叼著菸的守門員 [英國] Simon Armitage (b.1963)，羅浩原 譯 就是他，穿著綠棉質球衣 比賽零失球的王子——像一隻昆蟲 困在方框中，挺立在球門的橫樑立柱之間 袖子裡似乎藏著些什麼東西 掖著一袋菸草和菸紙 好給自己捲煙，或是個白鐵小盒 裝著八、九支菸捲 就是他，耳朵後夾著一支 嘴上叼著一支，或暗處藏著一支，然後—— 摀著手點菸，如在花苞中引燃花蕊 就是他，安坐在地，他可不像別的小丑 在球門框拉單槓耍特技，或在禁區做伏地挺身 或在原地踏步跑 或穿著一套高領的睡衣 手指用繃帶裹著或戴著手套 每根指頭如拇指一般粗短 像拿熱鐵鍋用的可笑的香腸人手套 這位老兄可不來這套 他是個會把菸頭戳到門柱上弄熄的人 再用腳跟踢落印痕和菸蒂 點燃下一支菸，一個呼吸之間 伸腿做出了年度最佳防守 緊接著將一記深入球門線的拖球沒收 單手將球拋了出去 或從球門的邊角將球搶下 另一手撣去散落的菸灰，或在天寒地凍中 當兩隊球員如被驅策的馬匹哈著霧氣 他與隊長和教練一起朝後衛和前鋒破口大罵 嘴冒白煙，下達逼人精疲力竭的指令 那可不是這位老兄的呼吸，而是菸霧呀 他並非那種會朝看台挑釁 邊對著客隊觀眾露屁股 邊閃躲向他砸來的十便士硬幣 幣緣可都磨得十分鋒利 他並非裝腔作勢、找人打架的傢伙，而是個 會向場邊的醫務員借火 吐出煙圈、光圈，或數字零 慢悠悠地飄越球門 飄到某人臉上、某人鼻上的那種人 他就是他，總是我行我素 因為他不唱高調 也沒有關於天才或奉獻的 簡潔有力的全國宣言 在他護照的「職業」欄上 沒人強迫他填寫「看門人」這個詞 而在《費伯出版社實用小建議》中 他的五句話小建議會寫著： 「你們這些裝模作樣、崇尚虛無 腹中沒料、捍衛浮誇空論的年輕人 別只顧自己的口袋、形象和健康 最好換個角度看事情 聽我的勸，去摧殘一下自己吧」 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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