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发表于 2014-3-26 16:12:00 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式
待售
罗伯特洛厄尔(Robert Lowell1917 - 1977

不幸而困窘的玩物,
在铺张的憎恶中安排好,
只住了一年──
我父亲在贝佛利农场的小屋,
就在他去世的那个月出售。
空洞丶开放丶亲密,
城市住房常见的那种家具
以踮着脚的姿态等待
紧随殡仪馆的人而来
的搬运工。
已做好准备,唯恐
独自活到八十岁,
母亲在一扇窗子里踟蹰,
就像是留在了一辆
已过了她的目的地的火车上。

1959



结语[1]
罗伯特洛厄尔(Robert Lowell1917 - 1977

饶有趣味的结构丶情节和韵律──
既然我要凭想像,而不是回想,
创造些东西,
为何那些手法我都用不上呢?
我听到了自己嗓子里的噪音:
画家的视觉不是镜头,
而只是颤悠悠地抚摸光线。
可有时候以我这俗劣眼光
写出来的所有东西
都像是快照,
斑斓丶迅速丶花哨,自生活
崛起丶聚合,
却又因现实而瘫软。
全都不相称。
虽如此为何不说出实情?
祈求佛梅尔[2]式的精确,
那才叫优雅,他摹画的阳光
就像横过地图的潮水,悄悄地
照到他那位充满热望的女子身上。
我们是可怜丶短暂的真实事物,
知道了这点就要给予
照片中每一位人物
一个活生生的名字。

       1977

注:
1)这是洛厄尔生前最后出版的诗集《逐日》中收录的最后一首原创诗。
2)简佛梅尔:(1632-1675) 荷兰画家,以擅长表现光线的微妙变化而著称。

       For Sale

       Poor sheepish plaything,
       organized with prodigalanimosity,
       lived in just a year ―
       my Father's cottage atBeverly Farms
       was on the market the monthhe died.
       Empty, open, intimate,
       its town-house furniture
       had an on tiptoe air
       of waiting for the mover
       on the heels of theundertaker.
       Ready, afraid
       of living alone tilleighty,
       Mother mooned in a window,
       as if she had stayed on atrain
       one stop past herdestination.

       1959



       Epilogue

       Those blessèd structures,plot and rhyme—
       why are they no help to menow
       I want to make
       something imagined, notrecalled?
       I hear the noise of my ownvoice:
       The painter's vision is nota lens,
       it trembles to caress thelight.
       But sometimes everything Iwrite
       with the threadbare art ofmy eye
       seems a snapshot,
       lurid, rapid, garish,grouped,
       heightened from life,
       yet paralyzed by fact.
       All's misalliance.
       Yet why not say whathappened?
       Pray for the grace ofaccuracy
       Vermeer gave to the sun'sillumination
       stealing like the tideacross a map
       to his girl solid withyearning.
       We are poor passing facts,
       warned by that to give
       each figure in thephotograph
       his living name.

       1977




一九一四[1]MCMXIV
菲力普拉金Philip Larkin, 1922 - 1985

那些长长的不规则队形
耐心地站着
仿佛他们在椭圆球场
或维拉球场[2]外延伸,
帽子的顶部,蓄有
长髭的古老脸膛上的阳光,
咧着嘴笑,仿佛这全然是
八月法定假日的一项活动;

还有上了门的商铺,遮阳布上
发白的,广为人识的名称,
法新与沙弗林钱币[3],
而身穿深色衣服玩耍的孩子们,
以国王和王后之名相称,
可可与烟草的
锡制广告板,还有整天
都店门大开的酒馆。

乡郊则漠不关心:
地名全为各种开花的草
笼罩,而田野
将末日线[4]淹没在麦子
不安的沉默阴影之下;
穿着不一的仆人
在巨宅内有狭小房间,
豪华轿车后面的尘土;

这样的天真不会有了,
以前没有以后也不会有了,
一言不发地把自己
变成了往昔──留下了
齐整花园的男人们,
维持得更长久一些的
成千上万的婚姻:
这样的天真不会再有了。

注:
1)1914年是第一次世界大战开始的年份。原文标题用的是罗马数字,暗示那是个很久以前,值得纪念的年份。
2)这里是将自愿登记入伍的人和排队入场看板球或足球比赛的人相比。
3)英国旧时使用过的两种硬币。
4)1086年英王威廉一世下令对英国地主及其财产进行普查和测量,并记录成册,史称地籍簿或末日簿。


MCMXIV

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;

And the countryside not caring:
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat’s restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word – the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.


卡萨比延卡[1]
伊丽莎白毕谢普(Elizabeth Bishop,1911-1979

爱是站在燃烧甲板上的男孩
努力背诵“男孩站在
燃烧的甲板上。”[2]爱是那儿子
    当不幸的船在火焰里
    下沉仍忍受结巴的演讲方式。

爱是那固执的男孩,是那船,
甚至那些游泳的水手,他们
也想要个教室的讲台,
    或是一个留在
    甲板上的理由。爱是那燃烧的男孩。

注:
1)十九世纪末在尼罗河河口海战中法国旗舰东方号中弹着火,最终因弹药库爆炸而沉没,指挥官路克·卡萨比延卡父子及绝大部分船员皆阵亡。
2)英国诗人菲莉西娅·赫门斯(1793 1835)的著名诗作《卡萨比延卡》的首句。赫门斯这首诗描写了小卡萨比延卡在危难中坚守岗位的英勇行为,二十世纪五十年代前一直是英美小学生常背诵的诗。


Casabianca

Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite "The boy stood on
the burning deck." Love's the son
        stood stammering elocution
        while the poor ship inflames went down.

Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too,
        or an excuse to stay
        on deck. And love's theburning boy.


白牛
路易辛普森(Louis Simpson1923 - )

有个男人在它们旁边走着,
手里的鞭子抽得噼啪响。
它们拉的小货车画满了
撒拉森人[1]和十字军,
凶狠的眼睛和一排排长矛。

它们走在上山的
陡峭路上。
它们踩踏齐整的蹄子
在阳光下看上去
忽隐忽现,扬起尘土。

它们高于那些屋顶,
上面有条纹葫芦和西瓜
在日益成熟。它们在
生长于岩石上的
暗绿色橄榄丛间移动。

它们爬行,它们变小…
在一个拐角消失,
然后重现,在一处悬崖
的边缘行走。它们进入了
雾与黑暗的区域。

我觉得我还能看见它们:
一对上了轭的公牛,
象牙或者烟的
色彩,带有红色流苏,
在渐浓的暮色中。

注:
1)指十字军东征时的阿拉伯人。


White Oxen

A man walks beside them
with a whip that he cracks.
The cart they draw is painted
with Saracens and Crusaders,
fierce eyes and ranks of spears.

They are on the steep road
that goes up the mountain.
Their neat-stepping hoofs
appear to be flickering
in the sun, raising dust.

They are higher than the roofs
on which striped gourds and melons
lie ripening. They move
among the dark green olives
that grow on the rocks.

They dwindle as they climb ...
vanish around a corner
and reappear walking on the edge
of a precipice. They enter
the region of mist and darkness.

I think I can see them still:
a pair of yoked oxen
the color of ivory
or smoke, with red tassels,
in the gathering dusk.



花花公子
理查德威尔伯(Richard Wilbur1921 - )

傻瓜般高坐在库房的梯子上,
仓管小伙子宛如哲人般钻研
一光滑页面上的内容,迷失在曲线
里头,就像从前阿基米德那样。

偶尔,看也不看,他吃点东西。
有如飞行中的母禽,他的左手
带来三明治,让他在边上咬一口,
然后又送回满是灰尘的架子里。

是什么让他这样全神贯注?一位
裸女跌跌撞撞进了这间贴满粉红墙纸的
凹室,布置杂乱,地板上横陈着
一大堆华丽的枕头和动物毛皮,

她跪在里面,摆了个逢迎
的姿势,伸出的手
举着高脚杯,似乎要向花几敬酒,
一束炸开的玫瑰从长颈水晶花瓶

射出来,在花几上面悬浮。
瓶子摆在一块红如朱砂的
有穗台布上,连衣蛾尝一口都会变得
干瘪?或许他只是在琢磨她无暇的胸脯?

所有优美的地方都逃不过他的眼,
她的躯体,泛光般明亮的肌肤,
如此光滑温暖,竟出奇地像件制服,
不过此时紧握他想像力的是她的脸,

那精巧的照片如何在那微笑的瞬间
令她一动不动,而她的心则变得
温婉无力,不可抑制地
倾倒服从于他的冷酷意愿。


Playboy

High on his stockroom ladder like a dunce
The stock-boy sits, and studies like a sage
The subject matter of one glossy page,
As lost in curves as Archimedes once.

Sometimes, without a glance, he feeds himself.
The left hand, like a mother-bird in flight,
Brings him a sandwich for a sidelong bite,
And then returns it to a dusty shelf.

What so engrosses him? The wild decor
Of this pink-papered alcove into which
A naked girl has stumbled, with its rich
Welter of pelts and pillows on the floor,

Amidst which, kneeling in a supple pose,
She lifts a goblet in her farther hand,
As if about to toast a flower-stand
Above which hovers an exploding rose

Fired from a long-necked crystal vase that rests
Upon a tasseled and vermillion cloth
One taste of which would shrivel up a moth?
Or is he pondering her perfect breasts?

Nothing escapes him of her body's grace
Or of her floodlit skin, so sleek and warm
And yet so strangely like a uniform,
But what now grips his fancy is her face,

And how the cunning picture holds her still
At just that smiling instant when her soul,
Grown sweetly faint, and swept beyond control,
Consents to his inexorable will.

发表于 2014-3-26 21:36:25 | 显示全部楼层

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