碌碌世情嘲諷我們的有限，也讓我們終於洞悉它的破碎 | 陳滅

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I P N H K   2 0 1 7

陳滅

Chan Chi Tak

陳滅（香港），原名陳智德，現任香港教育大學文學及文化學系副教授。2012年獲選為參加美國愛荷華大學「國際寫作計劃」之香港作家。2014年憑《地文誌：追憶香港地方與文學》獲第七屆香港書獎。2015年獲香港藝術發展局頒發「香港藝術發展獎：年度藝術家獎（藝術評論）」。著有詩集《市場，去死吧》、《低保真》、《單聲道》及散文集《地文誌：追憶香港地方與文學》、《抗世詩話》等，另編有《香港文學大系1919—1949·新詩卷》等。

時雨滋潤的島

列車紛歧如枝椏相間

奔赴城市跌宕心緒

碌碌世情嘲諷我們的有限

也讓我們終於洞悉它的破碎

沿幽微路徑訪尋歷史遺形

防空洞可以抵禦些甚麼？

可知它曾迴盪的抒情

它的破敝、陰沉和顛簸

終化作繫情語字，待雙燕歸來

相約雲霓、銜上朱樓去

再沿幽微路徑撿拾字句

孤僻、溫煦，一束束時代遺語

分付素手輕悄撤入泥土

守候時雨滋潤我們思念的島

An Island Nourished by Rain

The train is tangled as if in crossed branches

and hastens to the city as feelings come and go

The mundane world mocks our limitations

but lets us see its brokenness in the end

Follow the faint path to find its ruins —

what can an air-raid shelter protect?

Do you know the echoes of its emoting?

Its shards, its gloom, its wreck

that in the end become words,

    feelings until two finches return

to meet on a rain cloud: take to the palace

and then follow the faint path,

    and pick up words and sentences

Reclusive, warm: a bunch of dated words

Subtly instruct the soft hands to retreat into the soil

and wait for the rain to nourish the island we miss

*

香港韶光

（一）

路燈初燃，我們不曉得它熄滅的時候

車燈復往照見旅者的倦意，且漸次融入

萬家泛黃或慘白參差的燈火

我們憑甚麼感官感應香港

香港也以同樣的燈光感應我們

我們無法感應的也許說不出的多

華燈亮起，因為感覺到人們熄滅

關閉語言，倦看海鏡浮沉的香港

歷史泛黃如瀕臨拆遷的家

轉眼改建像甚麼原是那幻彩詠香江！

我們瞠目結舌，又不受控地自發參加

為向旅客綻放只一瓣成分有毒的煙花

璀璨加璀璨，市民如夜蟲集結燈下

飛向堅固而灼熱的烏托邦

數字上升再偏軟，失落的目光仍舊流向

強迫性發動的幻彩詠香江

最後一班渡輪如霓虹下的魔術

變出鴿子、土地與兔女郎

只有水手看穿萬千重疊的樓宇

倚望底層暗燈殘照的海港

（二）

聽說海岸擴張到某程度就自行停步

它把擴張的任務留給了商場

我們用萎縮的海港填塞那購買海景的溝壑

用幻彩遮蔽那原本彩色的香江

情感如落花思念數不清的墮樓人

日暮，它把晚霞的責任留給家家戶戶

以亮燈代表一點僅餘的抵抗

誰人火葬，更換以信念擦亮的燈泡？

仍恐鈔票長翼如底片走了光

甚麼都別說，像一首K歌

我們的歷史總由別人代唱

唱不出的留給一台發光機器：

螢幕晃蕩如韶華飛絮的香港

璀璨加璀璨，數不清的離愁集結燈下

何處是列車奔赴終站的下一站？

市民列隊如公路停滯的車燈

巴士，沒有乘客的時候仍播放廣告

像每一個無法自主的乘客

以血汗、以無法不忍受的廣告

高唱給大廈無法休止的K歌

留下幻彩在台下偷偷暗換

打著呵欠悶了太累了的香江

Hong Kong Lights

1

The streetlamp turns on, and we don’t know when it turns off

The headlights sway and light up the traveler’s weariness, gradually merging into

All the homes’ yellowing or pale blotched lights

By whatever sense that we sense Hong Kong

Hong Kong senses us with the same lights

And what we cannot sense is more than we can say

The colored lights light up, because it felt the people turned off

Shutting down language, wearily watching the ups and downs of Hong Kong reflect on the sea

History yellowing like a home on the brink of relocation

And in the blink of an eye the reconstruction is none other than a Symphony of Lights!

We’re stupefied, but involuntarily participate

In order that the firework with the single toxic petal can blossomfor the tourists

Brilliance on brilliance, citizens assemble under the lamp like nightbugs

Flying toward a solid and roasting utopia

Numbers go up, and then turn soft, the lost vision still flows toward

A forcefully launched Symphony of Lights

The last ferry like neon magic

Conjuring a pigeon: the land with the bunny assistant

Only sailors see through the thousands of overlapping buildings

Looking out at the dim light that barely illuminates the lower harbor

2

I heard the coast expands a certain degree and then stops

It leaves the task of expansion to the mall

We filled the gulf that bought the seascape with the shriveled harbor

And hide the original colors of Hong Kong in a mirage

Feelings like fallen flowers, longing for the innumerable suicides

Sunset leaves the task of its afterglow to all the householders

To use light to represent a bit of what remains of opposition

Whose cremation changes the lightbulb polished by faith?

Still afraid bills will grow wings like an over-exposed film negative

Don’t say anything, like in karaoke

Our history’s always sung by stand-ins

Songs we can’t sing are left to a light-generating machine:

Screen flashing like in Hong Kong’s “springtime”

Brilliance on brilliance, uncountable sad partings assembled under the lamp

Where’s the next stop for the train rushing to the terminal?

The queue of citizens is like headlights at a standstill on the road

The bus still plays ads even without passengers

Like every passenger without their own will

With blood and sweat, with ads that must be endured

Loudly singing endless karaoke to the mansion

The mirage under the stage changes quietly

And Hong Kong is yawning and bored and so tired