樹洞 Tree Hole 2.0

Reading, Caffeine, Alcohol, Peanuts, Cynicism…

無事去尋你 — June 6, 2018

無事去尋你

-

~ 陳義芝 · 掩映 · 無事──有贈 ~

無事去尋你
帶著上元夜的記憶
踩著小徑青苔
想一床輕薄縹緗袷被
一雙鐵線花長尾鳥金箔枕

從宋朝書窗
走到唐朝無事庵
聽鷦鷯清脆在啼鳴
催寫我的紅梅詩
深林垂露煎成的藥香
此刻在風的對話裡

無事去尋你
問漁人問樵人
櫻花開過你移居何處
莫非白地散鱗紋灑金湖
紫地菊流水絹絲谷
無人能相尋

彷彿種在前世的
彼岸花你是
一株淺蔥紅萌的唐草
一朵金茶籠目的宋雪
輾轉於今生
啊又是一年七夕

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咖啡煮著杯子 — June 5, 2018

咖啡煮著杯子

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~ 管管 · 他們怎麼玩詩 · 咖啡煮著杯子 ~

用杯子,喝著,您煮的,咖啡
用咖啡,喝著,您煮的,杯子
咖啡,喝著,裝在杯子裡的您,您
杯子,喝著,煮著您的咖啡,咖啡
杯子裡,是媽媽的,茶茶
茶茶,是妻子的,子杯杯子
茶茶,是泡在子杯裡的,兒女,女兒!

咖啡斷想 — June 4, 2018

咖啡斷想

-

~ 洛夫 · 月光房子 · 咖啡斷想 ~

  咖啡是黃昏中一條回家的小路

   ●

  才喝了第一口
  突然想起她唇間的玫瑰和淚

   ●

  躍進黑色的漩渦,去搜尋
  一隻盛滿星空的杯子

   ●

  冬夜飲咖啡
  叫人想起院子裡母親鏟雪的手

   ●

  一仰而盡
  然後對著牆壁呼喊
  杯底傳來她隔世的回應

   ●

  熄了燈
  我順手從咖啡壺中
  撈起一把長長的黑髮

   ●

  不再以苦澀來詮釋這個世界
  當窗外的木棉樹紅著臉走來

   ●

  捧著溫熱的咖啡
  猶如捧著一位
  從尼羅河中遊出的裸女

   ●

  是誰攪亂了杯中的寧靜?
  咖啡匙木然不答
  淚流滿面

   ●

  咖啡豆喊著
  我的命好苦啊
  說完便跳進了一口黑井

   ●

  氤氳如夢
  苦的甜的都只草草一生

光影留在你臉上 — June 3, 2018

光影留在你臉上

~ 朵思 · 夢或者黎明──商禽文學展暨追思紀念會特刊 · 光影留在你臉上 — 弔商禽 ~

沒有傷口

光影留在你臉上

歲月的臉上情境記憶的臉上

迴旋的逆向思考的容量飽足的感覺

是你的嘴斜向天際掛在夕陽的詩行

腦與魂魄

與超現實磨蹭半世紀了

晚年,你卻說:

不要再談超現實

時間載著你飛

專心走完一生

飛上永恆不再悲傷

那裡有另類主題

另類自在另類聲音

The only precious thing roasted in dark — June 2, 2018

The only precious thing roasted in dark

-

~ Matthew Dickman · Coffee ~

The only precious thing I own, this little espresso

cup. And in it a dark roast all the way

from Honduras, Guatemala, Ethiopia

where coffee was born in the 9th century

getting goat herders high, spinning like dervishes, the white blooms

cresting out of the evergreen plant, Ethiopia

where I almost lived for a moment but

then the rebels surrounded the Capital

so I stayed home. I stayed home and drank

coffee and listened to the radio

and heard how they were getting along. I would walk

down Everett Street, near the hospital

where my older brother was bound

to his white bed like a human mast, where he was

getting his mind right and learning

not to hurt himself. I would walk by and be afraid and smell

the beans being roasted inside the garage

of an old warehouse. It smelled like burnt

toast! It was everywhere in the trees. I couldn’t bear to see him.

I sometimes never knew him. Sometimes

he would call. He wanted us

to sit across from each other, some coffee between us,

sober. Coffee can taste like grapefruit

or caramel, like tobacco, strawberry,

cinnamon, the oils being pushed

out of the grounds and floating to the top of a French Press,

the expensive kind I get

in the mail, the mailman with a pound of Sumatra

under his arm, ringing my doorbell,

waking me up from a night when all I had was tea

and watched a movie about the Queen of England when Spain was hot

for all her castles and all their ships, carved out

of fine Spanish trees, went up in flames

while back home Spaniards were growing potatoes

and coffee was making its careful way

along a giant whip

from Africa to Europe

where cafes would become famous

and people would eventually sit with their cappuccinos, the baristas

talking about the new war, a cup of sugar

on the table, a curled piece of lemon rind. A beret

on someone’s head, a scarf

around their neck. A bomb in a suitcase

left beneath a small table. Right now

I’m sitting near a hospital where psychotropics are being

carried down the hall in a pink cup,

where someone is lying there and he doesn’t know who

he is. I’m listening

to the couple next to me

talk about their cars. I have no idea

how I got here. The world stops at the window

while I take my little spoon and slowly swirl the cream around the lip

of the cup. Once, I had a brother

who used to sit and drink his coffee black, smoke

his cigarettes and be quiet for a moment

before his brain turned its Armadas against him, wanting to burn down

his cities and villages, before grief

became his capital with its one loyal flag and his face,

perhaps only his beautiful left eye, shimmered on the surface of his Americano

like a dark star.