Written by 秋如綫 
在房子的前部她的房间
灯光亮着，菩提树在窗前摇动
我的女儿正在写一个故事。
我逗留在楼梯间，听见
从她紧闭的门里传出打字机的响动
犹如一根链条拖过船舷的上缘。
虽然她还年轻，生活
已是一只塞满杂物的大货船，沉重：
我祝愿她有一个幸运的航程。
但现在她停了下来，
仿佛要拒绝我的思想及其简单的计算。
寂静在加深，寂静里
整个房子似乎都在沉思，
然后她又开始敲打，键盘发出
一连串啪啪的声响，接着又是寂静。
我记得一只茫然的欧掠鸟
两年前，正是被困在那个房间；
我们偷偷进去，打开窗扇，
退出，为了不惊扰它；
我们经过了怎样无助的一小时，透过门缝，
看着那光滑、野性、黑色、
闪光的小生物
冲撞向光亮处，像手套一样跌落
硬地板，或书桌上，
然后等待，弓起背，血淋淋的，
等待神智清醒再作尝试；而我们的精神
为之一振，当它突然、确定地，
从椅背跳起，
从右侧窗口，顺利地振翅飞起
越过这世界的窗台。
这始终是一个问题，我亲爱的，
生或死，我已忘记。此刻
我所寄望于你的，一如从前，但分量加倍。
作者 / [美国] 理查德·威尔伯
翻译 / 李以亮
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
Richard Wilbur
真正的写作，不是对世界的逃避，而是对世界的挑战。
当一位写作者，看到自己的孩子也开始写作，第一反应自然是担心，因为只有写作者才知道写作是多么辛苦。生活已经负担很重，把它再写下来那岂不是双重的负担。
但是，人在写作，正像是一只被困住的鸟在求生，突破四壁的限制，飞向自我的无限。
所以，老的那位写作者释然了，承担的更多，获得的也将更多，于是他不由得对年轻的写作者寄予了“加倍的厚望”。
荐诗 / 照朗
2018/06/10
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