首页

翻译专栏

管理入口

作者信箱 







◎ 詹姆士•梅瑞尔(James Merrill)诗14首 (阅读5246次)



    65年9月16日

    致瓦西利斯和咪咪
  
  夏日最后的半轮月亮在高天瘦减
  清淡,乳凝。朋友生日这天
  我们起得比蜜蜂还早,留他一人
  在它们飘飞的迷阵中醒来。
  
  晨光倾泻的笔触,黄、绿、锈红
  妙绘了杏树林。一条腿换另一条
  想要站好,炭色的毛驴
  天然的单脚站立平衡的艺术。
  
  日出。海滩上
  两个土耳其绅士,头颅剃得发青
  一本正经的丝质和服上配着剑
  用一段歌舞剧盛待我们。
  
  小鱼欢快地跃出
  无比的清澈透明
  躺在船中,边喘气边给自己扇风
  好像白天比大海温暖。
  
  掰开做鱼饵,死翘翘的家伙
  又重现生命,靠魔力,在钩上
  再没有这样又大又绚丽的东西
  紧随闪烁的光线,轻快的诗行。
  
  一个电台在放“小刀老弟”,
  清晨的收获刚好装满一草帽。
  好多年没有钓鱼了,天知道
  这一生还有没有这机会?
  
  我们的脚趾间不适应凉鞋
  每一步回家的路都在搽火柴
  而这会儿,夜晚的二十四根蜡烛
  在群星、波浪和松树间点燃
  
  生动了我们的朋友的脸,我们所有人的脸
  围着一块圆的,香甜的面包,
  马尾锐利,那驴子嘶叫,我们给它一些,
  它以蜂蜜回报了我们醉意酣浓的脚。
  
  16.ix.65
  
  for Vassilis and Mimi(1)
  
  Summer’s last half moon waning high
  Dims and curdles. Up before the bees
  On our friend’s birthday(2), we have left him
  To wake in their floating maze.
  
  Light downward strokes of yellow, green and rust
  Render the almond grove. Trunk after trunk
  Tries to get right, in charcoal,
  The donkey’s artless contrapposto(3).
  
  Sunrise. On the beach
  Two turkey gentlemen, heads shaven blue
  Above dry silk kimonos sashed with swords,
  Treat us to a Kabuki interlude.
  
  The tiny fish risen excitedly
  Through absolute transparence
  Lie in the boat, gasping and fanning themselves
  As if the day were warmer than the sea.
  
  Cut up for bait, our deadest ones
  Reappear live, by magic, on the hook
  Never anything big or gaudy—
  Line after spangled line of light, light verse.
  
  A radio is playing “Mack the Knife.” .(4)
  The morning’s catch fills one straw hat.
  Years since I fished, Who knows when in this life
  Another chance will come? (5)
  
  Between our toes unused to sandals
  Each step home strike its match.
  And now, with evening’s four and twenty candles(6)
  Lit among the stars, waves, pines
  
  To animate our friend’s face, all our faces
  About a round, sweet loaf,
  Mavrili brays.(7) We take him some,
  Return with honey on our drunken feet.
  
  1:Vassilis and Mimi:Vassilis Vassilikos,希腊作家、外交家。Mimi,他的妻子。
    
  2、6:这一天是James Merrill的朋友David Jackson的42岁生日,1965年9月16日。晚上,他们在蛋糕上插了24根蜡烛庆祝。David Jackson和詹姆士-美林共同在希腊生活了数年。
  3:Contrapposto: 意大利术语。雕塑、绘画中人物单脚站立,因而人体轴心在臀部扭转,一肩与一臂向后,形成一种放松而平衡的站姿。这种姿态的代表作品有:波利克里托斯的《荷矛者》、米开朗琪罗的《大卫》、达芬奇的《丽达与天鹅》。

  4:“Mack the Knife.” .(4): 1928年的一首老歌,德文歌词作者为布莱希特。英文歌词一段如下:
  Oh the shark has pretty teeth dear,
  And he shows them pearly white
  Just a jack-knife has Macheath dear
  And he keeps it out of sight.
  
    5:James Merrill上一次钓鱼是12岁以前了。这一年他已经38岁。13岁时他的父母离婚,可以猜想,那种单纯天真的快乐自此消匿。
  
    7:Mavrili,一只和James Merrill很亲近的驴子。


    德尔菲的双轮马车御手

    太阳的群马在哪儿?
  
  它们的主人青铜的手,空空
  只余一堆纠结的缰绳,不是召唤
  他的马归来,倒像是静候赛跑的结果。
  
  平息那场浩劫,并复原
  节制,我们曾因此热爱他们
  我恳求他,孩子,照你的要求。
  
  看那,他衣服的褶皱
  从勇敢的铜锈的胸上垂下。
  他棕色的眼睛温柔地反光
  
  既不关注我们,也不看刚来的人
  长着水泡,结结巴巴,哭诉
  乡村被焚,河流干枯,
  
  没人控制那辆马车
  也没有一匹杀人的马被召回
  既然它们的主人,眼睛闪亮,不愿意。
  
  因为观看,他的眼睛在沉静的天空
  独自熠熠,无所凝视
  除非竟是看入我们的眼睛
  
  反射在他的眼中
  比一个孩子恐惧中攥紧的玩偶小些
  有多紧张,只有他们的姿势知道。
  
  松散地,看,他的拳中
  溢出的缰绳,似乎又一次那桀骜不逊的
  野兽,颤抖着,温顺地
  
  和我们一样,站在他面前。你还记得
  一匹棕色小马怎样
  用鼻子拱你手中的方糖?
  
  摆脱他温和的呵斥
  在炙烈奔放中接近
  许可的甜蜜滋味,哪怕曾飞驰的
  
  在我们内心脱缰,那儿火焰被煽扬。
  
  THE CHARIOTEER OF DELPHI
  
  Where are the horses of the sun?
  
  Their master’s green bronze hand, empty of all
  But a tangle of reins, seems less to call
  His horses back than to wait out their run.
  
  To cool that havoc and restore
  The temperance we had loved them for
  I have implored him, child, at your behest.
  
  Watch now, the flutings of his dress hang down
  From the brave patina of breast.
  His gentle eyes glass brown
  
  Neither attend us nor the latest one
  Blistered and stammering who comes to cry
  Village in flames and river dry,
  
  None to control the chariot
  And to call back the killing horses none
  Now that their master, eyes ashine, will not.
  
  For watch, his eyes in the still air alone
  Look shining and nowhere
  Unless indeed into our own
  
  Who are reflected there
  Littler than dolls wound up by a child’s fear
  How tight, their postures only know.
  
  And loosely, watch now, the reins overflow
  His fist, as if once more the unsubdued
  Beasts shivering and docile stood
  
  Like us before him. Do you remember how
  A small brown pony would
  Nuzzle the cube of sugar from your hand?
  
  Broken from his mild reprimand
  In fire and fury hard upon the taste
  Of a sweet license, even these have raced
  
  Uncurbed in us, where fires are fanned.


    猎狐小狗维克托

    致伊丽莎白-毕肖普
  
  比克斯、布克斯特胡德、布雷
  维克托牌子的那只小白狗
  像是能听一样久久地用心听。
  随它播放什么,不过是一天的工作。
  
  对于评价,看起来,他相当克制。
  他甚至非常诚恳地听布洛赫
  然后在我们的迷幻摇滚乐上建造教堂
  他是人——不——是街头风琴师的最好朋友,
  
  或者听见和倾听是一回事.
  他听见了吗?我猜想他宁愿去嗅
  拉威尔的那些柠檬金的琶音
  “那所爱的人宫殿里的喷泉。”
  
  他琢磨舒曼协奏曲中的高柳
  被闪电击中,呆立。当他揣测着走出
  巴赫一个永恒的黄杨木造的迷宫
  双簧管尖锐的如同一只燥热的母狗,
  
  或是当卡利普索倾倒天然的月桂朗姆水
  或歌剧沃采克的月亮猩红饱满适于谋杀,
  他不打喷嚏也不吠叫;只是越加用心去听。
  坚韧的针刺从飞旋的外太空袭来
  
  击中他,太黑了,太近——
  但从小被教养的不能退缩,
  更不能模仿那粗笨的黑白狗
  对着李尔王狂吠,肥胖愚蠢的造物。
  
  别的狗还在路上的污秽中为耶洗别争斗,
  为头角峥嵘得意非凡的男爵垂涎。
  他的祖先缺乏,婉言说,容忍。
  自然能在他身上改变?没有什么不可能。
  
  最后的和弦飘渺。夜晚寒冷而美好。
  他主人的声音沙沙划过槽上空茫的小树林。
  顺从地,坟墓般地静默中
  他睡在仍然温暖的留声机那儿
  
  只为了梦见他出席了“小犬星座” 的首映
  ——亨德尔那部早已认为失传了的歌剧。
  它寓言般的主题正是他的故事!
  一只小狗绕着一根轴旋转。
  
  超出信念带来和谐,
  群星的演出. . . . . .在维克托的心中
  难道没有蜜给那被征服的?艺术就是艺术。
  而它要求我们过的是一只狗的生活。
  
  The Victor Dog
  
  for Elisabeth Bishop
  
  Bix to Buxtehude to Boulez.
  The little white dog on the Victor label
  Listens long and hard as he is able.
  It’s all in a day’s work, whatever plays.
  
  From judgment, it would seem, he has refrained.
  He even listens earnestly to Bloch,
  Then builds a church upon our acid rock.
  He’s man’s—no—he’s the Leiermann’s best friend,
  
  Or would be if hearing and listening were the same.
  Does he hear? I fancy he rather smells
  Those lemon-gold arpeggios in Ravel’s
  “Les jets d’eau du palais de ceux qui s’aiment.”
  
  He ponders the Schumann Concerto’s tall willow hit
  By lightning, and stays put. When he surmises
  Through one of Bach’s eternal boxwood mazes
  The oboe pungent as a bitch in heat,
  
  Or when the calypso decants its raw bay rum
  Or the moon in Wozzeck reddens ripe for murder,
  He doesn’t sneeze or howl; just listens harder.
  Adamant needles bear down on him from
  
  Whirling of outer space, too black, too near—
  But he was taught as a puppy not to flinch,
  Much less to imitate his bête noire Blanche
  Who barked, fat foolish creature, at King Lear.
  
  Still others fought in the road’s filth over Jezebel,
  Slavered on hearths of horned and pelted barons.
  His forebears lacked, to say the least, forbearance.
  Can nature change in him? Nothing’s impossible.
  
  The last chord fades. The night is cold and fine.
  His master’s voice rasps through the grooves’ bare groves.
  Obediently, in silence like the grave’s
  He sleeps there on the still-warm gramophone
  
  Only to dream he is at the première of a Handel
  Opera long thought lost—Il Cane Minore.
  Its allegorical subject is his story!
  A little dog revolving round a spindle
  
  Gives rise to harmonies beyond belief,
  A cast of stars . . . Is there in Victor’s heart
  No honey for the vanquished? Art is art.
  The life it asks of us is a dog’s life.

    猎狐小狗维克托:美国一著名唱片公司的标志


    黑天鹅

    镜的水面上的黑,经过长寿花草坪
  驶过,黑天鹅引起
  一个秘密的混乱,颤鸣在惊醒中,
  假设,像第四维,绝妙
  它唤起那孩子对毗邻碧水的天鹅
  白色的念头
  在那儿所有的悖论意味着奇景。
  
  虽然黑天鹅的曲颈
  像是湖上的一个问号,
  天鹅却取缔了所有可能的疑问:
  在它自身中的一物,像爱,像海底的
  灾难,或是我们醒来的第一个声响;
  而天鹅之歌
  是天鹅的巨大寂静。
  
  幻象:黑天鹅知道如何
  突破期待,喙
  此刻对着自己的胸部,对着自己的影像,
  穿过我们的生活,如果湖是生活,
  随着颈部最优雅的转动
  变化,在时间中,时间的毁坏中;
  变得轻于一根黑羽毛,时间的悲伤。
  
  迷醉:黑天鹅已经知晓进入
  悲痛丢失的秘密中心
  那里像一根分离悲剧的五月柱
  被丝带缠绕成塔,那里
  中心的空茫是纯粹的冬季
  它没有变化
  总是耀眼的冰与空气。
  
  黑天鹅总在湖上移动;
  那金发的男孩总是站着凝视
  当那高颀的象征转动着,驶向
  对面,总是如此。岸上的
  孩子,手中满握难解的奇迹,停留
  永远在大声呼喊
  出于痛苦:我爱这黑天鹅。
  
  THE BLACK SWAN
  
  Black on flat water past the jonquil lawns
  Riding, the black swan draws
  A private chaos warbling in its wake,
  Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor
  That calls the child with white ideas of swans
  Nearer to that green lake
  Where every paradox means wonder.
  
  Though the black swan’s arched neck is like
  A question-mark on the lake,
  The swan outlaws all possible questioning:
  A thing in itself, like love, like submarine
  Disaster, or the first sound when we wake;
  And the swan-song it sings
  Is the huge silence of the swan.
  
  Illusion: the black swan knows how to break
  Through expectation, beak
  Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image,
  And move across our lives, if the lake is life,
  And by the gentlest turning of its neck
  Transform, in time, time’s damage;
  To less than a black plume, time’s grief.
  
  Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter
  Sorrow’s lost secret center
  Where like a maypole separate tragedies
  Are wound about a tower of ribbons, and where
  The central hollowness is that pure winter
  That does not change but is
  Always brilliant ice and air.
  
  Always the black swan moves on the lake; always
  The blond child stands to gaze
  As the tall emblem pivots and rides out
  To the opposite side, always. The child upon
  The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays
  Forever to cry aloud
  In anguish: I love the black swan.


    房子

    谁家西墙接住夕阳像是挨了一记
  将在清晨转过另一边脸颊,然而
  长夜落在期间,智者明白:
  
  风在何处,日常里我们忘了,
  它随雨而至,我们没有寻找,
  触及我们的脸庞忽将它寻获
  
  夜的气息中一个倾听者的轮廓,
  他的剪影像从黯淡的窗户弯下
  他曾在那里明白房子是什么。
  
  暮霭渐深沉,一粒尘埃使之猩红
  已非尘世,而是消逝的西方,
  会激动一颗行星近乎魂魄流离,
  
  焦急的静脉中关切加速
  它让一个人的心红润,远胜过
  白日染色的尖顶、檐口和窗玻璃:
  
  于是谁在傍晚闲逛在自己水下的
  草地,回报的时间,独自一人,
  会无意间发现一块沉没的界石
  
  遗失的事与理终于被理解。
  而我们,无家可归的人朝这房子归去
  却会发现在别处徘徊。学者和朋友,
  
  经过十二个明亮的房子,每日里
  自作聪明奉承我们的竭力演出,
  夜是一座冰冷的房子,进门的窄道。
  
  这扇门没有钥匙能打开,那些属于铜管乐。
  在它后面,一个严重超限的警告,
  是风,我已进入,不管怎样,
  
  看见风为泪流满面的沉睡者
  难过不安,他们已感知好事终尽
  非我所能见:他们转瞬惊醒。
  
    The House
  
  Whose west walls take the sunset like a blow
  Will have turned the other cheek by morning, though
  The long night falls between, as wise men know:
  
  Wherein the wind, that daily we forgot,
  Comes mixed with rain and, while we seek it not,
  Appears against our faces to have sought
  
  The contours of a listener in night air,
  His profile bent as from pale windows where
  Soberly once he learned what houses were.
  
  Those darkening reaches, crimsoned with a dust
  No longer earth’s, but of the vanishing West,
  Can stir a planet nearly dispossessed,
  
  And quicken interest in the avid vein
  That dyes a man’s heart ruddier far than stain
  Of day does finial, cornice and windowpane:
  
  So that whoever strolls on his launched lawn
  At dusk, the hour of recompense, alone,
  May stumbling on a sunken boundary stone
  
  The loss of deed and structure apprehend.
  And we who homeless toward such houses wend
  May find we have dwelt elsewhere. Scholar and friend,
  
  After the twelve bright houses that each day
  Presume to flatter what we most display,
  Night is a cold house, a narrow doorway.
  
  This door to no key opens, those to brass.
  Behind it, warning of a deep excess,
  The winds are. I have entered, nevertheless,
  
  And seen the wet-faced sleepers the winds take
  To heart; have felt their dreadful profits break
  Beyond my seeing: at a glance they wake.


    和服

    我自恋人的小径归来
  发白如雪
  欢乐,茫然,疼痛
  我看过季节来去纷纷。
  我是怎么再回到家
  冻得半死,或许你知道。
  
  你藏起一丝微笑,背出一段话:
  不得偿愿的热望
  从一生坚守到另一世。
  我们靠近脱去衣服的壁炉
  早已从“傲气至上”的蓝图上
  否定掉,很久,很久。”
  
  不知有多久,水泡晶莹闪烁
  为我们这烧作焦炭的平地
  带回四月。突然的光束......
  ——接着说不要停,我正变作
  一条奔流的溪纹
  镶着碧水白花的边。
  
  The Kimono
  
  When I returned from lovers' lane
  My hair was white as snow.
  Joy, incomprehension, pain
  I'd seen like seasons come and go.
  How I got home again
  Frozen half dead, perhaps you know.
  
  You hide a smile and quote a text:
  “Desires ungratified
  Persist from one life to the next.
  Hearths we strip ourselves beside
  Long, long ago were x'd
  On blueprints of "consuming pride.”
  
  Times out of mind, the bubble-gleam
  To our charred level drew
  April back. A sudden beam . . .
  --Keep talking while I change into
  The pattern of a stream
  Bordered with rushes white on blue.


    垂柳图瓷杯

    集体的歇斯底里,波纹破裂一波复生
  岸上出身高贵的的广东人
  
  在廉价店的变异物留存了基因库
  烟云袅袅朦胧不清。有人今天却寻出。
  
  梅花盛开,佛塔,青鸟,垂柳的羽枝——
  几乎是一个战前图案的复制品——
  
  同样的小舟载着微蚁般的恋人远去,
  此时古老的桥弯下双影而她的父亲
  
  微微示意,像从捕蝇纸上,渐而淡了挂牵。
  两只小小的灯笼照亮他的归家之途。
  
  他所携可是一卷画轴?此时他定已无比
  智慧,早已舍弃世俗羁绊,和所有的一切。
  
  不久,这五月的清晨,在薄雾中升起,他会问
  只是为了入化——像肉身中的墨,蓝锚酒吧
  
  钉上醺醉,而它的毁坏者
  迅疾离去,伤疤抽痛,杂如乱麻——
  
  只为了融入一种疯狂的质地。
  你好遥远。树叶倾诉树叶所寄。
  
  可这孤独的,缺口的容器,如果充满,
  将为你注入那温暖而清澄的事物。
  
  它们代表,我想象着,天堂的一个版本
  在它的光阴中烦恼更多被弥补而不是替代:
  
  陡檐斜倾,檐瓦铺的细密;
  蜂巢翘起,雷云之青愁。
  
  Willowware Cup
  
  Mass hysteria, wave after breaking wave
  Blueblooded Cantonese upon these shores
  
  Left the gene pool Lux-opaque and smoking
  With dimestore mutants. One turned up today.
  
  Plum in bloom, pagoda, blue birds, plume of willow—
  Almost the replica of a prewar pattern—
  
  The same boat bearing the gnat-sized lovers away,
  The old bridge now bent double where her father signals
  
  Feebly, as from flypaper, minding less and less.
  Two smaller retainers with lanterns light him home.
  
  Is that a scroll he carries? He must by now be immensely
  Wise, and have given up earthly attachments, and all that.
  
  Soon, of these May mornings, rising in mist, he will ask
  Only to blend—like ink in flesh, blue anchor
  
  Needled upon drunkenness while its destroyer
  Full steam departs, the stigma throbbing, intricate—
  
  Only to blend into a crazing texture.
  You are far away. The leaves tell what they tell.
  
  But this lone, chipped vessel, if it fills,
  Fills for you with something warm and clear.
  
  Around its inner horizon the old odd designs
  Crowd as before, and seem to concentrate on you.
  
  They represent, I fancy, a version of heaven
  In its day more trouble to mend than to replace:
  
  Steep roofs aslant, minutely tiled;
  Tilted honeycombs, thunderhead blue.


    疯狂的一幕

    昨夜我又一次梦见那叫洗衣房的梦。
  在里面,我们要分享一生的单子和毛巾,
  奶渍硬的围嘴,裹尸布,都终将是破布
  践踏、污损,血染,或被盲目地摸索过,
  从一个巨型的柳条筐里昏厥掉出
  落在月光寒映大理石般的木地板。我们恰相逢。
  我从外面的黑暗中注视。我穿上一件
  新材质的衣服,没有污迹和皱褶,
  也绝不会穿销。歌剧院里一排排人和眼睛
  明珠耀彩,像我的,为芭蕾舞女演员睁大
  却因教养而内敛。我在那儿看到云团,阵阵狂风,
  聚形,闪电撕咬,白马的黑鬃飞扬。
  手指心神狂乱地奔过长笛的九孔。
  为什么我退缩了?我爱你。在倾灌的笑声中
  把我们绞白,拧在一起,
  紫藤最高的一曲波音,
  而那折腰的树悲不可抑
  
  The Mad Scene
  
  Again last night I dreamed the dream called Laundry.
  In it, the sheets and towels of a life we were going to share,
  The milk-stiff bibs, the shroud, each rag to be ever
  Trampled or soiled, bled on or groped for blindly,
  Came swooning out of an enormous willow hamper
  Onto moon-marbly boards. We had just met. I watched
  From outer darkness. I had dressed myself in clothes
  Of a new fiber that never stains or wrinkles, never
  Wears thin. The opera house sparkled with tiers
  And tiers of eyes, like mine enlarged by belladonna,
  Trained inward. There I saw the cloud-clot, gust by gust,
  Form, and the lightning bite, and the roan mane unloosen.
  Fingers were running in panic over the flute’s nine gates.
  Why did I flinch? I loved you. And in the downpour laughed
  To have us wrung white, gnarled together, one
  Topmost mordent of wisteria,
  As the lean tree burst into grief.


    重生

    用尽各种伎俩
  动摇你,谎言,疲倦,甚至激情,
  现在我终于明白只有干净了断。
  我补充说我愿承担罪责。
  
  你点头同意。秋日风起,辽阔,
  枯叶的清透的花瓶颤动不已。
  我们坐着,看。该我说话了
  爱埋入我心间,直至没柄。
  
  A RENEWAL
  
  Having used every subterfuge
  To shake you, lies, fatigue, or even that of passion,
  Now I see no way but a clean break.
  I add that I am willing to bear the guilt.
  
  You nod assent. Autumn turns windy, huge,
  A clear vase of dry leaves vibrating on and on.
  We sit, watching. When I next speak
  Love buries itself in me, up to the hilt.


    爱人们

    他们在爱中相见,像一周六天
  和动植物打交道的人的那双手
  他在晚餐前洗净他的双手。
  倒影在室外水池的金色天空
  在冰冷的祈愿的水面下
  接纳他的双手,洗去
  
  上面的一切,除了彼此所有
  每个同它们五指的感触捧着:
  柔暖,相宜的手掌,还有指甲
  很长时间,在他心里清晰如画
  直到陷入一阵不安,水一直
  拍打并爱恋拨动的双手
  
  他的眼安闲,让幼小的果树
  低鸣的野兽感到安全,夜已临近,
  牧场,远处城镇的灯光,天空
  熔合,倾倒,散播在一片新水上
  为了最后确信他将脸浸入天空
  然后抬起来闪亮着:他的脸
  
  金色上多么清晰的深暗倒影!
  ——若不是他感觉每一颗
  纤弱的水滴缓缓聚集在下巴和鼻子上,
  每一个微小的世界,天空颠倒支离,
  同它丰富的纯粹坠落,以模糊那影像
  一个又一个世界落入天空
  
  可仍然还有许多世界遗留,在火边
  手指紧扣,他开始旋转
  确信和偶然如同有力而缓慢的扪摸;
  或是读着一页图画书
  关于丰收,洪水,母性,神秘:
  这些期待的,将从他手中涌现。
  
  The Lovers
  
  They met in loving like the hands of one
  Who having worked six days with creature and plant
  Washes his hands before the evening meal.
  Reflected in a basin out-of-doors
  The golden sky receives his hands beneath
  Its coldly wishing surface, washing them
  
  Of all perhaps but what of one another
  Each with its five felt perceptions holds:
  A limber warmth, fitness of palm and nail
  So long articulate in his mind before
  Plunged into happening, that all the while
  Water laps and loves the stirring hands
  
  His eye has leisure for the young fruit-trees
  And lowing beasts secure, since night is near,
  Pasture, lights of a distant town, and sky
  Molten, atilt, strewn on new water, sky
  In which for a last fact he dips his face
  And lifts it glistening: what dark distinct
  
  Reflections of his features upon gold!
  —Except for when each slow slight water-drop
  He sensed on chin and nose accumulate,
  Each tiny world of sky reversed and branches,
  Fell with its pure wealth to mar the image:
  World after world fallen into the sky
  
  And still so much world left when, by the fire
  With fingers clasped, he set in revolution
  Certitude and chance like strong slow thumbs;
  Or read from an illuminated page
  Of harvest, flood, motherhood, mystery:
  These waited, and would issue from his hands.


    火山假期

    致彼得-胡登
  
  1
  我们的直升机摇摇晃晃
  像个拳头在搅拌的红丹炉
  上空盘旋,何等的怒涌!
  除了年幼的小天使没人问个究竟。
  我们斜掠或猛冲。海岸犹豫地低垂
  向上对将至的土黄色的震撼闪耀。
  你的嘴唇,听不见,在螺旋桨的轰鸣中动着。
  
  2
  一个摩门教人鱼男,上帝最不青睐的院外说客,
  在酒店徘徊。整个早晨
  太阳试图和疯狂古老的大海说理
  我们在深处感觉到潮汐。在高山之谷
  远离盐与泡沫
  瀑布欢快地飞溅
  精灵轰鸣着逃入光闪闪的发辫。
  
  3
  是雷还是竹林在雾中击鼓?
  手推车还是部落的警告?
  “太平洋战事”给一个我们
  通常会忽略的表演解释:
  对着厄运咆哮的人的臼齿
  钉在一只熔岩碗上。什么肉
  能抚慰饥饿暮色的哀号?
  
  4
  头顶华冠,棕榈树般,波浪般,他们同样
  靠一个信念支撑——回归。
  一代又一代
  心灵挣扎,蝶衣褴褛的蝴蝶,
  性感装扮的一枝花,
  勃起或射满珠露的避孕套。我们的脚
  在中午寻找夜雨洗损的小径。
  
  5
  青春期,未被亲吻而愠怒:
  跨越障碍运动渴望
  变得强壮。审察峭壁般的脸,彻底的热爱……
  也被爱,那时,会是去死一般。
  那时,不是现在。让我看那坟墓
  它的箴言和石头的七弦琴音
  在这奉献生命的高烧中完满。同样它消褪
  
  6
  禅宗的佛堂传来李斯特的歌。
  爱是一个梦吗?一个燃烧,
  然后一次回火?山坡之上白如灰烬,
  裂缝吐气,河流凝胶,
  看!一根大树枝颤抖着盛开火花。
  一双彩虹来而复往,不做声张,
  而我们正一起萦绕于林中空地。
  
  7
  那之后多少时刻、岁月,缅怀往事,
  愿洞察的人
  找到平静的话语……只是说激情?
  期间让碧色到中宵天空的变换
  充满我们房内流变的镜子
  ——别再爆发,他们恳求——
  大地的安歇和天堂的假面伪装。
  
  VOLCANIC HOLIDAY
  
  for Peter Hooten
  
  1
  Our helicopter shaking like a fist
  Hovers above the churning
  Cauldron of red lead in what a passion!
  None but the junior cherubim ask why.
  We bank and bolt. Shores draped in gloom
  Upglint to future shocks of wheat.
  Your lips, unheard, move through the din of blades.
  
  2
  A Mormon merman, God's least lobbyist,
  Prowls the hotel. All morning
  Sun tries to reason with the mad old ocean
  We deep down feel the pull of. And in high
  Valleys remote from salt and spume
  Waterfalls jubilantly fleet
  Spirit that thunder into glancing braids.
  
  3
  Thunder or bamboos drumming in the mist?
  Tumbril or tribal warning?
  Pacific Warfare reads the explanation
  For a display we'd normally pass by:
  Molars of men who snarled at doom
  Studding a lava bowl. What meat
  Mollifies the howl of famished shades?
  
  4
  Crested like palms, like waves, they too subsist
  On one idea--returning.
  Generation after generation
  The spirit grapples, tattered butterfly,
  A flower in sexual costume,
  Hardon or sheath dew-fired. Our feet
  At noon seek paths the evening rain degrades.
  5
  Adolescence, glowering unkissed:
  The obstacle course yearning
  Grew strong in. Check to cliff face, sheer devotion. . . .
  To be loved back, then, would have been to die.
  Then, not now. Show me the tomb
  Whose motto and stone lyre complete
  With this life-giving fever. As it fades
  
  6
  From the Zen chapel comes that song by Liszt.
  Is love a dream? A burning,
  Then a tempering? Beyond slopes gone ashen,
  Rifts that breathe gas, rivers that vitrify,
  Look! a bough falters into bloom.
  Twin rainbows come and go, discreet,
  As when together we haunt virgin glades.
  
  7
  Moments or years hence, having reminisced,
  May somebody discerning
  Arrive at tranquil words for . . . mere emotion?
  Meanwhile let green-to-midnight shifts of sky
  Fill sliding mirrors in our room
  --No more eruptions, they entreat--
  With Earth's repose and Heaven's masquerades.

    Peter Hooten:美国演员。


    圣诞树

        将要
    最终被带下
  从寒冷而叹息的大山
  我和其他的树
  在那里被抚养,照看,保持静立,
  就是,我知道—我当然知道—
  只不过几个礼拜,
  就再没有什么事了。
  他们把我带进去,好温暖,尽力打扮,
  从开始就要我打起精神。
  我倒是愿意。老实说,
  珠宝缠身,从自头到脚罩住我的
  浓郁的黑貂皮的孔隙中
  射出它们的光华还挺有用。
  在我身上他们织造了一个闪耀的魔咒——
  紫色与银色的链子,檐滴般的金箔,
  护身符,奉神物:软银器,
  一颗心,一个小女孩,一个T型模特,
  两只凝视的眼。天使,小号,芭得和贝依
  (孩子们的名字)用小丑般的大写字母写着,
  某处有个音乐盒的微弱音乐
  一遍遍放个不停,我听了没多久
  早已不喜欢。在我身后的阴影里,简单的静脉给养
  让演出继续。是的,是的,前面是什么
  再清楚不过:剥离,冰冷的街,我的化学物质
  为了将来的生命耕种回土里——
  无疑是种幸福,一种收获,但却不能够
  此刻或永远,去思量。变得这样瘦
  针与骨的嶙峋。那小男孩的手
  碰到我的脊椎。那母亲的声音:举得真棒!
  没有恐惧。没有辛酸。尾声开始了。今天的
  ----黄昏之屋
  ----最后一次
  ----在烛光中照亮。
  ----爱点亮的脸,
  ----脚下的礼物。
  仍要这样端仪,这样
  善感。仍要回忆,要赞美。
  
  Christmas Tree
  
      To be
    Brought down at last
  From the cold sighing mountain
  Where I and the others
  Had been fed, looked after, kept still,
  Meant, I knew—of course I knew—
  That it would be only a matter of weeks,
  That there was nothing more to do.
  Warmly they took me in, made much of me,
  The point from the start was to keep my spirits up.
  I could assent to that. For honestly,
  It did help to be wound in jewels, to send
  Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep
  Fragrant sables that cloaked me head to foot.
  Over me then they wove a spell of shining—
  Purple and silver chains, eavesdripping tinsel,
  Amulets, milagros: software of silver,
  A heart, a little girl, a Model T,
  Two staring eyes. The angels, trumpets, BUD and BEA
  (The children's names) in clownlike capitals,
  Somewhere a music box whose tiny song
  Played and replayed I ended before long
  By loving. And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV
  To keep the show going. Yes, yes, what lay ahead
  Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals
  Plowed back into the Earth for lives to come—
  No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn't bear,
  Now or ever, dwelling upon. To have grown so thin.
  Needles and bone. The little boy's hands meeting
  About my spine. The mother's voice: Holding up wonderfully!
  No dread. No bitterness. The end beginning. Today's
  ----Dusk room aglow
  ----For the last time
  ----With candlelight.
  ----Faces love lit,
  ----Gifts underfoot.
  Still to be so poised, so
  Receptive. Still to recall, to praise.

    这首诗是诗人病逝前不久的遗作


    关于凤凰

    到最终人就厌倦了好高骛远
  如果不就是生或死这么回事
  如今我们该会接受渐暗的屋子,
  起皱的麻布,最终紫罗兰色的窗户,
  玫色的身体松软在词语的椅上,
  之后赤诚信赖的光出现。
  我们走入那别世,应是心有疑虑
  红色的信号跳动并照亮条条小径。
  可总是在薄暮时分,模糊难言
  就像城市自身,一只珠翠满身的巨鸟
  呱呱叫着来到窗台,驱散思索
  像饮水池惊起的鸟,这无情的暴行
  立刻让恐惧和新奇消匿无踪。
  以致一种奢靡的无聊
  潮涌,一只鸟形的
  紫水晶钟摆,为烈欲与灰烬间
  更勇猛地往复飞翔而紧张兴奋;
  在谁的爪下有一丝恩典的痕迹
  即使你的脸,尤其是你的脸
  淡化,火焰中近乎无形,或黯淡,
  某种冷却的爱的褪色锡版照片,
  听凭那动物的突发奇想。而最终,
  尽管好奇心烟火般炫人眼目,
  过程已厌倦。一个晚上
  你的身体灰溜溜从它的椅上躲开,
  启程了,一个含泪的孩子,安歇在
  完满的过去黑暗的胸膛上。
  这儿的第一个梦密沉沉
  满是前所未有的不快,羽毛,橡树,
  黑色的水,盲目的翼动。而你醒来
  无牵无挂,寻找朋友——但是,哦
  难道即使是下界也不能
  提前发布征兆,无邪地?
  并不是非要弄明白这些
  可你仍然在灰蒙的泥岸战栗,
  凝视。湖中,四牌桩子
  升起。文化的第一道印记,破晓而羞涩
  尽管漆黑,好像久蓄的力量
  被熏炙终于迸发。在博物馆中
  你退后,免得那些时日的遗物
  ——伤痕累累的一只蛋杯,一只长脚的船——
  失去它们的魅力。它们没有。向导
  恰当地吐露他的故事:不信神的蛮族
  像瑞士钟表工艺一样席卷四方,
  直到你曾经的热血嘀哒
  妖娆的布道。啊,如果不足以
  谈论生死,人会多善于
  做烈药的交易,“生”和“死”!
  可关于凤凰,关键不是
  苦难和重生,而是
  这二者之后短暂的抚慰;
  期间火焰就当熄灭,
  而拂晓,发现残灰尚未复燃,
  雨中的建筑,却建于岩石之上,
  乞丐和麻雀互相娱乐,
  让我看你的脸,因为那一刻
  既非活着也不是死去,而是睡去
  远离一切等着忍受的?
  
  About the Phoenix
  
  But in the end one tires of the high-flown.
  If it were simply a matter of life or death
  We should by now welcome the darkening room,
  Wrinkling of linen, window at last violet,
  The rosy body lax in a chair of words,
  And then the appearance of unsuspected lights.
  We should walk wonderingly into that other world
  With its red signs pulsing and long lit lanes.
  But often at nightfall, ambiguous
  As the city itself, a giant jeweled bird
  Comes cawing to the sill, dispersing thought
  Like a birdbath, and with such final barbarity
  As to wear thin at once terror and novelty.
  So that a sumptuous monotony
  Sets in, a pendulum of amethysts
  In the shape of a bird, keyed up for ever fiercer
  Flights between ardor and ashes, back and forth;
  Caught in whose talons any proof of grace,
  Even your face, particularly your face
  Fades, featureless in flame, or wan, a fading
  Tintype of some cooling love, according
  To the creature’s whim. And in the end, despite
  Its pyrotechnic curiosity, the process
  Palls. One night
  Your body winces grayly from its chair,
  Embarks, a tearful child, to rest
  On the dark breast of the fulfilled past.
  The first sleep here is the sleep fraught
  As never before with densities, plume, oak,
  Black water, a blind flapping. And you wake
  Unburdened, look about for friends—but O
  Could not even the underworld forego
  The publishing of omens, naively?
  Nothing requires you to make sense of them
  And yet you shiver from the dim clay shore,
  Gazing. There in the lake, four rows of stilts
  Rise, a first trace of culture, shy at dawn
  Though blackened as if forces long confined
  Had smouldered and blazed forth. In the museum
  You draw back lest the relics of those days
  —A battered egg cup and a boat with feet—
  Have lost their glamour. They have not. The guide
  Fairly exudes his tale of godless hordes
  Sweeping like clockwork over Switzerland,
  Till what had been your very blood ticks out
  Voluptuous homilies. Ah, how well one might,
  If it were less than a matter of life or death,
  Traffic in strong prescriptions, “live” and “die”!
  But couldn’t the point about the phoenix
  Be not agony or resurrection, rather
  A mortal lull that followed either,
  During which flames expired as they should,
  And dawn, discovering ashes not yet stirred,
  Buildings in rain, but set on rock,
  Beggar and sparrow entertaining one another,
  Showed me your face, for that moment neither
  Alive nor dead, but turned in sleep
  Away from whatever waited to be endured?


    告别演出

    致大卫•加尔斯顿
  
  艺术。它治疗苦楚。当灯光落下
  指挥大师举起指挥棒,大海永不止歇的变化
  在我们心中涌起。又一次
  灵动的提炼者从寻常中
  
  呈出一个纯粹、短暂的金色。结尾时我们的喝彩
  把他们唤回,光热焊接,紧身衣裤,
  回来,再次回来——不能面对
  都已结束的事实的一切。
  
  你已经走了。你像感冒一样感染了他们空幻的
  对本质的贪恋。现在,在火炉中烤透
  十或十二小把,无常的沙砾
  从指间漏下,
  
  粗糙却幽灰地闪光,旧日宫廷的
  高雅,施特劳斯,西德尼,爱人的哀怨
  我们不能只做朋友吗?你早餐时的电话
  带着逗趣,
  
  这是我们划着邻居的小艇
  去洒掉的东西——彼得抓着浮标,
  我抱着水下的箱子,倒出
  里面的一切。经过
  
  光亮,流滑的水道,自我的稀粥
  变成人形最后一次幽灵般单脚轻跳
  ——等等,哎呀!——没入黑暗的点消失。
  高处,一只海鸥的翅羽
  
  拍动。房屋的灯光(总是假设,亲爱的,
  大地始终是你的家园)在它们最明亮中
  此景永在:真实的色彩,太阳温暖的手
  覆着我的潮湿的手……
  
  他们回来了。你会多么喜爱。我们
  一个个站起。怜悯和恐惧完结,
  节目收场,嘴唇张开,我们推搡着
  热切地向他们欢呼,
  
  还有,要加入剧团——一个朋友
  会在美好的一天收录我们?有点奇怪。因为临近结束
  他们的魔力自己销毁。苍白,湿淋淋,眼睛低垂
  他们已经看见它将把你带往何处。
  
  Farewell Performance
  
  "For DK" (David Kalstone)
  
  Art. It cures affliction. As lights go down and
  Maestro lifts his wand, the unfailing sea change
  starts within us. Limber alembics once more
  make of the common
  
  Lot a pure, brief gold. At the end our bravos
  call them back, sweat-soldered and leotarded,
  back, again back - anything not to face the
  fact that it’s over.
  
  You are gone. You’d caught like a cold their airy
  lust for essence. Now, in the furnace parched to
  ten or twelve light handfuls, a mortal gravel
  sifted through fingers,
  
  Coarse yet grayly glimmering sublimate of
  palace days, Strauss, Sidney, the lover’s plaintive
  Can’t we just be friends? which your breakfast phone call
  Clothed in amusement,
  
  This is what we paddled a neighbor’s dinghy
  out to scatter - Peter who grasped the buoy,
  I who held the box underwater, freeing
  all it contained. Past
  
  Sunny, fluent soundings that gruel of selfhood
  taking manlike shape for one last jete on
  ghostly - wait, ah! - point into darkness vanished.
  High up, a gull’s wings
  
  Clapped. The house lights (always supposing, caro,
  Earth remains your house) at their brightest set the
  scene for good: true colors, the sun-warm hand to
  cover my wet one ...
  
  Back they come. How you would have loved it. We in
  turn have risen. Pity and terror done with,
  programs furled, lips parted, we jostle forward
  eager to hail them,
  
  More, to join the troupe - will a friend enroll us
  one fine day? Strange, though. For up close their magic
  self-destructs. Pale, dripping, with downcast eyes they’ve
  seen where it led you.
  
  这首诗歌用萨芙体写成
    David Kalstone:美国作家,学者,研究伊丽莎白•毕肖普和罗伯特•洛厄尔。




返回专栏   


© 诗生活网独立制作  版权所有 2008年12月