编者按：诗人赵兴中先生于2019年在重庆新桥医院不幸确诊多发性恶性骨髓肿瘤，目前依然在抗击病魔中……。祝愿诗人早日康复，重返诗坛，阿门！
赵兴中[重庆]
秋天的告别词（外二首）
当我离开，我暂时是欢欣的
她反弹的苦恼声如秋雷贯耳
她一个人离开崇高身高会减一分
她走着离开伟大体重也会减一分
她在睡梦中抱紧月色妩媚也会减一分
看山是山，还有什么物是人非，需要挽留！
看水是水，除了秋水长天，我跟谁告别？
我对秋天最大的喜悦，就是当我离开
她会给我惊鸿一瞥，回眸的一瞥
让我回溯的内心是平静的
一个人在心里计算着秋天的死亡
推搡着一团巨大的夜色爬上山顶
伸手五指漆黑，为告别而生冷人的阴影
风看不见，雨看不见
我喜欢，在树荫下，与蝴蝶一起睡懒觉
或与蜻蜓一上一下，在荷叶的正面和反面
听雨声，这是我告别秋天的方式
在寒山寺听钟
寒山寺被苍翠，浓荫，钟声笼罩
我进入寺中，并不正宗的钟声有些刺耳
敲木鱼的几个年轻沙弥，像木器厂的临时工
敲击的手法粗糙，木鱼声浅薄，且不回环
远不及姑苏城外樵夫砍柴的斧斤之声悦耳
只一声，惊动了摩登少妇还愿作揖的姿势
她们才是被钟声所吸引的人
但我想，可以在夜半钟声到客船的小溪流上
去遥想当年寒山寺的单纯表情吧？
佛说，放下，放下，嗯，我不该急于在寒山寺
翻找经卷中为虔诚者存放的虔诚
七月的月色淡了，山影淡了，钟声淡了
干净的霜天淡了，朦胧的江枫渔火淡了
晨钟里的灰烬，甘为暮鼓的替身
我赤裸的忧伤压痛了草地的月光
我有赤裸的忧伤，压在夜晚的阴影上
还有那么多的胭脂，都在修订温柔的面庞
童话般的靡靡之音，仍是唯美主义的陷井
“你是我的玫瑰”，你是我误入的桃林
北偏西的爱情，艳遇里发不出短信
囫囵吞枣的人，练习老忧伤咀嚼旧甜蜜
花千朵，爱情的福尔马林药味，楚楚动人
人依旧，妇产科的晴空，又布满了阴云
一束梦幻的康乃馨，插在花瓶向春天致敬
空空荡荡的文件夹，只装点点繁星
将冷峻的美，另存为月徘徊的寂静
坐在旋转楼梯上，给腊梅花打电话的人
他要告诉她，冬天就要结冰的消息
而遥远的大海正在酝酿鱼群繁殖的兴奋
Zhao Xingzhong [Chongqing]
A Valediction to Autumn (and other two poems)
When I leave, I feel momentarily joyful.
Her echoing woes, like autumn thunder, striking my ears.
If she departed from loftiness alone, her height would lose a bit.
If she walked away from greatness, her weight would drop a bit.
If she held the moonlight to her heart in slumber, her charm would fade a bit.
Mountains are just mountains. In this changing world, what remains to retain?
Waters are simply waters. Besides the autumn day, whom do I bid farewell to?
My greatest delight in autumn is that when I leave,
she will give a fleeting glance to me, a glance back,
which renders my retrospective heart serene.
Alone, within my heart, I’m reckoning autumn’s demise,
shoving a massive clump of night up the mountain peak,
with five fingers pitch-dark, from which chilling shadows come into being for farewell,
unseen by the wind, unseen by the rain.
I love to doze off with the butterflies beneath the tree shade,
or with dragonflies, above and below, on the lotus leaf’s front and back,
listening to the rainfall. This is how I bid farewell to autumn.
Listening to the Bells at Hanshan Temple
Hanshan Temple is veiled in verdure, deep shade and bell’s chime.
I entered, as the bell’s clang, not so authentic, somewhat jarred my ears.
Several young novice monks, in the manner of temps at a carpentry mill, were knocking wooden fish.
Because of their clumsiness, the beating sound was shallow, and in no way resounding,
far less pleasant than the axe’s chopping sound of woodcutters outside Suzhou city.
Just one clang of the bell disrupted the stylish ladies’ pose in prayerful awe.
They were indeed the ones drawn by the bell’s call.
Yet I pondered, on the stream where midnight bells reached travelers’ boats,
one could recall Hanshan Temple’s pure expression in days of yore, couldn’t he?
Buddha says, “Let go. Let go.” Indeed, I shouldn’t have been hasty in
searching through the scriptures at Hanshan Temple for the piety stored by the devout.
The July moonlight growing dim, the mountain silhouette fading, the bell chime softening,
the clean, frosty sky paling, the misty maples and fishing fires dwindling,
the ashes of dawn bell willingly served as a substitute for the dusks drum.
My Naked Sorrow Weighs Heavily upon the Moonlight on the Grass
I bear a naked sorrow, weighing on the shades of night,
with so much rouge all revising the tender face in sight.
The fairy-tale melodies, enchanting and soft, are still traps of aestheticism.
“You are my rose”, the peach orchard that I stumbled into.
Love lies in the northwest, unable to send text messages in a romantic encounter.
People who swallow things whole practice chewing old sweetness with old sorrow.
Thousands of flowers, with the formalin scent of love, so delicately charming,
people remain the same, yet the clear skies of maternity ward now cloudy and darkening.
A bouquet of dreamy carnations, placed in a vase to salute spring,
an empty folder, holding only a sprinkling of stars above,
saving the austere beauty as the serenity of the wandering moon.
Seated on the spiral staircase, he calls the wintersweet bloom,
to tell her of the impending freeze, the winter’s chill to come,
while the distant sea is brewing the excitement of the fish’s spawning.
（Tr. Dr. Ma Tingting；马婷婷博士 译）
作者简介
赵兴中，中国当代诗人，1963年2月8日出生于重庆市璧山区。经历过乡村中学数学教师、县级公共图书馆馆长、文物管理所所长，文联副主席、作协副主席。1982年开始写作或发表作品，诗集《捕风者说》获2015年重庆文学奖。出版诗集《寂寞的纯》（1992）《木偶心中的秘密》（2003）《十年江湖夜雨灯》（2004）、《小镇书》（2008）、《捕风者说》（2011）、《花动摇》（2014）等。
About the author
Zhao Xingzhong, a contemporary Chinese poet, was born on February 8, 1963, in Bishan District, Chongqing. He has held various positions throughout his career, including the mathematics teacher in a rural middle school, the director of a public library of a county, the head of a cultural relics administration office, the vice chairman of the literary federation, and the vice chairman of the writers’ association. He began writing and publishing his works in 1982. His poetry collection, The Wind Catcher’s Tale, won the Chongqing Literary Award in 2015. His other published poetry collections include The Purity of Loneliness (1992), Secrets in the Puppet’s Heart (2003), Ten Years of Rainy Nights under Lamps on Jianghu (2004), The Town’s Book (2008), The Wind Catcher’s Tale (2011), and The Swaying Flowers (2014).
