(美)约翰.阿什贝利诗歌草译

剑郭琴符

好莱坞笨鸭

（选自  Houseboat Days  ）
作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）
译者:剑郭琴符

某些奇怪的东西正爬过我。
塞莱斯蒂娜刚在头几个酒吧
唱“我回想你”或《高卢的阿马迪吉》(亨德尔歌剧)
某些柔和的歌,什么---一块薄荷糖---都可以
拉姆雷德无铝泡打粉,胶片耳环,
飞毛腿冈萨雷斯,来自海伦.托普.米勒最新创意的
写字台,胚布上一捆性挑逗的照片,毛边的
存货---撞击声穿过彩虹的棚架
(那里)开心果大道塞进2300块投掷排房的
高地。他许诺他会把我从这一个地方弄出去,
那意味着老漫画家,但现在同时看一看
他对我做了什么吧!我很少敢接近我在那个轮毂中的杯子
减弱的反射,如此狭隘,如此狼狈
是它的典型特征---嬉戏,毫无疑问,为一些冒牌颅相学者的
羊齿阻塞等待房间,但你命名的几乎不是
友善的。事情都窒息到沉默的
那一点。刚才,一场磁性的暴风雨挂在福得斯车库上
天空的布样上,减弱着---激烈地--
直到铅黄绿日志关进
加兹登采购的纪念封面那个氛围。突然所有的事情
开始憎恶。我不再想走回头路。你遇到
足够茫然的人,在翡翠绿交通岛上---不,
没有人,来或去,更多的是: 喃喃自语,泼洒,
古怪而有效地装备着乐到疯的
蔬菜骚乱步兵,羽毛状,指向那稍微带点白色的
在磨坊上运转的硬纸板堡垒。“顺着
那懒洋洋的河,我们能多么快乐?”
它怎么终结? 阿拉罕(在加利福尼亚州)的天竺葵
发出的微光具有骚乱的行为,
被埃特纳火山大小的爆竹阅读,它最后一分钟炸为
一张招标地图,在它较低右手一角
(股癣沙坑坚固地环绕着
施虐色情狂夜晚分枝的芦笋斑
) 阿玛迪斯
正在哄骗克莱夫斯公主午夜排尿从中取乐
在塔米吉(沃尔特,布鲁松,和小
斯里泽克斯)在一条“借自”电影中的奥利的有金属丝的平底船上
瓦利特斯恐惧情妇的礼袍。等待!
我要宣布!这宽阔,不温不火蜿蜒而行,
文明的忘川(一个人几乎不能辨认出五朔节花柱
和莎草岸必要的披肩)流向地狱,那些
闹鬼的垃圾场,不太适合居住的旅游胜地
一些旅客从此返回!这整个瞬间是一个
至今还在缠绕我们沉睡的
先天性的巨人的大腿根。再见, 小树林,
皮革厂, 水草地。寓言无声无息来到
太快了;有蛀孔的桃花心木鱼叉密集落下
就是在龙卷风之间需要注意的全部。我仅仅拥有
间歇的生命在你的思想中活着
就像在另一个语言中思想着。一切
都依赖于是否某人提醒你想起我。
这是虚构, 那些“其他时间”
事实上都是灵魂的寂静,从冥河丝绒的
钻石上挑选出,问题比它应有的少。
时间的天才应该被安排去说服他们
我们生活在一个维度,他们在我们的维度中。在国外
当我穿过所有被黑暗破坏的海岸线,
为我们所有人寻求拯救,在那种语言中思考:它的
语法,虽然折磨人,却为道路
每段新路提供了亭子。彩粉画救护车
飞快抱起他们急驶到医院。
“都是零碎的东西, 闪光金属片，补丁,真的;没有东西
单独站立。创造性进化发生了什么？”
阿格拉文叹息道。然后对她,塞莉塞特(1)说:“如果他的
成就只是最终到达比别人少了厌倦的目的,
是什么让我们呆在这儿?为什么不马上离开?
他们坐在那儿时,我不得不呆在这儿,
发笑,喝酒,有快乐的时间。在我的日子
一个人躺在无情的绿叶下,
假装不在意他们怎么把血放进
天空的水中, 飘然而去,无色的区域假装
不关心我们。所以我们也
来到别人来的地方: 肉体忍耐力的黑夜,
或者如果,白天,我们的无政府行为
是恰当的,至少按新野性主义标准,以前的同意
后来都变成了沉默寡言。我们精神饱满
离开了平底驳船,在乳脂软糖黑暗的遮盖下。
它不是不完整的纠缠,但却是已经完成的
产品的诡异。实话说,问少了是愚蠢,然而
如果他是他自己的结果,对于他来说
我们应该是多少才更好!多少,最后,
我们把这考虑在内! 一箱皱茜草缎
一次握住一个决斗手枪夹子就是我们
仅有的对那颜色的承认吗?我不喜欢这个,
我想,但我们这失望的续篇
已经在伦敦和圣彼得堡被赞赏。在某地
渡鸦为我们祈祷。”暴风雨停止了冲泡。因此
她问所有那些走进大门的人,但她发现没有人
听说过阿马迪斯,
也没有(听说过)严厉的奥伦泽贝,他的第一个恋人。这些人
对于他们一点也不重要:因为所有
被定义的都是完备的(所以
在完全的黑暗中他们是合乎逻辑的),为什么不
接受它,就像愉快地展示它自己?就像
矮摩天大楼从更低挂的云在那儿显示
一座塔楼的时候那样, 一个建筑风格陡坡在这儿,最后也许是
可以承载感觉的形式,但
停留在隐藏的神秘的页码中。
不是我们看见的,而是我们如何看见它的影响。一切都
相似,相同,我们欢迎他宣告
变化,就像我们会欢迎变化自身。
一切生命只是一个虚构;相反,从你手上滑下的
袖珍典籍也许不是
与这看不见的野餐失踪的联系,它的影响
覆盖了我们关于它的感觉。因此, 我们在
这宽大的, 亚麻色公路临时露营, 含蓄的顾忌
疲惫的难题畅行无阻。早晨
是短暂的。抓紧性事,在地平线上
飘荡,就像一个男孩
在一次钓鱼的旅行。没人真的知道
或关心是否这就是全部,其部分
被给予---一次---但漫步在其
传统中多于妥善保管它。这覆盖消遣的东西
保持他们的兴趣和忙碌,当那巨大的,
模糊的玩意儿能确定它想要什么---什么地图,什么
模范城市,多少浪费的空间。生命,至少
我们的生命,都互相在其间。我们不再介意
或关注天空是绿色的,一只鹦鹉
一个人,但我们热心于它带我们到哪里去冒险,
虚伪，好奇,邀请更多的人,
总是援引回声,一个夏日的白天。


(1)《阿格拉凡和塞莉塞特》（1896）是梅特林克的最富灵感的戏剧

附记:本诗典故又很多,<圣经>中<最后的晚餐>关于你中有我，我中有你的典故是中心.


  Daffy Duck in Hollywood


Something strange is creeping across me.
La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars
Of "I Thought about You" or something mellow from
Amadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can
Of Rumford's Baking Powder, a celluloid earring, Speedy
Gonzales, the latest from Helen Topping Miller's fertile
Escritoire, a sheaf of suggestive pix on greige, deckle-edged
Stock--to come clattering through the rainbow trellis
Where Pistachio Avenue rams the 2300 block of Highland
Fling Terrace. He promised he'd get me out of this one,
That mean old cartoonist, but just look what he's
Done to me now! I scarce dare approach me mug's attenuated
Reflection in yon hubcap, so jaundiced, so déconfit
Are its lineaments--fun, no doubt, for some quack phrenologist's
Fern-clogged waiting room, but hardly what you'd call
Companionable. But everything is getting choked to the point of
Silence. Just now a magnetic storm hung in the swatch of sky
Over the Fudds' garage, reducing it--drastically--
To the aura of a plumbago-blue log cabin on
A Gadsden Purchase commemorative cover. Suddenly all is
Loathing. I don't want to go back inside any more. You meet
Enough vague people on this emerald traffic-island--no,
Not people, comings and goings, more: mutterings, splatterings,
The bizarrely but effectively equipped infantries of happy-go-nutty
Vegetal jacqueries, plumed, pointed at the little
White cardboard castle over the mill run. "Up
The lazy river, how happy we could be?"
How will it end? That geranium glow
Over Anaheim's had the riot act read to it by the
Etna-size firecracker that exploded last minute into
A carte du Tendre in whose lower right-hand corner
(Hard by the jock-itch sand-trap that skirts
The asparagus patch of algolagnic nuits blanches) Amadis
Is cozening the Princesse de Cleves into a midnight micturition spree
On the Tamigi with the Wallets (Walt, Blossom, and little
Sleezix) on a lamé barge "borrowed" from Ollie
Of the Movies' dread mistress of the robes. Wait!
I have an announcement! This wide, tepidly meandering,
Civilized Lethe (one can barely make out the maypoles
And châlets de nécessitê on its sedgy shore)leads to Tophet, that
Landfill-haunted, not-so-residential resort from which
Some travellers return! This whole moment is the groin
Of a borborygmic giant who even now
Is rolling over on us in his sleep. Farewell bocages,
Tanneries, water-meadows. The allegory comes unsnarled
Too soon; a shower of pecky acajou harpoons is
About all there is to be noted between tornadoes. I have
Only my intermittent life in your thoughts to live
Which is like thinking in another language. Everything
Depends on whether somebody reminds you of me.
That this is a fabulation, and that those “other times”
Are in fact the silences of the soul, picked out in
Diamonds on stygian velvet, matters less than it should.
Prodigies of timing may be arranged to convince them
We live in one dimension, they in ours. While I
Abroad through all the coasts of dark destruction seek
Deliverance for us all, think in that language: its
Grammar, though tortured, offers pavillions
At each new parting of the ways. Pastel
Ambulances scoop up the quick and hie them to hospitals.
“It's all bits and pieces, spangles, patches, really; nothing
Stands alone. What happened to creative evolution?”
Sighed Aglavaine. Then to her Sélysette: “If his
Achievement is only to end up less boring than the others,
What's keeping us here? Why not leave at once?
I have to stay here while they sit in there,
Laugh, drink, have fine time. In my day
One lay under the tough green leaves,
Pretending not to notice how they bled into
The sky's aqua, the wafted-away no-color of regions supposed
Not to concern us. And so we too
Came where the others came: nights of physical endurance,
Or if, by day, our behavior was anarchically
Correct, at least by New Brutalism standards, all then
Grew taciturn by previous agreement. We were spirited
Away en bateau, under cover of fudge dark.
It's not the incomplete importunes, but the spookiness
Of the finished product. True, to ask less were folly, yet
If he is the result of himself, how much the better
For him we ought to be! And how little, finally,
We take this into account! Is the puckered garance satin
Of a case that once held a brace of dueling pistols our
Only acknowledging of that color? I like not this,
Methinks, yet this disappointing sequel to ourselves
Has been applauded in London and St. Petersburg. Somewhere
Ravens pray for us.” The storm finished brewing. And thus
She questioned all who came in at the great gate, but none
She found who ever heard of Amadis,
Nor of stern Aureng-Zebe, his first love. Some
They were to whom this mattered not a jot: since all
By definition is completeness (so
In utter darkness they reasoned), why not
Accept it as it pleases to reveal itself? As when
Low skyscrapers from lower-hanging clouds reveal
A turret there, an art-deco escarpment here, and last perhaps
The pattern that may carry the sense, but
Stays hidden in the mysteries of pagination.
Not what we see but how we see it matters; all's
Alike, the same, and we greet him who announces
The change as we would greet the change itself.
All life is but a figment; conversely, the tiny
Tome that slips from your hand is not perhaps the
Missing link in this invisible picnic whose leverage
Shrouds our sense of it. Therefore bivouac we
On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by
Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is
Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up
Over the horizon like a boy
On a fishing expedition. No one really knows
Or cares whether this is the whole of which parts
Were vouchsafed--once--but to be ambling on's
The tradition more than the safekeeping of it. This mulch for
Play keeps them interested and busy while the big,
Vaguer stuff can decide what it wants--what maps, what
Model cities, how much waste space. Life, our
Life anyway, is between. We don't mind
Or notice any more that the sky is green, a parrot
One, but have our earnest where it chances on us,
Disingenuous, intrigued, inviting more,
Always invoking the echo, a summer's day.

剑郭琴符

总算审完了.

剑郭琴符

诗歌窃贼

（选自  Houseboat Days  ）
作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）
译者:剑郭琴符

你
我的朋友
在

这条街中,曾经
似乎在街上
与其

联系
与其相处
虽然

只是没闻到
一股汉堡包气味
那天

一块旧床垫
一根盒式弹簧
就像它

变暗
填充空白的
隆隆声

来自于在时间中腐朽的
一条街
它争吵说

不存在
剩余
是出于前进的

希望
还是沮丧
乐意呆在这儿

静静
站着
那一片刻

有别的计划
此刻在这
黑暗的丛林

未来还是要制订计划
啊准备设想
你的困境

更整全
雪
那天

埋葬了一切,除了最迟钝的
仅有的最一般的
生存

低低的侧影
再一次变为一根连续的
大海线条

来自于涯岸
怀抱着
对

短暂的
再一次上升的自信
(上升)到新的

变迁
到明确的
胜利

浸泡在空间的
嗡嗡声
不真实的群星的

点
有独特的
新的发生方式

此刻
没人记得
沿着海滩

你走过一段确切路程的那一天
然后
走回去

它似乎
在你的足迹中
因为它

第一次
就结束了
是的,但此刻

是另一条路
延伸出去
通向终结

线状的风格
被丢弃
虽然几个世纪来

这没被理解
同时
另一个生活方式来了又去了

丢下了它的广度
在
现在旁边,高大的雪松

锁在
计划里
因此你锁着的

任何地方
正在燃烧
推理的

内部空间
不是为聚居人群
而是为已经关闭的

转向它自己
它的背后
与海一样美

你顺着(海)走
说出卓越的
词语

对你自己
居住着
一直居住着的一切

正在走向终结
再一次
进入平淡无奇的现在

它正在扩大
把它禁闭于修道院
这就是有点

太滑稽的寓言
因此确保那天的第二个
开始

看街对面
无论哪条路
你走着,谈论着

都知道,描述你的事情
都不知道
而且不知道

你比某种程度更有见识的
井高
承受

当你放松
仅仅一秒钟
尤其要紧

你回来如此难得
但一切都好
停留的方式

你开始回到
进入空中的火的
行列

你迷失了梦
加固了它
安心而牢记的白昼


The Thief of Poetry


To you
my friend who
was in this

street once
were on it
getting

in with it
getting on with it
though

only passing by
a smell of hamburgers
that day

an old mattress
and a box spring
as it

darkened
filling the empty
rumble

of a street
in decay of time
it fell out that

there was no
remaining
whether out of a wish

to be moving on
or frustrated
willingness to stay

here to stand
still
the moment

had other plans
and now in this
jungle of darkness

the future still makes plans
O ready to go
Conceive of your plight

more integrally
the snow
that day

buried all but the most obtuse
only the most generalized
survives

the low profile
becomes a constant again
the line of ocean

of shore
nestling
confident

impermanent
to rise again
in new

vicissitude
in explicit
triumph

drowns the hum
of space
the false point

of the stars
in specific
new way of happening

Now
no one remembers
the day you walked a certain distance

along the beach
and then
walked back

it seems
in your tracks
because it

was ending
for the first time
yes but now

is another way of
spreading out
toward the end

the linear style
is discarded
though this is

not realized for centuries
meanwhile
another way of living had come and gone

leaving its width
behind
now the tall cedars

had become locked into
the plan
so that everywhere

you looked
was burning
inferential

interior space
not for colonies
but already closed

turned in on itself
its back
as beautiful as the sea

where you go up
and say the word
eminence

to yourself
all was lived in
had been lived in

was coming to an end
again
in the featureless present

that was expanding to
cloister it
this just a little too

comic parable
and so insure the second
beginning

of that day seen against the street
of whichever way
you walked and talked

knowing not knowing
the thing that was describing you
and not knowing

your taller
well somehow more informed
bearing

as you wind down
only a second
it did matter

you come back so seldom
but it’s all right
the way of staying

you started comes back
procession into the fire
into the sky

the dream you lost
firm in its day
reassured and remembered

剑郭琴符

回复,加1分

剑郭琴符

　商务人事广告

　　（选自 Houseboat Days ）
　　作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）
　　译者:剑郭琴符

　　令人不安的沉思又来了: “遗留物”是什么?
　　也许他们有关于它的完整的名字,他们忍受
　　特权的旧招牌,其权力
　　从年龄的堆积和黯淡的色彩中
　　对今天的中心说话。漂流的心,为什么
　　毫无意义地漫游?个子高高的昨日的守卫者
　　就像悬崖上的影子一样陡峭;
　　无论你走哪条路,都在对他们的大量感觉里。
　　此刻一切都在下降,通向港口的视野。

　　因此你的膝盖的确需要造得强壮,被奔跑。
　　我们有地方锻炼,有一套特殊的设备:
　　膝垫,平衡杆和其他。它工作
　　在老化的感觉中:你走出来总是有一点提前
　　不只是为了放松追随的群众的
　　感觉。那是暴虐,
　　暴行,傲慢。同时这帐篷让它自身
　　安静了。它们的墙壁不透明,以至看不见
　　道路;一段宜人的,能听到一半的旋律爬到它们的天花板--
　　并不和谐,但残留物由医生处理。明天...
　　歌声从附近篝火的火焰中爬出,
　　苍白的,蜡笔画的东西在它们的脆弱中很精致
　　带着一两个注释表明它没被丢失,
　　至少在它们身上。歌声装饰我们关于世界的观念
　　并且标示出其界限,就像一条肥皂泡的饰带。

　　什么促使我们开始乐于助人?
　　在开始只有莎草,一块水田
　　被风吹皱。慢慢地
　　树木加剧了一直孤独的新奇,
　　其余的东西开始被画进了素描,然后...寂静,
　　或空虚,伴随多年。一个人能回到
　　概括了这些田园画的自然的观念中吗?
　　然而现在已经完成了建设
　　反对过去的城墙的工作,不是城墙,
　　而是带刺铁丝网的藩篱。所以现在我们知道
　　是什么职业紧跟着
　　(骨饰,纺织漫长的历险记)
　　加强阴影色彩的歌声的通道
　　(那阴影)浸渍你的业余爱好,当你向它弯腰,斜视的
　　时候。我能做一张
　　我拥有的每件东西的列表,和指向它的
　　方向,每件东西花费多少,多少木头,线,彩色墨水,等等。

　　歌声没有提及方向。
　　它最多扭曲地面上的经度线
　　就像嫩枝搭起的粗糙的居所(船舰
　　还没有到达,它只是一个梦。它在靠近合恩角的
　　某个地方,尽管波瑞阿斯（北风神）努力吹送
　　那些低垂的帆。)关于巨大距离的观念
　　是允许的,甚至在诗琴漫长的滴出中
　　也毫无疑问。如何逃离?
　　这个巨人从不让我们逃出,除非我们弄瞎他。

　　那就是,有一天,我回家的方法。
　　没有被今天吊在破布上的
　　老墙,被硬化进
　　一个永恒的迟到的下午,从灵魂的底部
　　诱出过长的阴影和鲁莽的彩虹
　　震惊。如此简单的东西,
　　我们从它们造出了如此复杂的一些东西
　　几乎击败了我们。为什么每个东西不能再次简单,
　　就像第一支歌的第一批词语,当它们出现在
　　全神贯注,写下它们然后唱出它们的一个人(那里):
　　“危险从柿子圆盘的中心
　　它们最后休息的地方,
　　转向箭头。你该告诫自己
　　面临危险吗?什么时候它以露天看台的形状
　　稀疏出现,由一个已经目击到
　　你写作这个事件的观众,
　　显著地,在你的日志中?真正承认
　　它将消散如同苍白的粉红色和蓝色的手帕
　　(那些手帕)绝迹了几个世纪,变成了包围我们的
　　蓝色的穹顶,但它们,有些还在这里。”


　　附言:熟悉《奥德赛》的读者不难看出本诗中的典故:塞壬,风神的皮袋,奥德修斯弄瞎巨人的眼睛,等等.



　　Business Personals



　　The disquieting muses again: what are “leftovers”？
　　Perhaps they have names for it all, who come bearing
　　Worn signs of privilege whose authority
　　Speaks out of the accumulation of age and faded colors
　　To the center of today. Floating heart, why
　　Wander on senselessly? The tall guardians
　　Of yesterday are steep as cliff shadows;
　　Whatever path you take abounds in their sense.
　　All presently lead downward, to the harbor view.

　　Therefore do your knees need to be made strong, by running.
　　We have places for the training and a special on equipment:
　　Knee-pads, balancing poles and the rest. It works
　　In the sense of aging: you come out always a little ahead
　　And not so far as to lose a sense of the crowd
　　Of disciples. That were tyranny,
　　Outrage, hubris. Meanwhile this tent is silence
　　Itself. Its walls are opaque, so as not to see
　　The road; a pleasant, half-heard melody climbs to its ceiling—
　　Not peace, but rest the doctor ordered. Tomorrow ...
　　And songs climb out of the flames of the near campfires,
　　Pale, pastel things exquisite in their frailness
　　With a note or two to indicate it isn’t lost,
　　On them at least. The songs decorate our notion of the world
　　And mark its limits, like a frieze of soap-bubbles.

　　What caused us to start caring?
　　In the beginning was only sedge, a field of water
　　Wrinkled by the wind. Slowly
　　The trees increased the novelty of always being alone,
　　The rest began to be sketched in, and then ... silence,
　　Or blankness, for a number of years. Could one return
　　To the idea of nature summed up in these pastoral images?
　　Yet the present has done its work of building
　　A rampart against the past, not a rampart,
　　A barbed-wire fence. So now we know
　　What occupations to stick to (scrimshaw, spinning tall tales)
　　By the way the songs deepen the color of the shadow
　　Impregnating your hobby as you bend over it,
　　Squinting. I could make a list
　　Of each one of my possessions and the direction it
　　Pointed in, how much each thing cost, how much for wood, string, colored ink, etc.

　　The song makes no mention of directions.
　　At most it twists the longitude lines overhead
　　Like twigs to form a crude shelter. (The ship
　　Hasn’t arrived, it was only a dream. It’s somewhere near
　　Cape Horn, despite all the efforts of Boreas to puff out
　　Those drooping sails.) The idea of great distance
　　Is permitted, even implicit in the slow dripping
　　Of a lute. How to get out?
　　This giant will never let us out unless we blind him.

　　And that’s how, one day, I got home.
　　Don't be shocked that the old walls
　　Hang in rags now, that the rainbow has hardened
　　Into a permanent late afternoon that elicits too-long
　　Shadows and indiscretions from the bottom
　　Of the soul. Such simple things,
　　And we make of them something so complex it defeats us,
　　Almost. Why can’t everything be simple again,
　　Like the first words of the first song as they occurred
　　To one who, rapt, wrote them down and later sang them:
　　“Only danger deflects
　　The arrow from the center of the persimmon disc,
　　Its final resting place. And should you be addressing yourself
　　To danger? When it takes the form of bleachers
　　Sparsely occupied by an audience which has
　　Already witnessed the events of which you write,
　　Tellingly, in your log? Properly acknowledged
　　It will dissipate like the pale pink and blue handkerchiefs
　　That vanished centuries ago into the blue dome
　　That surrounds us, but which are, some maintain still here.”

剑郭琴符

回复,加1分

剑郭琴符 发表于 2020-7-11 16:55
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补充内容 (2020-7-13 09:12):
试验一下,补充是什么效果,呵呵.

我是小亮

翻译的语言、节奏都很喜欢。

剑郭琴符

我是小亮 发表于 2020-7-12 15:24
翻译的语言、节奏都很喜欢。

谢谢小亮!

剑郭琴符

圣瓦伦廷节情人卡        （选自  Houseboat Days  ）   作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）   译者:剑郭琴符        Valentine :n. (在2月14日常匿名寄送的)圣瓦伦廷节情人卡;(收受圣瓦伦廷节贺卡的)情人        就像玫瑰中的大蛇,就像干枯的   闹羊花中的角蝰,我盘绕着   你。城堡的名字就是你,   埃尔雷伊。它是一个通宵卡车停靠站   在犹他州提供最好的咖啡和汉堡包。   在白天它是最美和最夜间的。   有七层:苔藓玛瑙,珊瑚,洒金玻璃,   红玛瑙,瑞士青金石,黑曜石---也许还有别的。   现在你知道,它有一根线性   四重奏的形式。不同的部分总是互相干扰,   互相纠缠,互相阻碍彼此的道路   以便熟练地撤回到末端,丢失了---什么?   一种新型的空虚,也许沐浴着新鲜,   也许不是。也许只是一种新型的空虚。    你聪明，但今天的天气嘲弄，吓坏了我。你来自于它的碎片。总是追求你是我在那儿不能转身，不能对抗你的他性的知识。这是我的另一间房子，在汉普斯特得的那一间，在街区中间，虽然你多次经过那条街但你从没见过的一间砖房，在春天，有时一缕光洒下让你转过凝视的脸的风，有时在夏天高处，树宏伟的构思淹没了你对一切的思想，以至于你再也看不见我的房子。它靠近亚瑟.拉克姆的住地。我确实不记得那街道的名称---一定程度是清晰的维多利亚时代的瓮的文字：E，后面是 MEL(E?),也许是一个拉丁语关于苹果或英雄主义的训词，下面像是失去光泽的“罗斯特”名字的一部分，但那也太低了。听着，我从没意味着你不在我的房子中。但你不能，因为你似乎在它里面。   这部分我回想变成你的困难和惊奇。它可能永远不会被写下来。一些东西同时来到，太令人厌倦，太使人兴奋，以至于不能写下。这必须是它们中的一个。某些日子，当我们晕晕乎乎……与此同时，写信给我。我欣赏，感激你的电话，但得到贺卡和信件也是令人愉快的---所以“让他们继续”！   穿过胡须的微光我听到了如“现在看这儿，年轻人”或“亨利.格罗金斯，你这老堕落者”或“一个小时莱斯特一直在开始做预算，没有进展”的声音。我知道这些事情就是他们的存在。晚上有些许东西，它们滑着，为别的东西腾出空间。穿过一个椭圆支架看，一间客厅的墙中的一堵。壁纸是传统的图案，切片的黄秋葵和八角茴香，用天然涂胶把不同的彩色纸粘在一起，紫色占优势，背景是一堆装饰画，画有灰色牧羊女和对着防火消防栓小便的狗。回想艺术家呈献的完美的落下的技巧：当它们从消防栓上反弹并且汇集到一股闪耀的太阳黄色的水坑，下面，起控制作用的是冷静的经验。仅仅壁炉台的架子展示。在每一个末端，坐在互相之间稍微转向的基座上，两幅贵族斗牛士图像，一个男孩在精致的樱桃中，一个女孩在矢车菊的蓝色中。他们的阴影进入一个怪诞的轮廓。在中间，是一座旧钟，其滴答就像它们高高的话语声音的节拍器。此刻图像的嘴打开，关闭，在平常交谈的风格以后。      今天下午   我想划向你，   我的伊琳娜！一直写你亲爱的文章，   我明白了。就发生在最近的一个更进步的杂志上。   绚丽夺目的书写，或者看起来是这样，但按现在的标准   你的想法难道不是有点太进步吗？当然，你说的   有很多真理，但难道你没觉得有时候公众比   它能应付的有更多真理？我没意味着你应该…好，“谎言”，   但也许，好，嘿，嘿，  风对已剪过毛的羔羊的一点   怒气。嗯？怎么样，老男孩？   或者在爱中，带着“进步的”其他的任何事情似乎是旧帽子，   包括我毫无疑问的交谈想法，你也是这样？在那种情况下   我应该继续下去。啊呀，我在四点半有一个约会   但现在已经五点多了。你把我的帽子放哪儿了？      这些事我写给你，只给你。   评判它们不要太严厉。风的十倍，   当他正在说的时候。它们是供婴儿用的东西   可以长大成孩子，也许---谁知道？---   甚至某一天成年人，但此刻它们仅仅存在于   你爱我的盲目中，并且是它的证明。   你不能想它们太久   而没有撞翻它们。你的城堡是一间贺卡的房子，   老式的纸牌类型，远远超过   眼睛能看到的云的范围，它也建造于   流沙之上，它的基座发出啧啧声，也超出了视野。我是适合居住的一个。   但我的后面是你的一扇门，现在打开，现在关闭，   你的吻就像梦，或镭的   圣水，或一些种类的花朵。   记住我对你说的话。

Valentine// Like a serpent among roses,  like an asp Among withered thornapples I  coil to   And at you. The name of the  castle is you,   El Rey. It is an all-night  truck-stop   Offering the best coffee and  hamburgers in Utah.   It is most beautiful and  nocturnal by daylight.   Seven layers: moss-agate,  coral,aventurine,   Carnelian, Swiss lapis,  obsidian— maybe others.   You know now that it has the  form of a string   Quartet. The different parts  are always meddling with each other,   Pestering each other, getting  in each other’s way   So as to withdraw skillfully  at the end, leaving---what?   A new kind of emptiness,  maybe bathed in freshness,   Maybe not. Maybe just a new  kind of emptiness. You are smart but the weather  of this day startles and japes at you. You come out of it in pieces. Always  pursuing you is the knowledge that I am there unable to turn around, unable  to confront you with your otherness. This is another one of my houses, the  one in Hampstead, the brick one in the middle of the block that you never saw  though you passed along that street many times, sometimes in spring with a  light drizzle blowing that made you avert your gaze, sometimes at the height  of summer where the grandeur of the ideas of the trees swamped your ideas  about everything, so you never saw my house. It was near where Arthur Rackham  lived. I can’t quite remember the name of the street—some  partly legible inscription on a Victorian urn: E and then MEL(E?), perhaps a  Latin exhortation to apples or heroism, and down in the dim part a name like “Rossiter,” but that is too far down.  Listen, I never meant for you not to be in my house. But you couldn’t because you were it.   In this part I reflect on the  difficulty and surprise of being you. It may never get written. Some things  are simultaneously too boring and too exciting to write about. This has to be  one of them. Some day, when we’re stoned ... Meanwhile, write to  me. I enjoy and appreciate your phone calls, but it’s  nice to get cards and letters too—so keep‘em cornin’ ！   Through bearded twilight I  hear things like “Now see here, young man!” or “Henry Groggins, you old reprobate!” or “For an hour Lester has been staring at budget figures, making no  progress.” I know these things are, that they are. At  night there are a few things, and they slide along to make room for others.  Seen through an oval frame, one of the walls of a parlor. The wallpaper is a  conventionalized pattern, the sliced okra and star-anise one, held together  with crudely gummed links of different colored paper, among which purple  predominates, stamped over a flocked background of grisaille shepherdesses  and dogs urinating against fire hydrants. To reflect on the consummate skill  with which the artist has rendered the drops as they bounce off the hydrant  and collect in a gleaming sun-yellow pool below the curb is a sobering  experience. Only the shelf of the mantelpiece shows. At each end, seated on  pedestals turned slightly away from one another, two aristocratic bisque  figures, a boy in delicate cerise and a girl in cornflower blue. Their  shadows join in a grotesque silhouette. In the center, an ancient clock whose  tick acts as the metronome for the sound of their high voices. Presently the  mouths of the figures open and shut, after the mode of ordinary conversation.       Thought I’d   Row across to you this  afternoon,   My Irina! Always writing your  beloved articles,   I see. Happened on one only  recently in one of the more progressive journals.   Brilliantly written, or so it  seemed, but isn’t your thought a bit too   Advanced by present-day  standards? Of course, there was much truth   In what you said, but don’t you feel  the public sometimes has more truth Than it can cope with? I don’t mean that  you should ... well, “fib,”   But perhaps, well, heh heh,  temper the wind to the shorn lamb   A bit. Eh? How about it, old  boy?   Or are you so in love with  your “advanced” thinking that everything else   Seems old hat to you,  including my conversation no doubt? In that   Case I ought to be getting  on. Goodness, I’ve a four-thirty appointment and it’s   Already five after. What have  you done with my hat?      These things I write for you  and you only.   Do not judge them too  harshly. Tenper the wind,   As he was saying. They are  infant things That may grow up to be  children, perhaps—who knows?—   Even adults some day, but now  they exist only in the blindness   Of your love for me and are  the proof of it.   You can’t think  about them too long   Without knocking them over.  Your castle is a house of cards,   The old-fashioned kind of  playing cards, towering farther   Than the eye can see into the  clouds, and it is also built on   Shifting sands, its base  slurps out of sight too. I am the inhabitable one.   But my back is as a door to  you, now open, now shut,   And your kisses are as  dreams, or an elixir   Of radium, or flowers of some  kind.   Remember about what I told  you.

剑郭琴符

各种爱抚   （选自 Houseboat Days ）   作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）   译者:剑郭琴符   化名丢失和补偿   从窗户飘进我们周围。   它有助于了解身体所来自的方向。   它并不是绝对干净的。用文字表述   就像一地芥菜一样苦,我们   拷贝某些部分,然后谢绝它们。   这些不是仅有的姿势:它们暗示   彼此在一起的复杂关系。有时一个人   呆了一会儿,在一间房里   一丝灯光染黑了所有灰色的家具。   现在我知道了有关我的身体   所有要知道的。我也知道我的脚被指向的方向。暂时   延缓判断就够了,我不是说   永远,因为判断也是一场暴风雨,也就是说,从   别的地方,在停泊处停下游船   看着,在天空中踢着。   试着移动,和这些坚硬的蓝色,   刺眼的黄色,这些手和脚一起。   我们的姿势把我们带进白昼更远   比明天将理解的。   它们活在我们身上。它们歌唱时我们理解它们,   当芳香消失很久以后。   夜里,眼睛凿出一个新的幽灵。

All Kinds of Caresses   The code-name losses and compensations   Float in and around us through the window.   It helps to know what direction the body comes from.   It isn’t absolutely clean. In words   Bitter as a field of mustard we   Copy certain parts, then decline them.   These are not only gestures: they imply   Complex relations with one another. Sometimes one   Stays on for a while, a trace of lamp black   In a room full of gray furniture.   I now know all there is to know   About my body. I know too the direction   My feet are pointed in. For the time being   It is enough to suspend judgment, by which I don’t mean   Forever, since judgment is also a storm,i.e., from   Somewhere else, sinking pleasure craft at moorings,   Looking, kicking in the sky.   Try to move with these hard blues,   These harsh yellows, these hands and feet.   Our gestures have taken us farther into the day   Than tomorrow will understand.   They live us. And we understand them when they sing,   Long after the perfume has worn off.   In the night the eye chisels a new phantom.

剑郭琴符

丢失,找到,再丢失   （选自 Houseboat Days ）   作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）   译者:剑郭琴符   像一个物体,其丢失已经开始感到   虽然还没注意,你的脉冲信号   指向当前的死亡。“今天,在外面的河上   一定冷。”“在世上你能做些甜食。”   他们没告诉他任何事。霓虹灯博多尼   发出它的邀请,检查今晚的   身影,(它)从一条遥远而致命的放松警惕的   走廊里渗出 :仅仅那些颜色和这讲话。

Lost and Found and Lost Again   Like an object whose loss has begun to be felt   Though not yet noticed, your pulsar signals   To the present death. “It must be cold out on the river   Today. ” “You could make sweet ones on earth.”   They tell him nothing. And the neon Bodoni   Presses its invitation to inspect the figures   Of this evening seeping from a far and fatal corridor   Of relaxed vigilance: these colors and this speech only.

剑郭琴符

两个死亡     （选自 Houseboat Days ）     作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）     译者:剑郭琴符     谈话的     呼吸花边迅速地变暗,变成了     它没有参与其中的某种东西,椅子和     缸子被年轻的房客使用,其浏览     漫不经心。身体让黯淡的     魔法,和叹息绕行。     冷酷地想     在这儿,但回去的路被切断：     你只能站着点头，交换眼神,但是     礼仪的时间过去了,角落里的柴堆     散发出森林和平的气息。常年地,     我们死了又返回。我们     怎么了,我们被问及,在老爱迪生圆柱上的     那个声音告诉它:斜度,     这些教材的直线度条件,     抓在手里的时候很坚决。     他出去了。     空荡荡的客厅像一座山一样大。

Two Deaths     The lace     Of spoken breathing fades quite quickly, becomes     Something it has no part in, the chairs and     The mugs used by the new young tenants, whose glance     Is elsewhere. The body rounds out the muted     Magic, and sighs.     Unkind to want     To be here, but the way back is cut off:     You can only stand and nod, exchange stares, but     The time of manners is going, the woodpile in the corner     Of the lot exudes the peace of the forest. Perennially,     We die and are taken up again. How is it     With us, we are asked, and the voice     On the old Edison cylinder tells it: obliquity,     The condition of straightness of these tutorials,     Firm when it is held in the hand.     He goes out.     The empty parlor is as big as a hill.

剑郭琴符

诗如画就是她的名字    （选自 Houseboat Days ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    你不能再这样说它。    为美而烦恼,你不得不出去    到户外,到林中空地，    休息一下。当然,无论你有什么怪事发生    都没事。你比这要求更多    是奇怪的,你有这么多情人,    这么多尊敬你并愿意    为你做事的人，但你认为    如果他们真的认识你,这是不妥的    ...    自我分析就这么多。现在,    是关于在你的诗画中你放进去了什么:    花总是宜人的，尤其是飞燕草。    你以前认识的男孩的名字和他们的雪橇，    火箭好--他们还在吗？    还有很多其他质量一样的东西    正如我所提到的那些。现在一个人必须    找到几个重要的词语,和很多轻描淡写的,    声音沉闷的东西。她建议我    买她的桌子。突然，街道是    香蕉和日本乐器的叮当声。    单调的证据散落在各处。他的脑袋    锁进了我的。我们是一块跷跷板。一些    应该写下的东西是当你写诗时    这是如何影响你的：    一个几乎倒空的头脑的极端紧缩    撞上了茂盛的、卢梭式的树叶,它们渴望交流    呼吸之间的东西，如果只是为了    他者,它们渴望了解你，为了其他交流中心的缘故而    抛弃你，以便理解    可以开始，这样做是失败的。

And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name    You can’t say it that way any more.    Bothered about beauty you have to    Come out into the open, into a clearing,    And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you    Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange    Of you, you who have so many lovers,    People who look up to you and are willing    To do things for you, but you think    It's not right, that if they really knew you    ...    So much for self-analysis. Now,    About what to put in your poem-painting:    Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium.    Names of boys you once knew and their sleds,    Skyrockets are good—do they still exist?    There are a lot of other things of the same quality    As those I've mentioned. Now one must    Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed,    Dull-sounding ones. She approached me    About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was    Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments.    Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head    Locked into mine. We were a seesaw.Something    Ought to be written about how this affects    You when you write poetry:    The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind    Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate    Something between breaths, if only for the sake    Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you    For other centers of communication, so that understanding    May begin, and in doing so be undone.

剑郭琴符

严肃的玩偶    （选自 Houseboat Days ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    事物的种类比事物个体    更重要,虽然独特的东西极为    有趣。对吗?当每一个细节    走向尼亚加拉大瀑布的一只桶,一个人可以    有理由问：这是从哪里来的?    我的关注到了哪里?你的穿戴    和其他概念一起消失。    它们排在工厂阳台的栏杆旁    抵抗贴有一些笨拙白纸云的    蓝色天空。东方在哪里和西方相遇?    日落时有两种微笑可供选择：谨慎或严肃。    在这个最好的可能世界里，这就足够了。

The Serious Doll    The kinds of thing are more important than the    Individual thing, though the specific is supremely    Interesting. Right? As each particular    Goes over Niagara Falls in a barrel one may    Justifiably ask: Where does this come from?    Whither goes my concern? What you are wearing    Has vanished along with other concepts.    They are lined up by the factory balcony railing    Against blue sky with some clumsy white paper clouds    Pasted on it. Where does the east meet the west?    At sunset there is a choice of two smiles: discreet or serious.    In this best of all possible worlds, that is enough.

剑郭琴符

春光    （选自 Houseboat Days ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    建筑，在彼此背后    如此随意地堆积，“建议    虽然只是建议，    我们希望你能认真对待。”    进入了蓝色。去那里更容易，    但我们希望你能下来。    今天在地上有大量,    不仅是泥土,也有一些重要的    东西。比如说,银漆。你感觉它    怎么样？这是白银时代吗？    是啊。我想是的。但我一直在看香烟    在水槽边上烧，去年冬天    留下来的。你的论点    几乎超越了我可能走的任何路，    这儿,或者当我最终离开这里的时候。

Spring Light    The buildings, piled so casually    Behind each other, are “suggestions    Which, while only suggestions,    We hope you will take seriously.” Off into    The blue. Getting there is easier,    But then we hope you will come down.    There is a great deal on the ground today,    Not just mud, but things of some importance,    Too. Like, silver paint. How do you feel    About it? And, is this a silver age?    Yeah. I suppose so. But I keep looking at the cigarette    Burns on the edge of the sink, left over    From last winter. Your argument’s    Nearly beyond any paths I'm likely to take,    Here, or when I eventually leave here.

剑郭琴符

躺在我们生命的角落    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    日子一天天过去，绰号流行。    它变成了一种好奇，但它并不好奇。    午后的树叶吹到污浊的砖的    表面上。只是一座古老的城堡。当你在这里的时候    享受它。寻找一条更方便的方法    以便拯救一个人的灵魂，像一个季节,一个人被引导到它，    环顾周围，和左右,它的巨著    在裂缝中变得清晰可辨。一本伟大的传记    那也是一本好自传，在车站；    一个蜂窝页具有证明是正确的    列表,发散成    那里的东西，平均起来像风，    回到一个不温不火的,适当的    有灰老鼠色家具的会议厅，它们多余的图片。    这是高大的睡眠    为你准备汤和时间    用于十分特别的歌曲，来自于第一个意义,    它包含了那些变化。

Sleeping in the Corners of Our Lives    So the days went by and the nickname caught on.    It became a curiosity, but it wasn’t curious.    Afternoon leaves blew against the stale brick    Surface. Just an old castle. Enjoy it    While you’re here. And in looking for a more convenient way    To save one’s soul, one is led up to it like a season,    And in looking all around, and about, its tome    Becomes legible in the interstices. A great biography    That is also a good autobiography, at the station;    A honeycomb of pages with listings    Of the tried and true, that radiates    Out into what is there, that averages up as wind,    And settles back into a tepid, modest    Chamber with its mouse-gray furniture, its redundant pictures.    This is tall sleeping    To prepare you for the soup and the mins    In giving the very special songs of the first meaning,    The ones incorporating the changes.

剑郭琴符

轮廓    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    那股潮流是如何流入,转入    下流瞬间的风气    变成一种行为，    我不知道。道路    从那儿奔出然后在那儿    这样,批评的进一步借口    或增加快乐的欲望    任何时候就不会再一次在这条路上出现。    在你们的压迫者    没表情的嘴里,然而，很多    被视为挑衅。这条路    虽然不连续,断断续续,有时    好几年没听说过一次，确实，    尽管如此，向上走,虽然,让他吃惊的是    它就在房子里，    而且总是越来越窄。    没人知道有多长，    什么习性和虚构的地下室    花儿开向他或许被其驱使的    水泥。但它都转向外面的另一条路。    如此舒适，如此别扭，总是被诱惑，    但1964年,他没有考虑福特车    任何东西的价格，葡萄,她逗引的触摸    如此近,以至于鱼缸里的鱼    下垂得离玻璃很近，悬着，但他从不了解她    除了在窗帘后面。灾难    埋在楼梯里留在那里的地毯里    从来没有败坏任何人。    有一天他长大了，地平线    有礼貌地结结巴巴。天空像平纹细布。    在老房子里，还没有人回答铃声。

Silhouette    Of how that current ran in, and turned    In the climate of the indecent moment    And became an act,    I may not tell. The road    Ran down there and was afterwards there    So that no further borrowing    Of criticism or the desire to add pleasure    Was ever seen that way again.    In the blank mouths    Of your oppressors, however, much    Was seen to provoke. And the way    Though discontinuous, and intermittent, sometimes    Not heard of for years at a time, did,    Nonetheless, move up, although, to his surprise    It was inside the house,    And always getting narrower.    There is no telling to what lengths,    What mannerisms and fictitious subterranean    Flowerings next to the cement he might have    Been driven. But it all turned out another way.    So cozy, so ornery, tempted always,    Yet not thinking in his 1964 Ford    Of the price of anything, the grapes, and her tantalizing touch    So near that the fish in the aquarium    Hung close to the glass, suspended, yet he never knew her    Except behind the curtain. The catastrophe    Buried in the stair carpet stayed there    And never corrupted anybody.    And one day he grew up, and the horizon    Stammered politely. The sky was like muslin.    And still in the old house no one ever answered the bell.

剑郭琴符

风景中的人物    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    什么增加的记录，什么责任    你带着？像不断滑下的鸟叫    插在我们周围。但是尸体    建立抵抗力。征兆    不再被理解为他们一直能理解的。    黄色的V形图案迎着天空下蓝色的街区    航行,然后离去。它转动尾巴消失了。    穿过许多不温不火的机器，    移动的时候，它变得更有意义。    父亲和其他人会在那里    在他们的木制珠宝里，在树下，    因为不争论那个洞    有道理。你也许会看到我们跳舞    没人曾经搞清我们,直到你像灌木丛一样    定居在我们脚下，在新的怒视中，    一些旧的特征又回来了。    没有它们，我们就会回头向山里射击。

Figures in a Landscape    What added note, what responsibility    Do you bring? Inserted around us like birdcalls    With an insistent fall. But the body    Builds up a resistance. The signs    Are no longer construed as they could have been.    The yellow chevron sails against the blue block    Of the sky, and is off. It turns tail and disappears.    Moving through much tepid machinery,    It makes more sense as it goes along.    Father and the others will be there    In their wooden jewelry, under the trees,    Since it makes sense not to quarrel    About the hole. You will perhaps see us dancing    Whom no one could ever figure out until you settled    At our feet like bushes and in the new glare    Several of the old features returned.    Without that we'd shoot back into the hills.

雕像    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    流行的风故意撒谎    她被抛弃的那天。    咳嗽山洞的长布嘎嘎作响：    先浅浅地向外摸索，口渴的一口，比    心所能给予的更多。    你告诉我,我丢掉了最有趣的部分    但我认为我发现了最有趣的部分:    突如其来离开,因为熄灭的,    装饰铜锈的手电筒    是团队的一切-风，火，呼吸，打鼾。    我不在那里,我知道瑜伽熊    在那里我发现了一个最有趣的港口    对千年航海家渡口喊叫商品    但这地方是一个棋盘，    无论是陆地、海洋还是艺术    束缚于伟大超越的原则    仅仅缺乏“发表声明”的专业知识。

Statuary    The prevailing winds lied in intent    The day she was given up.    The long cloth cawed from the cough cave:    First shallow groping outward, thirsty bites, more    Than heart can bestow.    You tell me I missed the most interesting part    But I think I found the most interesting part:    An unheralded departure by extinguished torchlight    Whose decorative patina    Is everything to the group一wind, fire, breathing, snores.    I was not there I was aware of Yogi Bear    There where I found a most interesting port    Crying wares to millennial crossings of voyagers    But this space is a checkerboard,    Whether it be land, sea or art    Trapped in the principle of the great beyond    Lacking only the expertise to “Make a statement.”

五个迂腐片段    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    我有一个谈过的想法    成为我所做的事。    这些事物的诗分开它们，    我颤抖着。稀疏的冬天，比泄气的夏天    更少脆弱，词语的巢穴。    一些部落相信精神    是内在于一个人指甲的碎屑。    他们很快聚集死人，    在日落时分。这将是    三年前被遗忘的某一天：    死亡后令人震惊的光的证据。    另一个人。黄砖和砖石的    墙，更深，整个下午更沉闷    和华尔兹的声音，编造伤感的    他捏造的乱七八糟小玩意作品。    小旅馆看起来还不错    光线充足，在黑暗中，在公寓里    碎浪后面的海滩，坚硬，无害。    你很惊讶这么多劣质的东西    保持垂直，被困在我们的木乃伊里。

Five Pedantic Pieces    An idea I had and talked about    Became the things I do.    The poem of these things takes them apart,    And I tremble. Sparse winter, less vulnerable    Than deflated summer, the nests of words.    Some of the tribes believe the spirit    Is immanent in a person’s nail parings.    They gather up their dead swiftly,    At sundown. And this will be    Some forgotten day three years ago:    Startling evidence of light after death.    Another person. The yellow-brick and masonry    Wall, deeper, duller all afternoon    And a voice waltzing, fabricating works    Of sentimental gadgetry—messes he'd cook up.    And the little hotel looked all right    And well lit, in the dark, on the flat    Beach behind the breakers, stiff, harmless.    And you are amazed that so much flimsy stuff    Stays erect, trapped in our mummery.

剑郭琴符

也许我看到了它    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    打长途电话的那个人    正在和另一终端打开的接收器通话    神秘的话语也同样出现,就像    指向他耳边那样，房间里没有人听    当窗帘风铃声在星光前庄严地散出    低语的词语,这已经发生了    楼梯上的脚步声证明是真实的    你邻居中的那些人,我指的是搬走的那个人

I Might Have Seen It    The person who makes a long-distance phone call    Is talking into the open receiver at the other end    The mysterious discourse also emerges as pointed    In his ear there are no people in the room listening    As the curtain bells out majestically in front of the starlight    To whisper the words This has already happened    And the footfalls on the stair turn out to be real    Those of your neighbor I mean the one who moved away

新奇遇的山丘和阴影    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    即使是最挑剔的人也会发现    路挡着路。    他看着下面的岩架，    与更严肃、更好的时光搏斗。    一位女士的腿穿越他的头脑。    远在海上，海鸥像重物一样移动。    这新鲜感只是一件例行工作。换句话说    灯光的屏幕总是在那里，呼唤着    一个元音的名字，然后是沉默，    烧毁的月亮，我们的老富兰克林    车停在院子里    在最后的阴影下。    如果有办法,我们觉得，    分开这些东西,从这些活生生的偶然性中    它折磨着我们的最好意图    (它们)伴随着一个异象,其中一个男人朝他的桌子俯身，    写作，与下次会变成梦幻天鹅绒的    软垫交流，    一座月光城市,少数民族    波动，画出文化媒介    像蛛网的浮丝一样细    围绕着一个模棱两可的空间：    它自己的发现者和名字，    以自己的名字命名，    它自己就是它的名字，所有这些都进入城市    就像海堤后面的船。    你不可能知道它们    但它们是你的一部分，冰冷理性的一部分    你的确知道。    在开始你不在场    但这并不难理解：    送信人喊着你的名字    在所有主要城市的街道上。    早晨。一辆旧拖拉机。    奇怪的是，这些都没有名字    夜晚的通道现在看起来很清晰    你以为(通道)只有电话线    还有租来的奇怪房子里的鸟    在一个靠近北方但不在北方的地方    有一股强烈的麻布味，    一个等待的地方，不在里面。

The Hills and Shadows of a New Adventure    Even the most finicky would find    Some way to stand in the way.    He looked down at the ledge,    Grappling with more serious, better times.    A lady’s leg crossed his mind.    Far out at sea the gulls shifted like weights.    This freshness was only a chore. In other words    The screen of lights is always there, calling    A name of vowels and then there is silence,    A burnt-out moon, our old Franklin    Parked in the yard    Under the final shade.    If there was a way to separate these objects    We feel, from these lived eventualities    That torment our best intentions    With a vision of a man bent over his desk,    Writing, communicating with the pad    Which becomes dream velvet the next time,    A moonlit city in which minorities    Fluctuate, drawing out the cultural medium    As fine as floating threads of cobwebs    Around the one ambiguous space:    Its own discoverer and name,    Named after itself,    Which is its name, and all these go into cities    Like ships behind a sea wall.    You cannot know them    Yet they are a part of you, the cold reason part    You do know about.    You were not present at the beginning    But this is not so difficult to figure out:    Messengers crying your name    In the streets of all the principal cities.    Morning. An old tractor.    It seems strange that there is no name for these    And that the night passages now seem so clear    Where you thought were only telephone wires    And the birds of strange rented buildings    In a place close to the north yet not north    With a strong smell of burlap,    A place to wait for, not in.

剑郭琴符

四处敲打    （选自 As We Know ）    作者： (美)约翰.阿什贝利（ John Ashberry）    译者:剑郭琴符    我真的以为在这里喝酒    会开始一个新的链条，柔软的风暴    会减弱，恐怖故事    男人们吓唬自己发出的声音，    安全地躺在峡谷的边缘,像日子一样    死去，第二天早上他们还在那里。    没有什么是很简单的。    你必须记着,某些东西会消失一会儿    这样他们就可以被带着以后成为圣洁的    深情记住。看看比如说    装饰艺术,或荷兰的“郁金香热”：    两者都是我们知道和回忆的事情    以某种巧妙的手法，好像他们要对一部分生命    负责。我们祝贺他们。    每一天，当太阳运行的轨道    进入你的小客厅里呆着    你记得那晚的意外，好像那是一个朋友。    现在那一切都被遗忘。没有    对立情绪，它很快就会再来    也没关系。你知道我的意思。我们似乎被裹进    一个积极的，有意识的选择，像一只鸟    在空中。牡丹在煤烟里倾覆也没关系    或者一个男人每晚都会来车站    在你的房子外面，在黎明前马上离开，    你拿起电话的时候没人回答。    很多这样的事情你以前全都经历过    知道生命就像大海：有时潮水退去了    有时它在里面，但总是同一个水体    尽管看起来不一样,    它让岸上的东西看起来不一样。    它们像雪和雪犁一样相互依赖。    你能制造一系列的事件，就像日子    从日历中,抽空它,越来越快地    打自己的号码,这只是在    意识到这一点很久之后。那时    空间将是一个没有盖子的罐子，你能以    任何你喜欢的方式活着,在外面那些模糊的露台，    走廊，走道---我们被允许进入的    空间结合时间的形式，我们热情地活着，    很幸运，虽然我们永远无法被描述    而且将在小说中塑造糟糕的人物。

Knocking Around    I really thought that drinking here would    Start a new chain, that the soft storms    Would abate, and the horror stories, the    Noises men make to frighten themselves,    Rest secure on the lip of a canyon as day    Died away, and they would still be there the next morning.    Nothing is very simple.    You must remember that certain things die out for awhile    So that they can be remembered with affection    Later on and become holy. Look at Art Deco    For instance or the “tulip mania” of Holland:    Both things we know about and recall    With a certain finesse as though they were responsible    For part of life. And we congratulate them.    Each day as the sun wends its way    Into your small living room and stays    You remember the accident of night as though it were a friend.    All that is forgotten now. There are no    Hard feelings, and it doesn’t matter that it will soon    Come again. You know what I mean. We are wrapped in    What seems like a positive, conscious choice, like a bird    In air. It doesn’t matter that the peonies are tipped in soot    Or that a man will come to station himself each night    Outside your house, and leave shortly before dawn,    That nobody answers when you pick up the phone.    You have all lived through lots of these things before    And know that life is like an ocean: sometimes the tide is out    And sometimes it’s in, but it’s always the same body of water    Even though it looks different, and    It makes the things on the shore look different.    They depend on each other like the snow and the snowplow.    It’s only after realizing this for a long time    That you can make a chain of events like days    That more and more rapidly come to punch their own number    Out of the calendar, draining it. By that time    Space will be a jar with no lid, and you can live    Any way you like out on those vague terraces,    Verandas, walkways—the forms of space combined with time    We are allowed, and we live them passionately,    Fortunately, though we can never be described    And would make lousy characters in a novel.