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蟋蟀(林柳彬)我要评论/comment on

Cricket (Lin Liubin)
 

 

   

    蟋蟀(林柳彬)

    林柳彬,男,1974年生,湖北鄂州人。曾从事过种植、养殖、建筑、餐饮、地方杂志编辑等职业,现为某策划公司业务总监。有少量诗作散见于《大家》、《诗刊》等。

 

 

 

    这宽限的日子

 

    公鸡在院子里踱着方步。
    父亲,你刚刚放工回来
    先到灶台边喝一碗凉粥。
    而我只想一个人坐在枣树下
    磨手里的玻璃球。

    母亲,你还在河边锤打衣裳
    听得见肥皂泡破裂的声音,
    水面上你的影子
    有一双翅膀在扇动。
    而我只想一个人在水底流淌。

    远方,还有一个你们。
    父亲,你还会有一个儿子。
    你还是那样严厉,暴躁——
    但是对不起,我不在枣树下,
    身上也没有伤痕。

    我完整地睡在这里,跟你们隔着
    一座坟墓的距离——
    我有三十八个童年,每天醒来。
    不要怕,母亲,我有三十八个坟墓
    随便你住在更宽敞的那间

    我走着舞步穿行。
    带着荒草,每年添加一间。
    窗户由里向外,父亲
    你可以看见我。
    你死去的那年我将停下脚步。

    你死得越久住得越多。
    我手里的玻璃球磨得越圆,越透明。
    和那个远方的男孩相比
    你抚摸过的额头
    在我这里有着更为巨大的安宁。

 

 

    Cricket (Lin Liubin)

    Lin Liubin, who writes under the pen name “Cricket,” was born in Ezhou, Hubei province in 1974. He’s worked in the planting, grafting, construction, and food service industries, and was briefly an editor for a local magazine. He is currently the operations manager for a private enterprise. A handful of his poems have been published in Everyone and Poetry Periodical.

 

 


    This Borrowed Time


    The rooster marches around the courtyard.
    Father, you’ve just finished a day of labor,
    you go to the kitchen for some cold congee.
    But I just want to sit alone under the jujube tree,
    roll the glass orbs I hold in my hands.

    Mother, you’re still by the river beating the wash
    I hear the sound of soap bubbles burst.
    Your reflection in the water
    carries a pair of wings that are waving
    But I just want to flow, alone, along the river bottom.

    Far off are another pair of you.
    Father, you will have another son.
    You’re every bit as strict, and violent—
    but, excuse me, I’m not under the jujube tree,
    nor are there wounds on my body.

    I sleep here, complete, separated from you
    by the space of one tomb—
    I have thirty-eight childhoods, waking every day.
    Don’t be afraid, Mother, I have thirty-eight tombs
    You may choose whichever is more spacious.

    I glide past, with a dancing step
    bringing wild grasses, every year a new room.
    Through the windows that look out, Father,
    you can see me.
    The year you die, I’ll halt my advance.

    The longer you’re dead, the more you’ll inhabit
    My glass orbs grow clearer as I rub them.
    Compared to the other boy far-off
    the forehead you touched back here
    has an even greater quietude

 

 

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