肖恩?休伊特（Seán Hewitt）1990 年出生于英格蘭切斯特郡， 現(xiàn)為都柏林三一學(xué)院英文系教授；是當(dāng)代備受關(guān)注的文學(xué)創(chuàng)作者，其作品在詩(shī)歌與回憶錄領(lǐng)域均斬獲重要獎(jiǎng)項(xiàng)，展現(xiàn)出深厚的文學(xué)功底與獨(dú)特的創(chuàng)作視角。
他的首部詩(shī)集《火焰之舌》（Tongues of Fire，由喬納森?凱普出版社于 2020 年出版），在 2021 年榮獲勞雷爾詩(shī)歌獎(jiǎng)（The Laurel Prize），同時(shí)入圍《星期日泰晤士報(bào)》年度青年作家獎(jiǎng)（The Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award），憑借靈動(dòng)的意象與深刻的情感表達(dá)，為他在詩(shī)壇奠定了堅(jiān)實(shí)地位。
2022 年，他的回憶錄《暗夜縱深處》（All Down Darkness Wide，同樣由喬納森?凱普出版社出版）再獲殊榮，不僅奪得 2022 年愛(ài)爾蘭文學(xué)魯尼獎(jiǎng)（The Rooney Prize for Irish Literature），還入圍愛(ài)爾蘭圖書(shū)獎(jiǎng)年度傳記獎(jiǎng)（Biography of the Year at the Irish Book Awards）與福伊爾斯非虛構(gòu)類(lèi)年度圖書(shū)獎(jiǎng)（Foyles' Book of the Year in Non-Fiction），以細(xì)膩的敘事回溯個(gè)人經(jīng)歷，引發(fā)廣泛共鳴。
此外，肖恩?休伊特的第二部詩(shī)集已確定由喬納森?凱普出版社于 2024 年出版，引發(fā)文學(xué)界與讀者的高度期待。
樹(shù)靈
我記得她立在田野，周身覆雪 ——
每根枯萎的野花莖稈，都凝著厚霜。
山楂枝椏間，天空泛著粉，
白晝懸在破曉的光沿上。
她自橡樹(shù)的軀干中被雕琢而出，
雙腳（若真有雙腳）埋進(jìn)冬日
卸下的沉疴里。是誰(shuí)將她從樹(shù)中剝離，
便贈(zèng)了她一枚光輪，
她雙手捧著，貼近臉頰溫柔的弧線(xiàn)。
她就立在那里，在(Broad Lane)凡俗大道旁
那半腐的階梯柵欄邊，頭顱低垂，
仿佛在等候，要迎我們?nèi)肭埃?/span>
捧出新世界冰封的輪廓。
多年前 (我八九歲懵懂未知期) 學(xué)校曾在
她身后的林地播種，如今每棵樹(shù)
都與我們同步老去。
我每每重返，都能見(jiàn)到我生命的某個(gè)片段
陳列在古老村落旁田野，記憶仍在生長(zhǎng)。
十八歲上下，我常夜里與男人們同來(lái)
跌跌撞撞穿過(guò)低矮植被走進(jìn)樹(shù)林時(shí)，
途經(jīng)她身旁總覺(jué)怪異 ——
像鹿群沖破濕枝，驟然墜落。
如今我想起，那些經(jīng) “清洗” 后
被迫流離的男人們，他們輾轉(zhuǎn)于
城鎮(zhèn)的幽暗角落，以守望的姿態(tài)
走向林地與舊莊園，走向白日沉落的氣息里。
曾有一回，我與一個(gè)渾身是肌的男人同來(lái)，
他仿佛也自獨(dú)木雕琢而成。
我全程偽裝成他那樣的男人
用深沉卻陌生的嗓音，回應(yīng)每一句謊言。
那時(shí)我怕他會(huì)殺了我，便走在他前幾步，
聽(tīng)著他踏過(guò)泥濘草地的聲響，
聽(tīng)他將腳從荊棘藤中拔出。
我們沉默著經(jīng)過(guò)那女人的方向，她立在那里
裹著木質(zhì)的衣袍，光輪托起青綠紋路的掌心
這里與世人常去的地方截然不同 ——
沒(méi)有門(mén)，沒(méi)有墻，更沒(méi)有房間。
濃黑的闊葉枝椏向后拉開(kāi)，像一幅
帷幕；內(nèi)里是樹(shù)林的暗室，被守護(hù)著
一片安然。草木與樹(shù)木的共融之地
便是床榻，我們得以共享這方土。
而后我在他面前屈膝跪下，
秘密仍藏在夜的褶皺里，
努力克制著寒冷中的顫抖，
潮濕的地面潮氣上涌。
我記得冷水在牛仔褲的紋路里蔓延，
像毛細(xì)血管里的冰。抬頭時(shí)
天空被落雨般的葉子遮蔽，
每棵樹(shù)都立在我上方，
與她的身形完美對(duì)稱(chēng)。
每棵樹(shù)都像俯身的人，
靜靜凝望，輕輕晃動(dòng)，
發(fā)出緩慢而沉重的嘆息。
年復(fù)一年，我屢次重返，
屈膝跪拜，也受他人跪拜，
在隱秘的敬拜儀式里。如今
每片林地都悄悄浸著情欲的氣息
不只是在欲望濃稠的時(shí)節(jié)，冬日里
性張力也緊貼著大地，沉沉扎根。
每次前來(lái)，我總隱約期盼
在林間相遇某個(gè)熟悉的靈魂
或在杜鵑花叢空寂的骨架里。
我不禁疑問(wèn)：是否我已毀了這些地方？
是否我將每個(gè)秘密帶給它們，用我
不堪承受的重量，壓彎了樹(shù)木？
可轉(zhuǎn)念一想 一棵樹(shù)、一株草，
若不是向大地跪拜的儀式，
又是什么？是邀引水流的方式，
還是以唇含住全世界的內(nèi)核，將它
輕輕喚出的模樣。不只是春日里
抽芽的新葉（帶著痛感），不只是
如云的花粉，或是秋日里孩童搖落枝椏，
讓種子如甘霖般灑落；有夜里在林間跪拜的人，
還有在門(mén)畔等候的女人，她向每位訪(fǎng)客遞出
世界的碎片，讓他們得以在其中為生命而奔忙
幽靈
1.
醒來(lái)時(shí)，天色已近黎明，但房間里
仍是一片陰暗，一片金屬般的沉寂：
在我的夢(mèng)中傳來(lái)一種聲音，起初
只是微弱的嗚咽聲，隨后變得像
人類(lèi)的嚎叫，在外面的街道上響起
無(wú)人回應(yīng)，接著又再次響起。我只穿著內(nèi)褲
瑟瑟發(fā)抖地站在單層窗戶(hù)旁，周?chē)峭Ｖ?/span>
汽車(chē)和樹(shù)籬的黑色輪廓，我看不到任何人
便半裸著身子走了出去：雙手顫抖著，
前門(mén)未鎖便被推開(kāi)，在門(mén)柱下，一束
橙色的光線(xiàn)中，一個(gè)年輕人癱倒在地，
醉醺醺的，像他的整個(gè)人生都在化作聲音般哭泣著。
2
此刻，我回想起那一個(gè)午后的情景：
放學(xué)回家后，父親在花園里挖出一棵
針葉樹(shù)的樹(shù)根——我看到他抬起頭
突然警覺(jué)起來(lái)，從后門(mén)離開(kāi)，穿過(guò)
梯田后面的巷子，然后帶著一個(gè)男孩返回。
我認(rèn)出了他，和我在學(xué)校時(shí)差不多那個(gè)年紀(jì)，
他的頭發(fā)是那種烏黑的長(zhǎng)卷發(fā)，還有一縷
藍(lán)色的挑染發(fā)絲； 但此刻他癱軟地躺在父親身上
他的手腕垂在父親沾滿(mǎn)泥巴的牛仔褲和庭院的瓷磚上。
那時(shí)我就知道有關(guān)他的種種傳言；當(dāng)我們
把撕破的床單包裹在他破裂的血管上并固定好
我想著一旦真相大白，我們或許會(huì)建立起一種聯(lián)系，
一種自愿的血緣關(guān)系。
3
后來(lái)的夜晚，我只能半睡半醒，一直期待著
隨時(shí)能聽(tīng)到外面有腳步聲傳來(lái)，時(shí)間陷仿佛
入了循環(huán)，那個(gè)男孩依舊沿著規(guī)劃好的路線(xiàn)
在黑暗的街道上； 在同一時(shí)間走向我的家門(mén)。
我再一次清理了窗戶(hù)，靜靜地站著，等著
看他走來(lái)(也許)他是赤著腳，沿小路走來(lái)
每晚都沒(méi)有任何動(dòng)靜，直到我心想，
也許只有我自己，或者是我自己的幻影，
每晚都在請(qǐng)求能在門(mén)檻處得到迎接，
被允許重新回到我這冰冷生活的房間中。
但隨后，在我們每個(gè)人的心中，總有一處
創(chuàng)傷或者給予,總會(huì)有靈魂在身體的門(mén)邊
等待要求被釋放出來(lái)。
插曲（Interlude）
走向一抹抹溫暖燈火；
走向沉睡中靜謐的環(huán)路；
輕輕推開(kāi)那扇門(mén)，走進(jìn)去吧。
踏著沾滿(mǎn)晨露的鞋子，穿過(guò)濕潤(rùn)的草地，
走向河流，走向蜿蜒的河灣，走向低矮的堰壩——
他在那里嗎？
看，垂柳在微風(fēng)中輕輕搖曳，
水面浮著淡淡的鵝黃花粉，
那是他留下的狡黠痕跡，
像星塵般閃爍，悄然飄散；
是他總在你抵達(dá)前就已遠(yuǎn)行的身影。
轉(zhuǎn)身吧，請(qǐng)跟隨岸邊飄落的葉子，
穿過(guò)蘆葦叢，那里有白骨頂雞與田鼠安家筑巢。
找到那座鐵橋，勇敢地跨過(guò)去。
走向教皇田里的云雀，
俯身輕嗅紫羅蘭與白芷花的芬芳。
走向山楂樹(shù)，為那被帶走的孩子輕輕叩門(mén)；
走向圣櫟樹(shù)深處——
他在那里嗎？
說(shuō)吧，寶貝親愛(ài)，我夜夜研讀這座公園的圣典
熟知它的暗語(yǔ)，它的沉思；它的幽魂；它的游魂
那些守衛(wèi)，還有門(mén)房里跳動(dòng)的火焰。
即便如此，請(qǐng)繼續(xù)前行——
走向那空曠而破舊的營(yíng)房，
墻垣斑駁，雉堞被烏鴉啄蝕；
走向球場(chǎng)旁的停車(chē)場(chǎng)，
車(chē)燈靜靜亮著，引擎已熄，
擋風(fēng)玻璃上蒙著一層薄霧。
站在樹(shù)影后的寂靜之地，
仿佛置身于等待與回望之間。
看，那個(gè)男人如天使般掠過(guò)窗前，
向每一扇窗溫柔致意。
看玻璃緩緩降下，
儀表盤(pán)的光暈照亮一張張安靜的臉龐。
但請(qǐng)小心，他們中或許有人是守望者，
正默默注視著夜色。
快些，跟上那盞顛簸上山的自行車(chē)燈，
奔向那些佇立的暗影
是他嗎？在山楂樹(shù)下，
手持打火機(jī)，夾著香煙，
戴著面具？
不是他，但不妨牽起他的手。
對(duì)他說(shuō)：來(lái)吧，我們一起去找他。
小心腳下，穿過(guò)泥濘的小徑，
穿過(guò)荊棘與犬薔薇交織的灌木叢，
走向那隱秘的洞穴，
走向緩慢交纏的身體，
走向低語(yǔ)般的呻吟與呼吸，
走向那些睜著的眼睛。
凝視著散落的紙巾，和被磨出
痕跡的地面?？茨莻€(gè)男人，就在那里，
彎下腰，將內(nèi)心的沉重傾瀉于大地。
向他展露你的傷痕吧，你這陌生朋友
說(shuō)嘛“嗨 陌生人”請(qǐng)證明我的存在
告訴我，寶貝親愛(ài)，我是否也如你一般
只是一個(gè)游蕩的幽靈？
山楂（Haw）
我低下頭，心中泛起一絲羞怯，
抬手輕輕摘下山楂樹(shù)的一枚果實(shí)。
多想讓那帶著金屬光澤的甜味在舌尖蔓延，
像一杯由野性之血釀成的酒，
緩緩飲下，把那份無(wú)法言說(shuō)的渴望
藏進(jìn)心底，獨(dú)自沉醉。
男人們從我身旁走過(guò)，
在綠色迷宮的邊緣駐足，
彼此交換著意味深長(zhǎng)的眼神。
雖然無(wú)人挽住我的手臂，
但我仍渴望靠近那份溫度，
如同酒液浸透果實(shí)，
被它的顏色染透，被它的氣息填滿(mǎn)。
我靜靜站著，看著一對(duì)對(duì)身影
消失在葉影深處。
那一夜，躺在床上，
膝上放著一碗山楂果，
我拿起一枚帶刺的果核，
仿佛將尖刺反刺向自己，
讓身體面對(duì)最柔軟的部分，
輕輕地觸碰，不再逃避。
消散之歌（Dispersion Song）
喔哦，食蚜蠅、小飛蟲(chóng)與蚜蟲(chóng)，
你們?cè)诹指厣峡棾黾?xì)密的旋律。
蚊子啊，請(qǐng)為他吸走我的血液，
讓我化作一片輕盈的翼之云，隨風(fēng)而去。
喔哦，昆蟲(chóng)們，在懸鈴木的暗影中輕輕搖曳，
為他編織一首無(wú)聲的歌謠。
請(qǐng)將你們的面紗覆在我頭頂，
娶我好嘛？今夜，我是你的新娘。
附：肖恩?休伊特 詩(shī)作原文
DRYAD
I remember her covered in snow in a field
where each dead stalk of wildflower was thick
with frost. The sky was pink in the hawthorns,
the day held on the light-edge of breaking.
A woman carved from the bole of an oak,
her feet (if she had any) buried in the winter’s
shedding weight. Whoever had turned her
from the tree had given her an orb
which she held in both hands, close to the gentle
curve of her face. And she stood there
by the half-rotten stile off Broad Lane,
head bowed, as though waiting to greet us
and offer the frozen circumference of a new
world. Years ago, our school had planted
the woods behind her, when I was eight or nine,
and now each tree ages alongside us.
Every time I go back, I see a part
of my life laid out, still growing in a field
by the old village. I used to come here
often, at eighteen or so, with men at night
and it was strange to pass her as we stumbled
in the undergrowth and into the woods
like deer plummeting through the wet branches.
And I think now of all the men forced outside
after clearing-out, into the dark spaces of towns,
how they walk in vigil to woodlands and old
estates, to the smell of the day settling. Once,
I came here with a man whose whole body
was muscled, as though he too had been carved
from a single trunk of wood. I pretended
all the time to be a man like him,
answering each lie in a deep, alien voice.
I think I was afraid he would kill me,
and walked a few steps ahead, hearing
him moving through the sodden grass,
pulling his feet from the bramble-vines.
We passed the woman without comment,
though she stood there in her cloak of wood,
the globe held in the lathed green of her hands.
Here was so unlike the places other people went,
a place without doors or walls or rooms.
The black heavy-leafed branches pulled back
like a curtain and inside a dark chamber
of the wood, guarded, and made safe.
The bed was the bed of all the plants
and trees, and we could share it. And then
the kneeling down in front of him, keeping
my secrets still in the folds of night, trying
not to shake in the cold, and the damp floor
seeping up. I remember the cold water
spreading in the capillaries of my jeans.
As I looked up, the sky hidden under a rain
of leaves, each tree stood over me
in perfect symmetry with his body.
Each was like a man with his head bent,
each watching and moving and making slow
laboured sighs. I came back often,
year on year, kneeling and being knelt for
in acts of secret worship, and now
each woodland smells quietly of sex,
not only when the air is thick with it,
but in winter too when the strains
are grounded and held against the earth,
and each time I half-expect
to meet someone among the trees
or inside the empty skeleton
of the rhododendron, and I wonder if I have ruined
these places for myself, if I have brought
each secret to them and weighed the trees
with things I can no longer bear. But then
what is a tree, or a plant, if not an act
of kneeling to the earth, a way of bidding
the water to move, of taking in the mouth
the inner part of the world and coaxing it out.
Not just the aching leaf-buds
in spring, the cloud of pollen, or in autumn
the children knocking branches for the shower
of seed, but the people who kneel in the woods
at night, the woman waiting by the gate, offering
to each visitor a small portion of the world
in which they might work for the life of it.
GHOST
i
Waking, close to morning but still
a shuttered, metal dark in the room:
a sound inside my dream, only a whimper
at first, then becoming human, a howl
raised in the street outside, left unanswered
then raised again. In my boxers, shivering
by the single-paned window, but seeing no one
among the black shapes of the parked cars
or hedges, I went out half-dressed: hands shaking,
front door unlocked then pushed open,
and by the column of the porch, under a cone
of orange light, a young man slumped,
drunk, sobbing like his whole life
was unfurling into sound.
ii.
And now, I am reminded of one afternoon,
home from school, my father digging out
the root of a conifer in the garden – I saw him
look up, suddenly alert, leave by the back gate
into the alley behind the terraces, and return
panicked with a boy in his arms. I recognised him,
about my age, from school, by his dreadlocks,
his turquoise streak of hair; but now lolling
under his own weight, his wrists draining
over my father’s mudded jeans and the patio tiles.
I knew, even then, the rumours about him;
thought as we wrapped and pinned torn sheets
around his opened veins, how we might share,
once the truth was out, a bond, an elective blood.
iii.
Nights later, I only half-slept, expecting
at any moment to hear someone again outside,
as though time might be caught in a loop,
the same boy walking the mapped route
along the dark streets at the same hour
to my door. Again, I uncluttered the window,
stood waiting to see him come, barefoot, maybe,
down the path. Each night, no sign, until I thought,
perhaps, it was only me, or a dream of myself,
asking nightly to be greeted at the threshold,
allowed back into the cold room of my life.
But then, in each of us, a wound must be made
or given – there is always the soul waiting
at the door of the body, asking to be let out.
Haw
I looked away, ashamed,
then raised my hand
to the hawthorn
and plucked its fruit.
I wanted this metallic
sweetness on the tongue,
a gin of feral blood
decanted
to carry my desire
inward, to self-intoxicate
a longing I could not
act out. The men
passed me, lingered
at the boundary
of the green labyrinth –
conspiratorial, holding
my eye – and though
I could not be taken
by the arm, I wished
at least to be proximate,
enveloped and sated
as the gin would be
by the berry, coloured
or infringed by it.
I stood as each paired off
and disappeared
behind the leaves.
That evening, in bed,
the bowl in my lap,
I would take
the pricked needle
like a thorn wielded back
to the fruit, would turn
the body against
its own tenderness
and violate it.
Interlude
Go to the lamplight
Go to the empty ring-road in its sleep
Go to the gates, go through
Go in the dew with your wet shoes
to the river, to the oxbow, to the weir –
Is he there?
See where the willows shiver
See the yellow of the pollen on the surface
of the water – stardust
of his slyness, his slipping away –
his gone-before-you-got-here –
so turn, so follow the cortege
of the fallen leaves from the bank,
from the reeds where the coots
and the water voles nest
and find the iron bridge, and cross it
Go to the larks in the Papal field
Bend to the violets and the archangels
Go to the hawthorn and knock
for the stolen child. Go to the holm-oaks –
Is he there?
Say love, I have read the sacred book
of this park each night, I have known
its shibboleths, its ruminations,
its ghosts, its undead – the guards –
the fire in the gatehouse
and still, go on to the empty barracks
decrepit and ruinous, to the rook-riven
parapets. Go to the car park by the pitch
with the headlights waiting, with the engines
killed and the windscreens all fogged over
Stand in the purgatory behind the trees
to watch the man passing the windows
like an angel, bowing to them
Watch each pane of glass lower
See the faces lit in the dashboard glow –
But stop – any one of them
might be a guard, sitting out, so quick,
run, quick, follow
the bike-light as it rattles uphill
to the standing shadows – is that him
by the hawthorn with the lighter,
with the cigarette, wearing his mask?
No, but take his hand. Say come, let us
find him. And careful now of the mud-slick
passage through the thicket, through the thorns
and the dog rose to the grotto, to the splay
and coil of the bodies moving, slowly,
to the groans and the breath, to the open eyes
watching, to the white tissues
and the scuffed ground
and see that man, there –
the one bent over himself, emptying
the animal of his body over the earth –
show your wound to him, stranger.
Say, Stranger, prove my body –
Say, Love, am I not a ghost –
Dispersion Song
O hoverfly and gnat and aphid,
stitched music of the sallow plough.
Mosquitoes, draw out my blood
for him. Make me a cloud of wings.
O insects, knitting a song for him
in the sways of the sycamore dark,
lay your veil across my head.
Marry me. I am a bride for you tonight.
Angel.XJ，中文名，廖錫娟; 銀行與金融學(xué)教授、譯者； 其主要學(xué)術(shù)研究方向聚焦于國(guó)際金融危機(jī)、行為金融學(xué)，以及金融科技的應(yīng)用領(lǐng)域，并有一篇被廣泛引用的論文發(fā)表于《行為金融期刊》（Journal of Behaviour Finance）。中英文詩(shī)歌作品曾發(fā)表于《星星》《詩(shī)刊》《幸存者》RainbowArchHall.com; Hello Poetry Foundation; Poetry Hunter; All Poetry 等中外詩(shī)刊;倫敦詩(shī)歌、蘇格蘭詩(shī)歌協(xié)會(huì)會(huì)員；出版有英文詩(shī)集 “Muse or Amuse, A Journey to Atomic Adventures” 中文詩(shī)集《搖滾學(xué)院與科學(xué)貓》；2024年入選《中國(guó)新歸來(lái)詩(shī)人詩(shī)典》；獲聯(lián)合國(guó)世界絲綢之路國(guó)際詩(shī)歌藝術(shù)節(jié)，2025年歐洲年度詩(shī)人獎(jiǎng)
讓我對(duì)南方的鐘情
成為絕世的傳奇
——西渡
南方詩(shī)歌編輯部
顧問(wèn)：
西 渡 臧 棣 敬文東 周 瓚 姜 濤
凸 凹 李自國(guó) 啞 石 余 怒 印子君
主編：
胡先其
編輯：
蘇 波 崖麗娟 楊 勇
張媛媛 張雪萌
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