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陈崇正: 缪斯在暗夜中穿行

陈崇正,1983年生于广东潮州,著有《折叠术》《黑镜分身术》《半步村叙事》《我的恐惧是一只黑鸟》《正解》等。中国作家协会会员,2017年入读北师大与鲁院联办硕士研究生班;现供职于花城出版社《花城》编辑部,兼任广东外语外贸大学创意写作专业导师、韩山师范学院诗歌创研中心副研究员。

Chen Chongzheng was born in Guangdong Province, in 1983. He is an editor at the literary journal Flower City, and his works includeThe Art of Folding,The Multiplying Mirror,Tales of Halfstride VillageandFear Got Black Wings.His fantastical stories offer unique insights into reality and open up new ways of seeing the world.

白霞五句

过去了的,我称它为白霞,白色霞光

看不见的霞光,它经常铺满,也经常扑空

这尘世中,我记取了一个温柔的关门远去的动作

我的门,一直虚掩,直至看不见的风和霞光让它闭合

像一朵花收拢花瓣,蚌合上嘴巴,上帝摘走魂命

Five Sentences for White Sunglow

I call the past white sunglow, namely white evening sunlight

The invisible sunglow usually covers the air or becomes empty

In this secular world, I remember to have a gentle and distant act to close the door

My door is always unlocked completely, until the invisible wind and sunglow close it

Like a flower folding itself, shutting it up, yet, it was deprived of soul by God

此时

小雨,开车穿过松山湖

路灯昏黄,夜风托举着它自己

挡风玻璃上水珠扭动

音乐十分陌生,其实可以不听

想起一些青草香味的往事,其实可以不想

故意咳嗽了一声,确认周围寂静如故

手机其实在口袋里,电量充足

我在移动,就如有时候

风也会移动树叶,时间移动了伤痕

每个人都在动,连死人都是

移动着确认彼此的距离,分离或聚合

尝试新的开始,或者走很远的路去忏悔

“都是注定的!”她说

我必须经过那棵树,千百棵中的一棵

傍晚有大风,吹折了它的枝丫

我又经过它的身边,但这一次它是新的

This Moment

In the rain, I drove through Songshan Lake

The road lamp dimmed, night breeze holds up itself

The water drop rolls on the windscreen

The music was strange; actually, it could be ignored

I was reminded of fragrance of grass; it could be forgotten as well

Intentionally coughed to confirm it was nearby silent as usual

Mobile phone was in my pocket, with sufficient battery

I was moving, just like sometimes

Wind moves the leaves; time shifts the scars

Who is moving is everybody, including the deceased

They are moving to confirm their respective distance,separating or gathering

To try a new start, or embarking on a long journey to confess

“Everything is predestined,” she said.

I have to pass by the tree, simply one of the thousands of trees

Its branches were broken by the heavy wind at evening

I passed along the tree, but it seems something new

缪斯在暗夜中穿行

人类离开真正的黑暗已经太久了,我们熟悉电,熟悉灯光和开关,但是也许需要真正的黑暗才能让我们重新理解生命的卑微,理解诗。回望童年,那是一个冬夜,我手里托着一只瓷杯,小心翼翼穿过黑暗不见五指的小巷,去给一位巫婆送热茶。那时我六七岁的模样,村子尚未通电,到处黑灯瞎火,巫婆总必须在深夜作法,而我爷爷笃信神佑之力,非得命我前往奉茶。巫婆用哆嗦的嘴唇轻呷一口热茶,喉咙深处发出突突的声响,我在一旁大气不敢出,轻轻揉搓着被烫得生痛的手指。这样的情景在多年之后,被我写进了小说和诗歌中,成为我写作中一个重要的起点,其中丰富的细节支撑起了想象的穹顶。

漆黑的村庄,暗夜独行的小孩,一个简单而平凡的场景,似乎不值得倾注更多的心力。但我相信细心的读者不会一闪而过,他或者她,在盛夏或者寒冬,如果稍微凝视这样一个情景,就会明白这样神秘的氛围中凝结着作者生命中最神秘的那一个音符。透过文字细密的编排,我相信时空遥隔的理想读者可以读懂其中吹弹可破的梦境。

而这样的一个普通的记忆,恰恰是通过写作才会被重新唤醒的。如果没有写作,这样的一个情景大概也无法焕发任何光芒,而只会沉入阴暗的忘川之中,没有谁能将之擦亮。

诗歌对我而言,还有日记的功能。时光易逝,太多东西在眼里和心里跑马而过,而终于还是没有留下任何印记;而能够刻下一道痕迹的,或深或浅,都是生命的密码,里面的快乐与忧愁,皆可化为一曲幽歌。记忆之于我们自己是宝贝,敝帚自珍,灼灼可人;而对于他人而言,不过破铜烂铁。我们背着破铜烂铁穿行于人世,而缪斯在暗夜中穿行,唯有写作能沟通人神的秘境,将记忆重新唤醒激活,成为珍宝。一个人安静下来时,在骨子里扎根的寂寞,柔软地生长开来。

孤独是另一种暗夜。无论在哪里,无论在什么时间,我都时时可以发现自己只是孤身一人,无所凭依,无所替代,无所分享。情绪和感觉,有时候并非文字和语言所能完整表达的。它们都是三棱锥,搁在心里,把你刺痛。这么些年来,我只能享受着它们的伤害,欣赏着它们的毒液,寂寞的毒。文学都带有微毒,如果无法致幻,如果无法给出梦境,那就不是好文学。

脚步不由自主地前行,而寂寞时时反顾,给我温暖,也给我辛酸。再次翻看多年之前写下的诗歌,那些句子,已经隐隐有些陌生,像一个个被遗忘的密码。它们把我带回幽深的记忆之林,在那里,刀光剑影,欲望昏黄,大火燎原,星星起落。生命的老死,记忆的消失,终究是躲不过的。我有保存旧物的坏习惯,但我知道保存不了整个回忆,整段人生。诗人都是贪心的孩子,要把整个人生都放进作品里吧,我要不停地写,不停地让它们凝固下来。只是到头来,依然无法抵抗遗忘。

写诗是一种生活方式,而我离开这种状态已经很久了。只是偶尔因为需要用诗歌来调整我的状态和语感,处理其他文体无法处理的情绪,我才会开始写诗。

几年前我曾统计过,我从2004年开始写诗,加起来足足写了十万字的诗歌。这几年我停滞不写的原因,是因为我对自己产生了怀疑,我的内心荒芜而苍白,缺乏诗歌生长所需要的磅礴激情。所以,诗歌并不需要我。

而我需要诗歌。我需要诗歌来治疗我的幻想,需要用写诗来温润我尘封的诗歌之心。这样说有点矫情。我很少写诗的另一个原因,也是因为这个世界已经够浮躁了。并不是诗歌无法满足我的需求,而是我没有足够的才华去支撑诗歌腾空而起的能量,也没有足够的才华让我的诗歌具备洞察这个时代所需要的穿透力。

所以我只能回到内心,在物我的联络中给我的诗歌写作一个新的定位。诗歌于我是孤狼之嚎,只在月夜,只在方寸腾挪之间,那些自然流淌的文字组成了繁复的图景。

幸运的是,暗夜中缪斯时时反顾,偶尔还可以与诗神对坐,还能够被阅读,这已经是对我写下的这些分行句子最为从容的赞美。

Muse Through the Dark Night

It has been for ages since darkness gradually disappeared in human life in the true sense, afterwards, something like electricity, light and its switch has appeared in our life, and yet, only by through the true will we be able to redefine and comprehend how humble we are and to define what poetry means. Looking back on our childhood, I was reminded of a winter night, in which I carefully walked through a dark lane, holding a porcelain cup with hot tea in my hands, to deliver to a witch. I was around 6 or 7 years old then, there was no electricity available in my village, where nothing was visible here and there, what is worse, the witch always practiced the sorcery at midnight, and I was forced to go there for tea offering as my grandfather was a pious believer in the supernatural power of the witch. Having tasted the hot tea, the witch made strange sound in her throat, which scared me to say nothing but lightly rub my painful fingers scalded by hot tea. Many years later, I had the scene describe in both novel and poetry, and it became a significant point in my writing, of which some interesting details did hold up the vault of my imagination.

A boy was walking alone in the dark village. It is indeed a simple and ordinary scene unworthy of taking it seriously, but I do not believe that a careful reader will skip it when the scene appears. Whoever slightly peers into the scene in hot summer or severe winter will be aware of such an arcane atmosphere that coagulates the most mysterious note in author’s life. Through the exquisite orchestration of words,I do believe that those model readers far across the distance and space will tacitly understand what is manifested in the context.

However, it is exactly the common memory that has been reawakened by means of writing. If there were no such thing as writing, such a circumstance would be so attractive; meanwhile it would be possibly forgotten or neglected, sequentially, no one could enlarge it.

It seems to me that poetry is bestowed with its unique function as diary. Time flies, something is as quick as a flash of lightning in my memory, with nothing imprinted at last, moreover, what could be marked in the depth of memory is the code of life, in which both happiness and sorrow could also be turned into a quiet song. All of my memory is like jewelry I deeply treasure; on the contrary, it is simply something invaluable in the eyes of the others. So to speak, with our memories, we travel around the secular world, while Muse passes through the dark night. In other words, only by writing could human be able to communicate with deity in a sense, arousing to activate the memory and see the memory as treasure. Only when one is mentally quiet will the loneliness deeply rooted in his heart softly grow.

Loneliness is referred to as a dark night. Wherever or whenever, I feel that I am always alone, with nothing to count on, to replace, or to share. Sometimes, words cannot really express how I truly feel. Like triangular pyramids, they stay in your mind and make you feel painful. For so many years, I could enjoy their harm, witness their poison, a kind of lonely poison. In some sense, literature is slightly toxic;further more, what is known as good literature is something illusory and dreamful.

I spontaneously move ahead, while loneliness constantly looks back, enabling me to feel either warm or grieved.When reading my own poems many years ago, most of those sentences seem to be unfamiliar, like an array of unforgotten passwords, which get me back to the depth of memory, where there appears something like battle, desire, ablaze, and stars. The natural law like birth, aging, illness, and death, as well as memoryloss is all we will eventually face in this secular world. I have a bad habit of storing something old, but I am aware of the fact that whole memory of lifetime cannot be retained. Poet is like a greedy child who endeavors to put his lifetime in his writing. I will never cease to interrupt my writing and continue solidifying them. In the end, I will forget everything.

Poetry writing is a way of life, and yet, I have been out of the status for a long time. Sometimes I still need to adjust my status and language sense by writing poems in order to deal with my emotion that cannot be handled by other texts.

Based on my statistics a couple of years ago, I embarked on my journey to the poetry arena in 2004, and the total number of characters in my poems has reached 100,000 up to the present. The reason why I have gradually stopped writing in recent years is that I am suspicious of myself, feeling mentally desolate, and short of passion for the growth of poetry. Therefore, it seems as if poetry did not need me.

Moreover, I do need poetry in my life.I will have my imagination cured by poetry, and get my unfulfilled aspiration for poetry nurtured by poetry, which sounds pretentious somehow. Another reason why I seldom write poetize is that our world is extremely capricious; anyway,it is not poetry that fails to meet my demands, but my talent that is not enough to tolerate the energy from poetry. In addition, I am not talented enough to enable my own poetry to discern the era we are living in.

For this reason, I have no choice but to dwell in my heart and reorient my poetic writing both externally and internally. To me, poetry is a lonely wolf howling only in the night with moonlight; however, only in the moving moment will the naturally revealed words form a complicated image.

Fortunately, Muse often looks back in the dark night, occasionally sitting face to face with poetry deity and being read, which is really about deliberate compliment to what I have written.

(via《2019年青海湖国际诗歌节暨国际诗人帐篷圆桌会议诗文选》)

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