一小部分爵士唱片，科特恩（Coltrane），查理·帕克（Charley Parker），迈尔斯·戴维斯（Miles Davis.）和戴夫·布鲁贝克四重奏（the Dave Brubeck Quartet）。
当我最初开始写诗时，我最早的一首诗是写给科特恩的。我记得开头是：男人，当我们亲吻……
我喜欢你的哲学：蓝调是先知，爵士是救世主。我可能要偷来用用。
D：根据你的在线日记上所写的（我讨厌“博客”这个词），你从你的食谱中剔除了肉类，从你的语言中剔除了咒骂。为什么有这些戒律？自从你发誓戒除这两者之后你都坚持下来了吗？或者坚持了其中一项？
L：我也讨厌 “博客”这个词，它使我想起那些令人恼火的新闻。
我的绝对只是一个在线日记。我在上面贴诗，也记录我的私生活。我也假装有其他才能，比如照相，其实我对之了解很少。再比如音乐，我了解得更少，但这并不妨碍我偶尔贴一些我自己制作的MP3。
大约有十年时间，我不吃红肉，三个月以前我连白肉也戒了。是的，我成功地做到了这点。没有任何值得描述的细节，肉类使我不舒服。我不是因为任何宗教信仰或观念才不吃肉。我对那些吃肉的人也没有任何劝阻的念头。我只是更喜欢大豆。就吃大豆！
咒骂对灵魂是有害的。我真诚地相信这点。我戒除咒骂和戒除肉一样成功。许多人说咒骂使人放松。投下一些F炸弹，摆平所有的事情。我正好相反。在我恶狠狠地发泄了怒火或沮丧之后，我感觉很不好。对我来说，这是一种失控的表现。尤其是当我对某人或某事烦心，一旦我咒骂，我就背理了。就如同人们终于开始倾听，而我咒骂着，我会感到自己丧失了立足点。
D：你将鲍勃·迪伦的脸纹在你左边的臀部以示对他的支持。（或者，你真这样做了吗？也许纹在右边？）。虽然我不是迪伦迷，但我欣赏他的艺术，尤其是他的《慢车开来》（Slow Train Coming）这张唱片，这大约是他最不受欢迎的作品。这张唱片是在迪伦狂热信仰基督教期间创作的。他对宗教信仰的音乐性表达，在《爱的爆发》这张唱片中受到了全盘否定。不用说，因为这种信仰，他失去了一些歌迷和朋友，正如他在《我信仰你》中所写的，这是“关于主体信仰之孤独的动人的歌”。
L：我没有纹身，倒不是认为纹身有什么不对。我到死也会欣赏鲍勃·迪伦。我想每次旅行的时候看他的一场演唱会。事实上，我正打算和我的妹妹驾车去圣地亚哥看他，我已带14岁的女儿去看过他。她收藏了他大部分纪念歌曲。我们喜欢在车里一起唱他的歌。（这时我们不会吓坏别人。）
《慢车开来》事实上是鲍勃·迪伦18年中灌制的最后10唱片中最好的一张。《时间溢出心灵》（Time Out of Mind）也好，但是直到1997年才录制出来。
《必须伺候某人》（Gotta Serve Somebody）在1980年作为最佳摇滚演唱组合赢得了格莱美奖。
否定《爱的爆发》的评论家，也许同样不耐烦去听《我的心》（Heart of Mine），《新郎仍然等待在祭坛》（The Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar），《每一粒沙》（Every Grain of Sand）等唱片。
这些评论者是谁？他们现在在哪里呢？
我认为鲍勃·迪伦对基督教的热情不是短暂的，这是他持续一生的信仰，现在仍然是：
他们为我指点门，
他们说不要再回来
因为我不是他们所喜欢的样子。
我独自走出去
离家一千英里
但是我不感到孤独
因为我相信你……
哦，虽然地球摇晃着我，
哦，虽然我的朋友抛弃了我
哦，即使这样也不能使我回头……
不要改变我的心意，
让我继续离开……
自从迪伦放弃了他对信仰的音乐性表达，他再一次回归，恢复了他的传奇地位。（他本来可能灌制更多合乎异教徒口味或宗教神学主题的唱片。）撇开这些不谈，我基本不喜欢布道似的歌，从比利·布拉格（Billy Bragg）的社会主义，到阿妮·迪佛朗哥（Ani DiFranco）的政治的/“女性主义”的咆哮到绝大部分垃圾似的“基督教摇滚”（Christian rock）。因此我并不完全反对歌迷们对他的失望。
D：我曾将1970年代晚期和1980年代早期分别描述为他的明亮时期和黑暗时期，你的这些想法是针对我的这一评价吗？你认为他的压力太大了，他也许最终改变了他的心意，或者将他的信仰与他的大众形象和艺术分离开来了？你比我更了解他，我对这些问题很好奇。
L：我记得我读过他这段时间的传记。迪伦因为《街头示威》（Street-Legal）得到很多负面评价。他的《1978年的旅程》（1978 tour）也受到同样否定，人们说他累了，已经江郎才尽。在11月份的一场演出结束时，一个歌迷向舞台扔了一个银十字架，他捡起来，放在口袋里。他的下一场演出在亚利桑那州的土桑市，甚至比他以前的演出更糟糕。他坐在旅馆房间，体验了一次基督显灵。
迪伦后来解释说：“耶稣的确作为万王之王、主上之主向我显现。房间里，没有别人，只有耶稣在场。耶稣的手放在我身上。它是一个有形之物。我感受到它。我感到它笼罩着我，我整个身体颤抖着。主的荣耀击倒了我，又将我扶起。”
我认为迪伦做了他想做的。我信仰上帝，因此当迪伦说他体验了基督显灵时，我相信他。
我常常疑惑他的歌迷在什么立场上拒绝他？反复回顾，我发现他的歌总是与圣经预言和精神神话结合在一起。这是个事实。我认为《当交易在现代失败》（The Deal Goes Down from Modern Times）中就萦绕着灵性。
我猜他们不喜欢舞台歌曲中的布道。
我认为，即使他愿意，他也不可能将他的信仰与他的艺术分开。他本人说他很久以前和上帝这最高的主宰者有一种交易。我认为他直到今天仍然信仰着上帝。
我已看了他的许多场演出，遇见了很多真正的迪伦迷。这些男人和女人已经支持了他许多年。他们是他为之歌唱和表演的一群人。这是非常年轻的一群，无论他们的年纪有多大。这是一个有教养的群体。他们的心胸宽广。在我的经验中，迪伦的歌迷是我所见过的最具奉献精神、最忠诚的歌迷。
D：给我们谈谈你最近的诗集《花的减法》（它的灵感、主题，诸如此类的。）
L：哈，《花的减法》是我成长的一个顶点，是我在变成一个妇人的过程中展示的一些力量。我将这本小书题献给我的母亲，她是我所知道的最坚强的妇女之一。
我和同时代的孩子们一样被抚养长大。我们这些孩子需要被照看，但是无须被倾听。这个观点在我父亲的头脑中根深蒂固，我并不为此责怪他。在学校和社会中，女孩子们将成为母亲，护士，老师，虽然其中的一些并不适合这些领域，她们仍被塑造得能适应这些角色。
女人们是脆弱的，我并不否认这点，但她们也是坚强勇敢，充满了智慧的。她们在衣袖上佩带着她们的心，努力在生活中创造一种和谐气氛。
与其说我选择了这个主题，不如说这个主题选择了我。我正在写一首同名诗时，这个主题忽然到来。它砰的闪现在我脑海中，我明白我想写什么了。女人和女孩子们总是与花相连。花经常被送给女孩子。女人们爱花。
《花的减法》是一本庄重的诗集。它同时尊敬男人和女人。我选入的诗歌是勤奋的产物，跨度非常长。我不害怕坦陈我有需求和欲望。在这本诗集中我最喜爱的一首诗是《艰难的求婚》（The Difficult Suitor）。
在其中，男人提问，女人回答。最初，她的回答苛刻，冷漠并漫不经心，好像无法被感动。最后，她请求不要将她孤单地留下。
生活是矛盾并列的，爱也是。
D：严格的物理主义者或物质主义者奉行丛林法则：以牙还牙。即使所谓的“自由主义”者在面对不同的想法或行为时往往也是最严厉的法官。自然就是最严厉的法则。我们都处于一种盲目的过程中，总是通过单一的人类目光看待自己。被封闭于一个肉体循环圈，没有所谓的救赎。如同希腊悲剧，被一成不变的命运统治着。“我们介意仅仅处于关系中吗？”是我们共同的问题。爱回答说“是的”。
爱的个体性，主观性，要求超越“吃与被吃”的关系。为了超越蠕虫，拒绝坟墓冰冷的“事实”，我们必须相信屠宰场和邪恶中也存在真爱和上帝。我坚持明显缺席中的在场：缺席从在场中散发出来，与这个仿佛不属于我们的血腥世界相对照。正如作家乔治·麦克唐纳（George MacDonald）所强调的，真理首先允许怀疑的叫喊。突破好/坏的二分法，将这种二分法归罪为人类的错误，这本身就是对“好”的呼吁，是对“更好”的承认，是一种救治（这已预先确诊了一种疾病的存在）。失望来自于更深刻的认知，一种硬性的价值——没有意义的价值，没有真实性的价值是不可能的。
在《爱是可信的》一诗中，你表达了信任爱的困难：
爱是可信的
在每个疲惫的时刻
每个悲伤的家中
每个阴暗的灵魂中，
它的意义呈现……
……在每个歌唱着
明天的夜晚，每个在我头脑中刻下深渊的
自杀的我中。
每个滑过我唇边的
孤独的微笑中。
爱是可信的我告诉你，
在每个历史的碎片中，
每个希望的光辉中。
某些天我很难
去信
这可能是错的。
我用我整颗心
去祈祷。
在《在场》一诗中，明显缺席的“我”的喋喋不休，使我想起你的《当它来临》一诗中的段落：
当
空虚来临
我们必须学会
如何填满它。
很难。
发现
占据空间的事物……
……某些东西
也许占据了
我们声音的空间。
用新语言
填满我们的嘴
用令人满足的仁慈
填满我们的心。
这种浪漫的信仰允许对敌人反常的爱，（这与有悖生存的宽恕态度相连），如你在《民间传说》一诗中所说的：
今天
我坚持每一个
令人不安的决定，
包括威胁着
要炸毁我，将我饥饿的心
旋转进轨道的那些。
你是否曾像我那样，经验过难以言喻的兴奋和舒适时刻，以及非凡的爱的时刻——愿意去宽恕最坏的人，并揭示出在这架血腥的飞机上，同情是必需的？为什么澄明只能暂时存在？
L：十五岁时，我的母亲再嫁给一个蹲过几年监狱并重新做人的男人。他们习惯去参加一个无宗教派别的基督教教堂的晚间聚会。一天晚上，我的继父问我是否愿意去，我便带着我最好的朋友一起去了。
坐在长椅上漫不经心地听布道时，我仿佛体会到冷风似的电流穿过我的胸膛，几乎难以抗拒，我站起来，流着泪跑出了教堂。不是因为恐惧或不安，我只是无法控制我的眼泪或行为。我被击中了。几个人跟在我后面，追出来，包括牧师和我的继父。所有人都相信我感受到了圣灵。
我从不提出任何疑问，我也从不怀疑它。
我的确经验过兴奋或舒适的莫名时刻。我也体验过了然于心的莫名时刻，也即是说我知道我必须做什么，必须前进，不用任何计划或设想。我信仰上帝。但是，我相信一个人必须开始和耶稣的私人对话才能认识上帝。
我也相信祈祷的力量，只是对于祈祷的次数和方式我有一点困惑。
在我的诗中，我是一个热血沸腾的浪漫主义者。但是，我并不轻率地对待浪漫主义。我视它为最高标准。我认为，对于爱是什么或如何去爱不抱任何特别的理想或期望，只是让自己投身于爱和浪漫，才是诗歌动人的关键。我最好的一些诗是受灵感启发的。我甚至不能说是我写出了它们。它们自然在“那里”了。
一个充满同情心的社会才能创造一个更好的世界。当一个人变得冷漠，毫无怜悯之情，他就在欺骗自己。爱是一个连续体，是一个永不终止的循环圈。它没有开始，也没有结束。
D：丽莎，我欣赏你的艺术，也尊重你。你的作品诚实感人，你有一种敏锐的幽默感。我祝福你！最后，你想对你的读者或粉丝说点什么话？
L：最重要的，当然是感谢。
这些年，我收到了许多信件和邮件，主要是邮件。有人写信告诉我，他们用我的诗作课程案例，或者他们被某一首诗所感动，将它转给他们的朋友看。其中有个人，我这会儿忘了他的名字，告诉我，他将我的几首诗制作成微小的卡片，悬挂在他的办公桌上。他说经常读一读，会鼓励他过好每一天。
还有一个人，他本人也是个了不起的诗人，挑选了我的12首诗，为它们配置了音乐。然后将它制作成C.D.，送给他的祖母作为礼物。
我小时候，写一些傻乎乎的压韵小诗。青年时代，我开始严肃对待诗歌，不再仅仅将其当作一种爱好。我习惯于坐在我的房间，阅读詹姆斯·惠特科姆·莱利（James Whitcomb Riley），里尔克，梭罗，以及其他我能收罗到的诗集。我的母亲充分满足我对诗歌的渴望，她常去当地的旧货市场，为我买一些古老的、尘封的情诗、宗教散文，非洲、亚洲、墨西哥和加拿大的诗集。我贪婪地阅读它们，渴望我能像这些作家那样描述事物。
我习惯于将我的名字签在书上。晚上睡觉时，我会想象我正在写作，我越幻想它，就越接近这个真理：我是谁，我打算去做什么。
读者的每一条评语都坚定了这个真理，这种召唤。
借用我最喜爱的诗人，鲍勃·迪伦的一段诗作为结语吧：
猜我做得很好
好吧，我没有保留曾经熟悉的
童年或朋友
不，我没有保留曾经熟悉的
童年或朋友。
但我仍然保留着我的声音，
我能带它去任何地方。
嘿，嘿，因此我猜我做得很好。
David Herrle Interview with Lisa Zaran
D: One of your books, the sometimes girl, is currently being used for a translation course in a German school. (The title in German is das manchmal mädchen.) Please tell us about this impressive gig, how it happened and what it involves.
L: About a year ago I had a collection of letters published at A Little Poetry. The collection is called Dear Bob Dylan and they are the product of my unabashed adoration for the man and his music. Finding no outlet for my feelings about his music, without going so far as to disguise emotions in poetry, I decided to begin a one-sided correspondence with him, which I posted in an online journal. I made the letters available to the public but I disabled any links for people to contact me. The editor of A Little Poetry discovered them and convinced me that I should publish them.
Once published, the collection was discovered by somebody unknown to me, who in turn, forwarded the link to Expectingrain.com, the number one Dylan site worldwide. Expecting Rain’s creator, Karl, added the link to his front page in the daily news and through that link, I probably heard from a few hundred people.
One person, in particular, stood out. A teacher, and fellow Dylan enthusiast living in Germany. We began an intermittent correspondence. After many months she broached the idea of teaching a translation course using my poetry. I readily agreed, but she would have to go through her supervisors and school board for approval before anything would happen.
Once the permission was granted and the course was set up, it was open for students to enroll. The class began this month. It is held every Wednesday from 7:45 a.m. until 9:20. There are 23 students ranging in grades 8th through 10th.
They are attempting to translate the sometimes girl, my first collection, which still remains my biggest seller, to German. The students plan on incorporating their own artwork and photographs to the collection. They are free to contact me to ask questions, which some have and a few have sent me photo’s. The entire process has been thrilling.
the sometimes girl has always appealed to young people. I wrote it when I was quite young myself, early twenties, but did not have it published until 2004. I think because the poems are so short, many not more than two or three lines, almost vignettes, and speak openly and often times bluntly about how life feels “sometimes”.
Some of the best compliments I get about that book are when a person writes to tell me they bought it but can hardly get a chance to read it because their teenage daughter or son keeps taking it.
D: Your favorite book(s) and film(s)?
L: The book of Disquiet, by Fernando Pessoa. I bought it two years ago and to this day carry it with me everywhere I go. It’s melancholy at its finest. I’ve grown very attached to Pessoa.
The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. I’ve read it twice, cried both times. An insatiable tragedy. In many ways I feel related to Werther. His dedication to his feelings, which are so dignified, and yet he suffers most because of them.
Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea. I own a first edition I paid fifty cents for at a used book sale. It’s a prized possession.
I really liked Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf.
I just finished One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Marquez and have already purchased a second book by him.
Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje, which is about one of jazz’s legendary pioneers, Buddy Bolden. A really brave and beautiful book. In fact, David, you being such a jazz guy, if you haven’t read this, you should.
I’ve read every single book by Anne Tyler. I think she is an amazing storyteller. She knows her characters very well. I have never been disappointed by one of her stories. Every single one sucks me in and gives me hope.
Films are tougher for me because I don’t watch a lot of them. I’m not one of those girls that hits the theater whenever a new release comes out. Besides, my thoughts change on what I think might be good and what I think would not. I like anything Woody Allen has done.
The Apostle starring Robert Duvall is probably an all time favorite. I love Amadeus with Tom Hulce. My daughter and I just saw North Country on HBO and cried. So, I think if a movie can evoke teardrops, it’s pretty good.
I’m a fan of Independent Films and many of my favorites are those. Thumbsucker was fantastic. So was Clay Pigeons, Punch Drunk Love, Fargo was amazing! I liked The Virgin Suicides. Almost anything with Sean Penn; Dead Man Walking, She’s So Lovely, and U Turn. I think his wife is a beautiful woman and great actress too.
Really enjoyed the sad and bold documentary, Bukowski: Born Into This.
Of course, No Direction Home, the Dylan documentary by Martin Scorsese. I must have seen Don’t Look Back about thirty times.
D: Though I dig classic blues, from Leadbelly to Big Joe Williams, I prefer jazz, especially digging later Coltrane (the Meditations/Sun Ship days). Jazz is a synthetic and transcendent treasure wrought from a predominantly blues base: an artistic salvation for all races and nations. Blues the prophet, jazz the messiah, I say. Blues also represents, for me, despair expression inherent in the chancy and painful is-ness of physical existence: delightful because blues (descendent of slavery, sorrow, and Stoicism) music is art, which is hopeful in its creativity though stuck in the old doldrums. The classic tap/stomp metes (heart- and clocklike) unstoppable fate, the march toward age and doom and entopy. Jazz, however, is liberated from the limited heart muscle and the clock; it has conquered necessity and lament. Jazz can break the plodding beat into sprinkling glass and explode into supranature.
You"ve an outspoken love for blues. Tell us about this love. Ramble as much as you wish. Do you also dig jazz?
L: The Blues is the soul of music. Following the Civil war and originating in the fields where slaves were made to work and earn the white man money, they were not supposed to have an opinion or a voice. Many Blues songs, minstrel-type songs, folk songs and spirituals erupted as a means for these men and women to express what was in their heart and what was essentially, their essence, their soul.
It is impossible for me to listen to some of my favorites and not feel them. Howlin’ Wolf, Mississippi John Hurt, Jimmy Reed, even some of the real archaic Blues, the hard-times Blues of an unfortunate soul. Man and his guitar, where he would sing a line and his guitar would respond. Blues is full of hardship, the struggles and strife of some of the worlds most unfortunate souls.
A recent favorite is R.L. Burnside. I listened to him for two hours straight driving through this maddening traffic here in metropolitan Phoenix.
Two of my favorite Dylan albums are his 1992 Good As I Been To You and 1993 World Gone Wrong. Blood in My Eyes is a particular favorite. I once made a collage art piece based off that song.
I dig Jazz, but, I’m not going to pretend to know a lot about it. I have a small collection of jazz, Coltrane, Charley Parker, Miles Davis and the Dave Brubeck Quartet.
When I first started submitting poetry, one of my earliest poems was a piece I’d written to Coltrane. It started: Johnny when we kiss….
I like your philosophy, Blues the prophet, jazz the messiah. I may have to steal that.
D: According to your online journal (I hate the word "blog"), you cut meat from your diet and cursing from your speech. Why these disciplines? And have you been successful with either or both of these since the vows?
L: I hate the word “blog” too. Reminds me of one of those annoying news feeds.
Mine is definitely an online journal. I post poetry but I also elaborate on my personal life. I make-believe at other talents too, like photography, which I know very little about and music, which I know even less about, but that doesn’t stop me from posting a self-made mp3 now and then.
I haven’t eaten red meat in about ten years. I gave up all the rest about three months ago. Yes, and I’ve been successful. Without going into any descriptive details, meat doesn’t agree with me. I didn’t stop eating it because of any religious belief or ideology. I don’t have any persuasive attitude toward anybody who eats it. I just prefer soy. Go soy!
Cursing is detrimental to the spirit. I truly believe that. I’m not nearly as successful at not cursing than I am at abstaining from meat. A lot of people say it feels good to curse. Drop a few F-bombs to set things right. I’m the opposite. I feel bad after I curse out of anger or frustration. To me, it is a loss of control. Especially if I’m upset with someone or about something, once I curse, I lose points. It’s like finally people are beginning to listen, than I curse, and I can feel myself losing ground.
D: You"ve endorsed Bob Dylan in every way short of tattooing his visage on your left buttock. (Or have you done so? On the right one maybe?) While I"m not a Dylan fan, I appreciate his art, especially his Slow Train Coming album, which seems to be his most underrated work. It was composed during Dylan"s brief, few-years enthusiasm for Christianity. His gospel albums culminated in the critically crushed Shot of Love (1981). Needless to say, he lost many of his fans and pals for that choice, as he wrote in "I Believe In You," a touching song about the isolation of subjective faith:
L: No tattoos. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I will probably endorse Bob Dylan until the day I die. I try to catch at least one show every tour. I am, in fact, about to make the drive to San Diego with my sister to see him again. I’ve taken my daughter to see him as well. She’s 14 years old and has most of his songs memorized. We like to sing together while in the car (where we won’t frighten anybody).
Slow Train Coming was in fact Dylan’s last top 10 album for 18 years. Until Time Out of Mind came out in 1997.
And “Gotta Serve Somebody” won a Grammy for best rock performance in 1980.
The same critics who crushed Shot of Love as a whole probably didn’t bother to listen to Heart of Mine, The Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar, Every Grain of Sand.
Who are these critics? Where are they now?
I don’t think Dylan’s enthusiasm for Christianity has ever been brief. I think it has been a life long commitment. And still is.
They show me to the door,
They say don"t come back no more
"Cause I don"t be like they"d like me to,
And I walk out on my own
A thousand miles from home
But I don"t feel alone
"Cause I believe in you...
Oh, though the earth may shake me
Oh, though my friends forsake me
Oh, even that couldn"t make me go back...
Don"t let me change my heart,
Keep me set apart...
Since Dylan has abandoned his musical expression of faith, he has made a comeback and revived his legendary status. Do the math. (He should have done some more palate-able pagan or Theosophic albums.) All this aside, I tend to dislike preachy songs, from Billy Bragg"s socialism to Ani DiFranco"s political/"feminist" rants to most "Christian rock" junk. So I"m not entirely adverse to his fans" disappointment.
What are your thoughts on my interpretation of his light/dark time in the late-1970s/early 1980s? Do you think that the pressure was too great and he might have changed his heart after all, or did he perhaps separate his belief from his public image and art? You know more about him than I do, so I"m curious.
L: I know what I’ve read about this time period. Dylan was receiving negative reviews for Street-Legal. His 1978 tour was also getting its fair share of negative reviews, people were saying he was washed up, tired. At the end of one of his shows in November, a fan threw a silver cross onto the stage. Dylan picked it up and put it in his pocket. His next show was in Tucson, Arizona. According to Dylan, he was feeling worse than his previous show. Sitting in his hotel room, he experienced a vision of Christ.
Dylan would later explain, “Jesus did appear to me as King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. There was a presence in the room that couldn’t have been anybody but Jesus. Jesus put his hand on me. It was a physical thing. I felt it. I felt it all over me. I felt my whole body tremble. The glory of the Lord knocked me down and picked me up.”
I think Dylan does whatever Dylan wants to do. I believe in God so I believe Dylan when he says he experienced a vision of Christ.
His fans rejected him on what grounds I often wonder? From as far back as I can remember his songs have always been interjected with Biblical prophecies and spiritual mythology. They still are in fact. I feel that When The Deal Goes Down from Modern Times is laced with spirituality.
I guess they didn’t like the preaching in between songs on stage.
I don’t think he can, even if he wanted to, separate his belief from his art. He himself said he made a deal a long time ago with the Chief, the head honcho. I think he credits God for where he is today.
I’ve been to a lot of shows and met a lot of people, the real fans of Bob Dylan. The men and women who have supported him for years and years. They are the ones he goes out there and sings to and plays for. It’s a very youthful group, regardless of their ages. It’s an intellectual group. People with hearts the size of watermelons. In my experience, Dylan fans are among the most giving and loyal I’ve ever come across.
D: Tell us about your latest poetry book, Subtraction Flower (inspiration, themes, etc.).
L: Ah, Subtraction Flower is a culmination of me growing up a little bit and showing some strength in being a woman. I dedicate the chapbook to my mother, one of the strongest women I know.
I was raised like many children of my generation, that children should be seen and not heard. This idea was rooted in my father and I don’t blame him for it. I learned in school and by society that girls became mothers, nurses, teachers, perhaps because they are suited to those fields though many of us are not.
Women are vulnerable, I’m not denying that, but they are strong and courageous and intelligent. They wear their hearts on their sleeves and want to create atmospheres of harmony in their lives.
I didn’t so much choose this title as it chose me. I was writing the poem of the same name and the title just struck me. It simply popped into my head and I knew what I wanted to do. Women and girls are always related to flowers. Flowers are often given to girls. Women love flowers.
Subtraction Flower is a venerable collection. It respects both men and women. The poetry I chose to include is industrious and takes long strides. But, I’m not afraid to admit I have needs and wants. My favorite piece in this collection is entitled The Difficult Suitor.
In it, the man is asking the questions and the woman is answering. She begins by answering harshly, aloof and uncaring, as if nothing can touch her. By the final line, she asks not to be left alone.
Life is juxtaposition, so is love.
D: Strict physicalism or materialism is stuck in the jungle law: tooth for tooth. Even so-called "liberal" folks tend to be harsh judges when faced with disagreeable thinking or action. Nature is the harshest legalism. We’re all of a blind process that somehow sees itself through unique human eyes. Stuck in a walled-in physical cycle, there is no Grace. Like Greek Tragedy, legalistic fate reigns. “Do we matter in mere matter?” is our common question. Love says "Yes."
And Personality, the subjectivity of Love, demands relationship beyond “eat or be eaten.” When it comes to belief in true Love and God amidst slaughter and evil, in order to believe beyond the worms, reject the cold “truth’ of graves, I insist on the Presence in the apparent absence: the absence emanating from the presence, contrasted to the as-if-not of our bloody world. As writer George MacDonald stressed, Truth-Idea allows the call of disbelief in the first place. Outrage against the good/bad dichotomy and blaming it for human error is itself an appeal to a "good," an acknowledgement of a "better," a remedy (which presupposes an ailment). Disappointment comes from a deeper knowledge, a hardwired valuation - valuation is impossible without meaning, without true measurement.
You address the difficult trust in Love in “Love Is Believable”:
Love Is Believable
love is believable
in every moment of exhaustion
in every heartbroken home
in every dark spirit,
the meaning unfolds...
...in every night that sings
of tomorrow. in every suicide
i carry deep inside my head.
in every lonely smile
that plays across my lips.
love is believable i tell you,
in every scrap of history,
in every sheen of want.
what can be wrong
that some days i have a tough time
believing.
and in each chamber of my heart
i pray.
And my spiel on Presence in apparent absence reminds me of passages from your “When It Comes”:
When
emptiness comes
we must learn
how to fill it.
It"s hard.
Finding things that
take up space...
...something
that might take the place
of our voices,
fill our mouths
with new language
fill our hearts
with acceptable grace.
Such romantic belief allows the unnatural love of enemies (which is associated with the mere survival-countering forgiveness concept), as said in your “Folklore”:
Today
I follow through with each
uncomfortable decision,
even those that threaten
to detonate me, spin my
hungry heart into orbit.
Do you ever experience, as I do, inexplicable moments of elation and comfort, pokes of outrageous Love that absolve the worst of monsters and reveal the need for compassion on this blood-pay plane? And why does such clarity only emanate briefly?
L: I was about fifteen years old. My mother was remarried to a man who had spent some time in prison but was born again. They used to attend an evening service at a non-denominational Christian church. One evening my stepfather asked me if I would like to go. I dragged my best friend along with me and we went.
While sitting in the pew listening half-heartedly to the sermon I experienced what felt like a cable of cold wind pass through my chest. It was so overwhelming that I stood up and ran out of the church weeping, not out of fear or discomfort, I just couldn’t control my tears or my actions. I was overcome. Several people chased me out of the church, including the pastor and my stepfather. All were convinced that I’d felt the Holy Spirit.
I never doubted it, though I never questioned any doubt either.
I do experience inexplicable moments of elation and comfort. I also experience inexplicable moments of complete knowledge, meaning I know what I have to do and how I have to proceed without any planning or forethought. I believe in God. But, I believe that a person must begin a personal relationship with Jesus in order to know God.
I also believe in the power of prayer, in synchronicity and I have a bit of an obsession with numbers and their patterns.
In my poetry, I am a full-blooded romantic. But, I don’t take romanticism lightly. I hold it to the highest standard. I believe that abandoning oneself to love and romance without any specific ideal or pre-conceived notions on what love is or how love should act is the core of inspired poetry. Some of my best poems have been inspired. I can’t even take credit for them. They came from “out there”.
A compassionate society makes a better world. When a person grows cold and compassionless, they cheat themselves. Love is a continuum, a never-ending cycle. It has no beginning and no end.
D: Lisa, I appreciate your art and respect you indeed. Your work is honest and inspirational, and you"ve a sharp sense of humor. I wish you blessings on your path. Any closing words for readers/fans?
L: Most importantly, thanks.
I’ve received a lot of emails over the years, some letters, but mostly emails. A person will write to tell me that they used one of my poems for a class project or they were so moved by a certain piece, they made copies for their friends. One fellow, I can’t remember his name now, told me he had several poems blown up mini-poster size and framed to hang above his desk at work. He said reading them gave him the drive and inspiration to go about his day.
Another guy, a great poet himself, took twelve of my poems and wrote music to them. He then burned it to a c.d. and gave it as a gift to his grandmother.
When I was a child I wrote silly little rhyming poems. As an adolescent I began to seriously consider poetry as more than a hobby. I used to sit in my bedroom and read James Whitcomb Riley, Rainer Maria Rilke, Thoreau, and any other collection I could get my hands on. My mother fed my thirst for poetry by visiting local antique markets and buying me old, dusty copies of love poems, spiritual prose, anthologies from Africa and Asia, Mexico and Canada. I read voraciously with a deep desire to be able to say things like those people could say things.
I used to visualize my name on books. To fall asleep at night, I would imagine myself writing. The more I imagined it, the closer it felt to the truth about who I was and what I was meant to do.
Every note from a reader solidifies that truth, that calling.
To borrow a verse from my favorite poet, Bob Dylan:
Guess I"m Doin" Fine
Well, I ain"t got my childhood
Or friends I once did know.
No, I ain"t got my childhood
Or friends I once did know.
But I still got my voice left,
I can take it anywhere I go.
Hey, hey, so I guess I"m doin" fine.
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