我寫的第一首詩

When I was eight， I wrote my first poem.

My mother read the little poem and poured out her praise. Why， this poem was nothing short of genius.

This evening when my father came in， my mother began to tell him，“Ben， Buddy has written his first poem！And its beautiful， absolutely amazing…”

“If you dont mind， Id like to decide for myself，” Father said.

I kept my face lowered to my plate as he read that poem. It was only ten lines. But it seemed to take hours.

“I think its lousy，” he said.

I couldnt look up. My eyes were getting wet.

“Ben， sometimes I dont understand you，” my mother was saying.“This is just a little boy. These are the first lines of poetry hes ever written. He needs encouragement.”

“I dont know why.” My father held his ground.“Isnt there enough lousy poetry in the world already？ No law says Buddy has to become a poet.”

A few years later I took a second look at that first poem； it was a pretty lousy poem. After a while， I worked up the courage to show him something new， a short story. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless. I was learning to rewrite. And my mother was learning that she could criticize me without crushing me. You might say we were all learning.

But it wasnt until years later that the true meaning of that painful“first poem” experience down on me. As I became a professional writer， it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been. I had a mother who said， “Buddy， did you really write this？ I think its wonderful！”and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with“I think its lousy.” A writer—in fact every one of us in life—needs that loving force from which all creation flows. Yet alone that force is incomplete， even misleading； balance of the force cautions， “Watch. Listen. Review. Improve.”

Sometimes you find these opposing forces in associate friends， love ones. But finally you must balance these opposites within yourself.

Those conflicting but complementary voices of my childhood echo down through the years—wonderful… lousy… wonderful… lousy—like two opposing winds battering me. I try to navigate my craft so as not to capsize before either.

八歲的時候，我寫了生平第一首詩。

母親讀完這首小詩后大大地表揚了我一番。天啊，這首詩整個是一個天才的杰作。

這天晚上，父親進家后，母親開始說話了：“本·巴蒂寫了他的第一首詩，而且寫得很好，絕對出乎意料……”

“如果你不介意，我想自己來判斷。”父親說。

他讀詩時，我一直低垂著頭，盯著盤子。短短十行詩，而父親卻似乎用了好幾個小時。

“我認為寫得很糟。”他說。

我抬不起頭，兩眼開始濕潤了。

“本，有時，我真不理解你，”母親說道，“他只是個小孩子。這是他平生寫的第一首詩，他需要鼓勵。”

“我不明白為什么。”父親仍堅持自己的觀點，“難道世界上這樣糟糕的詩還不多嗎？沒有法律說巴蒂必須成為詩人不可。”

幾年后，當我重讀我寫的第一首詩時，發(fā)現(xiàn)它的確寫得很糟糕。過了一陣子，我鼓起勇氣給父親看一個新作品，一篇短篇小說。父親認為寫得太累贅，但并不是一無是處。我學著重新寫。而母親也開始學著批評我，但又不使我有挫折感。你會說我們都在學習。

但是直到多年以后我才漸漸地明白那次痛苦的“第一首詩”的經歷的真正意義。當我成為一名專業(yè)作家以后，我才越來越明白自己曾多么幸運。我有一位說“巴蒂，這當真是你寫的嗎？我覺得寫得真棒”的母親，還有一位搖頭否定說“我認為寫得很糟”使我流淚的父親。一個作家——實際上我們生活中的每個人——都需要愛的力量作為一切創(chuàng)作的動力，但是僅僅有愛的力量是不完整的，甚至是誤導的，平衡的愛應該是告戒對方“觀察、傾聽、總結、提高”。