陳崇正，1983年生于廣東潮州,，著有《折疊術(shù)》《黑鏡分身術(shù)》《半步村敘事》《我的恐懼是一只黑鳥》《正解》等。中國作家協(xié)會(huì)會(huì)員,，2017年入讀北師大與魯院聯(lián)辦碩士研究生班,；現(xiàn)供職于花城出版社《花城》編輯部，兼任廣東外語外貿(mào)大學(xué)創(chuàng)意寫作專業(yè)導(dǎo)師,、韓山師范學(xué)院詩歌創(chuàng)研中心副研究員,。

Chen Chongzheng was born in Guangdong Province, in 1983. He is an editor at the literary journal Flower City, and his works includeThe Art of Folding,The Multiplying Mirror,Tales of Halfstride VillageandFear Got Black Wings.His fantastical stories offer unique insights into reality and open up new ways of seeing the world.

白霞五句

過去了的，我稱它為白霞,，白色霞光

看不見的霞光,，它經(jīng)常鋪滿，也經(jīng)常撲空

這塵世中,，我記取了一個(gè)溫柔的關(guān)門遠(yuǎn)去的動(dòng)作

我的門,，一直虛掩，直至看不見的風(fēng)和霞光讓它閉合

像一朵花收攏花瓣,，蚌合上嘴巴,，上帝摘走魂命

Five Sentences for White Sunglow

I call the past white sunglow, namely white evening sunlight

The invisible sunglow usually covers the air or becomes empty

In this secular world, I remember to have a gentle and distant act to close the door

My door is always unlocked completely, until the invisible wind and sunglow close it

Like a flower folding itself, shutting it up, yet, it was deprived of soul by God

此時(shí)

小雨，開車穿過松山湖

路燈昏黃,，夜風(fēng)托舉著它自己

擋風(fēng)玻璃上水珠扭動(dòng)

音樂十分陌生,，其實(shí)可以不聽

想起一些青草香味的往事，其實(shí)可以不想

故意咳嗽了一聲,，確認(rèn)周圍寂靜如故

手機(jī)其實(shí)在口袋里,，電量充足

我在移動(dòng)，就如有時(shí)候

風(fēng)也會(huì)移動(dòng)樹葉,，時(shí)間移動(dòng)了傷痕

每個(gè)人都在動(dòng),，連死人都是

移動(dòng)著確認(rèn)彼此的距離，分離或聚合

嘗試新的開始,，或者走很遠(yuǎn)的路去懺悔

“都是注定的,！”她說

我必須經(jīng)過那棵樹，千百棵中的一棵

傍晚有大風(fēng),，吹折了它的枝丫

我又經(jīng)過它的身邊,，但這一次它是新的

This Moment

In the rain, I drove through Songshan Lake

The road lamp dimmed, night breeze holds up itself

The water drop rolls on the windscreen

The music was strange; actually, it could be ignored

I was reminded of fragrance of grass; it could be forgotten as well

Intentionally coughed to confirm it was nearby silent as usual

Mobile phone was in my pocket, with sufficient battery

I was moving, just like sometimes

Wind moves the leaves; time shifts the scars

Who is moving is everybody, including the deceased

They are moving to confirm their respective distance,separating or gathering

To try a new start, or embarking on a long journey to confess

“Everything is predestined,” she said.

I have to pass by the tree, simply one of the thousands of trees

Its branches were broken by the heavy wind at evening

I passed along the tree, but it seems something new

繆斯在暗夜中穿行

人類離開真正的黑暗已經(jīng)太久了,，我們熟悉電，熟悉燈光和開關(guān),，但是也許需要真正的黑暗才能讓我們重新理解生命的卑微,，理解詩?；赝?，那是一個(gè)冬夜，我手里托著一只瓷杯,，小心翼翼穿過黑暗不見五指的小巷,，去給一位巫婆送熱茶。那時(shí)我六七歲的模樣,，村子尚未通電,，到處黑燈瞎火，巫婆總必須在深夜作法,，而我爺爺篤信神佑之力,，非得命我前往奉茶。巫婆用哆嗦的嘴唇輕呷一口熱茶,，喉嚨深處發(fā)出突突的聲響,，我在一旁大氣不敢出，輕輕揉搓著被燙得生痛的手指,。這樣的情景在多年之后,，被我寫進(jìn)了小說和詩歌中，成為我寫作中一個(gè)重要的起點(diǎn),，其中豐富的細(xì)節(jié)支撐起了想象的穹頂,。

漆黑的村莊，暗夜獨(dú)行的小孩,，一個(gè)簡(jiǎn)單而平凡的場(chǎng)景，似乎不值得傾注更多的心力,。但我相信細(xì)心的讀者不會(huì)一閃而過,，他或者她，在盛夏或者寒冬,，如果稍微凝視這樣一個(gè)情景,，就會(huì)明白這樣神秘的氛圍中凝結(jié)著作者生命中最神秘的那一個(gè)音符。透過文字細(xì)密的編排,，我相信時(shí)空遙隔的理想讀者可以讀懂其中吹彈可破的夢(mèng)境,。

而這樣的一個(gè)普通的記憶，恰恰是通過寫作才會(huì)被重新喚醒的,。如果沒有寫作,，這樣的一個(gè)情景大概也無法煥發(fā)任何光芒,，而只會(huì)沉入陰暗的忘川之中，沒有誰能將之擦亮,。

詩歌對(duì)我而言,，還有日記的功能。時(shí)光易逝,，太多東西在眼里和心里跑馬而過,，而終于還是沒有留下任何印記；而能夠刻下一道痕跡的,，或深或淺,，都是生命的密碼，里面的快樂與憂愁,，皆可化為一曲幽歌,。記憶之于我們自己是寶貝，敝帚自珍,，灼灼可人,；而對(duì)于他人而言，不過破銅爛鐵,。我們背著破銅爛鐵穿行于人世,，而繆斯在暗夜中穿行，唯有寫作能溝通人神的秘境,，將記憶重新喚醒激活,，成為珍寶。一個(gè)人安靜下來時(shí),，在骨子里扎根的寂寞,，柔軟地生長(zhǎng)開來。

孤獨(dú)是另一種暗夜,。無論在哪里,，無論在什么時(shí)間，我都時(shí)時(shí)可以發(fā)現(xiàn)自己只是孤身一人,，無所憑依,，無所替代，無所分享,。情緒和感覺,，有時(shí)候并非文字和語言所能完整表達(dá)的。它們都是三棱錐,，擱在心里,，把你刺痛。這么些年來，我只能享受著它們的傷害,，欣賞著它們的毒液,，寂寞的毒。文學(xué)都帶有微毒,，如果無法致幻,，如果無法給出夢(mèng)境，那就不是好文學(xué),。

腳步不由自主地前行,，而寂寞時(shí)時(shí)反顧，給我溫暖,，也給我辛酸,。再次翻看多年之前寫下的詩歌，那些句子,，已經(jīng)隱隱有些陌生,，像一個(gè)個(gè)被遺忘的密碼。它們把我?guī)Щ赜纳畹挠洃浿?，在那里,，刀光劍影，欲望昏黃,，大火燎原,，星星起落。生命的老死,，記憶的消失,，終究是躲不過的。我有保存舊物的壞習(xí)慣,，但我知道保存不了整個(gè)回憶,，整段人生。詩人都是貪心的孩子,，要把整個(gè)人生都放進(jìn)作品里吧,，我要不停地寫，不停地讓它們凝固下來,。只是到頭來,，依然無法抵抗遺忘。

寫詩是一種生活方式,，而我離開這種狀態(tài)已經(jīng)很久了。只是偶爾因?yàn)樾枰迷姼鑱碚{(diào)整我的狀態(tài)和語感,，處理其他文體無法處理的情緒,，我才會(huì)開始寫詩。

幾年前我曾統(tǒng)計(jì)過,，我從2004年開始寫詩,，加起來足足寫了十萬字的詩歌,。這幾年我停滯不寫的原因，是因?yàn)槲覍?duì)自己產(chǎn)生了懷疑,，我的內(nèi)心荒蕪而蒼白,，缺乏詩歌生長(zhǎng)所需要的磅礴激情。所以,，詩歌并不需要我,。

而我需要詩歌。我需要詩歌來治療我的幻想,，需要用寫詩來溫潤(rùn)我塵封的詩歌之心,。這樣說有點(diǎn)矯情。我很少寫詩的另一個(gè)原因,，也是因?yàn)檫@個(gè)世界已經(jīng)夠浮躁了,。并不是詩歌無法滿足我的需求，而是我沒有足夠的才華去支撐詩歌騰空而起的能量,，也沒有足夠的才華讓我的詩歌具備洞察這個(gè)時(shí)代所需要的穿透力,。

所以我只能回到內(nèi)心，在物我的聯(lián)絡(luò)中給我的詩歌寫作一個(gè)新的定位,。詩歌于我是孤狼之嚎,，只在月夜，只在方寸騰挪之間,，那些自然流淌的文字組成了繁復(fù)的圖景,。

幸運(yùn)的是，暗夜中繆斯時(shí)時(shí)反顧,，偶爾還可以與詩神對(duì)坐,，還能夠被閱讀，這已經(jīng)是對(duì)我寫下的這些分行句子最為從容的贊美,。

Muse Through the Dark Night

It has been for ages since darkness gradually disappeared in human life in the true sense, afterwards, something like electricity, light and its switch has appeared in our life, and yet, only by through the true will we be able to redefine and comprehend how humble we are and to define what poetry means. Looking back on our childhood, I was reminded of a winter night, in which I carefully walked through a dark lane, holding a porcelain cup with hot tea in my hands, to deliver to a witch. I was around 6 or 7 years old then, there was no electricity available in my village, where nothing was visible here and there, what is worse, the witch always practiced the sorcery at midnight, and I was forced to go there for tea offering as my grandfather was a pious believer in the supernatural power of the witch. Having tasted the hot tea, the witch made strange sound in her throat, which scared me to say nothing but lightly rub my painful fingers scalded by hot tea. Many years later, I had the scene describe in both novel and poetry, and it became a significant point in my writing, of which some interesting details did hold up the vault of my imagination.

A boy was walking alone in the dark village. It is indeed a simple and ordinary scene unworthy of taking it seriously, but I do not believe that a careful reader will skip it when the scene appears. Whoever slightly peers into the scene in hot summer or severe winter will be aware of such an arcane atmosphere that coagulates the most mysterious note in author’s life. Through the exquisite orchestration of words,I do believe that those model readers far across the distance and space will tacitly understand what is manifested in the context.

However, it is exactly the common memory that has been reawakened by means of writing. If there were no such thing as writing, such a circumstance would be so attractive; meanwhile it would be possibly forgotten or neglected, sequentially, no one could enlarge it.

It seems to me that poetry is bestowed with its unique function as diary. Time flies, something is as quick as a flash of lightning in my memory, with nothing imprinted at last, moreover, what could be marked in the depth of memory is the code of life, in which both happiness and sorrow could also be turned into a quiet song. All of my memory is like jewelry I deeply treasure; on the contrary, it is simply something invaluable in the eyes of the others. So to speak, with our memories, we travel around the secular world, while Muse passes through the dark night. In other words, only by writing could human be able to communicate with deity in a sense, arousing to activate the memory and see the memory as treasure. Only when one is mentally quiet will the loneliness deeply rooted in his heart softly grow.

Loneliness is referred to as a dark night. Wherever or whenever, I feel that I am always alone, with nothing to count on, to replace, or to share. Sometimes, words cannot really express how I truly feel. Like triangular pyramids, they stay in your mind and make you feel painful. For so many years, I could enjoy their harm, witness their poison, a kind of lonely poison. In some sense, literature is slightly toxic;further more, what is known as good literature is something illusory and dreamful.

I spontaneously move ahead, while loneliness constantly looks back, enabling me to feel either warm or grieved.When reading my own poems many years ago, most of those sentences seem to be unfamiliar, like an array of unforgotten passwords, which get me back to the depth of memory, where there appears something like battle, desire, ablaze, and stars. The natural law like birth, aging, illness, and death, as well as memoryloss is all we will eventually face in this secular world. I have a bad habit of storing something old, but I am aware of the fact that whole memory of lifetime cannot be retained. Poet is like a greedy child who endeavors to put his lifetime in his writing. I will never cease to interrupt my writing and continue solidifying them. In the end, I will forget everything.

Poetry writing is a way of life, and yet, I have been out of the status for a long time. Sometimes I still need to adjust my status and language sense by writing poems in order to deal with my emotion that cannot be handled by other texts.

Based on my statistics a couple of years ago, I embarked on my journey to the poetry arena in 2004, and the total number of characters in my poems has reached 100,000 up to the present. The reason why I have gradually stopped writing in recent years is that I am suspicious of myself, feeling mentally desolate, and short of passion for the growth of poetry. Therefore, it seems as if poetry did not need me.

Moreover, I do need poetry in my life.I will have my imagination cured by poetry, and get my unfulfilled aspiration for poetry nurtured by poetry, which sounds pretentious somehow. Another reason why I seldom write poetize is that our world is extremely capricious; anyway,it is not poetry that fails to meet my demands, but my talent that is not enough to tolerate the energy from poetry. In addition, I am not talented enough to enable my own poetry to discern the era we are living in.

For this reason, I have no choice but to dwell in my heart and reorient my poetic writing both externally and internally. To me, poetry is a lonely wolf howling only in the night with moonlight; however, only in the moving moment will the naturally revealed words form a complicated image.

Fortunately, Muse often looks back in the dark night, occasionally sitting face to face with poetry deity and being read, which is really about deliberate compliment to what I have written.

(via《2019年青海湖國際詩歌節(jié)暨國際詩人帳篷圓桌會(huì)議詩文選》)