为什么人们总是写出惨不忍读的诗

读到一本书里说，想要成为诗人的人，比读诗的读者还多！人们总是各有各的盲点，似乎写诗的人尤甚，对自己写的更容易爱不释手，对别人写的却不容易看上眼。但对于经常读的 - 从而必然会变得稍为谦逊的读者来说，会明白好些以中文写的诗真的是惨不忍读 - 很多作者 [指中文出版书刊，网上大家都是写着玩或正练习是另码事] 似乎还停留在现代诗就是诗兴大发，情绪的一呼而就或者用极致的语言精心编织一组别致的意象而已。。。其实在成为一个能深入细读的读者之前，并不需要急匆匆地去写。。。若对好的诗歌到底什么样子，还是不以为然的话，读下Jorie Graham的佳作《The Geese》-说佳作不是吹的，因为这首已经被录入诗歌教科书《The Norton Anthology of Poetry》： 

Today as I hang out the wash I see them again, a code
as urgent as elegant,
tapering with goals.
For days they have been crossing. We live beneath these geese

as if beneath the passage of time, or a most perfect heading.
Sometimes I fear their relevance.
Closest at hand,
between the lines,

the spiders imitate the paths the geese won’t stray from,
imitate them endlessly to no avail:
things will not remain connected,
will not heal,

and the world thickens with texture instead of history,
texture instead of place.
Yet the small fear of the spiders
binds and binds

the pins to the lines, the lines to the eaves, to the pincushion bush,
as if, at any time, things could fall further apart
and nothing could help them
recover their meaning. And if these spiders had their way,

chainlink over the visible world,
would we be in or out? I turn to go back in.
There is a feeling the body gives the mind
of having missed something, a bedrock poverty, like falling

without the sense that you are passing through the one world,
that you could reach another
anytime. Instead the real
is crossing you,

your body an arrival
you know is false but can’t outrun. And somewhere in between
these geese forever entering and
these spiders turning back,

this astonishing delay, the everyday, takes place.