《写给英语诗歌的亡魂》


2019-03-15 09:31:12  巢圣Chao  所属诗集  阅读478 】

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加添和编辑中

For Walt Whitman

As I was listening to the learned astronomer
dreams kept flashing in my mind

My first dream remembered was my landing
on the moon in my childhood
wihout those heavy garments
of the American astronauts
It was clearly recalled
as I was watching them clumsy on TV
at the entrance of my University

My second dream was my soaring upward
through the dark windy void like a rocket
with a lock of my hair in a mighty hand
an incredible experience of forty eight

My third dream was my scream of fright
when I was falling down like a stone
about to bang the ground
when the huge wing of an eagle
caught me up

The last dream to mention ashamed
was my struggle with the wires overhead
which obstructed my skyward-flight
I cried and cried
waking up in heart to find
they were my nerves
the horrible brains
of little faith






For Edgar Allen Poe

They say your life is a series of disasters
But few have done research about why
This afternoon my students and I
Probed into your poems with peering eyes

One of them felt you angered both man and heaven
For example you took your young cousin for your wife-
An obvious offense to your relatives despite your love
Ignorant of the genic problem to your possible children

The other reason found in your Sonnet to Science
You seemed defending the gods and godesses
Invented by human myth and imagination
Didn't you know it's a terrible sin against heaven?

Alas!even a chilly wind took your Annabel away
Resulting in yourself also gone in a muddy way
Regarding melancholy and death as beauty
Reshaping the whole hell with your pale poetry





River
for Ted Hughs

A huge river perhaps unknown to human civilization

Its waves
Released from the ghost voices of the earth
Roaring like the army of twice ten thousand times ten
Thousand horsemen
Waterless
Blackening the trampled conscience
Of the endless language and letters

Argh! Ted, this river is a stubborn god
Snaking out of any heart stubborn
A lying spirit cast down from heaven
Luring generation after generation
With a say to rise from the dead

Ya! A god of death
Hung with greedy graves
Taking all nations as its captives




Prelude
for T.S. Eliot

Let's shed tears for your years T.S
As we tread upon your world of words
Dirty and dingy of your filthy shadows and images
Like dung that man has turned
For their not laying to heart the commandments

You wrap them with rhythm and rhyme scheme
Striking your language with beauty
Forging your fancy philosophy
From millions of parched pieces
Fascinating an age after an age
All trapped in your soil-soled-souled snares

What can I say today and in future share
With my children and children's children
I'd like to take courage and speak sharply again
Against your poetry
Which can hardly be cleaned
For men are used to your waste land

All your stuff you knew as I know in gloom
Need to be swept with the destructive broom
If mankind want to live a hope
Possible for a leap




I Wander Lonely as a Cloud
for William Wordsworth

A cloud rainless you drift your life
From valley to valley
Mountain to mountain sea to sea
Thirsty
Having not found the city
With words and water
Worthy of welling up to eternity

You wander lonely
Your inward eye
Crowded with self-loving daffodils
Was blinded by blank
Reserved for dark

As I ponder over your poetry
I've heard a cry from the sky
With falling and tearful stars




A Chimney Sweeper
for William Blake

What's made with men's understanding is a smoke
Sneaking snaking out of the chimney of a bottomless pit

Oh Blake, I'm a contemporary chimney sweeper
The chimney is like a church of your time
Full of locusts without the words from the mouth of Elohim
Destined dark by the deaf and dumb of inner life
And strife with all denominational stuff

Any sweeper can be stuck there and stifle
Fortunately I have power from above
And a fountain of clean water to sanctify myself
That I can survive in a Godly way any hardship as a trifle





Poems on Man
for Alexander Pope

A breath in the nostrils
a remnant of the spirit
confined in bones and flesh
coming out of a womb-

like flowers
blooming in the morning
to wither in the evening-

a colorful life
for a day





Stephen Crane

A life spent
eating of his heart
with the red badge of courage
like the hunter in the wilderness

Interpreted by students
who become lecturers and professors-
fruits of the one who sold his birthright

Sneaking out of the hairy voices
I climbed onto the roof
missing the one in a trance
taken by the heavenly cloth





Emily Dickinson

A lonely woman
in a beautiful prison

The letter that kills
stilled a window of imagery-
poetry which was scenic philosophy
and the elements of the world

Alas! No essence! No oil! No lamp!

Born in a wrong time
you had no bridegroom
A life wrung, screwed up by hyphens
like bones lined up as fences

Poesies slanting the American balance





T.S. Eliot

Eliot, you announced the death of many an age
the death of memory and the death of any sage
the death of poetry with the sea and its foams
the death of images with their ruins

Eliot, if the two empires have declined
you are to blame as a person enshrined
you have uprooted their civilization
without sowing the good seed for solution

Those who understand you sigh and suffer
those who don't marvel at you as a winner
Eliot, I just want to say by taking a risk
you have thrown away the earth like a disk

And then disappeared





Thomas Transtromer

Dreams were caged on white page
free of criminal psychology

Outside the window is a fox
who destroyed the vineyard
his hungry footsteps
marring the white snow-

the language from above




Biblical Interpretation of The Second Coming
for W.B. Yeats and his fans

Unable to hear the voice of the falcon
Things fall apart and the heart can't contain
For Yahweh compared Himself to an eagle

Without the words from His mouth
The world is a lost chaos
Shepherds astray on their way for their wealth
Like a rough beast of ignorance
Making the best lack conviction
And the worst full of passion
For their reluctance to be born in Bethlehem
Where the word of Elohim our Savior comes from

Horrible! The devil prowls like a lion
With wisdom bursting from the head of a man
The indignant birds are the spiritual force of evil
Invited to attend the feast
Falsehood for food is the sands of human palate
By their adding to the words refined like silver
And interpreting out of their will Scripture

Argh! The second coming! What a woe in wait!




On Milton's Blindness

Milton penned his Paradise Lost
The greatest heroic poem of English Literature
When his light was spent

Then by what light did he make it? One asked
Guess it's the light of the inward eye
What's that like? Another mildly frowned

Let's see how many inward eyes can man have
When the tree was eaten of by Adam and Eve
Their eyes were opened
Obviously it's not the eyes of their head
For they could see the eye-pleasing fruit
But the eyes of their selfish heart

Why selfish? For the first couple, remember?
Shifted their sins upon others and their Creator
We might be well informed of the causes
Of our own and worldly troubles

When bright became the selfish eye
The other eye would be blind, an awesome eye
Jesus called it the lamp of our body
The lamp is Yahweh Eloi
So it can be enlightened to see Elohim
By the Spirit of revelation and wisdom

Now let's come back to Milton's verse
His question was answered just by Patience
Can you figure out with what light
Milton was scrabbling the greatest epic
Of the English language and the like




Go Catch a Falling Star
-- John Donne, Song

What's a falling star, Donne?
Yeah! A woman not true or faithful
Is there such a woman possible?
Yeah! The Great City of Babylon
The prostitute of the earth
The mother of abominations

Were you catching such a falling globe?
No! You were one as you wrote your letter
Spoiled by the false pen of a scribe
Captived by many a common character

Poor Donne! You failed to find a woman
True and faithful in your lifetime even
Now you know why?
For all visions were sealed up by lie
With human heads as prophets
And human eyes as seers

Haha! Donne! Are you caught?
Some guess you'll be deadly hurt
I'd better let your poems pass
In case mine be trapped too in that abyss





Death, Thou Shalt Die
--John Donne, Sonnet 10

When will death die?
At the last trumpet which sounds to fly
The perishabe will wear imperishability
The mortal immortality
That is when we speak in the Spirit
Death shall be destroyed

How to prepare for that twinkle of eyes?
For the time being
A feast of fat thing
A banquet of aged wines
Is prepared on an exalted mountain
The mouth of the beloved
Like the best wine

Therefore, when the covering of all peoples
And the veil spread over all nations
Are both removed
Death shall be swallowed

Perhaps you are curious to follow
Where death will go
To the lake of fire of sulfur
Guess you still remember
The breath of Yahweh is a fire of sulfur




Nor shall Death Brag Thou Wand'erst in his Shade
-- Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Bill, terribly true
That he died and was raised to life
And ascended to heaven
Seated by the right hand of Elohim
On the earth He is the words
Expounded from the books of Prophets

A poem is but a spear and a shield
Can scarcely be said as the Word
Which if so gives life
When read aloud to oneself
The letter can be a whitewashed corpse
That chills and scares and kills

To tell you the truth, Bill
Never have I realized to my surprise
Your sonnets are so Biblical
So many of your scholars in puzzle
Few really knew and know
Including many your country fellow
With whom you were in love
At your soul's rendezvous




Thy Sweet Love Remembered Such Wealth Brings
-- Shakespeare,Sonnet 29

His love is our wealth, William
So sweet in love He is love
And from Him comes love
Whenever I remember Him
Richer and richer my inheritance
A glorious crown that never fades

As I think on Him, Bill
His word tends to till my field
And my heart becomes His abode
His word is Him, not Bible

Can I say this is a piece of truth
Where our heart there our wealth
Where our treasure there our kingdom
In the union with Him I reign with Him







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