爱丽丝·奥斯沃尔德：如何写诗（2）

（希腊神话中的女仙Echo，即回音）

3、写什么？

一般给出的答案是，写那些你了解的东西：你的工作，你的家庭，你的烦恼，你的爱好。写得快些写得慢些都无不可，只要将精力集中在你的主题上，不要去担心别人怎么想。诚实地写，而不是讨好地写。相信你的本能能够吸引到读者，而不是相反地去相信读者能够为你找到本能。

W·B·叶芝曾经对约翰·辛格和詹姆斯·乔伊斯都给过忠告，写出伟大的爱尔兰文学的唯一途径是居住在阿伦群岛的爱尔兰人之中。辛格听了忠告后去了阿伦群岛，而乔伊斯却去了日内瓦。但两个人都写出了伟大的爱尔兰文学。

因此写作的法则是：写那些你真的想写的（哪怕你并不真的了解这个题材），当你找到你想写的题材后，重复不断地写。围绕一个题材写一系列诗，让每一首诗不断地深入这个题材，让每一首诗比前一首更为大胆。

4、如何做到表达自己？

诗歌，就像梦一样，有一个显性主题和一个隐性主题。你无法选择你的隐性主题，隐性主题自己书写自己。隐性主题不是在诗歌结束时传达出的信息，而更像一种病理状态使得每一个单词变形-一种共振，一种言说的方式，一种神经痉挛，一种张力。当你用一种不受别人干扰和赞赏的语言说话时，这个隐性主题才会现身。记住，语言是成功写作的所有技能。

在美好的天气里坐在一棵树下而想要伪装成不幸福有多难？或者，当你伤心的时候却要装成不伤心有多难？对于一个作家来说，你顺手可以摸到那么多成熟和虚伪的词汇，那么做的确很难。所以，孩子、非作家和民间诗人往往能够写出最好的诗歌。

诀窍是寻找安抚你的自我的策略。泰德·休斯告诫人们，写诗就像尾追一只动物-极度地耐心和集中注意力，极度地敏捷。我个人的实践却不同，我的办法是过去二十年中逐渐培养出来的，现在每当坐下来写作的时候我对这个方式运用自如。这是一种原始的定位回声的办法，就像他们在船上用的那种。现在我尝试描述这个方式。

想象在远方有一个回音壁-你也许将它想象成一个弯曲的时空面。现在，送出你的耳波（当然不存在什么耳波，你只是设想你的听力像一圈波纹一样从你的耳朵发出去），对，将你的耳波送到远方的回音壁，然后被弹回。随着你的呼吸的律动重复这个动作。接着将注意力转到你想写的东西上面去-比方说一座冰山-将你的听力无限地深入直到你的听力的边缘或回音壁。当你写诗的时候，只记下那些被回音壁弹回的词，忽略其余一切。

我明白这是一种疯狂的练习，我是戴着耳塞做这种练习的！我不想让你感到焦虑和被抑制。这仅仅是我个人的措施，因为我最大的乐趣是沿着那条与外界相连的细细的引线去写。我非常缓慢地写，以保证我不脱离那条线，我小心到几乎出现神经官能症，因为整个游戏让我肾上腺处于激发状态。当然你可以采用完全相反的写作方式，写下你第一时间想到的东西。放松！生动的状态比紧张的状态更容易写出好诗。

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附奥斯沃尔德诗作一首，没有时间翻译，以后有时间再说：

Dunt

a poem for a nearly dried up river

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Very eroded faded,
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Exhausted, utterly worn down,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone,
being the last known speaker of her language,
she tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Little distant sound of dry grass. Try again.

A Roman Waternymph made of bone,
very endangered now,
in a largely unintelligible monotone,
she tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Little distant sound as of dry grass. Try again.

Exquisite bone figurine with upturned urn,
in her passionate self-esteem, she smiles, looking sideways.
She seemingly has no voice but a throat-clearing rustle
as of dry grass. Try again.

She tries leaning,
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn.

Little slithering sounds as of a rabbit man in full nightgear.
Who lies so low in the rickety willowherb
that a fox trots out of the woods
and over his back and away. Try again.

She tries leaning,
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn.
Little lapping sounds. Yes.
As of dry grass secretly drinking. Try again.

Little lapping sounds yes
as of dry grass secretly drinking. Try again.

Roman bone figurine,
year after year in a sealed glass case,
having lost the hearing of her surroundings,
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone.

Little shuffling sound as of approaching slippers.

Year after year in a sealed glass case
a Roman Waternymph made of bone,
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone.

Pause. Little shuffling sound as of a nearly dried up woman
not really moving through the fields,
having had the gleam taken out of her
to the point where she resembles twilight. Try again.

Little shuffling clicking.
She opens the door of the church.
Little distant sounds of shutaway singing. Try again.

Little whispering fidgeting of a shutaway congregation
wondering who to pray to.
Little patter of eyes closing. Try again.

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman Waternymph made of bone
she pleads she pleads a river out of limestone.

Little hobbling tripping of a nearly dried up river
not really moving through the fields,
having had the gleam taken out of it
to the point where it resembles twilight.
Little grumbling shivering last ditch attempt at a river
more nettles than water. Try again.

Very speechless, very broken old woman,
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down,
she tries to summon a river out of limestone.

Little stoved in sucked thin
low-burning glint of stones
rough-sleeping and trembling and clinging to its rights.
Victim of Swindon
puddle midden
slum of overgreened footchurn and pats
whose crayfish are cheap toolkits
made of the mud stirred up when a stone’s lifted.

It’s a pitiable likeness of clear running
struggling to keep up with what’s already gone:
the boat the wheel the sluice gate,
the two otters larricking along. Go on.

And they say oh they say
in the days of better rainfall
it would flood through five valleys,
there’d be cows and milking stools
washed over the garden walls
and when it froze, you could skate for five miles. Yes go on.

Little loose end shorthand unrepresented
beautiful disused route to the sea,
fish path with nearly no fish in.

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