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◎ 安妮-迈克尔四首 (阅读3213次)



安妮-迈克尔(Anne Michaels):加拿大诗人,小说家。1986年以诗集《橘子的重量》(The Weight of Oranges)一举成名。但真正给她带来卓越声誉的是她的第一部小说《飞逝的片段》( Fugitive Pieces)。今年春天,时隔十二年后,她的第二部小说《冬天的墓穴》( The Winter Vault)出版,大受好评。


幻肢

“城市的脸变化的更快,唉!比起世间的心。”
  
——查理-波德莱尔
  
这城市的好多
在我们身体里。旧时的光
依然斜照那些在我们心里的地点。
不再存在却处处是情的地点
像幻觉中存在的四肢。

就是城市也在心中承着废墟。
渴望被触摸
只在它记得的地点。

透过银杏树
黄色的蹄痕,羊皮纸的光;
在那间公寓里我第一次
在你的衣下抚摸你的肩头,
那个十月的下午你把钥匙
放在冰箱里,牛奶在桌上。
那院子——我们的月光旅馆——
最热的夏夜我们睡在
凉的让人觉得潮湿的草上。
我们身后,货运火车穿过城市,
一面钢铁的旗,一道喧嚣的墙。
现在那空心的两分细胞
在写字间高楼的玻璃后漂浮
并被我们的声音追索。

没有几个建筑,几个生命
建造得如此完好
连它们的废墟都是美的。
可我们爱那荒弃的酿酒厂:
空桶下的石头地板裂开缝,
木地板半已朽坏成尘,
楼梯不知所向,高屋
被尘埃的光剑贯穿。
一个雨仍然喜爱的地点,它银色的画
对我们来说,似乎在铁锈的事物上面停止动作。
关起的房屋只向天气敞开,
因煤烟和糖浆而刺鼻
叮人的香气。一个地点
每样大的无法分离的事物
都被留下。
  
PHANTOM LIMBS
  
“The face of the city changes more quickly, alas! than the mortal heart.”

- Charles Baudelaire

So much of the city
is our bodies. Places in us
old light still slants through to.
Places that no longer exist but are full of feeling,
like phantom limbs.

Even the city carries ruins in its heart.
Longs to be touched in places
only it remembers.

Through the yellow hooves
of the ginkgo, parchment light;
in that apartment where I first
touched your shoulders under your sweater,
that October afternoon you left keys
in the fridge, milk on the table.
The yard — our moonlight motel —
where we slept summer’s hottest nights,
on grass so cold it felt wet.
Behind us, freight trains crossed the city,
a steel banner, a noisy wall.
Now the hollow diad
floats behind glass
in office towers also haunted
by our voices.

Few buildings, few lives
are built so well
even their ruins are beautiful.
But we loved the abandoned distillery:
stone floors cracking under empty vats,
wooden floors half rotted into dirt,
stairs leading nowhere, high rooms
run through with swords of dusty light.
A place the rain still loved, its silver paint
on rusted things that had stopped moving it seemed, for us.
Closed rooms open only to weather,
pungent with soot and molasses,
scent-stung. A place
where everything too big to take apart
had been left behind.

Phantom limb:截肢或其他原因失去四肢后仍然感觉四肢连在身体上并动作的感觉。


没有哪个城市不做梦

没有哪个城市不是自奠基的时候
就开始做梦。消失的湖
在制砖人的手中磨成齑粉,
深谷峻险,折断的光
同河流的记忆一起躺在谷底。
所有的冬天都收藏到
那地质花园里。恐龙睡在
布罗尔和肖地铁那儿,隆隆
振动的轨道下一床骨头。
十八岁,我们在干净的世间,
风暴以春天的电压
照亮了城市。渡船在雨中驰骋,
风随婚礼的音乐和一切
在石头与骨的碳中唱歌的事物而湿润
像一页爱之书,从手中随风而逝,未曾展读。

There is No City that Does Not Dream
  
There is no city that does not dream
from its foundations. The lost lake
crumbling in the hands of the brickmakers,
the floor of the ravine where light lies broken
with the memory of rivers. All the winters
stored in that geologic
garden. Dinosaurs sleep in the subway
at Bloor and Shaw, a bed of bones
under the rumbling track. The storm
that lit the city with the voltage
of spring, when we were eighteen
on the clean earth. The ferry ride in the rain,
wind wet with wedding music and everything that
sings in the carbon of stone and bone
like a page of love, wind-lost from a hand, unread.


花儿

在我的皮肤里有另一个皮肤
为你的抚触而聚拢,如一面湖向着光;
它释放自己的记忆,它遗失的语言
到你的舌间,
抹去我让我焕然一新。

当身体想着它知道
了解自己的方式
这第二个皮肤却持续作答。

在街上—咖啡馆的椅子
遗留在露台上;小摊空落落
它们没有稳定的光,
而人行道依然呼吸着
夏日葡萄和桃子的气息。
像一切从这刚刚转变的地中
生长的事物的光,
在你的抚触下我的每一点都聚拢
风吹我的裙子裹住我们的腿,
你的衬衣在我的紧握中拧成花朵。

FLOWERS
  
There's another skin inside my skin
that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light;
that looses its memory, its lost language
into your tongue,
erasing me into newness.
Just when the body thinks it knows
the ways of knowing itself,
this second skin continues to answer.
In the street - café chairs abandoned
on terraces; market stalls emptied
of their solid light,
though pavement still breathes
summer grapes and peaches.
Like the light of anything that grows
from this newly-turned earth,
every tip of me gathers under your touch,
wind wrapping my dress around our legs,
your shirt twisting to flowers in my fists.


纪念

星星下草地的椅子上。夜半央的
码头,被冬日的衣服安稳住,
我们背靠后阅读天空。你的脸
白在子宫的光,那湖带电的肌肤里。

从列维斯顿驱车返家,圆满青蓝,月亮
高临高速路的一肩。那里
或是半夜在你的厨房,在滴漏的黑暗中
随便坐哪儿,我们在同样光亮的
拇指印下一次又一次将他们掩埋。

死者留下我们满口是爱地挨饿。

他们的石头是我们回顾的盐和标记。
你母亲在一只空袖头边的手,
挠着你的手掌,划出了血。
你的姨姨在波兰一个犹太人的墓地,
她的脸是一永恒的痛苦之拳。
你的第一个朋友,索尔,死的太快
你都来不及说原谅我。
当我九岁从梦里哭着
你说了些话藏起了我的恐惧。
在我们上面家睡着,
嘴巴张开,手卷着。
二十年后你的眼泪灼痛了我的后颈。
记忆有只手在坟墓里伸到手腕。
天空的黑筛下泥土在你拳中揉碎。
我们都成了孤儿,一个接一个。

在上界的岸边,你找到了我
我在那儿有一阵了,被湖锋锐的圆边割伤。
你站在几十步以外。
在那安静中流逝说:
我没有什么给你。

薄暮中,桦树林是一片白骨滩。
我从大地的黑口袋里拽出石头,
感觉到它们的疲惫的重量——倦了
在地里的长睡让它们精疲力竭。
我用它们黑色的汗写在我的皮肤上。

湖的微漾被黯淡的光静止。
然后是星星的小嘴,月亮的蓝嘴。

我没有什么给你,没有任何可以携带,
让我不那么害怕的话,说
你给我这个了。
记忆从它的骨头的岩洞里
喃喃以海的声音坚持。
没有东西携带,
一些装进口袋的石头,
好给我们的所有一点重量。
  
MEMORIAM
  
In lawnchairs under stars. On the dock
at midnight, anchored by winter clothes,
we lean back to read the sky. Your face white
in the womb light, the lake's electric skin.

Driving home from Lewiston, full and blue, the moon
over one shoulder of highway. There,
or in your kitchen at midnight, sitting anywhere
in the seeping dark, we bury them again and
again under the same luminous thumbprint.
  
The dead leave us starving with mouths full of love.

Their stones are salt and mark where we look back.
Your mother's hand at the end of an empty sleeve,
scratching at your palm, drawing blood.
Your aunt in a Jewish graveyard in Poland,
her face a permanent fist of pain.
Your first friend, Saul, who died faster than
you could say forgive me.
When I was nine and crying from a dream
you said words that hid my fear.
Above us the family slept on,
mouths open, hands scrolled.
Twenty years later your tears burn the back of my throat.
Memory has a hand in the grave up to the wrist.
Earth crumbles from your fist under the sky's black sieve.
We are orphaned, one by one.

On the beach at Superior, you found me
where I'd been for hours, cut by the lake's sharp rim.
You stopped a dozen feet from me.
What passed in that quiet said:
I have nothing to give you.
  
At dusk, birch forest is a shore of bones.
I've pulled stones from the earth's black pockets,
felt the weight of their weariness - worn,
exhausted from their sleep in the earth.
I've written on my skin with their black sweat.

The lake's slight movement is stilled by fading light.
Soon the stars' tiny mouths, the moon's blue mouth.

I have nothing to give you, nothing to carry,
some words to make me less afraid, to say
you gave me this.
Memory insists with its sea voice,
muttering from its bone cave.
Memory wraps us
like the shell wraps the sea.
Nothing to carry,
some stones to fill our pockets,
to give weight to what we have.


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