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◎ [加]艾特伍德诗三首 (阅读2197次)





  [加]艾特伍德诗三首


 一只纸袋
    [加]玛格丽特•艾特伍德 (1939-)
我自造一个头,犹如从前,
用一只纸袋,
拉下,到锁骨。

在眼睛处画出眼睛,
紫色与绿色的穗
表示惊奇,
拇指状的鼻子,

在嘴外画上了嘴,
铅笔描出来,然后涂上
哑红色。

有了新的头,这身体
虽如长筒袜那样拉长、精疲力竭,
如今也能起舞;如果我弄出
一根舌头,我就能唱歌。

一张旧纸,适逢万圣节;
可它怎么就会
更吓人呢,这别针脸的头、
短直发、没下巴?

它没有历史,像个白痴,
总是在走向未来,
穿过眼睛的缝隙、半瞎,
摸索着,浓稠的笑
是永恒欢乐的触角。

纸做的头,我宁愿要你,
因为你的虚空;
从你内部
还能说出任何词句。

有了你,我就能拥有
不止一张皮,
一个空白的内部、一整套
未讲出的故事、
一个全新的开始。


  A Paper Bag
      Margaret Atwood (1939-)
I make my head, as I used to,
out of a paper bag,
pull it down to the collarbone,

Draw eyes around my eyes,
with purple and green
spikes to show surprise,
a thumb-shaped nose,

a mouth around my mouth
penciled by touch, then colored in
flat red.

With this new head, the body now
stretched like a stocking and exhausted could
dance again; if I made a
tongue I could sing.

An old sheet and it’s Halloween;
but why is it worse or more
frightening, this pinface
head of square hair and no chin?

Like an idiot, it has no past
and is always entering the future
through its slots of eyes, purblind
and groping with its thick smile,
a tentacle of perpetual joy.

Paper head, I prefer you
because of your emptiness;
from within you any
word could still be said.

With you I could have
more than one skin,
a blank interior, a repertoire
of untold stories,
a fresh beginning


 她受不了有缺陷的心
    [加]玛格丽特•艾特伍德 (1939-)
我指的不是那个
爱的象征、一个用来装饰
蛋糕的糖果形状、
所谓的心有所归
或者心碎的“心”;

我指的是那一块肌肉,
像剥了皮的二头肌那样收缩,
紫蓝色,包一层板油、
一层软骨,这个孤寂的、
穴居的隐者、无壳的
龟,这一肺的血、
没有喜盘子装。

所有的心都漂在它们自己的
毫无光亮的深海中,
湿黑,发着幽光,
四张嘴像鱼一样吞吐。
据说心会连续地砰砰:
理应如此吧,它
有规则地挣扎,以免被淹死。

但大多数心会说:我要,我要,
我要,我要。我的心
更两面派一点,
但还不是我曾以为的那样有个双胞胎。
它说:我要,我不要,我
要;然后停一下。
强迫我听,

到了夜里,它就是红外线的
第三只眼,一直睁着,
另外那两只却在沉睡,
而它拒绝说出它所看到的。

它是忠实的纠缠,
在我耳中,逃不脱的蛾子,软塌塌的鼓,
婴孩的小拳头
击打着床弹簧:
我要,我不要。
有这么一颗心,谁能过得下去?

很久以前,我不再对它
唱歌,它无法满足、也哄不好。
迟早有一晚,我会对它说:
心啊,安静吧,
然后它就安静了。


The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart
            Margaret Atwood (1939-)

I do not mean the symbol
of love, a candy shape
to decorate cakes with,
the heart that is supposed
to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle
that contracts like a flayed biceps,
purple-blue, with its skin of suet,
its skin of gristle, this isolate,
this caved hermit, unshelled
turtle, this one lungful of blood,
no happy plateful.

All hearts float in their own
deep ocean of no light,
wetblack and glimmering,
their four mouths gulping like fish.
Hearts are said to pound:
this is to be expected, the heart’s
regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitous,
though no twin as I once thought.
It says, I want. I don’t want. I
want, and then a pause.
It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child’s fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don’t want.
How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.


她与有缺陷的心讲和
    [加]玛格丽特•艾特伍德 (1939-)

我不能原谅的,不是你残损的
节律,不是你暗红的
无皮的秃鹫头,

而是你隐瞒的事:
五个字和我丢失的
金戒指;精美的蓝酒杯,
而你说是碎了;
一叠灰色的折起来的
脸庞,而你声称
我们都已经忘了;
其他被你吃掉的心;
还有被你隐藏起来的所有时间,
不让我看到,说是从未发生。

还有呢,你那做派,
不会让自己被人捕捉,
狡猾的无毛鸟,肥硕的肉食禽,
唱着你那被刺破的沙哑的歌,
你那厉爪、贪婪的眼,
高高地潜伏在熔化的夕阳后,
在天际,隐在我左胸的布衣后,
随时扑向陌生人。

多少次了,我对你说:
文明世界是动物园,
不是丛林,呆在你的笼中吧,
然后发出嗜血的
呼喊,狂怒,随你怎么
冲着我的肋骨。

至于我,我会很高兴地掐死你,
双手一起上,
捏扁了你,掐断
你欢快的叫喊。
没有心,生活会过得更顺。
没了才好,这个无能的象征物,
这苍蝇横飞的狮子、喜鹊、吃人肉的
老鹰、长着仇恨的金属钩子的
蝎子,这鄙俗的法术,
这具器官的大小和颜色都像
被油烫的老鼠,
这只烧焦的凤凰。

但你已推动我走了这么远,
一只旧水泵,我们谁也离不开
谁,两个同案犯,确实
如此,也一样谁也不信谁。
我们都知道,除非出事故,
最终我们将会
彼此背叛;等到真发生了,
我该进骨灰盒,你进广口瓶。
在此之前,只有不稳定的休战,
两个罪犯之间的信誉。


The Woman Makes Peace With Her Faulty Heart
            Margaret Atwood (1939-)
It wasn't your crippled rhythm
I could not forgive, or your dark red
skinless head of a vulture

but the things you hid:
five words and my lost
gold ring, the fine blue cup
you said was broken,
that stack of faces, gray
and folded, you claimed
we'd both forgotten,
the other hearts you ate,
and all that discarded time you hid
from me, saying it never happened.

There was that, and the way
you would not be captured,
sly featherless bird, fat raptor
singing your raucous punctured song
with your talons and your greedy eye
lurking high in the molten sunset
sky behind my left cloth breast
to pounce on strangers.

How many times have I told you:
The civilized world is a zoo,
not a jungle, stay in your cage.
And then the shouts
of blood, the rage as you threw yourself
against my ribs.

As for me, I would have strangled you
gladly with both hands,
squeezed you closed, also
your yelps of joy.
Life goes more smoothly without a heart,
without that shiftless emblem,
that flyblown lion, magpie, cannibal
eagle, scorpion with its metallic tricks
of hate, that vulgar magic,
that organ the size and color
of a scalded rat,
that singed phoenix.

But you've shoved me this far,
old pump, and we're hooked
together like conspirators, which
we are, and just as distrustful.
We know that, barring accidents,
one of us will finally
betray the other; when that happens,
it's me for the urn, you for the jar.
Until then, it's an uneasy truce,
and honor between criminals.


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