我为什么会有两个博客呢。这一个博客的最后一篇已经是去年一月的了，头像还是两年以前的。如此不堪，让我有些震惊。然后翻到Wordpress的博客，看到过去一年还是有几篇小文，稍稍松了一口气。并不常写文字，也许是我时常感到寂寥而无所适从的原因。
不管是读文章，还是写文章，还是照相，这些与感受密切相关的活动，我认为都是相当私人的。我喜欢和不喜欢，是唯一的标准。许许多多的文字，永远不会有第二个人看到，在将它们记下来的时候，它们的意义就已经被完成了。如同流淌的日子本身，春雨滴过了，雏菊开过了，就很好了。
在给一个朋友的信件里，我写到自己有的时候会照着一篇文章，把它所有的文字一个一个再敲打一遍。有时打着打着，就会注意到曾经忽略掉的细节。有一篇文章，我总是把逗号给打成句号。原来的作者似乎特别不喜欢句号，总要把句子长长地连起来，让它的内容永远不会有终点。每次我打错的时候，总会在心底轻轻叹一声，带着歉意把它改回来。为什么我总要让故事提前结束呢？
这种文字的搬砖，有一个好处，就是永远不会结束。这让我感到安心。
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Highwayman
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Lounge
Ah,
How I wish You could Hear what I Hear,
and See what I See ...
if there is one person who understands
the falling rain,
the changing tone,
and the trembling leaves,
in the night breeze.
(PS. My teacher read this poem, and kindly suggested an ellipse would end it better than a period. Readers may choose whatever form they want for this poem, or create new ones. Poem is just a way to rouse feelings, and it serves differently for everyone. How it should be written, in this sense, is not confined to a single individual's understanding.)
How I wish You could Hear what I Hear,
and See what I See ...
if there is one person who understands
the falling rain,
the changing tone,
and the trembling leaves,
in the night breeze.
(PS. My teacher read this poem, and kindly suggested an ellipse would end it better than a period. Readers may choose whatever form they want for this poem, or create new ones. Poem is just a way to rouse feelings, and it serves differently for everyone. How it should be written, in this sense, is not confined to a single individual's understanding.)
Sunday, November 28, 2010
磨指甲
感恩节一下子过大半圈了.
昨日去Briarwood, 本来是要去买食品和日常用品(牙膏和伞), 结果却是扛了几袋衣服, 差点没回得了宿舍. 在Briarwood有一位女推销员, 看着我, 一位黄皮肤的人, 提着大包小包, 于是在我经过的时候问"你庆祝圣诞么?"
我回过头, 差点没停得下脚步, 不知来者何意, 于是说: "也许吧, 不过这不是个传统的项目." 作为身在异国经常被白人抓着探讨东方文化的华人, 我习惯性地以为她会接下来说"我来自XX地方, 那里庆祝XX节日". 然后咱们会有愉快的文化交流, 然后满载笑容离开.
结果她说: "那你一定有对你特别重要的女人吧? 女朋友?" 听到这个我思维掉了个大弯, 心里想"靠, 女朋友?! 俺光棍们正纠结孤单寂寞的精神和本质呢!" 然后这女推销员, 怕是看到了我奇特的神情变化, 马上接着问: "那你母亲?" 我没法说不, 于是说, 有啊.
然后她马上把我引向柜台, 等我反应过来她是要给我推销东西的时候, 已经来不及转头了. 她把我左手抬起来, 马不停蹄地讲: "你想在圣诞的时候给她们送一份最不错的礼品么? 我们现在有一款XXX, 效果很好." 我没听懂她想要说什么, 但她继续滔滔不绝"能够让她们的指甲保持两周的亮白, 不论她们做什么事情. " 我恍过一点神来. 然后她摸了一下我拇指指甲, 说"你看你的普通指甲外表有棱面, 不光滑", 她把一个盒子形状的东西按在我指甲上, 快速左右摩擦, 一边继续"这东西效果持久, 而且操作方便, 你准备好了么?"
她把盒子拿开. 我果然被震撼到了. 我指甲不仅平滑, 还有多得吓人的光泽. 我第一反应是这真不像男人的指甲, 第二反应是完了, 这下怎么摆脱这位推销员. 她继续滔滔不绝, 但我还是很快想到敷衍一句, 谢谢你, 不过我真的需要走了. 她说, 噢, 好吧, 然后背过头忙自己的去了. 行动之快之流畅, 一如她的连珠话语. 我又被震撼了, 不是吧, 蛇尾都这么有水准.
我还几乎抱歉一样加了句, "但是谢谢!"才仓皇逃走.
走了没几步, 我才回过神来, 她当初为什么问我庆不庆祝圣诞, 为何问我"重要的女人", 为何会在人流中挑选我这个其貌不扬的亚裔人. 我开始责备自己, 怎么不反应早一点呢, 应该马上向她学习哪. 那么咱们就可以在另一个层次愉快地技术交流, 然后满载笑容离开了.
很多时候, 我以为自己太敏感. 挺多时候, 我还是不够敏感.
昨日去Briarwood, 本来是要去买食品和日常用品(牙膏和伞), 结果却是扛了几袋衣服, 差点没回得了宿舍. 在Briarwood有一位女推销员, 看着我, 一位黄皮肤的人, 提着大包小包, 于是在我经过的时候问"你庆祝圣诞么?"
我回过头, 差点没停得下脚步, 不知来者何意, 于是说: "也许吧, 不过这不是个传统的项目." 作为身在异国经常被白人抓着探讨东方文化的华人, 我习惯性地以为她会接下来说"我来自XX地方, 那里庆祝XX节日". 然后咱们会有愉快的文化交流, 然后满载笑容离开.
结果她说: "那你一定有对你特别重要的女人吧? 女朋友?" 听到这个我思维掉了个大弯, 心里想"靠, 女朋友?! 俺光棍们正纠结孤单寂寞的精神和本质呢!" 然后这女推销员, 怕是看到了我奇特的神情变化, 马上接着问: "那你母亲?" 我没法说不, 于是说, 有啊.
然后她马上把我引向柜台, 等我反应过来她是要给我推销东西的时候, 已经来不及转头了. 她把我左手抬起来, 马不停蹄地讲: "你想在圣诞的时候给她们送一份最不错的礼品么? 我们现在有一款XXX, 效果很好." 我没听懂她想要说什么, 但她继续滔滔不绝"能够让她们的指甲保持两周的亮白, 不论她们做什么事情. " 我恍过一点神来. 然后她摸了一下我拇指指甲, 说"你看你的普通指甲外表有棱面, 不光滑", 她把一个盒子形状的东西按在我指甲上, 快速左右摩擦, 一边继续"这东西效果持久, 而且操作方便, 你准备好了么?"
她把盒子拿开. 我果然被震撼到了. 我指甲不仅平滑, 还有多得吓人的光泽. 我第一反应是这真不像男人的指甲, 第二反应是完了, 这下怎么摆脱这位推销员. 她继续滔滔不绝, 但我还是很快想到敷衍一句, 谢谢你, 不过我真的需要走了. 她说, 噢, 好吧, 然后背过头忙自己的去了. 行动之快之流畅, 一如她的连珠话语. 我又被震撼了, 不是吧, 蛇尾都这么有水准.
我还几乎抱歉一样加了句, "但是谢谢!"才仓皇逃走.
走了没几步, 我才回过神来, 她当初为什么问我庆不庆祝圣诞, 为何问我"重要的女人", 为何会在人流中挑选我这个其貌不扬的亚裔人. 我开始责备自己, 怎么不反应早一点呢, 应该马上向她学习哪. 那么咱们就可以在另一个层次愉快地技术交流, 然后满载笑容离开了.
很多时候, 我以为自己太敏感. 挺多时候, 我还是不够敏感.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
烤炙食品区的大婶
在烤炙食品区, 有位棕色皮肤的大婶.
她说的英语弹跳得让我难以捕捉.
她的名字我未曾记住.
她来自巴拿马.
她曾在纽约曼哈顿, 布鲁克林谋生.
她烹饪, 但她不总是个食物工作者.
她当过机场保安, 见过无数旅人.
她在西莱克斯有了女儿.
她来密歇根三年, 跟随丈夫的脚步.
她来美国二十余载, 独自一人.
她说: "我只身来到这个国度, 就和你一样."
在那个明媚的清晨, 空荡的厨房里, 音乐机播放着的90年代经典流行声中, 她与另一位正在煎蛋的黑人大婶聊着感恩节的计划.
也让我想, 在那棕褐纹理皮肤下, 有过怎样的曲折故事, 笑颜和泪水, 希望和辛酸.
而也许, 真正具体到每一天, 时间也只是这样平淡地流过. 也许, 一切大风大浪, 最终都会回归到宁静的日子.
而也许, 真正具体到每一天, 时间也只是这样平淡地流过. 也许, 一切大风大浪, 最终都会回归到宁静的日子.
一个人的一生, 当是比任何书籍都更能诠释人文的涵义.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wonder
There are moments in life,
when you wonder how things might have been different,
if you had chosen another path.
Yet it is not for us to tell.
Even the very wise cannot see all ends.
when you wonder how things might have been different,
if you had chosen another path.
Yet it is not for us to tell.
Even the very wise cannot see all ends.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Dream of Childhood
To travel around the world --
To admire the mountains capped by ice and clothed by cloud. To wade across streams tucked in deep forest and decorated by singings of birds. To walk through streets where time never passes and memories never lost. To talk with people who know the tales and styles of old ages.
To stride on the ground --
To feel the softness of soil, the freshness of growing things, the cool of morning air, the blurry view of hard rain. To learn the stories behind a building, a sculpture, a picture, a letter, a person. To be marveled by the perfection of nature, by the striving of human kind.
To step out and to the journey ahead.
To admire the mountains capped by ice and clothed by cloud. To wade across streams tucked in deep forest and decorated by singings of birds. To walk through streets where time never passes and memories never lost. To talk with people who know the tales and styles of old ages.
To stride on the ground --
To feel the softness of soil, the freshness of growing things, the cool of morning air, the blurry view of hard rain. To learn the stories behind a building, a sculpture, a picture, a letter, a person. To be marveled by the perfection of nature, by the striving of human kind.
To step out and to the journey ahead.
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