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试译史密斯的《天啊,星罗棋布》

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发表于 2013-6-24 12:36:06 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式
本帖最后由 闽中林木 于 2013-6-24 12:40 编辑

2012年纽约布鲁克林的黑人女诗人特雷西•K•史密斯(Tracy K. Smith)凭借第三部诗集《火星生活》(Life on Mars)摘得普利策诗歌奖桂冠,这是她收到的一份特殊的40岁生日礼物。普利策奖委员会形容这本诗集“大胆、巧妙,将读者带上宇宙,并让他们真实感受到了快乐与苦痛。”《火星生活》将我们带到很远的地方,同时也正接近我们的家园,正如诗中写道:“我们是他物的一部分,而不仅仅是一名过客。”她的诗风格纯熟,语言玄妙。史密斯首部出版的作品为《身体的问题》(The Body’s Question)(2003),在2007年时完成了第二部诗集《魔力》(Duende)。

 天啊,星罗棋布    (选自获奖诗歌)   闽中林木试译


             1

我们喜欢把它想成我们熟知的世界,
只是更大。一人对抗权威,
或对抗满城的僵尸。一人

事实上他不是人,派去理解,
一行人群起而攻之,像红蚁
跑掉美洲的裤子。人在逃离。

这人要赶船,要卸货,
这信息传遍整个太空……即使
它也许更像海底的生活:沉寂,

浮动着,异常柔和。像设计过时的
圣物。有人把它想成
宇宙之母透过喷雾状的星子双眼紧盯着

嘴说是的,就这样,当我们朝着光明蹒跚前行,  
咬紧她的嘴唇,如果我们在某个边缘摇摇欲坠。渴望   
将我们一揽入怀,她充满期望。

而父亲的暴怒响彻相邻的房间,
以"天国降临"的力量咆哮,
并不关心什么会把我们嚼碎吞噬。

有时,我看到的是一所乡村社区图书馆。
敞开的阅览室里高大的书架。一些铅笔
在借阅台上的杯子里,被所有人啃咬过。

书籍始终在这里,依次
在不同姓氏的人手里呆上数周,
对一张脸(多数在夜晚),

和一双眼诉说。最出色的谎言。

         2.

查尔顿·赫斯顿等着进去。他客气地请求一次。
第二次从隔膜发力。第三次,
他像摩西:双臂高举,面色伪经般苍白。

衬衫笔挺,外套整洁,他微弯着腰进来,
然后挺直。他扫了一眼房间。他站着,直到我示意,
才坐下。鸟开始入夜的啁啾。有人在楼下外面

点燃木炭。假如我有他会喝威士忌。没有就喝水。
我要他从头讲起,但他从当中开始。
那时也曾是未来,他说。在世界颠倒之前。

英雄,幸存者,神的左右手,我知道他看到月球空白的
表面,那里我看到用砖骨堆砌的语言。
他端坐在那,缓缓吸了一口极具悲剧色彩的长气,

然后呼出。就我所知,我是这个地球上最后一个真人。又说:
我可以抽烟吗?外面的声音软化了。喷射飞机飞去或飞回。
有人哭闹着她不想去睡觉。头顶有脚步声。

邻居院子里的喷泉对自己喋喋不休,夜晚的空气
抬高室内的声音。那是另一次,他说,重新拾起话题。
我们是开拓先锋。你会不会为了生存而战,骑着地球

向着神不知鬼不觉的地方?想想埋在冰下的亚特兰蒂斯,有一天
从视线消失,它曾经矗立的海岸如今冰冷荒凉。
我们的眼睛适应了黑暗。

         3.

也许最大的错误就是相信我们是孤单的,
其他人来了又走——昙花一现——
也可能从来太空就交通拥挤,
以我们并未察觉和见到的能量爆射
冲向我们,活着,死去,决定,
在星球上四处设立牢固的基脚,
向操纵一切的伟大星球鞠躬,
朝它们的月亮投石。他们活在好奇里
是否只有他们,想知而不可知,
在广漠夜空中,他们——我们——闪烁其间

也许死者知道,他们终于睁大了眼睛,
看到百万个星系的高光在黄昏
闪耀。听着引擎轰响,喇叭
长鸣,处在狂热之中。我想成为
喧闹下的一个缺口,就像一个拿掉旋钮的收音机。
敞开,所有一切一起涌来。
再紧紧密封,因此无法逃脱。甚至时间也不行,
它本该卷曲在自身里,像烟雾环绕。
仿佛我现在就坐在我父亲身边
当他拿起火柴点燃烟斗
那是第一次,于1959年的冬天。




         4.


在库布里克《2001》的最后几幕场景里
当大伍被送到太空中心,
它于高潮光晕中展开
在绽放之前,像丛林兰花
面对坠入爱河的蜜蜂,然后变成液体,
像水中油彩,然后薄纱般飘出飘远,
在最后发光模糊的夜潮
不停漩入之前……

在那最后几幕场景里,当他漂流
在木星巨大的峡谷和海洋上,
越过散落着熔岩的冰封的平原
和山峦,整个过程中,他不眨一眼。
在他的小飞船里,他看不清乘着什么,飞越
绵延宽广的时间长河,
谁知道什么火焰在他脑海中燃烧?
他仍在穿越自己的生命,或者
它在他可以命名的那一端结束?

现场镜头拍了又拍,直到库布里克感到满意,
然后,服饰放回到架子原处
巨大闪光的场地变得一片漆黑。

         5.

我父亲在哈勃太空望远镜上工作时,他说:
他们像外科医生一样操作,擦洗然后套在
纸质的绿色里,房间寒冷,洁白。

他在家里读拉里·尼文,喝加冰块的苏格兰威士忌,
他的眼睛疲乏并布满血丝。这是里根时代,
我们把手指放在“按钮”上苟且偷生,并试图

把我们的敌人当作孩子。我父亲用整个季节
躬身在天眼前,渴望发现些什么。
每当有人问起,他便会脸庞发亮,手臂高举

仿佛他失重了,于永无止境的夜太空里
泰然自若。在地面,我们把明信片绑在气球上,
为了和平。查尔斯王子和戴安娜女士结婚。洛克·哈德森去世了。

我们学会了用新单词描绘事物。这十年发生了变化。

最初传回的几张照片模糊不清,我感到惭愧
为所有欢快的工程师,我的父亲和他的部落。第二次,
光学仪器调准了。我们目之所及的边缘

如此残酷而充满活力,它似乎反过来理解我们。



My God, It'sFull of Stars
BY TRACY K.SMITH


          1.

We like tothink of it as parallel to what we know,
Only bigger.One man against the authorities.
Or one managainst a city of zombies. One man

Who is not,in fact, a man, sent to understand
The caravanof men now chasing him like red ants
Let loosedown the pants of America. Man on the run.

Man with aship to catch, a payload to drop,
This messagegoing out to all of space. . . . Though
Maybe it’smore like life below the sea: silent,

Buoyant,bizarrely benign. Relics
Of anoutmoded design. Some like to imagine
A cosmicmother watching through a spray of stars,

Mouthingyes, yes as we toddle toward the light,
Biting herlip if we teeter at some ledge. Longing
To sweep usto her breast, she hopes for the best

While thefather storms through adjacent rooms
Ranting withthe force of Kingdom Come,
Not caringanymore what might snap us in its jaw.

Sometimes,  what I see is a library in a rural community.
All the tallshelves in the big open room. And the pencils
In a cup atCirculation, gnawed on by the entire population.

The bookshave lived here all along, belonging
For weeks ata time to one or another in the brief sequence
Of familynames, speaking (at night mostly) to a face,

A pair ofeyes. The most remarkable lies.


          2.

CharltonHeston is waiting to be let in. He asked once politely.
A secondtime with force from the diaphragm. The third time,
He did itlike Moses: arms raised high, face an apocryphal white.

Shirt crisp,suit trim, he stoops a little coming in,
Then growstall. He scans the room. He stands until I gesture,
Then hesits. Birds commence their evening chatter. Someone fires

Charcoalsout below. He’ll take a whiskey if I have it. Water if I don’t.
I ask him tostart from the beginning, but he goes only halfway back.
That was thefuture once, he says. Before the world went upside down.

Hero,survivor, God’s right hand man, I know he sees the blank
Surface ofthe moon where I see a language built from brick and bone.
He sitsstraight in his seat, takes a long, slow high-thespian breath,

Then lets itgo. For all I know, I was the last true man on this earth. And:
May I smoke?The voices outside soften. Planes jet past heading off or back.
Someonecries that she does not want to go to bed. Footsteps overhead.

A fountainin the neighbor’s yard babbles to itself, and the night air
Lifts thesound indoors. It was another time, he says, picking up again.
We werepioneers. Will you fight to stay alive here, riding the earth

TowardGod-knows-where? I think of Atlantis buried under ice, gone
One day fromsight, the shore from which it rose now glacial and stark.
Our eyesadjust to the dark.


          3.

Perhaps thegreat error is believing we’re alone,
That theothers have come and gone—a momentary blip—
When allalong, space might be choc-full of traffic,
Bursting atthe seams with energy we neither feel
Nor see,flush against us, living, dying, deciding,
Settingsolid feet down on planets everywhere,
Bowing tothe great stars that command, pitching stones
At whateverare their moons. They live wondering
If they arethe only ones, knowing only the wish to know,
And thegreat black distance they—we—flicker in.

Maybe thedead know, their eyes widening at last,
Seeing thehigh beams of a million galaxies flick on
At twilight.Hearing the engines flare, the horns
Not lettingup, the frenzy of being. I want to be
One notchbelow bedlam, like a radio without a dial.
Wide open,so everything floods in at once.
And sealedtight, so nothing escapes. Not even time,
Which shouldcurl in on itself and loop around like smoke.
So that Imight be sitting now beside my father
As he raisesa lit match to the bowl of his pipe
For thefirst time in the winter of 1959.




          4.


In thoselast scenes of Kubrick’s 2001
When Dave iswhisked into the center of space,
Whichunfurls in an aurora of orgasmic light
Beforeopening wide, like a jungle orchid
For alove-struck bee, then goes liquid,
Paint-in-water,and then gauze wafting out and off,
Before,finally, the night tide, luminescent
And vague,swirls in, and on and on. . . .

In thoselast scenes, as he floats
AboveJupiter’s vast canyons and seas,
Over thelava strewn plains and mountains
Packed inice, that whole time, he doesn’t blink.
In hislittle ship, blind to what he rides, whisked
Across thewide-screen of unparcelled time,
Who knowswhat blazes through his mind?
Is it stillhis life he moves through, or does
That end atthe end of what he can name?

On set, it’sshot after shot till Kubrick is happy,
Then thecostumes go back on their racks
And thegreat gleaming set goes black.


          5.

When myfather worked on the Hubble Telescope, he said
Theyoperated like surgeons: scrubbed and sheathed
In paperygreen, the room a clean cold, a bright white.

He’d readLarry Niven at home, and drink scotch on the rocks,
His eyesexhausted and pink. These were the Reagan years,
When welived with our finger on The Button and struggled

To view ourenemies as children. My father spent whole seasons
Bowingbefore the oracle-eye, hungry for what it would find.
His facelit-up whenever anyone asked, and his arms would rise

As if hewere weightless, perfectly at ease in the never-ending
Night ofspace. On the ground, we tied postcards to balloons
For peace.Prince Charles married Lady Di. Rock Hudson died.

We learnednew words for things. The decade changed.

The firstfew pictures came back blurred, and I felt ashamed
For all thecheerful engineers, my father and his tribe. The second time,
The opticsjibed. We saw to the edge of all there is—

So brutaland alive it seemed to comprehend us back.



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