驻留档案I苏格兰诗人特辑

过去的这个夏天，我们曾邀请到了三位重磅苏格兰诗人担任重音社诗歌驻留项目的导师，开展了有关方言诗，创意翻译，诗歌与艺术、音乐作品的互文等讨论。我们在这里回顾一下几位工作坊导师的诗。

Don Paterson 

唐·帕特森（Don Paterson)  1963年出生于苏格兰邓迪。英国当代最重要的诗人之一，是唯一获得过两次T.S艾略特诗歌奖的诗人，另获得过获埃里克·格雷戈里奖，Forward诗歌奖，创意苏格兰奖和惠特布雷德诗歌奖等。 他著有诗集《私人装瓶》《无无》 《上帝给女人的礼物》等，编有《101首十四行诗》《最后的话语》。唐·帕特森目前在圣安德鲁斯大学英语文学学院任教，并在伦敦Picador出版社担任诗歌编辑。他还是一名出色的爵士吉他手，与蒂姆·加兰一起组了爵士民谣乐队Lammas。他于2021年夏天担任重音社诗歌驻留项目导师。

I am Sleepy

From my troubles, now, and for some light relief 

confuse the Seven Dwarfs and the Stages of Grief.

O here’s Denial, shaking his wee head  

like he doesn’t know the girl’s as good as dead.

Ten Maxims 

I

Read a poem slow enough 

With vigilance and care

And you’ll discover lots of stuff 

that really isn’t there

II

In the country of the two-eyed, it’s the same: 

The one-eye’d man still has the better aim.

III

On his deathbed, much too late, a voice came from afar

And sang that line he’d once heard in a film, or in a bar:

No one will ever love you for everything you are

IV

And then did God make man and woman – bless! –

For company. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?

Someone might have told him neediness 

Is no one’s most attractive quality.

V

He stole your brilliant plan?

Just steal it back again!

As a trumpet’s how you toot it

an idea’s how you put it. 

VI

A poet for a friend?

As far as they’re concerned         

all you represent’s

an inconvenience

standing in the way

of a decent elegy.

VII

Even in Kyoto, 

as he said in his haiku, 

Basho was still longing for Kyoto;

but I don’t suppose that Basho 

really could’ve had a clue 

that all of us are longing for Kyoto.  

VIII

Don’t forget her, son, 

heartbroken as you are;

it’s a waste of a good wound 

to heal without a scar.

IX

As mass structures space

so death structures time:

gently, from afar;

but were your ship to land

so you might try to stand 

upon its cratered face, 

you could not tell apart

the ticking and the chime

X

The poet takes his pen     

And settles down to write 

in the fullness of the dawn  

like it’s the dead of night.

On Being Seen

Aphrodite, inspecting her suitors 

on Olympus, looks down 

the gilded colonnade 

where Apollo, Hermes, Ares and the rest

stand ready to make their case.

Aphrodite – who is not just the goddess of love 

but is love, sexual love, 

and can no more help who she is 

than a flower its own scent – 

walks naked along the line

looking up and down 

each perfect god in turn. 

Their merits otherwise self-evident

or already well known,

each offers their gift.

Forgetting that Love 

thinks only of Herself,

they all give what they think

will appear to have cost them most.

Apollo, a golden lyre, tuned 

to the very heartsong of the planets; 

Ares, a bow of fine silver

that cannot miss its mark,

and so on. Aphrodite 

accepts their gifts with grace, 

and leans in to whisper in their ear 

the time and place of their tryst,

where she can show 

her appreciation in private. 

So she goes on down the line. 

At the end, a good head-and-a-half 

shorter than the others, 

is Hephaestus.  

Hephaestus, the little smith-god: 

brawny, paunchy, maimed, 

lame, ugly as sin,

and covered in sweat and grime

as he’s just come from work 

down in the forges of hell: 

hell, his office, where all 

is fire and molten ore, 

the clanging of great anvils 

and the roars of the titans he commands. 

He doesn’t look her in the eye. 

She’s trying to master a smile 

and keep a straight face. 

‘And what do you have for me, 

little god?’ she says. 

Hephaestus opens a grubby palm 

to reveal a brooch. 

He is a master jeweller 

and has fashioned for Aphrodite

the perfect adornment

for one whose vanity 

is far more pure 

than any mortal virtue.

The brooch is worked in red gold 

that seems the very distillation 

of her fiery hair,

and at the centre 

is an emerald cabochon 

that echoes her eyes to perfection. 

Aphrodite is moved by the gift 

but still amused. 

‘Thank you! This is perfect. 

It must have taken you forever.’ 

She stoops, and drops her voice 

so the others cannot hear,

as if she is already talking to one 

with whom she’s reached 

an understanding.

‘But why in heaven’s name, 

little brother, do you think 

you’d make a good husband 

for a girl like me?’ 

Hephaestus draws himself upright

and looks her in the eye.

‘I work late.’ 

Aphrodite lets her eyes close 

and the smile break across her face,

and kisses him on the brow;

and to the eternal bewilderment

of Apollo, Hermes, Ares and the rest,

their marriage is sealed.

Wave

For months I’d moved across the open water 

like a wheel under its skin, a frictionless

and by then almost wholly abstract matter 

with nothing in my head beyond the bliss

of my own breaking, how the long foreshore 

would hear my full confession, and I’d drain 

into the shale till I was filtered pure.

There was no way to tell on that bare plain 

but I felt my power run down with the miles 

and by the time I saw the scattered sails,

the painted front and children on the pier 

I was nothing but a fold in her blue gown 

and knew I was already in the clear.

I hit the beach and swept away the town.

Women in Movies in the Eighties

i

This afternoon I visited your grave

and knelt there, talking aloud to you 

largely for the purposes of exposition. 

In my defence I also did this when you were alive

as we can see from the flashbacks.

ii

It’s ok, it’s ok. You were a clever girl

to use a payphone. Did anyone see you? 

Good. Now calm down, 

you’re hysterical. Take a breath 

and tell me where you are

and I’ll send someone to get you. 

Just trust me. You trust me, right?

I’d come myself but I have to get the room ready 

I mean your room, I mean our room. 

iii

Since you were seen naked in bed 

with me, el hero, at the start of the movie

you will never be seen again. 

I mean honestly, girl, what is there to see now? 

iv

No, they’re still after us. I really thought that tearing 

through that Chinese kitchen would shake them off. 

If we duck into Chinatown we can maybe lose them 

in the New Year parades they have every day,

but in the meantime it would be a massive help 

if you could stop falling over all the time?

v

This mirror is a only a meter 

to register the effects of gravity.

In three years’ time 

you’ll have a walk-on 

as my girlfriend’s mom

but in the meantime maybe 

stop pawing at your face

because as we can all see

you’re just making it worse. 

vi 

Back in five, huh. Do we need milk? 

Since this film is not about milk

it’s been real. Don’t worry, your hot sister 

will be a huge comfort to me in the coming months

and what with your high-powered job

she already sees more of the kids anyway.

Here

I must quit sleeping in the afternoon.

I do it for my heart, but all too soon

my heart has called it off. It does not love me.

If it downed tools, there’d soon be nothing of me. 

Its hammer-beat says you are, not I am.

It prints me off here like a telegram.

What do I say? How can the lonely word

know who has sent it out, or who has heard?

Long years since I came round in her womb 

enough myself to know I was not home,

my dear sea up in arms at the wrong shore

and her loud heart like a landlord at the door. 

Where are we now? What misdemeanour sealed 

my transfer? Mother, why so far afield?

Nostalgia

I miss when I could drop down on all fours

and flick the ground away from under me.

I miss the wire I ran into the earth.

I miss when I was the bloom on the sea

and we slept forever under the warm clouds

till something spoiled in us twitched with design 

and woke the clock. So we arose and went.

Last night I rowed out to the beeless glade

and lay down on the grass to listen

to the water eating at the edge of things.

My sister taught me to watch the stars this way

lest I think that heaven was up, or heaven,

lest I forget the stars are also under us

where they sink and sail into the dark like cinders.

Sophie Collins 

苏菲·柯林斯（Sophie Collins),诗人和实验翻译家，居住于格拉斯哥，现任格拉斯哥大学诗歌系教授。著有诗集《谁是玛丽苏》《小白猴》。她于2021年夏天担任重音社诗歌驻留项目导师。

ABOUT THE BODY AND LIKENESS

A response to a retrospective of the work of Lee Bul

x)

It all begins in the gut

where shards (indigestible)

tear open the walls. When blood spills

there is no mess. There is no bodily mess

save in tumefactive sludge

I would like to doze off inside this gleaming basophil

regular vibrations relaxing proprioception 

as we glide

past a fragment of bone sunk in plasma

the spectacle of lymphocytes

deeply staining, eccentric

x)

Erection of countless town models. The dogged work of preservation 

supersedes embodiment. Men’s corpses are embalmed

made up for display

while women who wish to live

must gain the written endorsement 

of their male companions

Medical records, like mutating cells, are subject to damage

may be lost or copied twice

x)

A lauded teacher of letters once made a drawing of a cephalopod

for his students. Women, jabbing 

he said, are more like this. More like this 

than men are

by which he meant to say,

Nothing happens to me

x) 

Octopuses eat their own limbs when chronically understimulated

What is frightening about this body 

is its justicial disregard

Thank You For Your Honesty

A response to digital prints, animations and texts by Niamh Riordan

1)

To disturb reality using

its own means

and not a subjective interpretation thereof

presenting the viewer with an image

more abject – in the truer sense of the word –

than another kind

which displays contrivances to discomfit her

It is a pure expression of hope

a challenge to the natural order

the moral framework of material honesty

which prizes marble over stucco

a hierarchy with no equivalent

in poetry (though undoubtedly we will it), in which

a stated allegiance

to ‘truth’ and ‘“the functioning(s)” of “language”’

coupled with any broad effect of semantic cohesion

is usually enough (if

issued from the correct source)

Analogical infirmity

consciously acknowledged

confounds the ‘flow’

Still I am forced to ask the disingenuous question,

Is marble alive?

Without a metabolism, cells

or the ability to achieve homeostasis, no

2)

To perform bemusement again and again

as a waiving of authority

(and so too of blame)

Honesty in a community of what is thought of as

blameless self-interest

makes you cry a lot, even (especially?) in instances

where it manifests in harm done to you and to others

via indirect means

for that too (the action) is honesty

(and perhaps a more fundamental kind)

3)

Flashes

in the centre of my field of vision

are gentle

cannot be said to increase or decrease in frequency

over time

Doctors don’t worry much about such disturbances

Asked the same question of an adult in childhood

surmised from the response

a theory of germs within the retina

as magnified by the eye’s lens

I WANT TO TELL ABOUT FIRE

A response to text installations and screenprint paintings by Eve Fowler

1)

Her dreams aren’t often about words

but there was this: a book cover

that was a home on fire

and with F I Y A written on it

a twice articulated prophecy whose message 

she nonetheless misunderstood, or wilfully misheard

as a child mishears distant instructions 

to quit play

2)

A flame is a subjective aspect, its reach and colour

varying from mind to mind

As such, fires are centres of misunderstanding

though parrots see it all

At the ceremony, she refused 

to maintain a safe distance

The fire was hot and red and green

and pink and yellow and white

Her brown hair stuck to her face, which was pink too

wet and puffy 

as she stoked tomes

watched their text shrink

and bulge, still legible 

until the moment of its dissipation

its rising

or atomisation

She won’t be told what she already knows (caw of parrots)

3)

At Easter in Northern Germany 

large fires are lit at dusk as a matter of tradition. In Gresse

a working mother calms her child 

by telling him the smoke above a neighbour’s home 

is just the Easter Bunny dyeing eggs, 

a complex process of micro-combustion 

and afterwards they eat the ash

Jen Hadfield 

珍·海德菲德（Jen Hadfield),英国诗人和视觉艺术家，著有诗集Almanacs和Nigh-No-Place, The Stone Place， 曾获得埃里克·格雷戈里奖和T.S艾略特诗歌奖，也是史上最年轻的T.S艾略特诗歌奖得主。她在2021年夏天担任重音社诗歌驻留项目导师。

Dolmen

Standing stone, let's talk about

You! Who knows

how deep this grief goes 

down - in your thick waist 

and whalebone skirt-

                  goodnessknows 

how deep and wide -

twinkling modestly with

garnet, feldspar-

whiffing

(faintly) of bruised

mushroom.

Now, we learnt in 

school about Deep

Time. Six

O'clock shadow: lichen.

Pouringdownlikeporridge:

lichen. But humankind

are brief, soft

firework, prone

to go off at a moment's

notice. Are we even speaking the 

same language? Urgently

We hammer at your

boarded-up window,

              rattle and try  

Your grittygrey door!

Pictish Stone

I lay my hands on this basking thing

(since you don't wake when nurses turn you)-

in the year's first warmth, do I feel it

stir？We watch and wonder how earth-fast

you are, surfacing from more than sleep-

tickled, when you wake, if you wake at 

all, to find us all sitting here, on 

our skiing holiday up Grouse

Mountain! You say gin, yes! and gaily, I

just feel reborn! Then slip away too

fast to drink it, and soon you'll keep to

yourself entirely, retracting

a million, sparking tentacles.

Here's a riddle- who's more deeply

private than a stone, tucked up inside a 

twinking rind: dreams - of the man-bird,

the bear and boar - written all over

their face? Our job is not to wait, but

to watch - so you can creep out right

from under our noses - like a 

child who is just learning how to hide - 

Stone Poem

一起上课玩耍的夏天：

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Ta们也在双语写作：

Wenfei | Shangyang Fang | Jiaoyang Li | Angela F. Qian | Na Zhong | Yuxi Lin | Dong Li | Jinjin Xu | Liuyu Ivy Chen | Minghao Tu | Xiaowen Zhu | Bang Wang | Kanyu Wang | Ni Zhange | Weiji Wang | Chen Zhuo I chang wen

 驻留档案

钟娜x 小说接龙 I 陈伊如 x 手语之诗 I 钟浩楠 x 题画诗 I Amiko Li x 诗与摄影 I 张晨/康苏埃拉 x 解域诗歌接龙 I 申舶良x 诗与策展 I 陈灼 x 游戏与诗歌 I 方商羊 x 温柔的虚处 I 林小颜 x EDM电音诗 I 盛钰 x 声音诗 I 武力洋 x 诗歌与政治 I冷冰清 x 诗与人类学（以及菌子）I 王峥 x 瑶族诗歌 I 艾阔 x 身体诗与萨满传统 I 张铎瀚 x 黑太阳，或冻结的月亮 I...