叼着菸的守门员 [英国] Simon Armitage (b.1963)，罗浩原 译 就是他，穿着绿棉质球衣 比赛零失球的王子——像一只昆虫 困在方框中，挺立在球门的横梁立柱之间 袖子里似乎藏着些什麽东西 掖着一袋菸草和菸纸 好给自己卷烟，或是个白铁小盒 装着八、九支菸卷 就是他，耳朵後夹着一支 嘴上叼着一支，或暗处藏着一支，然後—— 摀着手点菸，如在花苞中引燃花蕊 就是他，安坐在地，他可不像别的小丑 在球门框拉单杠耍特技，或在禁区做伏地挺身 或在原地踏步跑 或穿着一套高领的睡衣 手指用绷带裹着或戴着手套 每根指头如拇指一般粗短 像拿热铁锅用的可笑的香肠人手套 这位老兄可不来这套 他是个会把菸头戳到门柱上弄熄的人 再用脚跟踢落印痕和菸蒂 点燃下一支菸，一个呼吸之间 伸腿做出了年度最佳防守 紧接着将一记深入球门线的拖球没收 单手将球抛了出去 或从球门的边角将球抢下 另一手掸去散落的菸灰，或在天寒地冻中 当两队球员如被驱策的马匹哈着雾气 他与队长和教练一起朝後卫和前锋破口大骂 嘴冒白烟，下达逼人精疲力竭的指令 那可不是这位老兄的呼吸，而是菸雾呀 他并非那种会朝看台挑衅 边对着客队观众露屁股 边闪躲向他砸来的十便士硬币 币缘可都磨得十分锋利 他并非装腔作势、找人打架的家伙，而是个 会向场边的医务员借火 吐出烟圈、光圈，或数字零 慢悠悠地飘越球门 飘到某人脸上、某人鼻上的那种人 他就是他，总是我行我素 因为他不唱高调 也没有关於天才或奉献的 简洁有力的全国宣言 在他护照的「职业」栏上 没人强迫他填写「看门人」这个词 而在《费伯出版社实用小建议》中 他的五句话小建议会写着： 「你们这些装模作样、崇尚虚无 腹中没料、扞卫浮夸空论的年轻人 别只顾自己的口袋、形象和健康 最好换个角度看事情 听我的劝，去摧残一下自己吧」 Simon Armitage, Selected Poems, London: Faber & Faber, 2001, pp.84-85. Goalkeeper with a Cigarette —Simon Armitage That's him in the green, green cotton jersey, prince of the clean sheets - some upright insect boxed between the sticks, the horizontal and the pitch, stood with something up his sleeve, armed with a pouch of tobacco and skins to roll his own, or else a silver tin containing eight or nine already rolled. That's him with one behind his ear, between his lips, or one tucked out of sight and lit - a stamen cupped in the bud of his fist. That's him sat down, not like those other clowns, performing acrobatics on the bar, or press-ups in the box, or running on the spot, togged out in turtleneck pyjama-suits with hands as stunted as a bunch of thumbs, hands that are bandaged or swaddle d with gloves, laughable, frying-pan, sausage-man gloves. Not my man, though, that's not what my man does; a man who stubs his reefers on the post and kicks his heels in the stud-marks and butts, lighting the next from the last, in one breath making the save of the year with his legs, taking back a deep drag on the goal-line in the next; on the one hand throwing out or snaffling the ball from a high corner, flicking off loose ash with the other. Or in the freezing cold with both teams snorting like flogged horses, with captains and coaches effing and jeffing at backs and forwards, talking steam, screaming exhausting orders, that's not breath coming from my bloke, it's smoke. Not him either goading the terraces, baring his arse to the visitors' end and dodging the sharpened ten-pence pieces, playing up, picking a fight, but that's him cadging a light from the ambulance men, loosing off smoke rings, zeros or halos that drift off, passively, over the goals into nobody's face, up nobody's nose. He is what he is, does whatever suits him, because he has no highfalutin song to sing, no neat message for the nation on the theme of genius or dedication; in his passport, under 'occupation' no one forced the man to print the word 'custodian', and in The Faber Book of Handy Hints his five-line entry reads: 'You young pretenders, keepers of the nought, the nish, defenders of the sweet fuck-all, think bigger than your pockets, profiles, health; better by half to take a sideways view, take a tip from me and deface yourselves.' --

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