中国当代域外诗选（9）：陈联松的诗

陈联松的诗

Chen Liansong

作者简介：

陈联松，美国医学博士，诗人、摄影师、独立出版人。历任美国多家医疗机构医学总监。美国高校联盟《鹤鸣文学》新诗栏目主编，《海外精粹》副主编。曾在美国《新大陆》出版三本诗疗系列诗集。现居旧金北湾。

Bio of the Author

Chen Liansong , MD, is a poet, photographer, and independent publisher. He has served as Medical Director at multiple medical institutions across the United States. He currently serves as the Editor-in-Chief of the New Poetry section for the He Ming Literature (published by the Alliance of Chinese-American Universities) and as Deputy Editor-in-Chief for Overseas Highlights. He has published a three-volume series of "poetry therapy" collections through the U.S.-based New Continent press and has edited and published the works of numerous distinguished poets. He currently resides in the North Bay area of the San Francisco Bay Area.

致命的最小单位

一场雪崩可以致命

一滴水也可以

一次相遇可以致命

一场梦也可以

一句口号可以致命

一个字也可以

2/20/2026 近日Lake Tahoe雪崩，遇难者多达8人。前一周还去过，直叹雪太少。

The Smallest Fatal Unit

An avalanche can be fatal.

So can a drop of water.

A brush with fate can be fatal.

So can a dream.

A slogan can be fatal.

So can a single word.

Feb 20, 2026 — A recent avalanche at Lake Tahoe has claimed as many as eight lives. I had been there just a week earlier, only to remark on how little snow there was.

冬至

生病的夜显得格外粘滞

时间在失衡的体内露出它的非连续性

胃口全无，感知力像是蹩脚的拼图

明天才是北美的冬至

仿佛暗夜从彼岸提前蔓延至此

生命的触角在悄然收拢边界

活着的理所当然经不起一场小病

窗外山丘的荒凉处已经变绿

替春天收复一片一片失地

Fountaingrove山间的冬雾从不缺席

早晚按时给桉树和橡树着上冬衣

忍冬和新西兰茶树开得刚刚好

满庭落叶，风一吹，分不清谁是谁的

今天网购了一株腊梅

希望明年可以点燃冬天的湿冷

万物交替而行，各按其时

唯身体在床上缓缓向西

想到今夜有人初生，有人阖眼

生与死共享时辰，却互不相识

此刻容易想到死亡、轮回、上帝

想到死后去哪里供养一群小草

于暗地深处，等阳光回暖

等一片小草醒来，替我问候春天

那时有声音在高处说：这草长得真好

12/20/2025夜初稿

12/21/2025 冬至日定稿@旧金山北湾

Winter Solstice

The night of illness feels thick and heavy.

Within a body thrown off balance,

time reveals its fractured pulse.

My appetite is gone; perception itself

has become a clumsy jigsaw puzzle.

Tomorrow is the winter solstice in North America.

It seems the long night has spread here in advance

from some distant shore.

The feelers of life quietly draw in their borders.

The taken-for-granted fact of being alive

cannot withstand even a minor illness.

Outside the window, the barren hills

have already begun to turn green,

reclaiming, piece by piece, territory for spring.

The winter fog in the hills of Fountaingrove

never misses its appointment,

dressing the eucalyptus and oaks

in their winter garments morning and evening.

The honeysuckle and New Zealand tea trees

are blooming just as they should.

Leaves cover the yard; when the wind rises,

it is impossible to tell whose fallen leaves are whose.

Today I ordered a wintersweet online,

hoping that next year

it may set winter’s damp cold aglow.

All things take turns, each in its season.

Only the body drifts slowly westward in bed.

Tonight, I think of those being born

and those closing their eyes forever.

Birth and death share the same hour,

yet remain strangers to one another.

At moments like this, it is easy to think of death,

of reincarnation, of God;

to wonder where I might go after death

to become nourishment for a patch of grass.

There, in the depths of darkness,

I would wait for the sun to warm again,

wait for a patch of grass to awaken,

and let it greet the spring on my behalf.

Then a voice from above would say:

“How well this grass has grown.”

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足下有路 诗行万里