齐凤艳
还乡（组诗）
村庄老旧，日子生长
新苗已高及我的腰
走过垄上
走过荒地，留在身上的
不只玉米叶的气息
小灌木在小腿上划出三条泛红的细痕
一只鞋子里
磨脚掌的沙子，始终舍不得倒出
村口外大树下遇到的一群鹅
我认出在东山土地爷的院子里见过
它们的白羽
增加了石槽里香灰的宁静
此刻，它们可否安抚我的忐忑
如往日暮色里对故土遥望
会给我一个温暖的梦
垄上
虫的嘶鸣伴着他的思绪
而思绪像头顶的云一样漂移
随风
下午种完这三亩
明天和老婆子去集上买鹅崽儿、鸡雏
一只蝴蝶又会让他想起
城里的女儿和外孙，继而不远处土包里的
父母，那上面又将郁郁葱葱了
他感谢草
“我自己也是草，我们都是”
是自言自语，也是和拉犁的牛说
牛扫扫尾巴
叫一声，他就在“哞哞”声的末稍处
甩响鞭子
近旁的树林飞出麻雀
他捎用力按了一下犁把儿
站住脚看那叽叽喳喳的一群，牛也停下
垄上行
一片天，一片黑土
耕牛健硕，拉得动夏天
弯弯的角勾住自然之美学
勾住牧笛声
宽阔的背上，日月兜兜转转
它不流浪
它是北斗的坐标
铁犁锋利，划开岁月
银色的河流
经年的谷茬为新禾抱住水
扶犁人一声吆喝
在空中是长鞭挽的花
在垄台是漩涡
虫鸣与种子一同潜入
我身体的水聚在我身体的漩涡
它若滴下，是否能像扶犁人的汗一样
滋养它所着落的土坷垃
我离开泥土太久
我的皱纹里没有他皱纹里的日晒雨淋
Returning to the Hometown (group poems)
The village is aging, and seasons are circling.
New crops have grown up to my waist.
I walk on the farmland,
I walk through the wasteland. What’s left on my body
Is not just the smell of corn leaves.
There are on the shin three fine red streaks caused by little bushes.
In one shoe,
Sands grind my feet, but I am reluctant to get them out.
Under a tree outside the village entrance, I meet a flock of geese,
Which I also saw the other day in the courtyard of the Landgod on the Dongshan Mountain,
Their white feathers
Added the tranquility of incense ash in the stone groove.
Now, can they also soothe my minds
As my looking at the hometown in the twilight
Can give me a cozy dream?
On the Cropland
The worm chirps follow his thoughts,
And the thoughts, like clouds drifting overhead,
Float with the wind.
Finish planting the three acres this afternoon.
Go to the fair tomorrow with the old girl, buy goslings and chickens.
A butterfly reminds him again of
His daughter and grandson in the city. And then not far away in the mound,
His parents. The grave will be greener.
He feels grateful to the grass.
“I am grass myself. We both are.”
He says to himself, as well as to the cattle drawing the plow,
Which sweeps its tail,
And sends out a moo. At the tip of the moo,
He cracks the whip.
Sparrows fly out of the woods nearby.
He gives the handle of the plow a firm press,
Stands still and looks at the cheeping herd, the cattle halts its feet, too.
Walking on the Cropland
A piece of sky. A piece of black land.
A strong cattle, strong enough to pull the summer.
On the curved horns, hooked are the aesthetics of nature,
And the whistle of the shepherd’s flute.
On its broad back, the sun and the moon come and go.
It does not roam about,
It is the coordinates of the Plow.
The iron plow is sharp enough to cut through time and tide,
And digs a silver river.
Old stubbles hold water for new seedlings.
The shout of the plowman
Floats up in the air into the flower formed by the long whip,
When down on the ridge, it is a whirlpool,
In which insect songs with the seeds worm their way.
The water of my body gathers in the whirlpools in it.
If it drops, can it, like the sweats of the plowman,
Nourish the soil block where it has fallen?
I have been away from the soil for too long,
And there is no sun or rain in my wrinkles. |
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大牛，别默默的看了，快登录帮我点评一下吧！:)
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