哀悼隨筆 An Essay on Mourning

This pocket-sized paperback is one of the twenty-four titles published for 2017 Hong Kong International Poetry Nights. The theme of IPHHK2017 is “Ancient Enmity”. IPNHK is one of the most influential international poetry events in Asia. From 22–26 November 2017, over 20 invited poets from various countries will be in Hong Kong to read their works based on the theme “Ancient Enmity.” Included in the anthology and box set, these unique works are presented with Chinese and English translations in bilingual or trilingual formats.

約翰．伯恩塞（英國），聖安德魯斯大學創意寫作教授，蘇格蘭重要的當代作家，著有多本詩集、小說集和回憶錄。他的第一本詩集The Hoop（1988）獲蘇格蘭藝術委員會書獎，Feast Days（1992）獲Geoffrey Faber紀念獎，The Asylum Dance（2000）獲Whitbread詩歌獎。2012年憑詩集Black Cat Bone獲T.S. Eliot詩歌獎和Forward年度詩集獎。2017年發表小說Ashland & Vine及詩集Still Life with Feeding Snake。

John Burnside (UK 英國)
John Burnside is Professor in Creative Writing at St Andrews University. His prizewinning poetry collections include The Hoop (1988), winner of Sccottish Arts Council Book Award, Feast Days (1992), winner of the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, and The Asylum Dance (2000), winner of the Whitbread Poetry Award. His Black Cat Bone won both the Forward Poetry Prize (Best Poetry Collection of the Year) and the T.S. Eliot prizes in 2012. His most recent novel, Ashland & Vine (Jonathan Cape, 2017) was published alongside a new collection of poetry, Still Life with Feeding Snake, in February 2017.

An Essay on Mourning 8

哀悼隨筆

哀悼隨筆（節錄）

給盧卡斯

 

I. 關於為黑色虎斑小貓愛思掘墳慕，

2016年10月

 

「『苦──苦』，他回答；

『但我喜歡

因為苦，

而且因為這是我的心。』」

──史提芬，葛倫

 

晴朗的一天，一年裹的這個時節，

陽光在樹籬上，一隻孤獨的

雀鷹在小牧場上。

要挖掘這片土地很艱難，隨後越來越難：

六英寸探，我要回去取鋤

 

從泥土中撬開較大的石頭；

然後，攤開放好用毯子織造的裹屍布

我們在無言中完成工作，僅僅

停下一兩次

估算深度，喘口氣。

 

無話要說，你捏碎一把壤土，

讓它在你手中變暖，

把它撒落在我們一起用濕冷黑暗的碎土

瞎造起來的墳墓，

過了一會，我跟著，尊重沉默。

 

無話要說，但在我的腦海深處，

記起一則舊廣告的聲音，

每一首歌的新耶路撒冷

母親都讓我隨之起舞

粉紅色紙屑在我的恤衫上

最新相識的女子

 

是我臂彎裹的嵌合亮片──毫無

道理，但恰好足夠

抵觸那個五十年代的故事

關於她的婚紗上的

薰衣草和石腦油，她袖子的空洞

 

比我末曾見過的新娘更像鬼魅。

 

An Essay on Mourning（excerpt）

for Lucas

 

I On Digging a grave for Oxy,

A black tabby kitten, October 2016

 

“It is bitter - bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

Because it is bitter,

And because it is my heart.”

──Stephen Crane

 

A fair day, for this time of year,

sun on the hedge trees, a lone

sparrow-hawk over the paddock.

Digging on this ground is hard, and then it gets harder:

six inches down, I have to go back for a pick

 

to prise the larger stones out of the clay;

and then, with the blanket-weave shroud laid out in the open,

we finish the job in silence, only

 

stopping once or twice

to estimate the depth and catch our breath.

 

With nothing to say, you crumble a fistful of loam

so it warms in your hands,

and sprinkle the grave we’ve contrived

with the raw, dark crumbs;

and, after a moment, I follow, respecting the silence.

 

Nothing to say, but far at the back of my head,

a voice from an old commercial, calling to mind

the New Jerusalem of every song

my mother made me dance to, pink

confetti on my shirt, the latest girl

 

a chimera of sequins in my arms—nothing that made

any sense, but just enough

to contradict the ’50s narrative

of lavender and naphtha in

her wedding dress, the hollow of her sleeves

more ghostlike than the bride I never saw.