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◎ 史蒂文斯:《望过田野,观察鸟群飞翔》 (阅读2493次)




[美] 史蒂文斯

在洪柏格先生去康科德返家的路上
在那些让人气恼的琐碎意念中
在它们的边缘处,显现:

别去多想那些草、树和云朵
不去把他们想象为别的事物
只是太阳每天的工作

到那时,我们会自言自语
也许,有一个会思索的自然
有个让人懊丧的,呆板的算子,它独立于

人的灵魂,有点类似,又更大一些
但他没有学识,也不相信神灵……
当然,我们的生存在我们之外,在空中

在对我们不利的自然界里
那么,我们善待自己,但它太大
不是为我们的想象和信仰而设计
      
不在我们惯于编造的男性神话之列
仅是一个有燕子在里面迂回的透明体
没有任何形式,没有任何的形式的意味

我们所知仅在于我们所见,我们所感在于我们
所闻,我们所是,则超越神秘主义的论争
我们来自天国,是它混沌的聚合体

我们所思,像风的呼吸
如它运动过程中的运动的部分,一场发现中
的发现的部分,一次变异中变动的部分

占有色彩,而成为色彩的一部分
显然,这个下午是一个起因
它太宽、太眩,呈现的不仅是宁静

太耽于思索,而思想浅薄
隐晦无比的父母,隐晦无比的长者
每日沉思冥想的王

他在沉寂中,来来往往
我想,那时太阳闪耀还是没有闪耀
我想风正从原野的池塘上掠过

哦,给我的句子穿上披风,因为
就是这风,一再刮起,发出声音
有如冬季结束时,那临终孱弱的声音

一个新人接替一个老学者
探究幻像的一瞬间,寻求
能够被诠释的人类

灵魂,源自实体世界,就像
洪伯格所想到的哪个世界的肉躯
它卤莽的律令,使得人类心智扭曲

自然的习性在镜子中重现
变为一种精神习性
尽力远离它的事物,挤在镜子里



                    附原文

      Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly


      Among the more irritating minor ideas
      Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
      To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:

      To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
      Not to transform them into other things,
      Is only what the sun does every day,

      Until we say to ourselves that there may be
      A pensive nature, a mechanical
      And slightly detestable operandum, free

      From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,
      Without his literature and without his gods . . .
      No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,

      In an element that does not do for us,
      so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
      A thing not planned for imagery or belief,
      
      What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
      We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
      In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,

      And what we think, a breathing like the wind,
      A moving part of a motion, a discovery
      Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,

      A sharing of color and being part of it.
      The afternoon is visibly a source,
      Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,

      Too much like thinking to be less than thought,
      Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,
      A daily majesty of meditation,

      That comes and goes in silences of its own.
      We think, then as the sun shines or does not.
      We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field

      Or we put mantles on our words because
      The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound
      Like the last muting of winter as it ends.

      A new scholar replacing an older one reflects
      A moment on this fantasia. He seeks
      For a human that can be accounted for.

      The spirit comes from the body of the world,
      Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world
      Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,

      The mannerism of nature caught in a glass
      And there become a spirit's mannerism,
      A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.



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