生于中国江苏，1987年毕业于北京师范大学，后任教于南京东南大学十余年，写诗、译诗、研究诗歌，目前在新加坡国立大学，为博士候选人。

Native of Jiangsu, PRC, upon graduation from Beijing Normal University in 1987, taught in Southeast University Nanjing for a dozen of years.  He writes, translates and currently is studying poetry in National University of Singapore.

四季歌

Uneasy Seasons

一
(for L)

叶子妩媚了脸
预支夏季；
叶子的背面
凝结着茎根的寒气。
低远的北方眼神阴沉，且理所当然，
还偶尔堆砌雪的威胁。
东风被柳絮驾驭了，
胀满蛙声。梦的鼓从两头敲响。
莲藕的胳膊、莲藕的腿、竹笋如针。
花苞的唇向着嗡嗡声轻启。
绿色一声不吭，由浅入深。
园中的小径开始阴暗而狭窄。
春。疼与爱惜。
我们都故作自然。


二
(for H)

远山的高远处，
夏季的蓝与地平线之间
停放着一段灼热的距离。
云朵的驿站。凝滞。古道上，
旅人的导盲犬吐着舌头，停停走走。
草叶守持着修长的光，螳螂
高举锯齿。离别还没有圆满，
一行白色大鸟仍没镀上金辉。整个下午，
它们一直在蚊虫的面纱后
操练特技，穿越水面、树梢、天际
以及它们倒影夹击的窄门。
此刻，黑暗正侧身
切入晚霞，景深将搁浅在一片沙滩，
我目力不逮。


三
(for K)

露台上的咏叹调单薄成榻前的宣叙曲。
叶子虚空了，脉络分明，
在阶前贴着浮雕。蚕食的风
（啊，它总是来得稍早了一点）
开始积存虫卵与岁月。
夕阳下的芝麻秆释放着银玲的笑，
戈壁上竖起狼烟，古战场的厮杀静默无声。
天空因此杳阔、夜色因此稀薄。
所有的距离都再次古典。
篝火。狼的眼睛。星斗渐远。
灯下的人背负着背影
用食指在桌面上
画另一个人的轮廓。
翻开的书页上有枫叶的光泽。


四
(for T)

冬至。秋风到了银河对岸。
姑娘们开始显膘。
洪七公的衾被冷硬似铁。
今夜谁以乳房和小腹为他暖背？
谁为火盆添柴而不让他流泪？
明晨，谁会借口送一杯咖啡
到他的书房，以便用潮红的脸摩擦
他嶙峋的手背？谁让他的毛笔
湿润而伏贴，黑油油的笔头
齐刷刷地倒挂在打狗棍上，如短刀入鞘？
砚池散发着香，宣纸上墨线若隐若现
勾勒出一泻飞瀑，落入竹林屏风。那儿应有
十二只绿背青蛙，二十四颗乳房珠圆玉润，
以及瓷钵底部一枚残缺的印章：丐帮至尊。

　　　　　　　　2004年10月, 2005年1月
			

I (for L)

Leaves are fawning on the breeze
to make an advance;
dews are forming on their back
from the dampness on the stem from the earth.
The far North straightens a face
of dignified gloom, and threatens a sleet.
Easterly wind is hijacked by the catkin 
and croaks are bloated. The drum of dream tattoos 
on both ends. Lotus elbows, lotus shins, sharp bamboo shoots.
Eager lips of flower-buds open to drones and hums.
Voiceless, jade-green deepens, 
and the forked garden path closes in and thickens.
The vernal. Aches cherishable.
A naturalness we both fake.


II (for H)

High above the contour of faraway hills,
between the summer blue and the horizon
a burning distance holds.
Pavilions of clouds. Stillness. A guiding dog, 
tongue stuck out, leads a drifter plowing along
the ancient road. The blades of grasses
shimmer, and devil horses raise their saws high.
The parting is not perfected, as the file of white birds
is not gilded. The whole afternoon, behind the veils
of mosquitoes, they have been drilling 
their aerobatic flight through the strips of dead space
between the water, the treetop, the skyline and their reflections.
Now, darkness is wedging into the afterglow and depth of visions
will anchor onto a beach beyond my eyes’ reach.


III (for K)

Duets on the terrace thin to recitatives on the couch,
leaves have cleared their palms, their veins carving
a low relief on the steps. The wind, nibbling,
(that always comes a little earlier than it should) 
begin to stock eggs of insects and summer warmth.
In the afterglow, sesame stalks smile, silvery, like
beacons rising on the Gobi, ancient battle cries muffled.
Wider becomes the sky and clearer the night.
All the distances are classic.
Campfires. Wolf eyes. Sparse stars.
A person under the desk light, bearing on his back
his own shadow, stretches his index finger
to draw the outline of another,
the open pages glazed with maple scarlet.


IV (for T)

The Winter Solstice. Autumn winds blow on the other bank
of the Milky Way. Girls have all shown fat.
Diogenes’ bedclothes are cold and stiff. Tonight, 
who will warm up his back, with her breasts and abdomen?
Who will add firewood and not make his eyes smart? After sunrise,
who will bring a cup of coffee to his study so that she could rub
her reddish cheeks against his rugged hands? Who will keep
his writing brushes clean and shiny, with the moist black hair
hanging down abreast on his staff, like a set of stilettos
safely sheathed? From the concave inkstone floats 
the aroma of wisdom, and indistinct lines on the blotting paper
let loose a waterfall onto a screen of bamboos. There 
should be twelve green frogs, twenty-four pearly breasts, and
a square seal on the bottom of a bowl: Diogenes the Great Dog.

Oct. 2004, Jan. 2005