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◎ 十二月的河 (阅读4805次)



-特德 休斯

丰收了褐色的雨水,明快的光
在光秃秃的枝干后航行。

当洪水净敛成苹果酒且消缩少许,
树叶旋落,在暗涡中苦苦跋涉,
我前去结果大马哈鱼。

霜的脆弱悬空而挂。
鸭蛋壳一无所有,空荡荡若太空的冰冻。
木星钉死在空中是痛苦的,汽尾锐利
犹如刀口。

黑沉沉
硬壳三角的西克莫树叶踢踢踏踏地坠下
击打水面,发出坚硬而轻微的碰撞。

来自熔渣烟起的西部
融化的河水淌来
鼓胀在波光粼粼的皮肤下。

如今已迟得看不见什么了
我趟入这展开的金属。

那来自天空的静脉是海之精灵的小径。

成年累月,这里的大马哈鱼成了他们自己的秘密。
在这绿色油中,他们是笨重的滑溜溜。

坚定的名字-深不可测-
印在眉下凝视的黝黑中。

他们跃过河流的五十里台阶
怀着对力量的疯狂向往,
力擎成吨穿过所有的烟囱

来到他们意外之地-这些槽沟
马口铁浴缸的宽度。
分解

成为一个个显而易见的洞眼。停泊在
全然荒弃的要塞上。变成

他们自己窗户上的透明体。

于是整个夏天我日进日出
罄尽所有,指望与他们的富庶有染-
却只发现没完没了空无一物的水。

而我现在就去,几乎在黑暗中,
有霜,临近圣诞,一眼扫去
尚可看清,恰好在脚跟旁,

一尺深,回流搅拌着垃圾,
像是漂白的女巫摆在那里-钩形张大的嘴
以及一尾死去的大马哈鱼

那紧握的怪兽龙虾爪,和它的衬衫钮扣眼。

那副鬼脸
犹如恰好抵达终点并超过了它-
那把舵

如此巧夺天工
被弃置一旁,是空的图案。
一种消极,苍白的
在浑浊的涡流之中
那是大地早已开始的咀嚼。

我放了它,我本想
楔住它,使它成为我的
而那一刻仍有机会。

当我拿起它婴孩般重的一大块橡胶
大理石的深红,就像老妇人火烤过的大腿

下面的浅水掀起来
一大片弓形波浪掀起来,皱着眉
冲我前来,摇摆起整个池塘,

光溜溜滑入我脚旁的沟渠,

滑入钢铁般的墓穴
在那儿它依然能弯曲。

DECEMBER RIVER
-Ted Hughes

After the brown harvest of rains, express lights
Are riding behind bare poles.

As the flood clears to cider and shrinks a little,
Leaves spinning and toiling in the underboil,
I go to End salmon.

A frost fragility hangs.
Duck-eggshell emptiness, bare to the space-freeze.
Jupiter crucified and painful, vapour-trails keen as incisions.

Blackly
Crusty tricorn sycamore leaves are tick-tocking down
To hit the water with a hard tiny crash.

From under the slag-smoke West
The molten river comes bulging
With its skin of lights.

Too late now to see much
I wade into the unfolding metals.

This vein from the sky is the sea-spirit's pathway.

Here all year salmon have been their own secret.
They were the heavy slipperiness in the green oils.

The steady name—unfathomable—
In the underbrow stare-darkness.

They had leapfrogged the river's fifty-mile ladder
With love-madness for strength,
Weightlifting through all its chimneys of tonnage

And came to their never-never land—to these
Gutters the breadth of a tin bath.
And dissolved

Into holes of obviousness. Anchored in strongholds
Of a total absence. Became
The transparency of their own windows.

So day in day out this whole summer
I offered all I had for a touch of their wealth—
I found only endlessly empty water.

But I go now, in near darkness,
Frost, and close to Christmas, and am admitted
To glance down and see, right at my heel,

A foot under, where backwater mills rubbish,
Like a bleached hag laid out—the hooked gape
And gargoyle lobster-claw grab

Of a dead salmon, and its white shirt-button eye.

That grimace
Of getting right through to the end and beyond it—
That helm

So marvellously engineered
Discarded, an empty stencil.
A negative, pale
In the dreggy swirling
Of earth's already beginning mastication.

I freed it, I wanted to get it
Wedged properly mine
While the moment still held open.

As I lifted its child-heavy rubbery bulk
Marbled crimson like an old woman's fire-baked thigh

The shallows below lifted
A broad bow-wave lifted and came frowning
Straight towards me, setting the whole pool rocking,

And slid under smoothness into the trench at my feet,

Into the grave of steel
Which it could still buckle.


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