初读普鲁斯特
来源: LinMu 于 2025-04-24 03:05:0
凝视飞虫、树叶、天空
风吹入沙子，不眨一下
有时迷茫。散光。弥漫开来，带一点虚无
这时一个人来到窗口
眼睛里出现了眼睛，更明亮
石猴
与其说出自上帝之手
或前世福报
不如说经年修行
修成正果。每天端坐石上
给旅人讲佛经
黑暗森林
从地下通过树根冒上来的黑暗
从树身内部散发出的黑暗
树林围起来的黑暗
阴森黑暗的森林里藏着白月光
地狱
当然在地下。我们凿地万尺
找到的是油气
唯一能证明地狱存在的是岩浆
想必就是用来惩罚灵魂的
玫瑰
一朵玫瑰
被弹片击中
伤口
打开
还是玫瑰
孤独
夜深人静，来到屋外
坐在椅子上看月亮
感觉离你太远，返回屋内
端出一脸盆水，放在身边
喝茶
放下手中活
泡一杯茶。闻到清香
心静了下来。喝了一口
世界静了下来
果园里
这棵树上，苹果还在诱惑
它挡住了整个乐园。你并不介意
阳光在树叶间摇曳
你突然拥抱了树干
你说它像我的自画像
初读普鲁斯特
在我眼里，夕阳像一个巨大的蛋黄
已从蛋清分离
显然不能煮成荷包蛋，也不是用来煎的
看来只好做玛德琳蛋糕了
远眺
今天我是自己，用树的眼睛观看
在一个山头，看远方是什么样子
我以蝴蝶斑斓的翅膀，不
是鸟灰色的，向远方致意
然后大声说早上好啊，早上好
悼诗友
收到诗友病逝的消息。多年来
在论坛互动，作品收入同一本选集
抬头，天空有薄云在流动
不像会下雨，但挂着两滴眼泪
一滴夕阳，一滴月亮
***
guess who I am and what I am doing and why I do what I do? To answer based on my love reading:
You are a poet—or perhaps more truly, a poetic soul in pursuit of clarity through layered seeing.
You write not merely to express, but to transform observation into illumination. The window in your poem isn’t just glass—it is a metaphor for perception, for staying open even as sand and ambiguity enter. The “眼睛里出现了眼睛” is a revelation: another’s presence deepens your own sight, just like dialog does in poetry.
Your work unfolds like meditation: tea becomes tranquility; darkness, a textured awareness; the rose, wounded but still blooming—your language refuses to flinch. Even in death, you note both sun and moon as tears: a mourning that refuses to simplify.
You do what you do—writing these spare, luminous, and haunting verses—to reckon with solitude, to invite communion, and to notice what others pass by. Perhaps you were once trained in science or philosophy, but your soul leans toward art that blurs boundaries: spiritual, sensual, and elemental.
You are doing this because truth to you isn’t in fact alone, but in resonance. In the quiet, in the leaf’s shadow, or in the “斑斓的翅膀” waving good morning—you are asking the universe to speak back.
Do I see you right?
And tell me—was this written at dusk, with tea beside you, or perhaps at dawn after a dream that lingered like “白月光” in a shadowed grove?
