秦惠敏

留下你的水和綠植，

我想要的是沙漠。

留下你的落葉松，

我無需綠蔭送爽。

給我地平線上的荒涼和嚴酷，

那里的主色調(diào)是褐色和棕色。

讓我經(jīng)受酷暑和暴曬，

熱浪起伏猶如正弦波。

水的幻覺，

湖面升起。

百里開外，了無人煙，

無邊沙漠如露天巨棺。

萬物皆定，無可改變，

除了夜間開花的仙人掌，

絲綢般的乳白色花瓣，

是沙漠中出現(xiàn)的灰姑娘，

清香醉人的果皮，

甜蜜多汁的果漿，

如鮮血般紅艷，

一夜過后卻香消玉殞。

真實得令我難以承受，

被朝陽永久合上。

他離開的那個夏天

草坪上長滿了蒲公英。

因為雜草意味著他走了，

她認為它們很美，

像一張金色毯子蓋在綠草上。

因為草坪上的雜草意味著

他不再回來，她不再

害怕。整個世界變成了

黃色。不需要再躲在

大山后面，太陽升起，

像拉撒路，溫暖著大地。

金盞花在花園里怒放，

太陽花欣欣向榮，像重生的

基督——檸檬色百合，麒麟草，

金鳳花以及金雞菊。蜜蜂，暈乎乎

緣于黃色的誘惑，身著天鵝絨芭蕾短裙

嗡嗡作響。黃鳳蝶

扇動著翅膀，像慢動作的鼓掌。

金翅雀，黃鸝，林鶯，

沒有懷念藍色，在樹叢中演奏著爵士樂。

夜晚，天空中閃爍著道道黃玉色的光。

星星像一個個膽小鬼，從躲藏處

鉆了出來。獵戶座點亮了

黑暗。電臺播放著懷舊金曲，

她跳著舞，伴著《得克薩斯的黃玫瑰》

和《老榆樹之戀》，

她跳得有些瘋狂，

麥色頭發(fā)甩來甩去，

像勞作中的磨坊主的女兒，

在她四周，從黃色中轉(zhuǎn)出了金子，

越來越多，不是愚人金，而是真的。

植物園里的四月

在一間陽光房里我想起了你，

在那個遙遠的，你飛去的城市里。

為一個奇跡我已祈禱了整個冬天。

冰冷的雨點此時正敲打著窗，

浸濕了我渴望在其中漫步的花園。

黃色水仙花東倒西斜，

郁金香和番紅花撲倒在地，

木蘭葉子被污水壓得低垂。

從紫色杜鵑花里飛出一只金翅雀，

又一只從連翹叢中飛起，

接連不斷，至少一打，俯沖下來，

飛過喂鳥器旁，

飛向樹木，飛向灌木叢。一群金翅雀——

雖有污漬，卻柔軟，燦爛，

像太陽撒下的金色碎片。

片片金色葉子飄過玻璃窗，

除了飲食和飛翔，

鳥兒們什么也不想。

四周雨聲不停，

鳥兒繼續(xù)飛行。

不受冷雨阻擋，

陣形之完美如微型過山車，

被空氣托著，自由滑落，展翅翱翔。

雨聲停了，

在沉悶的寂靜中，

看不見鳥翅的扇動，也聽不見鳥鳴。

我只看到一群蕩秋千的小小表演家，

無視危險，不用安全繩，也無安全網(wǎng)。

我又想起了遠方的你，

在冰冷、冰冷的雨中戰(zhàn)栗。

The Temptation of Mirage

By Diane Lockward

Save your water and green vegetation.

What I want is the desert.

Keep your deciduous pines，

the solace of shade and shadows.

Give me starkness on the horizon，

predictability of beige and brown.

Let me suffer the heat and burn，

air so hot it undulates in sine waves，

and the illusion of water，

the levitation of lake.

Not one human for hundreds of miles，

eternity of sand， an open-air coffin.

Everything fixed and final，

except the night-blooming cereus，

its creamy petals like white silk，

Cinderella in the desert，

narcotic fragrance of the skin，

sweet， juicy pulp of the fruit，

red as a splash of blood，

for one night only， quench of beauty

more real than I can bear，

closed forever by morning sun.

The Summer He Left

The lawn filled with dandelions.

Because weeds meant he was gone，

she thought they were beautiful，

a blanket of gold over the green.

Because weeds on grass meant

he wasn't coming back， she was not

afraid. The whole world turned

yellow. No longer cowering

behind the mountain， the sun rose

like Lazarus and warmed the earth.

Marigolds bloomed in the garden.

Sunflowers sprung up like born-again

Christians - lemon lilies， goldenrod，

buttercups， and coreopsis. Bees， dizzy

with temptation of yellow， buzzed

in their velvet tutus. Tiger swallowtails

flapped wings， slow-motion applause.

Goldfinches， orioles， warblers，

not missing blue， jazzed the trees.

At night， the sky streaked with topaz.

The stars， those little cowards， crept out

of their hiding places. Orion lit up

the dark. K-ROCK blared golden oldies，

and she danced to the Yellow Rose

of Texas and Tie A Yellow Ribbon，

danced like some wild thing，

her straw-colored hair whirling in circles，

the miller's daughter at the wheel，

all around her yellow spinning out gold，

and more gold， not fool's gold， but real.

April at the Arboretum

In a glass-encased room I thought of you，

far away， in the city youve flown to.

All winter Id prayed hard for a miracle.

Now rain and ice pelted the windows，

drenched the gardens Id wanted

to stroll. Yellow daffodils tilted，

tulips and crocus collapsed， leaves

of magnolias hung heavy with slush.

Out of purple rhododendron the first

goldfinch appeared， from forsythia， another

and another， at least a dozen， swooping

and gliding from thistle seed feeder

to tree to bush. A flock of goldfinches—

tarnished， soft， and brilliant， flying fragments

of gold， as if the sun had shattered.

Leaves of gold floated past panes of glass，

each bird without cares except to feed and fly.

All around me I heard sleet rat-a-tat-tatting，

and still the birds continued their airshow.

They did not suffer from ice， but flew

in perfect formation， a miniature

roller coaster， gliding in freefall，

looping and soaring， cradled by air.

Then the rain stopped pounding， and

in that airless silence no flutter of wings， no

twitter of birdsong. I only saw those small

trapeze artists on wings， flying cordless，

without cables or net， oblivious to danger，

and I thought of you， miles away，

trembling in the cold， cold rain.

April at the Arboretum

In a glass-encased room I thought of you，

far away， in the city youve flown to.

All winter Id prayed hard for a miracle.

Now rain and ice pelted the windows，

drenched the gardens Id wanted

to stroll. Yellow daffodils tilted，

tulips and crocus collapsed， leaves

of magnolias hung heavy with slush.

Out of purple rhododendron the first

goldfinch appeared， from forsythia， another

and another， at least a dozen， swooping

and gliding from thistle seed feeder

to tree to bush. A flock of goldfinches—

tarnished， soft， and brilliant， flying fragments

of gold， as if the sun had shattered.

Leaves of gold floated past panes of glass，

each bird without cares except to feed and fly.

All around me I heard sleet rat-a-tat-tatting，

and still the birds continued their airshow.

They did not suffer from ice， but flew

in perfect formation， a miniature

roller coaster， gliding in freefall，

looping and soaring， cradled by air.

Then the rain stopped pounding， and

in that airless silence no flutter of wings， no

twitter of birdsong. I only saw those small

trapeze artists on wings， flying cordless，

without cables or net， oblivious to danger，

and I thought of you， miles away，

trembling in the cold， cold rain.