我写的第一首诗

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.

八岁的时候，我写了生平第一首诗。

母亲读完这首小诗后大大地表扬了我一番。天啊，这首诗整个是一个天才的杰作。

这天晚上，父亲进家后，母亲开始说话了：“本·巴蒂写了他的第一首诗，而且写得很好，绝对出乎意料……”

“如果你不介意，我想自己来判断。”父亲说。

他读诗时，我一直低垂着头，盯着盘子。短短十行诗，而父亲却似乎用了好几个小时。

“我认为写得很糟。”他说。

我抬不起头，两眼开始湿润了。

“本，有时，我真不理解你，”母亲说道，“他只是个小孩子。这是他平生写的第一首诗，他需要鼓励。”

“我不明白为什么。”父亲仍坚持自己的观点，“难道世界上这样糟糕的诗还不多吗？没有法律说巴蒂必须成为诗人不可。”

几年后，当我重读我写的第一首诗时，发现它的确写得很糟糕。过了一阵子，我鼓起勇气给父亲看一个新作品，一篇短篇小说。父亲认为写得太累赘，但并不是一无是处。我学着重新写。而母亲也开始学着批评我，但又不使我有挫折感。你会说我们都在学习。

但是直到多年以后我才渐渐地明白那次痛苦的“第一首诗”的经历的真正意义。当我成为一名专业作家以后，我才越来越明白自己曾多么幸运。我有一位说“巴蒂，这当真是你写的吗？我觉得写得真棒”的母亲，还有一位摇头否定说“我认为写得很糟”使我流泪的父亲。一个作家——实际上我们生活中的每个人——都需要爱的力量作为一切创作的动力，但是仅仅有爱的力量是不完整的，甚至是误导的，平衡的爱应该是告戒对方“观察、倾听、总结、提高”。

有时你会遭遇来自同事、朋友及所热爱的人的反对的压力，但是最终你必须自己平衡这种反对意见。

那些儿时听到的对立的而又相互补充的声音多年来一直在我耳畔回响——妙极了……糟透了……妙极了——糟透了，它们好像两股对立的风吹打在我的身上。我努力驾驶着我的航船，不让它被任何一股风颠覆。