By+Kim+Rosen1)

我們讀詩(shī)寫(xiě)詩(shī)，并非為它的靈巧。

我們讀詩(shī)寫(xiě)詩(shī)，因?yàn)槲覀兪侨祟惖囊粏T。

而人類充滿了熱情。醫(yī)藥、法律、商業(yè)、工程，

這些都是高貴的理想，并且是維生的必需條件。

而詩(shī)、美、浪漫、愛(ài)，這些是我們生存的原因。

—《死亡詩(shī)社》

“I never could connect with poetry，” Jan said. “Im a math teacher！” She was sitting on my living room couch surrounded by piles of poetry books. On the coffee table was a stack of cards， each with a different poem on it. Even some of the art on the wall had hand-calligraphed2） verses among the colors.

I could relate to3） Jans words. For many years， I was actually afraid of poetry. I felt as though it was the secret language of an elitist club that I had not been invited to join. Though I loved poetry as a child， the harsh and overly analytical way it was taught in my high school had intimidated me. Suddenly my magical world of words and feeling had turned into “iambic4） pentameters5），” “dactylic6） tetrameters7），” “rhyme schemes” and “l(fā)ineation.” I decided then that poetry was not for me after all.

Jans glance fell on a stack of Mary Oliver8）s books， and tears came to her eyes. “A few years ago， when I started teaching at my current job， the first friend I made was Rita， an English teacher and a poet. I confessed to her my inability to understand poetry. With a knowing look in her eye， she said， ‘Dont worry. Ill take care of that！”

“A few months later，” Jan continued， “Rita presented me with a beautifully decorated box for my 46th birthday. Inside were dozens of envelopes， each holding a handwritten poem. And there was an instruction sheet： Each morning， as soon as you wake， take one of these envelopes to a quiet place with a window onto nature， or a beautiful plant， or a candle. Sit comfortably and read the poem aloud to yourself， preferably more than once.”

That was a dark time in Jans life： For more than a year， she had been struggling with a chronic illness. Her unlimited energy seemed to have drained away， leaving her perpetually pale and tired. Once， she loved to ride her mountain bike every day on the trails near her house; now she could barely make it home from teaching to collapse into bed. Though she had turned to doctors， therapists， and alternative9） health practitioners， no one seemed to be able to provide her with answers or relief.

“I figured I might as well follow Ritas advice，” Jan told me with a shrug. “Nothing else seemed to be helping.”

The morning after her birthday she awoke with the same relentless exhaustion in her chest. Where would she find the energy to face this day？ As she dragged herself out of bed， she saw the box of poems on the bedside table. Reluctantly she pulled the first poem out of its envelope and sat by the window. She felt a bit silly reading out loud， but she followed Ritas directions.

It was a poem called “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver. Much of the first stanza10） was about a grasshopper. The description of the creatures “complicated eyes” and “pale forearms” was lovely， but Jan didnt see what it had to do with her. A few lines later， though， she caught her breath11）. “I dont know exactly what a prayer is，” she heard her own voice say. Suddenly she was awake， listening. The next lines of the poem spoke directly to12） her—addressing a conversation that ran constantly below the surface of her life， but which she had never spoken out loud： How do I pray when I am not religious？ How did my life become so meaningless？ What do I hold sacred anyway？ The final lines left her heart pounding： “Tell me， what is it you plan to do /with your one wild and precious life？”

Every morning after that， without fail， the poem of the day connected her with herself in a way shed never experienced. Often Jan was brought to tears by a phrase from Mary Oliver， or Naomi Shihab Nye13）， or Hafiz14）. “You will love again the stranger who was yourself，” Derek Walcott15） assured her. Or， “The hurt you embrace / becomes joy，” Rumi16） would advise. With the opening of each envelope， Jan fell deeper in love with poetry.

I found myself nodding as she spoke. I， too， had inadvertently rediscovered the healing power of poetry during a difficult passage in my life. In 1994 I was in the midst of a suicidal depression. At the time I was a therapist and teacher of self-transformation， but none of the wisdom Id learned could touch the place within me that felt so broken.

When Im depressed， I clean. One day I was scrubbing under a radiator and found an unmarked cassette tape covered with cat hair and dust. I wiped it off， put it in the player， and started in on the dishes. A mans voice speaking poetry filled my house. These were poems unlike any I had encountered in high school or college; they were what I now call “poems of the inner life.” The sound of the speakers voice and the words of the poems reached into a place inside me that had felt utterly untouchable. I put down my sponge and wept.

A bit of sleuthing17） revealed that the tape had fallen out of a clients purse. She told me the speaker was David Whyte， a poet who recited by heart to inspire creativity and insight in groups in all manner of settings， from boardrooms to monasteries.

I began to take poems into my life—not simply reading them and turning the page， but developing rich relationships with the ones I loved most. I learned many by heart， I carried some with me in my purse， I taped some to my computer screen and refrigerator. I rarely left the house without a poem in my pocket. I printed some of my favorites on small cards and used them like a divination deck. They became my poetry therapy， my medicine， my prayers.

Those poems not only infused me with their wisdom， but actually brought vibrancy18） to my body. How， you might ask， can a poem have a physical effect？ As the poet Emily Dickinson says， “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me， I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head has been taken off， I know that is poetry！” Like a shaman19）s drum or a Sanskrit20） chant， the rhythm of a poem entrains your heartbeat， the phrasing changes your breathing， and the sounds resonate within the crystalline structures in your bones and fascia21）. Many years later I came to understand this as the poems “shamanic anatomy”： Current scientific research shows that your brainwaves， breathing and pulse literally change when you give voice to a poem， opening your mind beyond ordinary thinking. The physical elements of the poem literally create the biochemical circumstances for healing and insight.

Poetry is a doorway to passion， peace， and wholeness that is right in our midst. It is free and available to everyone all the time. I invite you to step over the threshold of a poem into the wonder of your own self.

“我永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)和詩(shī)歌有關(guān)系，”簡(jiǎn)說(shuō)道，“我是一位數(shù)學(xué)老師??！”她坐在我家客廳沙發(fā)上，沙發(fā)周圍到處堆放著詩(shī)集?？Х茸郎戏胖豁晨ㄆ?，每張卡片上都有一首不同的詩(shī)歌。就連墻上掛的一些藝術(shù)畫(huà)里，都有手寫(xiě)的題畫(huà)詩(shī)。

我對(duì)簡(jiǎn)的話感同身受。其實(shí)很多年里，對(duì)于詩(shī)歌，我都充滿了畏懼。我覺(jué)得詩(shī)歌似乎只是精英俱樂(lè)部?jī)?nèi)的密語(yǔ)，而我從未受邀加入其中。盡管我從小就喜歡詩(shī)歌，但是中學(xué)時(shí)代老師教授詩(shī)歌態(tài)度嚴(yán)厲，條分縷析，讓我對(duì)詩(shī)歌望而卻步。突然之間，我那文字和感情的魔幻世界變成了“五步抑揚(yáng)格”“抑揚(yáng)格四音步”“韻律”和“長(zhǎng)短句”。于是我覺(jué)得詩(shī)歌終究不適合我。

簡(jiǎn)的目光落在了一摞瑪麗·奧利弗的詩(shī)集上，眼眶頓時(shí)濕潤(rùn)。“幾年前，那時(shí)我剛開(kāi)始在現(xiàn)在的崗位執(zhí)教，我結(jié)交的第一個(gè)朋友叫瑞塔，她既是一名英語(yǔ)老師，也是一名詩(shī)人。我坦白告訴她我無(wú)法理解詩(shī)歌。她理解地看著我，說(shuō)道，‘別擔(dān)心，我有方法！”

“幾個(gè)月后，”簡(jiǎn)接著說(shuō)道，“瑞塔送了我一個(gè)裝飾得很漂亮的盒子，作為我46歲的生日禮物。里面放著許多信封，每個(gè)信封里裝著一首手寫(xiě)的詩(shī)歌。盒子中還附了一張使用說(shuō)明書(shū)：每天清晨你一醒來(lái)，就從中拿出一個(gè)信封，到一處?kù)o謐之地，那里有扇可以欣賞風(fēng)景的窗，或有一株美麗的植物，或燃著一支蠟燭。舒舒服服地坐下，大聲地給自己讀詩(shī)，最好反復(fù)朗讀?！?/p>

那段日子是簡(jiǎn)的人生低谷：一年多的時(shí)間里，她一直在與慢性病做抗?fàn)?。她那使不完的精力似乎已逐漸枯竭，使她終日面色蒼白，疲憊不堪。過(guò)去，她喜歡每天在自己家附近的小路上騎山地車;而現(xiàn)在，她幾乎下班一到家就癱倒在床上。盡管她咨詢過(guò)醫(yī)生、治療師和非傳統(tǒng)保健醫(yī)師，但似乎沒(méi)有人能給她提供解決辦法或緩解措施。

“我想我不妨聽(tīng)取瑞塔的建議，”她聳聳肩對(duì)我說(shuō)道，“似乎也沒(méi)有其他有用的辦法了。”

生日過(guò)后的第二天清晨，她醒來(lái)時(shí)一如既往地覺(jué)得心力交瘁。她從哪里能找到面對(duì)今天的能量呢？她掙扎著起床，看到床頭柜上裝著詩(shī)歌的盒子。她不情愿地從信封里抽出第一首詩(shī)，然后坐到窗邊。她覺(jué)得大聲朗讀有點(diǎn)傻，但還是照著瑞塔的話做了。

那是一首瑪麗·奧利弗的詩(shī)，名為《夏日》。第一節(jié)的大部分詩(shī)行寫(xiě)的是一只螞蚱。詩(shī)中說(shuō)螞蚱有“復(fù)雜的眼睛”和“柔弱的前臂”，寫(xiě)得很有趣，但簡(jiǎn)沒(méi)覺(jué)得這跟自己有什么關(guān)系。但是，又讀了幾行之后，簡(jiǎn)屏住了呼吸?！拔也荒艽_定什么是禱告?！彼?tīng)到自己的聲音這樣說(shuō)道。突然間，她清醒了，就那樣聽(tīng)著。接下來(lái)的詩(shī)句直接激發(fā)起她內(nèi)心的共鳴——那是一場(chǎng)對(duì)話，一直在她的生活表象進(jìn)行的對(duì)話，但她卻從未將其大聲說(shuō)出來(lái)過(guò)：不信教的時(shí)候我怎么禱告？我的生活怎么變得如此沒(méi)有意義？到底什么對(duì)于我才是神圣的？最后幾句詩(shī)使她怦然心動(dòng)：“告訴我，你用你瘋狂而寶貴的一生/打算去做什么？”

之后每天早晨，無(wú)一例外，每日一詩(shī)以一種她從未經(jīng)歷過(guò)的方式把她和自己的內(nèi)心連接起來(lái)。簡(jiǎn)常常因?yàn)楝旣悺W利弗、內(nèi)奧米·謝哈布·奈或是哈菲茲的一句詩(shī)而熱淚盈眶?！澳銜?huì)再度愛(ài)上那個(gè)陌生人，那是曾經(jīng)的你。”德里克·沃爾科特向她保證。或者，“你擁抱的傷痛/變成歡樂(lè)?！濒斆讜?huì)這樣建議。隨著信封一次次開(kāi)啟，簡(jiǎn)對(duì)詩(shī)歌的愛(ài)一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)加深。