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◎ 伯特.阿尔芒和他的诗 (阅读4562次)



1943年的一天,正当飓风横行,伯特.阿尔芒出生于美国德克萨斯的伯特亚瑟,自那以后,他一直生活在平静安宁之中。他就读于德克萨斯大学,1965年大学毕业.他自1967年开始写诗,进入德克萨斯作家行列。 从1968年起,他开始任教于加拿大阿尔伯塔大学并成为加拿大公民。伯特于1971年在美国新墨西哥大学又获得博士学位。

伯特的诗多写他个人所经历的事,语言朴实却感情真实。至今,伯特已出版了八本诗集和另外三本书,他多次获奖,1998年他的[大地精华]又获得阿尔伯塔作家协会诗歌奖。

现在,伯特是加拿大阿尔伯塔大学教授,讲授创造性写作,现代文学和自传文学。他和他的诗人妻子居住在加拿大埃德蒙顿市,他们有四个孩子。

我翻译伯特的诗纯属偶然。那是在图书馆翻阅加拿大诗人的作品,无意间看到了他的那本[大地精华] ,感觉不错,就萌生了翻译之意。翻译了两首后,我发电子邮件给伯特,告诉他我翻译了他的诗。十几天后,他回信给我说,他非常抱歉回复晚了,因为他的邮件太多,来不及看,刚才看到。说我们早该见面的。他又将他的个人网页给了我,说上面的几首是他即将出版的新诗集中的作品。在我写这段文字时,伯特正在写一本有关一个美籍华裔诗人的书,我期待他的新作早日出版。




余感


1
我想我会再次触摸你的柔发,
只不过在回忆里,感觉怎样—

当还是个男孩时,尝试
利刃的锋芒—

满怀惊异看着一条红线
从我的指尖向指根流淌。

2
我已将回忆收藏,
可今天一个多情的手势—
你的嘲弄之掌如一次
爱抚给我一记耳光—
象只铁拳打击我的心房。

但爱情不能复活
因一次窒息死亡:
当墓穴填满
回忆仅是土
剩余在其上。


Afterimages


1
I thought I''d touch your hair again,
just in recollection, how it felt --

and once as a boy, testing
the sharpness of a knife --

surprise to see a red line run
the length of my finger.

2
I''ve thrust the memories under,
but today an amorous gesture --
your mock - slap settling
on me like a caress--
hit my mind like an iron fist.

But love doesn''t revive
after a smothering death:
recollection are only
the earth that''s left over
when the grave is filled.


新斯科舍—波特劳易尔*


在这样一个小镇中你能看到
把他的箱式货车停在路中间的警官
去同一个横穿马路的朋友攀谈
引发一起三辆小车交通阻塞的事件

一个年轻人将开车二十英里
去买一本“花花公子”
因为两个杂货店的店员
是他母亲的朋友

一个城市来访者在理发
想象已爆发了第三次世界大战
就那时志愿者火警响起
他独自一人被丢在了空空的理发店


Port Loyal, Nova Scotia


In a town this small you can see
the constable stop his van midstreet
to chat with a jaywalking friend
creating a three car traffic jam

A young man will drive twenty miles
to buy a copy of Playboy
because the clerks at both drugstores
are friends of his mother

A city visitor having a haircut
thinks World War Three has started
when the volunteer fire alarm goes off
and he’s left alone in an empty shop


*加拿大新斯科舍省波特劳易尔市



赠品


她走进我房间带着一件礼物:
一片绿叶,粘附着一只
蝉的外皮,完美的死亡形象:
一个蓬松几丁质的易碎恐怖之物

我紧攥着手直到头脑清楚。

必需多少我才会重新
忘记蝉正于某处发出
尖利的喧嚣,以一张新皮—
在一片她带给我的绿叶上

抛弃一个完美的死亡形象



Bestowal


She comes into my room with a gift:
a green leaf, the husk of a cicada
clinging to it, the perfect image of death:
a crisp horror of puffy chitin

I clench my hands until my head clears.

How much I must need renewal
to forget that the cicada is making
brittle music somewhere in a new skin—
on a green leaf she has brought me

a perfect image of death cast aside.


让我叫你情人


我伯父坐在桌边穿着黑色睡衣,
而那时酒瓶大约空了三分之一,
他写了一张一百美元的支票
并把它给了我姐姐去买新衣。
他一直想要的所有回报,他说,
就是亲自将她嫁出完满她的婚礼。
为了安全我爸爸将支票收起。
当酒瓶空了一半,他开始
给我们说在海湾里从他们的渔船上
撒放他妻子的骨灰。
“就象那样它们散去了。我期望
就象那样它们散去了。我期望
它们慢慢地消散,如阿思匹林放如水里。
我在船的一侧洗了手。”
当酒瓶几乎空了,他告诉我们
有关我们在医院送给她的音乐盒,
她是如何在她的床边把盒盖升起
并倾听那曲[让我叫你情人]。
“有时我夜里给它上紧发条并哭泣。”
“那是醉话,”我妈妈低声说,
可我知道那是感情的真实表露
与酒瓶唱歌的声音交织在一起:
一个略微走了点调而这些天里
即使他也不能够确定是哪一个。
他从不喝完瓶中的酒便离去
走到他屋里跌倒在两张床的中间
随着一声碰撞我们跑进屋里
他已浑然入睡;那音乐盒,亦关闭。



LET ME CALL YOU SWEETHEART


My uncle sat at the table in black pyjamas,
and when the bottle was about a third empty,
he wrote a cheque for a hundred dollars
and gave it to my sister to buy clothes.
All he ever wanted in return, he said,
was to give her away at her wedding.
My father took the cheque for safekeeping.
When the bottle was half empty, he began
to tell us about scattering his wife’s ashes
in the Gulf from their fishing boat.
‘Just like that they were gone. I expected
them to melt slowly, like aspirin in water.
I washed my hands over the side.’
When the bottle was almost empty, he told us
about the music box we sent her in the hospital,
how she would lift the lid by her bedside
and listen to the tune, ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart.’
‘Sometimes I wind it up at night and cry.’
‘That’s the whisky talking,’ my mother whispered,
but I knew it was the true voice of feeling
and the voice of the bottle singing together:
one was a little off-key and these days
even he couldn’t be sure which one it was.
He never finished the bottle but went off
to his room where he fell between the twin beds
with a crash that brought us running in.
He was sound asleep; the music box, shut.


制弹塔


我把诗想成好象造于一个制弹塔中,
一幢高高的建筑物里熔化的铅水倾滤过筛网
滴下一条长长的路径,因表面张力形成
完美的圆球,淬入底部的
现实的冷水槽中增韧变强。

而我遇到一个无聊的侦探
从一堵墙挖出一颗报废的子弹
在它错失目标以后。一个凝结的铅块
落进一个塑料袋却标记着
人的选择。纯粹的重力不写诗歌。


Shot Tower

I want to think of poems as if made in a shot tower,
a tall building where molten lead poured through a sieve
drops a long way, with surface tension forming
perfect spheres, annealed by the plunge
into the cold water tank of reality at the bottom.
Instead I confront a bored detective
digging a misshapen bullet out of a wall
after it missed the target. A leaden clot
dropped into a plastic bag but marked
by human choice. Pure gravity writes no poetry.



情人节宴

埃德蒙顿/斯苔特勒/埃德蒙顿


想象—
度过情人节
从乡村拿来牛的肋肉:
那就是我们驶离时我们的儿子叫喊的。
我想,浪漫就是你寻找的地方。
正值屠户的男孩从冷库推来了
装满坚硬包裹的手推车,
我看着墙上的那张纸,
一个屠宰场的营业执照。
当我第一次在书中看到“屠宰场”
我认为这是世界上最美丽的
词儿。浪漫就是你如何听到它。
一次我曾确信鹿肉
肯定是世上最好吃的肉,
只从听到的那词儿推断。这意味着
同少女玛利亚在舍伍德森林中打猎
而后是宴会和音乐。
你和我能用汉堡包办一个宴会。
浪漫就是你如何品尝它。
我们在白鹅饭店
与你的亲戚共进午餐,
那里情人节意味着墙上贴的纸心,
每张桌上一朵玫瑰。你兄弟,
举起那冷冻生物,
蒙我,说如果是情人节我们男人
最好食用牡蛎。我吃了,而去城市的
路上我一直想着玫瑰:
那古董店名叫白玫瑰
使我想起老字号,
五朵玫瑰面粉和四朵玫瑰威士忌,
这酵母的小小奇迹,
浪漫就是你如何看见它。
刚好进城之前,我们驶过
幸运马蹄铁农场,
一个最吉利的名字,
而我的心在由牡蛎导致的
神志昏迷中赛跑,
或许丘比特用个箭头轻推我的肋骨。
浪漫就是你如何感觉它。


The Feast Of St. Valentine

Edmonton/Stettler/Edmonton


Imagine-
spending Valentine''s Day
fetching a side of beef from the country:
that''s what our son called out as we drove away.
Romance is where you find it, I thought.
While the butcher''s boy fetched the hand truck
full of rock-hard packages from the freezer,
I looked over the paper on the wall,
the Licence to Operate an Abattoir.
When I first saw abattoir in a book
I thought it was the most beautiful word
in the world. Romance is how you hear it.
Once I was sure that venison
must be the best meat in the world,
just from the sound of it. It meant
hunting in Sherwood Forest with Maid Marian
and the feasting and music afterward.
You and I can make a feast with hamburger.
Romance is how you taste it.
We had lunch with your relatives
in the White Goose Restaurant,
where Valentine''s meant paper hearts on the walls,
a rose on each table. Your brother,
who raised that frozen critter,
kidded me, saying we men had better have oysters
if it''s Valentine''s day. I did, and all the way
to the city I thought of roses:
the antique shop called The White Rose
made me remember the old brands,
Five Roses Flour and Four Roses Whisky,
the little miracles of yeast.
Romance is where you see it.
Just before the city, we drove by
The Lucky Horseshoe Ranch,
a most auspicious name,
and my heart raced in a delirium
brought on by the oysters,
or Cupid nudging me in the ribs with an arrow.
Romance is how you feel it.



---By Bert Almon
(加拿大诗人,现住加拿大埃德蒙顿市,为阿尔伯塔大学现代文学教授。头四首诗选自于他的第七本诗集[大地精华] ,后两首选自他即将出版的新诗集中。)



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