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Yan Yi



 

 

    阎逸

    阎逸,七零后诗人,古典音乐评论者,做过短暂的报社记者和杂志编辑,曾在南方多地漂泊近十年,现居黑龙江哈尔滨,著有诗文若干,散见于《山花》、《大家》、《花城》等刊物。 

 

 

 

 

    火车安魂曲
          ——纪念723遇难者


    火车在数字里奔驰。
    像钟的指针往后轻轻一拨,
    千里远的闪电在等待雷霆的一击。

    你在地图上找不到地狱。
    但所有的肉色花朵都开在里面。
    一滴泪里的乘客
    只流了一秒钟,火车
    就开走了。哪怕下一站已无泪可流,
    下一张车票迎着风奔跑。

    挖掘吧!
    这长满铁锈的火车考古学。
    这在粉身碎骨里拼凑起来的形象。
    这从众人中引申出的一个人。
    这动了归乡之念的胎儿,
    如今,止步于来世。

    那么
    对躯体说,来吧,机器,碾过吧。
    对熄灭的灰烬说再燃烧一次吧。
    对坟墓说石头你慢慢堆砌吧。
    对心说重新成为一颗心吧。
    只是别给它爱,也别给它梦想。
    别给它听不见的阴影,
    看不见的真理。
    既然耳中的火车与眼中的火车
    互为碑铭,既然黑暗比黑夜
    更黑,更长久。

    那么,就和七月一起离去吧。
    扔掉手机,扔掉公文,
    甚至连报纸头题也扔掉。
    最好把一双手扔到火车这个词里,
    让它把所有的笔划都拆开,
    然后,埋入沉默的大地。

    2011.8

 

 

 

    Yan Yi

    Yan Yi is a poet of the post-1970 generation. A classical music critic, he worked brief stints as a newspaper reporter and magazine editor. He moved around southern China for nearly ten years, and now lives in the northern city of Harbin, in Heilongjiang province. His poems have appeared in several magazines, including Mountain Flowers, Master, and Flower City.

 

 

 

    Requiem for a Train
        for the victims of the 7/23 high-speed rail crash


    The train races through numbers.
    A needle like the second hand of a clock lifts backward,
    lightning a thousand miles off waits for the thunder.

    You won’t find Hell on any map, but
    all the flesh-colored flowers are blooming there.
    A passenger a tear
    only flows for a second, and the train
    is gone. Even if, by the next station, eyes are dry,
    another ticket is sprinting into the wind.

    Dig it up!
    This rust-coated archeology of trains.
    This form jigsawed together from blasted scraps of meat and bone.
    This person deduced from many persons.
    This foetus, which decided to go home,
    and now pauses in its next life.

    Say to the body: come on, machine, roll over it.
    Say to the extinguished ashes, burn again.
    Say to the tomb, stones, pile yourselves slowly together.
    Say to the heart, become a heart once more.
    Just don’t give it love, nor give it dreams.
    Don’t give it inaudible shadows,
    invisible truths.
    Since the train of your ear and the train of your eye
    have inscribed each other’s headstones, since darkness
    is blacker than night, and longer.

    So go ahead and leave with July.
    Throw away your cell phone, your printed orders,
    throw away the headlines in the newspapers.
    Best to throw both hands into the word “train,”
    pull all the jointed bars apart,
    bury them in the silent earth.

    August 2011

 

 

 

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