〔愛(ài)爾蘭〕謝默斯·希尼 著 朱 玉 譯

默游拉河從斯波瑞恩山上的一個(gè)源頭向東南方流去，途徑德里縣，然后匯入內(nèi)伊湖。幾英里外就是我長(zhǎng)大的地方。數(shù)十年來(lái)，這條河被加深了，也被治理過(guò)，但是，四十年代時(shí)，下布羅格地帶曾有一處淺灘。灘中有一條由大塊的踏腳石鋪就的小路，從這一岸通到那一岸，連接著布羅格的鎮(zhèn)區(qū)和貝爾斯希爾的鎮(zhèn)區(qū)。我們過(guò)去常在布羅格這邊布滿卵石的河床中涉水嬉戲，而我總是喜歡到更遠(yuǎn)處冒險(xiǎn)，從一塊踏腳石走到另一塊，直進(jìn)入到河水的中央——盡管這條河很窄也很淺，可是，一旦你置身于河水的主流當(dāng)中，你還是會(huì)有一種勇悍之感。突然間，你只能靠你自己了。你既感到搖搖晃晃，同時(shí)又扎根在那個(gè)地方。你的身體牢牢地站著，像一個(gè)里程碑，或者分界標(biāo)，但是你的頭可能會(huì)感到輕飄飄的、游移不定，因?yàn)楹铀谀愕哪_下奔流，云朵在你頭上的天空中莊嚴(yán)地行進(jìn)。

如今，當(dāng)我想起那個(gè)扎根于中流某個(gè)地方的孩子，我就看見(jiàn)一個(gè)縮小版的羅馬神“特米納斯”（Terminus）——界限之神。在元老院山上的朱庇特神廟中，羅馬人仍供奉著特米納斯的神像。有趣的是，神像上方的屋頂是洞開(kāi)的，敞向天空，仿佛在說(shuō)，一位大地上的界限之神需要有途徑進(jìn)入無(wú)限，那無(wú)限高遠(yuǎn)、遼闊、幽深的天空本身；仿佛在說(shuō)，所有的界限都是必要的惡，而真正值得向往的境界是無(wú)拘無(wú)束的無(wú)限之感，是成為無(wú)限空間的王。我們作為人類(lèi)所擁有的正是這種雙重能力——一方面，我們?yōu)槭熘挛锼鶐?lái)的安全感所吸引；與此同時(shí)，我們又難以抗拒那些超越自身的、未知的挑戰(zhàn)與驚奇。這種雙重能力，既是詩(shī)歌的源頭，也是詩(shī)歌的鵠的。一首好詩(shī)讓你既把腳放到地上，又把頭伸向空中。

Terminus這個(gè)詞以“tearmann”的形式出現(xiàn)在很多愛(ài)爾蘭地名中，意思是隸屬于修道院或教會(huì)的附屬地，一片專門(mén)劃出供教會(huì)使用的土地。盡管在默游拉地區(qū)并沒(méi)有一個(gè)地方名叫“Termon”，但是，從很小的時(shí)候起，我就從骨子里知道，默游拉河本身就是一個(gè)名副其實(shí)的terminus（界標(biāo)），將一個(gè)地方與另一個(gè)地方劃分開(kāi)。當(dāng)我站在踏腳石上時(shí)，我知道。當(dāng)我站在卡索多森那橫跨河水的橋上時(shí)，我知道。我喜歡靠在橋的欄墻上，直接俯視下面的流水，鱒魚(yú)疾速游躍，水草宛如彩帶，在水底揮舞。我的一側(cè)是卡索多森的村莊，我媽媽那邊的人住在那兒的一幢排屋里，屋前的門(mén)廊里有長(zhǎng)在架上的玫瑰，屋后是菜園。我外祖父在卡索多森的房子，以前很可能處在整齊的英式廠房村落中，或是任何工人階層的排屋中，在那兒，工人們根據(jù)廠房的鈴聲來(lái)來(lái)去去。具體來(lái)說(shuō)，是克拉克的亞麻布工廠，鈴聲在早晚分別響起，八點(diǎn)、十八點(diǎn)，先是喚來(lái)勞作的人，再準(zhǔn)許他們回家。家，朝著新排、博因排、斯特森路方向，在橘?gòu)d和新教教堂的北方，在默游拉公園入口的北邊，那兒有卡索多森足球隊(duì)的球場(chǎng)，還有默游拉寓邸，奇柴斯特·克拉克一家在屬于他們的圍墻之后過(guò)著另一種生活。

所有那些，在心理上，屬于河的一側(cè)。在另一側(cè)，是貝拉菲（或，巴里斯卡林）教區(qū)。我爸爸那邊的家族——希尼家和斯卡林家——世代生活在那里。他們住的屋子是用茅草搭蓋的，而不是石板；他們的廚房里是開(kāi)放見(jiàn)火的爐灶，而不是考究的火爐；房屋站在田地中央，而不是在一排房屋中；住在屋子里的人聽(tīng)著牛兒的吼叫，而不是工廠的鈴聲。不知怎的，即便在很小的時(shí)候，我就知道，我在貝拉菲這邊的生活不僅處在另一種物理位置，也處于另一種文化位置。那里沒(méi)有足球場(chǎng)，或者，按官方的話說(shuō)，沒(méi)有英聯(lián)足球賽。在我的心里，貝拉菲不僅屬于蓋爾式足球，而且更屬于古老得多的蓋爾式農(nóng)牧，以及山上那些關(guān)塞。舉個(gè)例子，每月的第一個(gè)星期一是村子的集市日：大街上擠滿了奶牛、小母牛和小公牛，整個(gè)地方嘈雜一片，臭氣熏天。難以想象，這樣混亂的場(chǎng)面會(huì)發(fā)生在卡索多森的主干道上?？偟膩?lái)說(shuō)，卡索多森是一個(gè)更為官方、更加現(xiàn)代的地方，是要道的一部分。其地名本身就來(lái)自十八世紀(jì)那個(gè)有序的英語(yǔ)世界，而貝拉菲則來(lái)自愛(ài)爾蘭語(yǔ)中一個(gè)更為古老、名不見(jiàn)經(jīng)傳的起源。所以，如我曾在一首詩(shī)中說(shuō)起的——這首詩(shī)題為“界標(biāo)”（“Terminus”）——我成長(zhǎng)于兩者之間。

我成長(zhǎng)于新教與效忠派主導(dǎo)的卡索多森村莊和天主教與民族主義者的貝拉菲地區(qū)之間。在一座位于鐵軌和公路之間的房子里。在古老的馬蹄聲和新近的火車(chē)轉(zhuǎn)軌聲之間。在教區(qū)和語(yǔ)言之間，在不同的口音之間——教區(qū)一端的口音讓你想起安特里姆①北愛(ài)爾蘭東北部的地區(qū)，一個(gè)更大的舊郡的南部。和埃爾郡，②蘇格蘭西南部一個(gè)舊郡。以及我曾在巴里米納的菲爾山上聽(tīng)到的蘇格蘭口音，教區(qū)另一端的口音則讓你想起多尼哥那不同的方言，帶著明顯而清晰的北愛(ài)爾蘭口音，那種我曾在拉納法斯特的愛(ài)爾蘭語(yǔ)區(qū)學(xué)習(xí)的口音。

自然而然地，一些諸如菲利普·拉金（Philip Larkin）所說(shuō)的“我內(nèi)心深處的語(yǔ)言”就來(lái)自昔日那個(gè)界于時(shí)間和語(yǔ)言之間的世界。比如“hoke”這個(gè)詞。 每當(dāng)我聽(tīng)到有人說(shuō)“hoke”，我就被帶回了我自身當(dāng)中那個(gè)最初的地方。這個(gè)詞既不是標(biāo)準(zhǔn)的英語(yǔ)單詞，也不是愛(ài)爾蘭語(yǔ)單詞，但是，它就那樣深埋于我自己語(yǔ)言的地基之中，無(wú)法移除。它在我底下，就像我成長(zhǎng)的房子里的地板一樣。若有什么值得寫(xiě)的，這個(gè)詞就是一例。它的意思是探尋、探究、搜尋、挖掘，恰恰是一首詩(shī)所做的事情。一首詩(shī)將鼻子貼在地面上，沿著一條小徑，憑直覺(jué)摸索著、探尋著它真正關(guān)切的中心。實(shí)際上，正是“hoke”這個(gè)詞本身讓我開(kāi)始寫(xiě)下《界標(biāo)》這首詩(shī)：

當(dāng)我在那兒探尋著（hoked），我會(huì)找到

一顆橡果和一枚生銹的螺栓。

如果我抬起眼睛，一根工廠的煙囪

和一座沉睡的山。

如果我聽(tīng)，一列轉(zhuǎn)軌中的火車(chē)

和一匹輕跑的馬。

有什么可驚奇的嗎，如果我想到

我也會(huì)改變想法？

要想在北愛(ài)爾蘭長(zhǎng)大而不被迫改變想法（遲早的事）是很難的。到處是各種劃界，人們始終遭遇著讓他們突然停步的分界線。改變想法，或重新考慮，就是承認(rèn)真理被不同的界限所綁縛，承認(rèn)真理必須考慮到相反的表述。如果有人說(shuō)“廚師多了燒壞湯”，那么另一個(gè)人就會(huì)說(shuō)“眾人拾柴火焰高”。如果有人說(shuō) “一針及時(shí)省九針”，那么另一個(gè)人就會(huì)說(shuō) “杯到嘴邊還會(huì)失手”。阿爾斯特是英國(guó)的，有人說(shuō)。阿爾斯特（Ulster）是阿爾艾德（Uladh），愛(ài)爾蘭古代的一個(gè)省區(qū)，另一個(gè)人說(shuō)。在分界渠（march drain）的一邊，你說(shuō)“土豆”。在另一邊，我說(shuō)“洋芋”。作為不同人種的一員，這些矛盾就是生活的一部分。但是，在北愛(ài)爾蘭，這些矛盾有一種獨(dú)特的地域張力：

當(dāng)他們說(shuō)起松鼠精明的窖藏，

那就像圣誕節(jié)的禮物一樣發(fā)光。

當(dāng)他們說(shuō)起不義之財(cái)，

我兜里的硬幣就像燒紅的爐蓋。

我是分界渠也是分界渠的兩堤，

承受著來(lái)自雙方的限極。

“march”這個(gè)詞是我少年時(shí)反復(fù)聽(tīng)到的——但不是在通常的示威游行、橙色游行①Orange marches/Orange Walk:北愛(ài)爾蘭傳統(tǒng)的游行活動(dòng)。每年7月12日舉行，紀(jì)念1690年威廉王子（Prince William of Orange）在博因的戰(zhàn)役中戰(zhàn)勝詹姆士二世。和學(xué)徒游行②Apprentice Boys marches:1688年，倫敦德里被攻陷。13名新教學(xué)徒把城門(mén)關(guān)起來(lái)，以便阻擋信奉天主教的國(guó)王詹姆士的進(jìn)軍，共持續(xù)了105天。后來(lái)，每年舉行游行來(lái)紀(jì)念這一事件。的語(yǔ)境中。在那些日子，在那個(gè)地方，游行季（marching season）是一切季節(jié)，因?yàn)槭峭恋刈约涸谛羞M(jìn)。這個(gè)動(dòng)詞的意思是“觸及邊界，被劃定邊界，相毗鄰然而又被劃分開(kāi)”。一個(gè)農(nóng)場(chǎng)界定著另一個(gè)農(nóng)場(chǎng)，一片田地界定著另一片田地。將它們劃分開(kāi)的是分界渠（march drain）或者分界籬（march hedge）。 在此，這個(gè)詞不是行軍的意思，而是指接壤、毗鄰、接近邊界以及被接近。這個(gè)詞接受分界，但是它也確實(shí)暗示著統(tǒng)一。如果我的土地與你的土地之間有分界線，那么我們既被這個(gè)界限分開(kāi)也被其結(jié)合在一起。如果無(wú)限的天空完全呈現(xiàn)在特米納斯神的頭上，那么，堅(jiān)實(shí)的大地也就會(huì)盡收于他的腳下——他所代表的：分界籬與分界渠。

在我長(zhǎng)大的那座房子的廚房里，有一片水泥地。我最初的記憶之一就是腳踩在上面時(shí)感到的冰冷和光滑。那時(shí)我大概只有兩三歲，因?yàn)槲疫€睡嬰兒床。我記得要從床的底部抽出木板，踩著它們下到真正的地板上。這些木板一條條地安裝在床上，但是并沒(méi)有被釘死。也就是說(shuō)，它們能夠被一張張地抬出來(lái)——我想是因?yàn)?，每?dāng)孩子把床弄臟，大人就需要把它們拆開(kāi)來(lái)清洗。不管怎樣，我永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)忘記那溫暖的皮膚與冰冷的地板之間的接觸，那瞬間的驚悚感，然后，某種更深入、更漸進(jìn)的東西，一種貼合和熟悉的感覺(jué)，一種完全令人安心的基礎(chǔ)——大地從你的腳掌向上延伸而進(jìn)入你。這就像一種你深刻領(lǐng)悟的知識(shí)。我扶著嬰兒床的欄桿，但它也可能是世界甲板上的欄桿。我同時(shí)在兩個(gè)地方。一個(gè)是廚房地板的小正方形地盤(pán)，另一個(gè)則是一個(gè)宏大而淵博的空間，我已經(jīng)從自身深處步入了它；只要我憶起溫暖的腳掌在冰冷的水泥地上的感覺(jué)，我依然能夠進(jìn)入那個(gè)空間。當(dāng)我的腳觸到地板，我知道我正在通往某個(gè)地方的路上，但是在那個(gè)時(shí)候，我并不能說(shuō)清到底是哪里?，F(xiàn)在我可以說(shuō)，它通往詩(shī)意發(fā)現(xiàn)。我想引用十七世紀(jì)日本詩(shī)人松尾芭蕉的話，關(guān)于詩(shī)性生活的行為準(zhǔn)則，他這樣寫(xiě)道：

重要的是，要讓我們的心靈高居于真知的世界中，同時(shí)又回到我們?nèi)粘＝?jīng)驗(yàn)的世界中來(lái)尋找關(guān)于美的真理。無(wú)論我們?cè)谀骋粋€(gè)特定的時(shí)刻做著什么，我們一定不要忘記，它影響著我們的永恒自我，亦即詩(shī)。

松尾芭蕉說(shuō)的“心靈”有點(diǎn)像羅馬的特米納斯神像，固著于泥土，存在于此時(shí)此地，然而卻敞向松尾芭蕉所說(shuō)的“永恒的自我”，那外在與內(nèi)在空間都擁有的無(wú)限。

默游拉河并非我少年時(shí)代唯一認(rèn)識(shí)的分界線。過(guò)去，我常常在傍晚沿著家門(mén)口的路走下去，將一罐鮮奶從我們的房子送到另一個(gè)房子。和我們的房子一樣，這個(gè)房子也是茅草房。但是，和我們家不同的是，這座房子也是一個(gè)客棧，它現(xiàn)在還在那兒，幾乎和四十年代時(shí)一樣，茅草搭成，涂著石灰，典型的、美麗的路邊旅舍。

從我家到這個(gè)房子后門(mén)的旅行是短途的，不過(guò)一二百碼。然而在我幼小的心中，我每一次都走過(guò)了漫長(zhǎng)的距離，因?yàn)樵趦蓚€(gè)房子的門(mén)階之間，我穿越了德里主教教區(qū)和阿爾馬主教教區(qū)（更恰當(dāng)?shù)卣f(shuō)是大主教教區(qū)）之間的分界線。德里主教教區(qū)向西北方向延伸，進(jìn)入到伊尼什歐文和多尼哥，而阿爾馬的大主教教區(qū)向東南蔓延近一百英里，延伸到博因河以及愛(ài)爾蘭共和國(guó)境內(nèi)密斯邊緣的小城德羅赫達(dá)。所以，當(dāng)我安然地行走在那短短的鄉(xiāng)村小路上時(shí)，我依然體驗(yàn)到一種由距離和分界所帶來(lái)的神秘感。

送鮮奶是進(jìn)入到別處的真正遠(yuǎn)征。這場(chǎng)遠(yuǎn)征是在陌生中進(jìn)行的，因?yàn)閯澏ù说嘏c彼處的分界線幾乎看不清了。路上沒(méi)有指示牌告知你已經(jīng)離開(kāi)一個(gè)行政轄區(qū)而進(jìn)入到另一個(gè)。但是在路的底下，在陰溝里，如果你不知道尋找的話，你幾乎不會(huì)注意到，那兒流淌著細(xì)細(xì)的水，而這水流就是劃分著塔姆尼恩教區(qū)和安娜莪瑞什教區(qū)的長(zhǎng)溪中的一部分。它也劃分著貝拉菲教區(qū)和新橋教區(qū)，劃分著我曾說(shuō)過(guò)的德里主教教區(qū)和阿爾馬大主教教區(qū)。這條分界渠或分界河的名字是斯拉根（Sluggan），又一個(gè)愛(ài)爾蘭單詞，意識(shí)是“沼澤”或“泥沼”。斯拉根河向下流去，經(jīng)過(guò)低矮而古老的濕地草原和種植園，又成為克里格教區(qū)和雷特利姆的分界線，直到它傾空于幾英里之外的貝格湖中。

每天，我上學(xué)和放學(xué)的路上都要穿過(guò)、再穿過(guò)斯拉根河。每穿越一次，我生活在界限兩邊的感覺(jué)就被加強(qiáng)。我從未有過(guò)那種完全屬于某一個(gè)地方的確定感，當(dāng)然，從地貌和歷史的角度來(lái)說(shuō)，我是對(duì)的。所有這些鎮(zhèn)區(qū)、教區(qū)、主教教區(qū)都曾堅(jiān)定地屬于那個(gè)古老的、前種植園的 （pre-Plantation）、蓋爾愛(ài)爾蘭的教會(huì)地域，然后被吞并、被接管，被納入另一種體系、另一個(gè)轄區(qū)。我剛才提到的很多地名出現(xiàn)在一張清單上，上面記錄著伊麗莎白時(shí)代的英國(guó)征服了阿爾斯特后所沒(méi)收的土地。這些土地隨即被賜予托馬斯·菲利普爵士，時(shí)任克爾雷恩縣的行政長(zhǎng)官，在介于“伯爵出走”（Flight of the Earls）①這一事件發(fā)生在1607年9月14日，休·奧尼爾和羅伊·歐唐內(nèi)爾伯爵以及90多名追隨者離開(kāi)愛(ài)爾蘭，前往歐洲主大陸。和阿爾斯特種植園早期之間的那個(gè)時(shí)期。封賞中的一部分土地跟我有關(guān)系，即稱作“默游拉的土地”的地方，它包括了塔姆尼恩、雷特利姆和山姆拉這些地名——這些古蓋爾語(yǔ)地名覆蓋的地方，如今我們統(tǒng)稱為卡索多森：

挑兩個(gè)水桶比挑一個(gè)容易。

我成長(zhǎng)在兩者之間。

我的左手放好標(biāo)準(zhǔn)的鐵砝碼，

右手往天平中傾入最后一粒谷子。

男爵領(lǐng)地與教區(qū)在我出生的地方相遇。

當(dāng)我站在中央的踏腳石上

我是中流里馬背上最后的伯爵，依然

在聽(tīng)力可及的范圍內(nèi)與對(duì)手進(jìn)行談判。

在前種植園時(shí)期，愛(ài)爾蘭歷史上的一位偉大人物是蒂龍伯爵休·奧尼爾。他是最后一位堅(jiān)持抵抗伊麗莎白一世女王手下的都鐸王朝軍隊(duì)的本地將領(lǐng)，是最后一位表明自己立場(chǎng)的伯爵，也是最初在內(nèi)心被兩種不同的政治忠誠(chéng)所折磨的人之一。直至今天，在北愛(ài)爾蘭，這兩種不同的政治忠誠(chéng)依然以致命的暴力交戰(zhàn)著。按照英國(guó)的法律，奧尼爾是蒂龍的伯爵，因此，按照伊麗莎白女王的理解，他代表的是英國(guó)女王在愛(ài)爾蘭王國(guó)的忠實(shí)代表。但是，在血緣上和家族譜系上，奧尼爾是神秘的愛(ài)爾蘭領(lǐng)袖 “九人質(zhì)尼爾”（Niall of the Nine Hostages）②愛(ài)爾蘭歷史上重要的國(guó)王，在4世紀(jì)晚期至5世紀(jì)初時(shí)統(tǒng)治愛(ài)爾蘭，曾擁有9名人質(zhì)，故名。的后代，因此，對(duì)于愛(ài)爾蘭人來(lái)說(shuō)，他代表的是蓋爾人奧尼爾家族的世襲領(lǐng)袖，命中注定要抵抗英國(guó)而維護(hù)蓋爾人的利益。本文無(wú)關(guān)伊麗莎白時(shí)代在愛(ài)爾蘭的戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)，它隨著休·奧尼爾和休·歐唐內(nèi)爾率領(lǐng)的愛(ài)爾蘭方面軍在金賽爾的失敗而告終 （一六〇一）。但是，在這漫長(zhǎng)的戰(zhàn)線中，有一件插曲始終令我著迷。

事情發(fā)生在一五九九年九月的一天，奧尼爾的兵力把英方的軍隊(duì)引到他自己的領(lǐng)地——?jiǎng)谒箍ず桶栺R鄉(xiāng)村的林地里。英方的將領(lǐng)是伊麗莎白女王的寵臣埃塞克斯伯爵。數(shù)月之前，女王已經(jīng)命令他采取行動(dòng)，但是他直到如今才開(kāi)始動(dòng)手。然而，奧尼爾是談判天才，善于推遲對(duì)峙的時(shí)刻。所以，他設(shè)法讓埃塞克斯伯爵到格萊德河的兩岸（現(xiàn)在的勞斯郡）來(lái)跟他談判。奧尼爾騎在馬上，在河的中央，河水深及馬的腹部，他那些說(shuō)愛(ài)爾蘭語(yǔ)的士兵們?cè)谒砗?。他?duì)埃塞克斯伯爵講著英語(yǔ)，伯爵面向他站在對(duì)岸。埃塞克斯伯爵本受命追拿叛國(guó)者奧尼爾，然而此刻，他卻和他交談著，更像一位故友，而不是命定的敵人——早在一代以前，奧尼爾就供職于伊麗莎白女王的朝廷，他當(dāng)時(shí)的英國(guó)庇護(hù)人是埃塞克斯的父親沃特·德弗羅，第一世伯爵。所以，對(duì)他們雙方來(lái)說(shuō)，這次河畔會(huì)面都是一次神秘的轉(zhuǎn)折，一個(gè)中斷，一場(chǎng)暴力行動(dòng)中的定格。在這一刻，兩岸上的人們都能夠看到正在發(fā)生的一切，卻聽(tīng)不到他們?cè)谡f(shuō)些什么。兩個(gè)人都孤立無(wú)援，都面臨著自己行動(dòng)的后果。奧尼爾已被視為叛國(guó)者；埃塞克斯由于答應(yīng)了與對(duì)方暫時(shí)休戰(zhàn)，也將被女王視為叛徒，而事實(shí)是，在年底之前，他就被以叛國(guó)罪為名施以絞刑。奧尼爾的失敗也不遠(yuǎn)，也就是一兩年之后的事情。但是，就在當(dāng)時(shí)，一種平衡顫抖地維持著，水在奔流，他們頭上的天空無(wú)聲地移動(dòng)：

男爵領(lǐng)地與教區(qū)在我出生的地方相遇。

當(dāng)我站在中央的踏腳石上

我是中流里馬背上最后的伯爵，依然

在聽(tīng)力可及的范圍內(nèi)與對(duì)手進(jìn)行談判。

在當(dāng)時(shí)的歷史環(huán)境下，奧尼爾和埃塞克斯都無(wú)法過(guò)河到對(duì)方那一邊。他們的行進(jìn)無(wú)可避免地帶上某種軍事色彩。他們處在界標(biāo)上（terminus），極端地體現(xiàn)了該詞的意義。兩種真理無(wú)法并存。要解決這個(gè)問(wèn)題，只有靠殘酷的武力，而不是思想。然而，當(dāng)我們思索著當(dāng)時(shí)的場(chǎng)景，我們要他們每一個(gè)人都能被歷史的圈套所釋放。我們要他們頭上的天空敞開(kāi)，準(zhǔn)許他們擺脫其依附于土地的命運(yùn)。即使我們知道這種釋放是不可能的，我們依然渴望那些能夠兼容理想與實(shí)際的環(huán)境，一種跨越邊界而非爭(zhēng)奪邊界的狀況：

奔流的水從不讓人失望。

跨越河水總會(huì)推動(dòng)什么。

踏腳石是靈魂的車(chē)站。

我在八十年代中期寫(xiě)下 《特米納斯》這首詩(shī)，當(dāng)時(shí)北愛(ài)爾蘭的政治局勢(shì)完全封閉不前。那是后饑荒-罷工的世界，愛(ài)爾蘭共和軍（IRA）的戰(zhàn)斗絲毫沒(méi)有消減，撒切爾政府已經(jīng)準(zhǔn)備好接受所謂的“可接受的暴力”?；蛟S這是該詩(shī)止于停滯狀態(tài)的一個(gè)原因——伯爵在中流被逮捕，而他的對(duì)手在他的對(duì)岸遙不可及。這首詩(shī)在說(shuō)，一個(gè)分裂的世界給我們的遺產(chǎn)是一個(gè)令人無(wú)力的世界，它誘捕其居民并將其迫至一隅，使其陷入既定的方位并挫傷其自由的、創(chuàng)造性行動(dòng)的意志。然而，在那一刻之前，以及從那以后，事情卻不同了，并且仍然不同。

比如，大約三十年以前，在我還沒(méi)有想到松尾芭蕉、特米納斯、休·奧尼爾，或斯拉根河以及他們可能代表的一切時(shí)，我寫(xiě)了一首題為“另一邊”（“The Other Side”）的詩(shī)。詩(shī)的開(kāi)頭回憶了一位新教長(zhǎng)老派鄰居說(shuō)過(guò)的話，那時(shí)，一條草綠色的小溪?jiǎng)澐珠_(kāi)我家和他家的田地。但是接著，這首詩(shī)玩味起那種隔絕感，從分界渠的兩邊想到北愛(ài)爾蘭分裂社區(qū)的雙方——被他們不同的祈禱方式所分開(kāi)，也被他們不同的語(yǔ)言方式所分開(kāi)（如前所述）。然而，詩(shī)在結(jié)尾處暗示，人們可以嘗試越界；如果有人想更進(jìn)一步，他們可以自行鋪筑踏腳石：

有時(shí)候，當(dāng)天主教念誦

在廚房里哀婉地拖延

我們能聽(tīng)到尖墻外面他的腳步

盡管直到祈禱完畢

門(mén)口才會(huì)傳來(lái)敲門(mén)聲

隨意的口哨聲才會(huì)在門(mén)階上

響起，“今晚天色不錯(cuò)，”

他會(huì)說(shuō)，“我正巧路過(guò)，

念叨著，興許該登門(mén)拜訪。”

而此刻我正站在他身后，

在漆黑的院子里，在禱告的沉吟中。

他一手揣在兜里

或靦腆地用李木手杖輕叩出

小曲，仿佛他妨礙了

戀人們調(diào)情或陌生人的哭泣。

我該悄悄溜走嗎，我想

還是走上前拍拍他的肩膀

然后談?wù)撎鞖?/p>

或草籽的價(jià)格？

在過(guò)去的三十年里，我有時(shí)候會(huì)覺(jué)得《另一邊》這首詩(shī)恐怕太安慰人心了?？紤]到街頭巷尾的現(xiàn)實(shí)狀況，我覺(jué)得這首詩(shī)在暗殺和爆炸事件面前過(guò)于仁慈，過(guò)于溫和，也過(guò)于樂(lè)觀了。然而，這個(gè)主題從我內(nèi)心喚出字詞。它們自己冒出來(lái)并提醒著我：我們的同情是有可能超越邊界的。最后，它們還讓我想到松尾芭蕉所說(shuō)的“真知的世界”，它始終存在于表面之下，在我們語(yǔ)言的時(shí)空之外。它們讓我想到，游行季并不必然僅是游行與挑釁的時(shí)節(jié)，相反，在我們語(yǔ)言的地面上，在我們腳下的地面上，有另一種行進(jìn)，承諾著使心智與靈魂更有創(chuàng)造力的環(huán)境。因?yàn)?，在我看?lái)，奧尼爾和埃塞克斯的對(duì)峙說(shuō)明，如果我們以軍事方式行進(jìn)，我們所抵達(dá)的不過(guò)是停滯不前與生命的殘酷，阻礙著一個(gè)更美好未來(lái)的涌現(xiàn)。但是，在分界渠的會(huì)面則說(shuō)明，我們能夠走出來(lái)，站到踏腳石上，從而擺脫本方場(chǎng)地的堅(jiān)硬與系縛。踏腳石邀你改變認(rèn)識(shí)上的局限和界限。它并未讓你的腳脫離地面，它只是讓你把頭伸向天空，讓你敏感于自身當(dāng)中那片敞開(kāi)的、可能性之天空，以此來(lái)更新你的視野。這似乎依然是值得抒寫(xiě)的。

The River Moyola flows southeast from a source in the Sperrin Mountains down through County Derry and enters Lough Neagh just a few miles from where I grew up over the years，the river has been deepened and straightened，but in the 1940s there was a ford at Lower Broagh and a trail of big stepping stones led across from one bank to the other，linking the townland of Broagb to the townland of Bellshill.We used to paddle around the gravel bed on the Broagh side and I always loved venturing out from one stepping-stone to the next，right into the middle of the stream-for even though the river was narrow enough and shallow enough，there was a feeling of daring once you got out into the main flow of the current.Suddenly you were on your own.You were giddy and rooted to the spot at one and the came time.Your body stood stock still，like a milestone or a boundary mark，but your head would be light and swimming from the rush of the river at your feet and the big stately movement of the clouds in the sky above your head.

Nowadays when I think of that child rooted to the spot in midstream，I see a little version of the god the Romans called Terminus，the god of boundaries.The Romans kept an image of Terminus in the Temple of Jupiter on Capitol Hill，and the interesting thing is that the roof above the place where the image sat was open to the sky，as if to say that a god of the boundaries and borders of the earth needed to have access to the boundless，the whole unlimited height and width and depth of the heavens themselves.As if to say that all boundaries are necessary evils and that the truly desirable condition is the feeling of being unbounded，of being king of infinite space.And it is that double capacity that we possess as human beings—the capacity to be attracted at one and the same time to the security of what is intimately known and to the challenges and entrancements of what is beyond us—it is this double capacity that poetry springs from and addresses.A good poem allows you to have your feet on the ground and your head in the air simultaneously.

The word ‘terminus’appears as tearmann in many Irish placenames，meaning the glebe land belonging to an abbey or a church，land that was specially marked off for ecclesiastical use；and even though there were no places called Termon in the Moyola district，I knew in my bones from very early on that the Moyola itself was a very definite terminus，a marker off of one place from another.I knew it when I stood on the stepping-stone but also when I stood on the bridge that spanned the river at Castled awson.I loved to hang over the range wall and look directly down at the flow where the trout were darting about and the riverweed waved like a streamer under the stleam.On one side of me was the village of Castledawson，where my mother’s people lived in a terrace house，with a trellis of roses over the front pathway and a vegetable garden at the back.MY grandparents’house in Castledawson could have been in any spick-and-span English mill village，any working-class terrace where the factory workers came and went to the sound of the factory horn.In this case the faetory was Clarke’s linen mill and the horn blew morning and evening，at eight and at six，first to call the hands in and then to let them go home.Home to New Row and Boyne Row and Station Road，up past the Orange Hall and the Protestant church，up past the entrance to Moyola Park，where the Castleclawson soccer team had its pitch，and Moyola Lodge，where the Chichester Clarkes lived their different life behind the walls of their demesne.

All that was mentally on one side of the river；on the other，there was the parish of Bellaghy，or Ballyscullion，where my father’s side of the family，the Heaneys and the Scullions，had lived for generations.Their dwellings were thatched rather than slated，their kitchens had open fires rather than polished stoves，the houses stood in the middle of the fields rather than in a terrace，and the people who lived in them listened to the cattle roaring rather than the horn blowilng.Somehow，even at.that early age，I knew the Bellaghy side of my life was not only in a different physical location but in a different cultural location as well.There was no pitch there for soccer；or English Association Football，as the game was more officially called.In my mind，Bellaghy belonged not only to Gaelic football but to the much older Gaelic order of cattle herding and hill forts；the village，for instance，had a fair day on the first Monday of every month：the streets would be crammed with cows and heifers and bullocks，the whole place loud and stinking with the smells of the beasts and their dang.It was impossible to think of any such unruly activity happening on the main street of Castledawson.Castledawson was a far more official place altogether，more modern，more a part of the main drag.The very name of the place is from the orderly English world of the eighteenth century，whereas Bellaghy is from an older， more obscure origin in Irish.So，as I once said in a poem—a poem called “Terminus’—I grew up in between.

I grew up between the predominantly Protestant and loyalist village of Castledawson and the generally Catholic and nationalist district of Bellaghy.In a house situated between a railway and a road.Between the old sounds of a trotting horse and the newer sounds of a sh unting engine.On a border between townlands and languages，between accents at one end of the parish that reminded you of Antrim and Ayrshire and the Scottish speech I used to hear on the Fair Hill in Ballymena，and accents at the other end of the parish that reminded you of the different speech of Donegal，speech with the direct，clear ring of the Northern Irish I studied when I went to the Gaehacht in Rannafast.

Naturally enough，some of what Philip Larkin would have called the ‘words of my inner mind’come from that world back there between times and languages.A word like ‘hoke’，for example.When I hear somebody say‘hoke’.I’m returned to the very first place in myself.It’s not a standard English word and it’s not an Irish-language word either，but it’s undislodgeably there，buried in the very foundations of my own speech.Under me like the floor of the house where I grew up.Something to write home about，as it were.The word means to root about and delve into and forage for and dig around，and that is precisely the kind of thing a poem does as well.A poem gets its nose to the ground and follows a trail and hokes its way by instinct towards the real centre of what concerns it.And in fact it was the word ‘hoked’itself that got me started on‘Terminus’：

When l hoked there，I would find

An acorn and a rusted bolt.

If I lifted my eyes，a factory chimney

And a dormant mountain.

If I listened，an engine shunting

And a trotting horse.

Is it any wonder when I thought

I would have second thoughts？

It’s hard to grow up in Northern Ireland and not be forced into second thoughts，sooner or later，With so much division around，people are forever encountering boundaries that bring them up short.Second thoughts are an acknowledgement that the truth is bounded by different tearmanns，that it has to take cognizance of opposing claims.If one person says that too many cooks spoil the broth，another maintains that many hands make light work.If one says a stitch in time saves nine，another says there’s many a slip’twixt the cup and the lip.Ulster is British，says one；Ulster is Uladh，an ancient province of Ireland，says the other.On one side of the march drain，you say potato.On the other side，I say potatto.Such contradictions are part of being alive as a member of the human species.But in Northern Ireland they have attained a special local intensity.

When they spoke of the prudent squirrel’s hoard

It shone like gifts at a nativity.

When they spoke of the mammon of iniquity

The coins in my pockets reddened like stove-lids.

I was the march drain and the march drain’s banks

Suffering the limit of each claim.

The word ‘march’was one that I used to hear again and again when I was a youngster—but not in the usual context of protest marches and Orange marches and Apprentice Boys marches.In those days，in that place，the marching season was every season because it was the land itself that did the marching.The verb meant to meet at the boundary，to be bordered by，to be matched up to and yet marked off from；one farm marched another farm；one field marched another field；and what divided them was the march drain or the march hedge.The word did not mean to walk in a military manner but to be close，to lie alongside，to border upon and be bordered upon.It was a word that acknowledged division，but it contained a definite suggestion of solidarity as well.If my land marched your 1and，we were bound by that boundary as well as separated by it.If the whole of the liberating sky was over the head of the god Terminus，the whole of the solid earth was under what he stood for，the march hedge and the march drain.

In the kitchen of the house where I grew up there was a cement floor，and one of my first memories is the feel of its coldness and smoothness under my feet.I must have been only two or three at the time，because I was still in my cot and can remember taking the boards out of the bottom of it in order to step down to the actual floor.The boards were fitted in like slats but they hadn’t been nailed down，and this meant they could be lifted out one by one—because，I suppose，they needed to be removable for cleaning every time a child soiled them.At any rate.I’ll never forget that contact of warm skin and cold floor，the immediate sensation of surprise；and then something deeper，more gradual，a sensation of consolidation and familiarity，the whole reassuring foundation of the earth coming up into you through the soles of your feet.It was like a knowledge coming home to you.I was holding on to the rail of the cot，but it could have been the deckrail of the world.I was in two places at once.One was a small square of kitchen floor，and the other was a big knowledgeable space I had stepped into deep inside myself，a space I can still enter through the memory of my warm soles on the cold cement.When my feet touched the floor，I knew I was on my way somewhere，but at the time I could not have said exactly where.Nowadays I would say it was to poetic discovery.And I would quote what the seventeenth-century Japanese poet Bashō bad to say about the conduct of the poetic life. ‘What is important’，Bash? wrote.

is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding，and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty.No matter what we may be doing at a given rnoment，we must not forget that it has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.

Bashō makes the mind sound a bit like that Roman image of Terminus，earthbound and present in the here and now and yet open also to what Bash? calls the everlasting self，the boundlessness of inner as well as outer space.

The Moyola wasn’t the only boundary that entered into me when I was a youngster.I used to carry a can of fresh milk in the evenings from our house to the next house down the road from us.This was-like our own-a thatched house，but unlike our house it was also a pub，and it is there still，more or less the same as it was in the 1940s，thatched and whitewashed，your typicalpicturesque roadside inn.

My journey from home to the back door of this house was short，no more than a couple of hundred yards，and yet in my child’s mind I covered a great distance every time，because between the two doorsteps I crossed the border between the ecclesiastical diocese of Derry and the diocese—or more properly，the archdiocese-of Armagh.The diocese of Derry stretched away to the northwest，into Inishowen and Donegal，and the archdiocese of Armagh stretched for nearly a hundred miles southeast to the River Boyne and the town of Drogheda on the edge of Meath in the Irish Republic；so while I felt safe and sound on that short stretch of the county road，I still experienced a slightly mysterious sense of distance and division.

Delivering the milk was a genuine expedition into an elsewhere.And the expedition gained in strangeness because the line that marked the division between the here and the there of it was more or less invisible.There was no indication on the road that you were leaving one jurisdiction for the other.But underneath the road，in a culvert that you would hardly notice if you didn’t know to look for it，there ran a small trickle of water，and this water was part of a long drain or stream that marked the boundary between the townland of Tamniarn and the townland of Anahorish，as well as the boundary between the parish of Bellaghy and the parish of Newbridge，and then，as I said，the boundary between the diocese of Derry and the archdiocese of Armagh.The name of this march drain or boundary stream was the Sluggan，another Irish word meaning a marsh or a quagmire，and the Sluggan ran on down through a low-lying spread of old wet meadows and plantations to become the border between the townlands of Creagn and Leitrim before it emptied into the waters of Lough Beg，a couple of miles away.

Every day on my road to and from school I crossed and recrossed the Sluggan，and every time my sense of living on two sides of a boundary was emphasized.I never felt the certitude of belonging completely in one place.and，of course，from the historical as well as the topographical point of view，I was right：all those townlands and parishes and dioceses that had once belonged firmly within the old pre-Plantation，ecclesiastical geography of Gaelic Ireland had been subsumed in the mea ntime and been taken over and taken into another system and another jurisdicgion.Many of the place-names I have just mentioned appear in a list of lands confiscated by the English after the Elizabethan conquest of Ulster，lands that were subsequently granted to Sir Thomas Phillips，the governor of what was then the county of Coleraine，in the period between the Flight of the Earls and the beginning of the Plantation of Ulster.The part of the grant which concerns me here is the area known as the‘Lands of Moyola’and which included the names of Tamniaran，Leitrim and Shanmullagh—the old Gaelic name for the place we nowadays call Castledawson：

Two buckets were easier carried than one.

I grew up in between.

My left hand placed the standard iron weight.

My right tilted a last grain in the balance.

Baronies，parishes met where I was born.

When I stood on the central stepping stone

I was the last earl on horseback in midstream

Still parleying，in earshot of his peers.

One of the great figures of Irish history in the pre-Plantation period was Hugh O’Neill，Earl of Tyrone，the last native leader to hold out against the Tudor armies of Queen Elizabeth I，the last earl to make a stand and one of the first to suffer within himself the claims of the two different political allegiances that still operate with such deadly force inside Northern Ireland to this day.By English law，O’Neill was the Earl of Tyrone and therefore，in the understanding of Queen Elizabeth，the English Queen’s loyal representative in the kingdom of Ireland.But by Irish birth and genealogy，O’Neill was descended from the mythic Irish leader Niall of the Nine Hostages，and to the Irish he therefore appeared as the hereditary leader of the Gaelic O’Neills，with a destined role as the defender of the Gaelic interest against the English.This is not the place to go into a history of the Elizabethan wars in Ireland，which ended with the defeat of the Irish under Hugh O’Neill and Red Hugh O’Donnell at Kinsale in 1601；but there is one incident that happened in the course of those long-drawn-out campaigns that never ceases to fascinate me.

The event occurred one day early in September 1599，after O’Neill’s forces had drawn the English Army up into his own territory，in the wooded countryside of Louth and Armagh.The leader of the English expedition was Queen Elizabeth’s favourite courtier，the Earl of Essex，and the Queen had been ordering him into action for months before he had taken this initiatixre.But O’Neill was a master negotiator and a great one for putting off the moment of confrontation，so he contrived to get Essex to come for a parley with him，on the banks of the River Glyde in what is now County Louth.O’Neill was on horseback，out in midstream，with the water up to his horse’s belly and his Irish-speaking soldiers behind him，speaking English to Essex，who was standing facing him on the other bank.Essex was under orders to pursue O’Neill as a traitor，but here he was in con-versation，more like the old friend he had once been than the enemy he was destined to become—for O’Neill had been at the court of Elizabeth a generation earlier，and his patron in England at that time had been Essex’s father，Walter Devereux，the first Earl.So，for each of them，this meeting by the river was a mysterious turn，a hiatus，a frozen frame in the violent action，a moment when those on either bank could see what was happening but could not hear what was being said.Both men were alone and exposed to the consequences of their actions；O’Neill was already regarded as a traitor，and Essex，by agreeing to a truce with him at this moment，was going to be seen as a betrayer by the Queen and in fact before the end of the year would be executed for treason.O’Neill’s ultimate defeat lay ahead also，in a couple of years’time.But for the moment，the balance trembled and held，the water ran and the sky moved silently above them：

Baronies，parishes met where I was born.

When I stood on the central stepping stone

I was the last earl on horseback in midstream

Still parleying，in earshot of his peers.

There was no way，given their historical circumstances，that O’Neill and Essex could cross to each other’s side.Their march had turned into something irrevocably military.They were at the terminus，in an extreme sense of tbat word.There was no room for two truths.The brutality of power would have to decide the issue，not the play of mind.And yet as we think about the scene，we want each of them to be released from the entrapment of history.We want the sky to open above them and grant them release from their earthbound fates.And even if we know that such a release is impossible，we still desire conditions where the longed-for and the actual might be allowed to coincide.A condition where borders are there to be crossed rather than to be contested：

Running water never disappointed.

Crossing water always furthered something.

Stepping stones were stations of the soul.

I wrote the ‘Terminus’poem in the mid-1980s，when the political situation in Northern Ireland was totally locked and blocked；in the post-hunger-strike world，when the IRA’s campaign showed no sign ot abating and the Thatcher government was prepared to live with what was termed an acceptable level of violence.Maybe that is one reason why the poem ends in stasis，with the Earl arrested in midstream and his opposite out of reach on the bank beyond him；the poem is saying that the inheritance of a divided world is a disabling one，that it traps its inhabitants and corners them in determined positions，saps their will to act freely and creatively.But before that moment and since that moment，things nevertheless were and have been different.

Nearly thirty years ago，for example，long before I gave any thought to Bash? or Terminus or Hugh O’Neill or the Sluggan drain and all that they might mean，I wrote a poem call ed‘The other Side’.It began with a recollection of something a Presbyterian neighbour had said about a field of ours that marched a field of his and was divided from it by a little grassy stream，but then the poem went on to play with the notion of separation，of two sides of the march drain being like the two sides of the divided community in Northern Ireland—two sides divided by the way they pray，for example and in little subtle but real ways（as I was suggesting earlier on）by the way they speak.The poem，however，ended up suggesting that a crossing could be attempted，that stepping-stones could be placed by individuals who wanted to further things.

Then sometimes when the rosary was dragging

mournfully on in the kitchen

we would hear his step round the gable

though not until after the litany

would the knock come to the door

and the casual whistle strike up

onthedoorstep，‘Aright-lookingnight’，

he might say，‘I was dandering by

and says I，I might as well call’

But now I stand behind him

in the dark yard，in the moan of prayers.

He puts a hand in a pocket

or taps a little tune with the blackthorn

shyly，as if he were party to

lovemaking or a stranger’s weeping.

Should I slip away，I wonder，

or go up and touch his shoulder

and talk about the weather

or the price of grass-seed？

There were times during the last thirty years when l thought‘The Other Side’might be too consoling.Given the actual conditions on the roads and the streets， I thought it might be too benign，too tender in the face of assassination and explosion，too hopeful.And yet the subject had called words from my inner mind.They had dandered in and reminded me of the possible boundlessness of our sympathies.In the end they reminded me also of what Bash? called ‘the world of true understanding’，which is always lying just beneath the surface and just beyond the horizon of the actual words we speak.They reminded me that the marching season need not just be the season of parades and provocation but that in the ground of the language and the ground beneath our feet there is another march which promises far more creative conditions for the mind and soul.For it seems to me that the confrontation between O’Neill and Essex represents where we arrive if we walk in a military manner，a condition of stasis and embittered rigor vitae that hampers the emergence of a better future；but the encounter at the march drain represents the possibility of going out on the steppingstone in order to remove yourself from the hardness and fastness of your home ground.The steppingstone invites you to change the terms and the tearmann of your understanding；it does not ask you to take your feet off the ground，but it refreshes your vision by keeping your head in the air and bringing you alive to the open sky of possibility that is within you.And that still seems something to write home about.