robert ford
『“紅草莓路”上的迷情』
Lost on Strawberry Road
1.
What is a poem?
A love song played
on a stringless zither? Or a nameless
blossom, shade-loving, tinged
with pink or purple, goes
unnoticed among untrimmed
foliage even when its softly
colored, passionately burnt
yellow & orange pigments
are revealed in summer's hands?
2.
The air on Strawberry Road smells
like late spring or early
Innocence, dew moist, a thickened
wine that often ripens any
reckless night.
My blood flows loudly
the way water and minerals flow
from your twigs to leaves. I have
arrived early to avoid traffic jam
but the quarter-inch, five-petaled
sun dial seems to have lost
its memory of time.
3.
I didn't come here
to scare the deer away, nor
the Wood Thrushes, Yellow-rumped
Warblers and Northern Mockingbirds
that find this corner of paradise
their ideal habitat. These
are my guardian angels as I
tread through vegetated banks, shaded
streams or river bottoms.
The signs at the entrance
are as dazzling as autumn fruit
palmed in lightly serrated dark
fleshy leaves. They seem to fall
at a touch--the pollinated bulbs
dangling by a thread, husk wide
open with five little scarlet hearts.
4.
By night fall, I have wandered
deeper into the woods, a sidetracked
explorer who had lost his compass.
I could not tell the unfragmented
bark of a smooth tree from an inviting
hand. Hiding behind the tense shrub,
I spied a buck tonguing the sweet
twigs and tender shoots.
The single-species thicket was now
taking on a hue more reminiscent
of a made-up, moon faced bride
who would browse those eye-popping
fruit with thirst & impunity. Under my nose
the ovules of the nameless flower
began to swell, ripening toward
its observer's curious gaze.
5.
I made many detours following
your seductive smile masked by moonlight.
I have thrown away my map, tossed
the bilingual tour guide. I also lost
a boot, a sock & my arms and chin
were covered with inevitable bruises.
My note pad was soaked in sap. My
lamp died in a thunder storm.
O, I was happily lost, exhausted
in the music of the night, bubble-slick
finger-picking & distant-drumming,
meandering in the uncharted
woodland.
I would return, time
and again, to Strawberry Road
each time with a new song
to plant in the middle
of your trembling hand.
by 作舟
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