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(美)约翰.阿什贝利诗歌草译

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 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-24 13:12:45 | 显示全部楼层

   连祷文


   (选自 As We Know )
   作者: (美)约翰.阿什贝利( John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   作者注:“连祷文”由两个独立的独白组成,意在同时体验。在传统的印刷格式中,这两个独白是并排出现在对开页上的,让读者可以同时体验到它们,但这种安排在当前的电子书设备上是不可能的。如需下载PDF格式的“连祷文”,因为它原本是打算在网页上列出的,请访问www.openroadmedia.com/john-ashbery/litany.。要收听1980年约翰•阿什伯里和安•劳特巴赫同时朗读这首诗的两段独白的录音,请访问PennSound网站:
   Writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Ashbery
   Author’s Note: “Litany” consists of two independent monologues meant to be experienced simultaneously. In traditional print format, the two monologues are presented side by side on facing pages, allowing the reader to experience their simultaneity, but this arrangement is not possible with the current generation of ebook devices. To download a PDF of “Litany” as it was originally meant to be laid out on the page, please visit www.openroadmedia.com/john-ashbery/litany. To listen to a 1980 recording of John Ashbery and Ann Lauterbach reading the poem’s two monologues simultaneously, visit the PennSound website at
   Writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Ashbery


   译者按 :这两个网址打不开。下面的译文第一列是原文第一部分,第四列是原文第二部分。第二列是第一部分译文,第三列是第二部分译文。
   第二部分原文是斜体字。


Litany
   (第一部分)
   
   
   I
   
   For someone like me
   The simple things
   Like having toast or
   Going to church are
   Kept in one place.
   
   Like having wine and cheese.
   The parents of the town
   Pissing elegantly escape knowledge
   Once and for all. The
   Snapdragons consumed in a wind
   Of fire and rage far over
   The streets as they end.
   
   The casual purring of a donkey
   Rouses me from my accounts:
   What given, what gifts. The air
   Stands straight up like a tail.
   
   He spat on the flowers.
   
   Also for someone
   Like me the time flows round again
   With things I did in it.
   I wish to keep my differences
   And to retain my kinship
   
   To the rest. That is why
   I raise these flowers all around.
   They do not stand for flowers or
   Anything pretty they are
   Code names for the silence.
   
   And just as it
   Always keeps getting sorted out
   And there is still the same amount to do
   I wish to remain happily among these islands
   Of rabbit-eared leaved plants
   And sand and lava rock
   
   That is so little tedious.
   My way shall run from there
   And not mind the pain
   Of getting there. This is an outburst.
   
   The last rains fed
   Into the newly opened canal.
   
   The dust blows in.
   The disturbance is
   Nonverbal communication:
   Meaningless syllables that
   Have a music of their own,
   The music of sex, or any
   Nameless event, something
   That can only be taken as
   Itself. This rules ideas
   Of what else may be there,
   Which regroup farther on,
   Standing around looking at
   The hole left by the great implosion.
   It is they who carry news of it
   To other places. Therefore
   Are they not the event itself?
   
   Especially since it persists
   In dumbness which isn’t even
   A negative articulation---persists
   And collapses into itself.
   
   I had greatly admired
   The shirt.
   He looks fairly familiar.
    

连祷文
   (第一部分)
   
   I
   
   为了像我的某人
   简单的事情
   比如烤面包或者
   去教堂
   被保存在一个地点。
   
   就像喝葡萄酒吃奶酪。
   镇上的父母
   优雅地小便,一劳永逸
   逃避知识。这条
   在火与愤怒的风中
   吞噬的金枪鱼,远在
   街道尽头。
   
   一只驴子不经意的咕噜声
   把我从我的账目中唤醒:
   被赠予的,被赐予的。空气
   像尾巴一样直立着。
   
   他往花上吐口水。
   
   对于像我这样的人
   来说,时间也随着我所做的事情
   再次流逝。
   我希望保留我的分歧
   保持我与其余人的
   
   血缘关系。这就是为什么
   我到处都养这些花的原因。
   它们不代表花或
   任何优美的东西,它们是
   沉默的代号。
   
   正像它
   一直被整理出来一样
   还有同样多的事情要做
   我希望能快乐地逗留在这些
   兔耳树叶植物
   沙子和火山熔岩的岛上
   
   这其中的无聊如此少。
   我的路将从那里逃走
   而不介意到达那里的
   痛苦。这是一次爆发。
   
   最后的雨水喂养
   新开的运河。
   
   尘土吹入。
   干扰是
   非语言的交流:
   无意义的音节
   有自己的音乐,
   性的音乐,或任何
   无名的事件,一些
   只能被视为自己的
   东西。这支配了
   别的可能存在的想法,
   它们会在更远的地方重新组合,
   
   站在那里看着
   巨大内爆留下的空洞。
   正是它们把这个消息
   传到别的地方。因此
   它们不是事件本身吗?
   
   尤其是因为它坚持
   沉默,它甚至不是
   一个否定的表达---坚持
   且崩溃进入它自己。
   
   我非常欣赏
   这件衬衫。
   他看起来相当面熟。
    

连祷文
   (第二部分)
   
   I
   
   因此,这一定是一个洞
   云朵的,
   命令或陷阱的
   但阴霾投下了
   魅力的牛奶
   
   在整个城镇上,
   它的景色,任何
   可能发生在
   高大的树篱后面的
   黑暗,柔软的知识。
   
   
   
   棕色的纹路存留于
   像这种关系重大的
   没有人会在意的
   直率的性问题上,
   “没人。”这是我以前
   说过的,除了
   那个小精灵,没有人记得。
   
   我们周围都是
   指向过去的路标,
   老式的,尖的
   木头的种类。
   没有任何东西指向
   即将发生的
   现在。
   
   这些精神创伤
   一路加速我们
   将与未来结果的无形损害
   联系在一起
   来自太多的方向,
   太多记忆的
   缠绕,太多的仲裁。
   太阳照耀着
   这一切
   公平公正地。
   这是一种观察世界的方式
   
   以最低的成本、没有
   风险
   但它再也经不起
   那些。
   
   栅栏是围在周围的
   木桶板,侵犯
   城市的模式,
   这个公式曾经对我们中的一些人
   有意义,直到它变成
   终点。
   
   魔法终于
   离开了图画。
   它们在风滚草周围吹
   在西部的一个小鬼城
   有时吹到,有时吹不到。
   撒哈拉沙漠上空那座
   高高的闪电塔可能会想念你,
   
   一次不同于任何
   其他的经历,渗透回
   歌曲和传奇
   知识扭曲的
   全部传说。
   但现在,它
   接近了
   从它而来的严格身份,
   建立了它像一捆捆
   神经,发音清晰,
   挑战自己。
    

Litany
   (第二部分)
   
   I
   
   So this must be a hole
   Of cloud,
   Mandate or trap
   But haze that casts
   The milk of enchantment
   
   Over the whole town,
   Its scenery, whatever
   Could be happening
   Behind tall hedges
   Of dark, lissome knowledge.
   
   The brown lines persist
   In explicit sex
   Matters like these
   No one can care about,
   、“Noone.” That is I’ve said it
   Before and no one
   Remembers except that elf.
   
   Around us are signposts
   Pointing to the past,
   The old-fashioned, pointed
   Wooden kind.
   And nothing directs
   To the present that is
   About to happen.
   
   These traumas
   That sped us on our way
   Are to be linked with the invisible damage
   Resulting in the future
   From too much direction,
   Too many coils
   Of remembrance, too much arbitration.
   And the sun shines
   On all of it
   Fairly and equitably.
   It was a way of getting to see the world
   
   At minimal cost and without
   Risk
   But it can no longer stand up to
   That.
   
   The fences are barrel staves
   Surrounding, encroaching on
   The pattern of the city,
   The formula that once made sense to
   A few of us until it became
   The end.
   
   The magic has left the
   Drawings finally.
   They blow around the rest-tumbleweed
   In a small western ghost town
   That sometimes hits and sometimes misses.
   That tower of lightning high over
   The Sahara Desert could have missed you,
   An experience
   Unlike any other, leaching
   Back into the lore of
   The songs and sagas,
   The warp of knowledge.
   But now it’s
   Come close
   Strict identities form it,
   Build it up like sheaves
   Of nerves, articulate,
   Defiant of itself.
    










 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-25 23:00:48 | 显示全部楼层

   The pancake
   Is around in idea.
   Today the wisteria is in league
   With the Spanish minstrels.
   
   Who come to your house
   To serenade it
   All or in part.
   
   The windows are open again
   The dust blows through
   A diagram of a room.
   
   This is where it all
   Had to take place,
   Around a drum of living,
   The motion by which a life
   May be known and recognized,
   A shipwreck seen from the shore,
   A puzzling column of figures.
   The dark shirt dragged frequently
   Through the bayou.
   
   Your luggage
   Is found
   Upon the plane.
   
   If I could plan how
   To remember what had indeed once
   Been there
   Without reference to professions,
   Medical school,
   Etc.,
   Being there indeed once
   (Everyday occurrence),
   We stopped at the Pacific Airport
   To hear the rush of disguises
   For the elegant truth, notwithstanding
   Some in underwear stood around
   Puddles in the darkened
   Cement and sodium lights
   Beyond the earthworks
   Beyond the chain-link fence
   Until dawn touched with her cool
   Stab of grace nobody deserved (but
   It’s always that way isn’t it)
   
   Le charme du matin
   You and Sven-Bertil must
   At some point have overridden
   The barriers real or fancied
   Blowing like bedcurtains later
   In the oyster light---
   Something I saw once
   Reminded me of it:
   That old, evil, not-so-secret
   Formula
   Now laundered, made to look
   Transparent. Surely
   There is a shoulder there,
   Some high haunch half-sketched, a tremor
   And intent to the folds that shower from the sky.
   
   And must
   At some earlier time
   Seem the garter
   The cow in the trees.
   
   What was green before
   Is homeless.
   The mica on the front
   Of the prefecture spells out “Coastline”---a speedboat
   Would alter even at a distance
   But they shift anyway
   Come round
   To my idea
   My hat
   As it would be
   If I were you
   In dreams and in business
   Only, in supper meetings
   On the general line of progress
   If I had a talking picture of you.
   
   You are
   So perversely evasive:
   The ticking of a clock in the
   Background could be
   Only the plait.
   
   We must learn to read
   In the dark, to enjoy the long hills
   Of studious celebrity.
   The long Chinese shadow that
   Hooks over a little
   At the top
   The stone that sinks
   To the bottom of the aquarium:
   All this mummified writing
   As the dusting of new light
   In the hollow collar of a hill
   That never completes its curve
   Or the thought of what
   It was going to say: our going in.
   
   The hedges are nice and it’s too bad
   That one bad axe stroke could fell
   Whatever needed to advertise its
   Very existence.
   And then cars strut forth on the highway
   Singly and in groups
   Of three and four: orange,
   Flamingo, blue-pencil blue,
   The gray of satisfaction, the red
   Of discussion, and now, moved, the sky
   Calls itself up.
   
   As leaves are seen in mirrors
   In libraries
   Half-noticed, the sound
   Half-remembered and the
   Continuing chapter half-sketched---
   O were we wrong to notice
   To remember so much
   When so little else has survived?
   
   All were moments big with particulars
   An elaborate pastry concocted in the wings
   In darkness, and each
   Has vanished on the carrousel
   Of rage, along the coast
   Like a chameleon’s hide.
   The suffering, the pleasure that broke
   Over it like a wave,
   Are these fixed limits, off-limits
   To the game as darkness confounds
   The two teams, makes it one with chance?
   Still, somewhere wings are
   Being slowly lifted,
   Over and over again.
   
   The point must have been made.
   
   But out of so much color
   It still does come again
   The colors of tiger lilies and around
   And down, remembered
   Now as dirty colors, the color
   Of forgetting-grass, of
   Old rags or sleep, buoyed
   On the small zephyrs
   That keep the hour and remind each boy
   To turn home from school past the sheep
   In the paper meadow and to wind the clock.
   An old round is being passed out,
   The players take their places.
   How nice that in the stalls
   Is still room for certain boys to stand,
   The main song is successfully
   Programmed and the others too in part:
   Enough gets through to make the occasion
   A glottal one full of success
   And coated with the film of success
   In which are reflected
   Many a bright occasion
   Lads who go out with girls
   
   In the numb prime of springtime
   For instance.
   Except for that, the camera sighs,
   Is no hollow behind the black backing.
   That was short-lived.
   A sheaf of selected odes
   Bundled on the waters.
   
   A superior time
   Of blueberries and passion flowers,
   Of a four-poster.
   The thirties light
   Has infested the blond
   Hairdo from the grooves up
   But we must not treasure
   It less in the magnesium
   Flare that is manna to all things
   In the here and now. You were saying
   How she is coming along, praying
   For it to be better
   Day by day.
   
   And some of these days the waning
   Silver lashes out
   Like a trussed alligator:
   Mother and the kids standing around
   The bowl that is portal,
   Hitching post, tufted
   Mattress and field of wild
   Scruffy flowers are removed
   One by one as a demonstration.
   See, there is only light.
   Nothing to live at,
   To worry.
   
  

   煎饼
   在观念周围。
   今天紫藤在
   与西班牙吟游诗人的联盟中。
   
   来你家
   为它的全部或部分
   唱小夜曲的人。
   
   窗户又开了
   灰尘从一个房间的
   简图中飘过。
   
   这就是一切
   必须发生的地方,
   围绕着一面生活的鼓,
   一个生命可以被知道和认识的运动,
   一个从岸上看到的沉船,
   一列令人费解的人像。
   那件深色衬衫频繁地
   拖过河口。
   
   你的行李
   在飞机上
   找到了。
   
   如果我能计划如何
   回忆曾经确实
   在那里的东西
   不提及职业、
   医学院,
   等等,
   曾经确实存在
   (每个人的出现)
   我们在太平洋机场停下来
   听见为了优雅的真理
   而伪装的激流,尽管如此
   还是有一些穿着内衣的人站在
   黑暗的水泥和钠灯的
   漩涡周围
   在土石方工程外
   在铁丝网围栏外
   直到黎明触摸她凉爽的
   一阵谁也配不上的优雅(但
   总是这样,不是吗)
   
   “上午的魅力”
   你和斯文.贝蒂尔一定
   在某种程度上重写了
   真实的或想象的篱笆墙
   像后来的床帘一样吹拂着
   在牡蛎般的阳光下---
   我曾经看到的东西
   让我想起了它:
   那个古老的,邪恶的,不那么秘密的
   公式
   现在被洗了,变得看起来
   透明了。肯定
   有一个肩膀在那里,
   一些高耸的臀部半草图,一个震颤
   和折叠从天空中淋浴的意图。
   
   一定
   在某些更早的时间
   袜带似乎
   像树上的母牛。
   
   以前绿色的东西
   无家可归。
   辖区前方的
   云母拼写出“海岸线”---一艘快艇
   即使在远处也会改变
   但它们无论如何都会转移
   转到
   我的想法
   我的帽子
   就像它将是那样
   如果我是你
   在梦里,在生意上
   仅仅,在晚餐会上
   在一般进程线中
   如果我有你的谈话照片。
   
   你
   如此倔强地闪烁其词:
   背景中时钟的滴答声
   只能是
   编织。
   
   我们必须学会在黑暗中
   读书,欣赏那些勤奋的
   名人的长山。
   长长的中国影子
   挂在
   沉入水族馆底部的
   石头上
   顶部一点:
   所有这些木乃伊化的文字
   都是新光的粉尘
   在一座山丘的空心项圈中
   它永远无法完成其曲线
   或者它将说出的
   思想:我们进去了。
   
   树篱很友善,可惜的是
   一把坏斧头一下就可以击倒
   任何需要为它的完全存在
   做广告的东西。
   然后,汽车在高速公路上昂首阔步前进
   一辆一辆地,三四辆
   一组地:橙色的、
   火烈鸟色的、铅笔蓝色的、
   满足的灰色的、讨论的
   红色的,现在,移动着,天空
   在召唤它自己。
   
   就像在图书馆的镜子里
   看到的树叶
   一半被注意到,声音
   一半被记住,还有
   一半被勾画的连续章节---
   哦,我们注意到
   记住那么多
   而幸存的却那么少,是不是错了?
   
   一切都是瞬间,细节巨大
   都是在黑暗中用翅膀精心调制的
   糕点,每一个
   都消失在愤怒的
   旋转木马上,沿着海岸
   像变色龙的隐藏。
   痛苦,快乐像波浪一样
   打破了它,
   这些是固定的界限,是游戏的
   禁区,因为黑暗使两队
   混淆,使它偶然成为一个?
   仍然,在某个地方翅膀
   正在慢慢地升起,
   一次又一次。
   
   这一点肯定已经形成了。
   
   但在如此多的色彩中
   它还是再次出现了
   老虎百合花的颜色,到处
   都是,记得
   现在是肮脏的颜色,忘记了
   草的颜色,忘记了
   旧破布或睡觉的颜色,漂浮在
   微弱的和风上
   它们守时,提醒每个男孩
   放学回家,经过
   纸草地上的羊,然后给钟上发条。
   一轮旧的循环正在向外延伸,
   玩家们各就各位。
   在摊位上还能有地方
   让一些男孩站着真是太好了,
   主歌被成功地
   规划,其他的部分也被部分地规划好了:
   足够通向制造那个场合
   一个充满成功的声门
   并涂上了成功的薄膜
   其中反映了
   许多光鲜亮丽的场合
   和女孩们一起出去的小伙子们
   
   在春天麻木的全盛时间
   比如。
   除此之外,相机叹息着,
   黑色衬垫背后没有空洞。
   那是短暂的。
   一捆精选的颂歌
   捆绑在水面上。
   
   蓝莓和西番莲的
   四张海报的
   一次更胜一筹的时光。
   三十年代的光
   已经从凹槽上
   出没于金色的发型
   但我们一定不能
   在镁的耀斑中更少地
   珍视它,那是万物的甘露
   在此和现在。你在说
   她怎么样了,祈祷
   一天比一天
   更好。
   
   有些日子,日渐衰弱的
   银灰色猛烈抽打
   像一条被捆的短吻鳄:
   母亲和孩子们站在
   大门的碗周围,
   拴马桩,簇状
   床垫和作为示范
   肮脏野花一株接一株
   被移走的田野。
   看,只有光。
   没什么可住,没什么
   可担心。
   
   
   

   队伍已经看到它们
   像一辆拖车一样经过
   以慢动作,
   大象和狼
   涂上了鲜艳的颜色,
   几乎看不见
   穿过一只手举到眼睛的
   阴影的水箱中。
   
   现在它们离开了
   被梦想成
   一种新的警觉,它变成了
   放在这个平台
   栏杆上的
   东西的样子:
   被看见的东西带着所有
   可见东西的潜能,行动着
   把自己释放到
   天空下
   已知的
   尘埃中。
   
   传递到发生
   移动到模糊键盘上的
   地方:重量
   现在看不见了,只有回声的
   碎片被留下
   侵入了颜色,
   我们如何记住它们。
   
   多么快,年月推移
   到明年的太阳
   在山脉家族中。
   
   所有的篱笆墙
   都同时装满了
   水果和鲜花。
   树叶最后一次
   蹒跚着向上遮住了光
   数量超过了多捆,
   
   甚至超过了蚁丘上的蚂蚁,
   黑线通向
   灾难的蛋糕,
   向外通向环绕着欢笑的
   利润,所有的故事都以
   惊奇和大理石般的观点
   爆炸式的结束,当太阳
   在建筑物的黑暗中关闭时。
   
   在后来的版本中,你
   被称为,随意的,严厉的,
   根据现行法律
   任意发布的法令
   定时,总是沉入
   蚊虫缠身的阴影。
   事实上,它是一片巨大的
   沙漠,布满山谷和
   融化的峡谷,在起伏的
   叹息声中翱翔
   知道一切都会结束
   但永远不会结束,却存在于
   它自己变成了冰激凌的肉的
   记忆中,刺痛
   而不被抹杀。
   
   但在我看来,你
   只能慢吞吞地走着,既不能自由
   也不在旅途中,出现了
   尽管在后来某些
   我们
   温热而阴险的
   问候的接缝:
   像这样疲倦的道路
   所带来的震撼
   其比例从来没有
   超出某个点
   一次又一次地返回
   像一根指向天空的杆子。
   
   在一些希腊的
   海湾里,几乎不在水下
   或几乎没淹没(你可能会说)
   一个球被发现,说明了
   尸体对它的偏好:
   没有更多的历史,你
   似乎说没有更多的六月。
   站在每个烟囱正上方的
   蓝色幽灵:忘了它!
   它几乎消失了,
   
   几乎已经离开了。
   现在干燥的,半看不见的豆荚
   是分层的,以及在某个地牢里
   对一个老汉的殴打。
   直到有一天情况好转
   人们才看到它
   飕飕作声的进程有多快。
   
   谁能引出这些可能的,
   橡胶似的螺旋?所有那些新的返回,
   对立物对对立物的
   唧唧喳喳:让我们爬上
   屋顶,眺望一切
   过去和现在如此近的事物:
   洗碗盆的空虚,
   电台咯咯笑的救援者感动了
   那些感觉撕裂
   内衣和溃疡的庞然大物,就像
   在一个毫无意义的糖果的过去:
   这个伤口就像一堵
   陶瓷目的的小墙:
   它意味着烦扰你
   带着它的兄弟们,在森林棱镜的
   余晖中,棕色的天空
   异乎寻常地
   扫走了。这一次的洞穴足够大,可以适合:
   破碎的教堂后殿
   风呼啸而过,戴着阴冷眼镜的
   蜗牛教堂司事,蜣螂抚养了后方部队:
   
   谁能解释它?
   谁已经解释了它?
   “只有多元化……”但我们
   用这种方式得到的钱要少得多。
   是的,对湿漉漉的
   祈祷纸条的回答也更少
   它们像垂头丧气的羽毛
   从门廊秋千上的椽子上挂下来。
   他们急着和我们结束关系,
   因为接见要结束,而我们,
   我们才刚刚开始。
   
   然而我
   也曾被这样俘虏过。
   想想看它如何成为
   一种乐趣,当
   痛苦介入时,像往常一样,
   平静留下,从另一个时间
   推迟
   看不到破碎的痕迹。
   
   现在,曾经是菜地的房子
   已经被夷为
   平地;在那里没有什么东西
   是不能真正存在的
   而且自始至终
   但从来不是为了观看,
   也不是为了品尝那些刺回
   过去的东西,
   是为了品味现在的东西?
   缩写的,一个职业的怪脸?
   武士,或女巫的燕尾
   没有案例,
   但只要一个空缺的职业
   健康地站在周围这上涨的机会
   就没有必要确定
   粉红色和红色的纸平流层
   气球有点疯狂地贴在
   摇摇欲坠的,颜色
   从来没有过的天空。
   
   那本相册里还有
   一张照片,但记起来
   或描述起来都不那么有趣:
   三个黑人妇女
   在一条迂回的小路上调皮地
   从观众下面把地毯拉了出来。
   这三个表情褪色,或者
   从来就没有开始,从那只
   警惕地注视着她们的眼睛里
   获得了一点力量,防护地。
   这一切说的是,我们是石头
   像这样,永远不能
   暴露,像这样向前,但我们可以说
   多么令人厌恶的轮廓
   把我们固定在这里,在我们的洞
   周围,并没有
   把我们推开,而是
   因为勇敢地眺望大海
   留下了这里将崩溃的一切,
   无论是新的和美好的,或旧的
   或像我们一样,不是新的,也不是旧的
   在时间的尖端没有分享
   它让你和他们跑来这里出席想象的
   会议,好像一些感觉在这里
   在栅栏和享有特权的
   嬉戏的草的省略。
   
   
   

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   The posse had seen them
   Pass by like a caravan
   In slow motion,
   Elephants and wolves
   Painted bright colors,
   Hardly visible
   Through the cistern of shade
   Of a hand held up to the eye.
   
   Now that they are gone and
   To be dreamed of
   A new alertness changes
   Into the look of things
   Placed on the railing
   Of this terrace:
   The beheld with all the potential
   Of the visible, acting
   To release itself
   Into the known
   Dust under
   The sky.
   
   Hands where it took place
   Moving over the nebulous
   Keyboard: the heft
   Now invisible, only the fragments
   Of the echo are left
   Intruding into the color,
   How we remember them.
   
   How quickly the years pass
   To next year’s sun
   In the mountain family.
   
   All the barriers are loaded
   With fruit and flowers
   At the same time.
   The leaves stumble up to
   Intercept the light one last time
   Outnumbering the sheaves,
   
   Even the ants on the anthill,
   Black line leading to
   The cake of disasters,
   Leading outward to encircle the profit
   Of laughter and ending of all the tales
   In an explosion of surprise and marbled
   Opinions as the sun closes in
   Building darkness.
   
   In later editions you
   Were called, casual, harsh,
   Dispensing arbitrary edicts
   Under present law
   Timed and always sunk in the
   Gnat-embroiled shade.
   It was in fact a colossal
   Desert full of valleys and
   Melting canyons and soared
   Under the heaving of sighs
   Knowing it would all end
   But never end, but exist
   In the memory of itself turned to flesh
   Of ice cream and sting
   Without obliteration.
   
   But as I see it you
   Can only amble on, not free
   Nor on a journey, appearing
   Though at some later
   Juncture
   Of our tepid and insidious
   Greeting:
   The shock of the path
   Worn like this
   Never scaled
   Beyond a certain point
   And returning and returning
   Like a pole pointed to the sky.
   
   In some Greek
   Coves barely under the water
   Or barely inundated (you might say)
   A ball was found, and stated
   The body’s predilection to it:
   There is no more history you
   Seem to say no more June.
   The blue wraith that stands
   Straight above each chimney: forget it!
   It is almost gone,
   
   Has almost departed.
   Now the dry, half-seen pods
   Are layered, and the beating
   Of an old man in some dungeon.
   No one sees how fast its processes
   Whiz, until some day
   When things are better.
   
   Who can elicit these possible,
   Rubbery spirals? Return of all that's new,
   Antithesis chirping
   To antithesis: let’s climb
   The roof, look out over all
   That was so near and is:
   Vanity of the dishpan,
   The radio chortling succor to moved
   Behemoths of sense shredding
   Underwear and ulcers alike
   In a past of no mean confection:
   This wound like a small wall
   Of ceramic intent:
   It is meant to hound you
   With its brothers in the afterlight
   Of forest prisms, the brown sky sweeping
   Unusually
   Away. The cavern this time is big enough to fit in:
   The broken apse
   Wind slams through, the snail-sexton
   With rheumy specs, dung beetle bringing up the rear:
   
   Who could explain it?
   Who could have explained it?
   “Only pluralism ...” but we get
   Far less for our money that way.
   Aye, and fewer replies too
   To sopping prayer-strips
   Hanging like dejected plumage from that
   Rafter over the porch swing.
   They are anxious to be done with us,
   For the interview to be over, and we,
   We have just begun.
   
   Yet I too
   Was once captured this way.
   How it became a delight
   To think about it and when
   Pain intervened, as usual,
   The calm remained, held over
   From the other time
   And no broken trace was seen.
   
   Now houses have been razed
   Where once fields of vegetables
   Stood; nothings there
   That cannot truly be
   And was all along
   Yet never was for the seeing,
   The tasting that jabs back
   Into the past as well,
   For what is present savoring?
   Mouthing of initials, of a career?
   There is no case
   For samurai, or witches’ coattails,
   But so long as the buoyant opening
   Of a vacant career stand around healthily
   There is no need to ascertain
   The pink and red paper stratosphere
   Balloons pasted a little crazily
   Against a teetering sky
   Where color cannot have ever been.
   
   There was another photograph
   In that album, but not so amusing
   To remember or to describe:
   Three dark women
   On a swerving path that saucily
   Pulled the rug out from under the spectator.
   And the three expressions faded or
   Were never there to begin with, picking
   Up a little strength perhaps from the exhausted
   Eye that watched them, guardedly.
   And all it said was, we are stones
   To be like this and never to be able
   To reveal, being forward like this, but we can say
   How repellent was the adumbration
   That lodged us here, around
   Our holes, and did not
   Shove us away, but rather
   As with brave looks out to sea
   Left everything here to crumble,
   Whether new and fine, or old
   Or like us, not new nor old
   Having no share in the time-cusp
   That keeps you and they running here to imagined
   Meetings as though some sense were here
   In the fences and the privileged
   Omissions of the frolic grass.
   
   
   
    



 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-31 18:37:39 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-8-1 17:06 编辑

It is the old sewer of our resources
   Disguised again as a corridor.
   There is some anthropology here
   It seems, and then
   The dust on the jamb is warning

   And intrigue enough. The summer day is put by.
   The bells in the shower
   Are outnumbered by plain queries
   Whose answer is their falling echo.

   Birds in modish, corporeal
   Gear take off at the
   Scallops of the umbrella.
   This past is sampled and is again
   The right one, and in testing
   For the zillionth time we are
   As built into the fixed wall of water
   That indicates where the present leaves off
   And the past begins, whose transparencies
   Admit impressions of traceries of leaves
   And shallow birds among memories.

   The climate seceded then,
   The glad speculation about what clothes
   They wore stacked like leaves,
   Speckled behind the eye of what
   Consumer, what listener?
   And the praise is lascivious
   To the onyx ear at evening
   But not forwarded
   Into the ring with the other shouting,
   The desperate competitions willed
   Until darkness, dripping toward death
   By late morning.
   She circles plainly away
   From it in wider and wider loops,
   And what have you to say? What account
   To give? Of the season’s vast
   Storehouse of agendas, bales
   Of items for discussion dwindling
   Down to a last seed on the stone doorstep?
   If this was the season only of death
   That licorice blast would not keep only
   In its retelling the unfurled
   Question-mark of the shaved future but redound

   To us waiting here against the spike fence
   In pleasant attitudes from which the waiting
   Is forgotten like thorns in the memory
   Of laced paths merging on
   Extinct, ultimate slopes,
   But trap us in the game of two flavors
   (A rising shout some distance away,
   The tabac alike in resisting
   Terribilita
   Yet basing it on us, all the same
   A knowledge of its measure, its
   Proportion, until the end is sought
   Dryly, among stringent grasses).
   To have sought it any more, mining
   Its anfractuosities, is to bear witness,
   The living getting trampled
   Underfoot always the same way
   And as surely one desiccated spike of
   Sea-oats rises quizzically after the
   Hordes have passed over, the film
   Slips over the cogs
   That brought us to this unearthly spot.
   So death is really an appetite for time
   That can see through the haze of blue
   Smoke-rings to the turquoise ceiling.
   She said this once and turned away
   Knowing we wanted to hear it twice,
   But knowing also as we knew that speculation
   Raves and raves as on a mirror
   To the outlandish accompaniment of its own death
   That reads as life to the toilers
   And potboys who make up these blond
   Coils of citizenry which are life in the abstract.

     What it was like to be mouthing those
   Solemn abstractions that were crimson
   And solid as beefsteak. One
   Shouldn’t be surprised by
   The smell of mignonette and the loss
   As each stands still, and the softness

   Of the land behind each one,
   Where each one comes from.
   Because it is the way of the personality of each
   To blush and act confused, groping
   For the wrong words so that the
   Coup de théâtre
   Will unfold all at once like shaken-out
   Lightning and no one
   Will have heard anything. The gray,
   Fake Palladian club buildings will
   Still stand the next moment, at their grim
   Business: empty entablatures, oeils-de-boeuf,
   Gun-metal laurels, the eye
   Revolving slowly in the empty socket
   That the bronze visor shades: there was
   Never anything but this,
   No footfalls on the mat-polished marble floor,
   No bird-dropping, no fates, no sanctuary.
   The sheet slowly rises to greet you.
   The asters are reflected
   Simultaneously in ruby drops of the wine
   The morning after the great storm
   That swept our sky away, leaving
   Anew muscle in its place: a relaxed, far-away
   Tissue of scandal and dreams like noon smoke
   Lingering above horizon roofs.
   But what difference did any of it make
   Woven on death’s loom as indeed
   All of it was though divided into
   Chapters each with its ornamental
   Capital at the beginning, and its polished
   Sequel? You knew
   You were coming to the end by the way the other
   Would be beginning again, so that nobody
   Was ever lonesome, and the story never
   Came to its dramatic conclusion, but
   Merely leveled out like linen close up
   In the mirror. So that the roundness
   Was all around to be appreciated, yet somehow flat
   As well, and could never be trusted
   Even though the rushes slanted all one way
   In the autumn wind, and the leaves
   And branches tried to slant with them
   In a poem of harmonious dejection, but it was
   Only picture-making. Under
   The intimate light of the lantern
   One really felt rather than saw
   The thin, terrifying edges between things
   And their terrible cold breath.
   And no one longed for the great generalities
   These seemed to preclude. Each thought only
   Of his private silence, and hungered
   For the promised moment of rest.


  
  
  
  
  

   它是我们资源的老下水道
   又伪装成走廊。
   这里似乎有一些
   人类学的东西,然后
   门柱上的灰尘警示

   和阴谋足够多。夏天避开了。
   阵雨中的钟声
   数量比不上那些简单的问题
   其答案是它们落下的回声。

   时髦的鸟儿,有形的
   装备起飞于
   伞的扇贝。
   这个通过被取样,并且再次
   是正确的,在百万次的
   测试中,我们被
   建造成一堵固定的水墙
   它指示着现在离开的地方
   和过去开始的地方,它的幻灯片
   允许在记忆中留下树叶
   和浅浅的鸟的痕迹的印象。

   然后气候脱离了,
   兴高采烈地猜测着它们穿什么衣服
   像树叶一样堆在一起,
   点缀在什么消费者、什么听众的
   眼睛后面?
   赞美在晚上对玛瑙的耳朵
   是淫荡的
   但并没有随着另一个的叫喊
   而向前进入马戏场,
   绝望的比赛意志坚强
   直到天黑,滴落到死亡
   直到上午。
   她朴素地绕着圈子
   在越来越宽的循环中远离它,
   你有什么话要说?给什么
   解释?在这季节庞大的
   议程仓库中,一捆捆的
   讨论项目逐渐减少
   变成石头门阶上的最后一粒种子?
   如果这是死亡的唯一季节
   甘草汁冲击波不仅会
   在它的复述中保留
   被剃光的未来展开的问号,而且会有助于

   我们在这里靠着尖刺篱笆等待
   以愉快的态度,从那里等待
   就像记忆中的荆棘一样被遗忘
   这记忆带着花边的小路
   在绝迹的,终极斜坡上汇合,
   但是在两种风味的游戏中困住了我们
   (远处升起的叫声,
   那烟草就像忍受
   《慑人的威力》(一部电影)
   但它又植根于我们,全都一样
   它的尺度,它的
   比例的知识,直到终点被干涸地
   寻找,在紧缩的草丛中)。
   再去寻找它,挖掘
   它的弯曲过程,就是为了承受证据,
   生者总是以同样的方式
   被践踏在脚下
   就像一根干枯的海滨燕麦芒无疑
   在成群的人经过之后
   奇怪地升起,电影胶片
   从齿轮上滑落
   它们把我们带到了这个神秘的地方。
   因此,死亡其实是一种对时间的欲望
   它可以透过蓝色烟雾环的阴霾
   看到绿松石色的天花板。
   这话她说了一次,转过身去
   知道我们想再听两次,
   但也知道,正如我们所知道的那样,投机
   一次又一次狂欢,就像一面镜子
   位于它自己死亡的古怪伴奏下
   它被读作生命,对那些
   构成这些作为抽象生命的
   公民的金发卷来说。



   不出声地念叨着那些
   深红而坚实如牛排的庄严抽象
   是什么样子。一个人
   不应该惊讶于
   木犀草的气味和每一个
   站立不动时的失落,以及每一个背后

   土地的柔软,
   每一个都来自那里。
   因为这是每个个性的方式:
   脸红,行为混乱,摸索
   错误的字眼,于是那
   “戏剧性的一击”
   就会像抖出的闪电立即
   展开一切,没有人
   会听到任何东西。灰色的,
   假帕拉弟奥俱乐部建筑将
   在下一刻仍然屹立,在它们严肃的
   业务方面:空荡荡的上横梁,“牛眼”,
   枪金属桂冠,眼睛
   在铜帽舌遮住的阴影的空插座里
   慢慢旋转:除了这个
   再也没有别的,
   没有脚步在铺着抛光大理石的地板上,
   没有掉落的鸟,没有命运,没有避难所。
   纸片缓缓升起向你致意。
   紫苑同时映照
   在红宝石般的酒珠中
   在那场席卷我们天空的
   大风暴过后的第二天早晨,留下了
   一块新的肌肉在它的地点:一个放松的、遥远的
   丑闻和梦想的组织,像中午的烟雾
   在地平线屋顶上逗留。
   但是,在死亡的织布机上编织的
   任何东西有什么不同,确实
   尽管它的一切都被分成了
   几章,每一章开头
   都有它装饰性的大写字母,还有抛光的
   续集?你知道
   你已经走到了尽头,而另一个
   也将顺便重新开始,所以没有人
   永远孤独,这个故事从未
   来到它戏剧性的结局,只不过
   像镜子里的亚麻布一样
   达到了平衡。因此,圆形
   到处都是,值得欣赏,但不知何故又是
   单调的,永远不能被信赖
   即使急促地一路倾斜
   在秋风中,树叶
   和树枝试图与它们一起倾斜
   在一首和谐的悲叹诗中,但这
   只是画画而已。在
   灯笼的亲密灯光下
   人们真的感觉到了而不是看到了
   事物之间的薄的,可怕的边缘
   和它们可怕的寒气。
   没有人渴望这些似乎
   阻止的伟大的概括性。每个人都只想到
   他私人的沉默,渴望
   得到承诺的休息时间。


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   接近的一个。
   我到这儿以后
   就没见过他。
   只有药物的余味
   和微妙的压力才能超越
   这个与可见宇宙
   一样狭窄的晶格。

   一声耳语指出:有多少无家可归的,
   流浪的,即兴的东西
   作为新的沙漠移动到
   瞬间前
   唯一的星座。
   散乱的玩家颠倒了
   那些迹象:
   鲁特琴、羽毛、硬皮的浆果落下:
   春天中的秋天
   七月又夹在
   中间,哀悼
   从最不受欢迎
   到最受追捧的日子,这部戏
   永远在它自己身上翻唱:
   克制,悲伤的精神
   开始了它;持续的时间
   只有配合,最后发生的事情
   被看作是不充分的,只有在各种各样
   其他不同的东西经过之后
   只有被彻底翻出中
   它才能否认自己,于是意义
   穿透任何给定的点
   和海洋的纹理,哦
   天蓝紫罗兰色的衣裳被给予
   不被注意
   只不过是一个倾斜的拱门,穿过它的帆
   垂直于
   这些泥泞和天鹅绒时代的
   高速空心子弹,这些
   精心设计的侵入。
   离得更远
   下午涌浪上的彩色回声圈
   也不再回响,已经溶化
   在数千英尺
   飞鸟和雨滴的急促中
   (雨滴)在虚度的悔恨中再次
   被吸回到山顶上
   从山顶上看,从低处看,景色是一样
   美好,短粗的塔楼上
   这里没有
   太多东西
   像在黑暗商店的收银机
   即使在新的黎明来临,在
   风来之前。

   再往前,只有桦树
   生长,红色毛衣
   是给你的。你在阳光下的呼吸
   进入被人
   用工具和测量工具拍下的
   霜亭影子的角度。
   那是在冰川外
   一个漫长的夜晚之后。

   早上孩子们和小猫们到处跑。

   没有必要提醒我们
   我们曾经坐在学校的课桌旁
   在周围覆盖在苔藓中的
   巨大树根下,石英闪电
   摔倒在河床上
   像在楼梯上一样。我们很快就准备好了
   在太阳下进行水平面植物游戏
   它们在中午以水平线的形式到达。
   错误就在那个被掏空、杂草窒息的
   下午,甚至它也只是承认了
   太多模糊的线索,太过
   彼此独立的中性,却
   被我们这样的其他异教徒蒙羞:
   一簇簇黑色的冬青果扫过地平线
   我们总是为战斗做准备
   却又如此无辜,我们没有地方可去。



   牙齿之间的空隙告诉你
   微笑像咏叹调一样挂在脑海里
   所有的努力都形成
   只是为了把它猛地拉走
   袭击它
   猛烈得就像柑橘的纹路,牢固地
   种着,但一行行摇曳着
   穿过陆地到水面。
   钟声只为家族中的
   一些成员敲响,
   这些亲戚像猩红色的树,在背景中
   出没,但在
   家具的褶皱中
   看到的只是灰尘,
   这些就是总是
   向太平洋海岸推进的那些人---我们
   都经历了一段多么美好的时光,但一切部分
   都结束了,在一个章节里
   不知何故已经穿过我们。然而,我想知道。

   当然,学院履行了
   有益的功能。在别的地方
   塑料的小斑点几乎
   永远飘浮,在无伤大雅的日落中,几乎
   像黑暗探测器一样再次流行。
   这一次,一只张开的喙被遮蔽
   在小型礼拜歌剧下。
   这不是谁的错。学院
   保存了这一切以供纪念。

   它还履行另一个有用的功能:
   指出这个方式:一开始
   大家都神经质地咯咯笑着
   在桃色绒毛的天空中迷失了方向
   那里总是发生着太多美好的奇迹
   血色的大地
   像吸管一样抓住了它们,一分钟。
   有一种更为流畅、不那么模棱两可的方式
   有待确定,它的横幅像烟一样摇曳着
   变成了一座桥的拱门
   这座桥及时得到了承认
   但从没有到这一天:
   这一天它在天空中的回声
   在看不见的白内障和云彩的灵车后面表演着迎接它
   然而,腐肉
   还在这里冒着热气,尘埃
   追逐着眼睛,所有的一切都是其他的,都是相同的

   其中仪式一点一点地取消了
   一个祖国盲目的
   共鸣。它显现为一个坚定的
   谜团,被擦亮,被填满。

   此外,在新游戏中
   没有什么像
   橘子的影子,也没有什么离奇
   和抽象的东西,离朦胧的现实只有
   一步之遥。这些系列都是姐妹
   回到五十年代,当更多
   这种事情被允许的时候。两件事可以

   在没有特别许可的情况下立即继续
   而这些梦对没有权威基础
   负责任,但可以在很短的距离内
   徘徊,进入这个世界似乎
   如此惊人的接近。有时
   我们会一起唱歌
   晚上人们会互相告别
   走进他们的房子,唱歌。
   那是一个雨天,夏威夷
   和眼泪大如水晶的时候。阅读
   和收听无线广播的时间。
   我们从来不应该分开,你和我。

  
  
  
  

  
  


   A close one.
   I haven’t seen him
   Since I’ve been here.
   Only an aftertaste of medicine
   And subtle pressures put
   Beyond this lattice that is
   As narrow as the visible universe.

   A whisper directs: How many homeless,
   Wandering, improvisatory
   As new deserts move up
   Into the constellation that was
   Only a moment ago.
   Straggling players reverse
   The indications:
   Lutes, feathers, hard Leather berries fall:
   The autumn in the spring
   Again with July sandwiched
   In the middle, lament
   Of all the days from the least popular
   To the most sought after, the play
   Forever turning on itself:
   Refrains, the spirit of sorrow
   Begin it; duration
   Only conjugates, the last happening
   Is seen as inadequate only after the passing
   Of much else varied stuff
   Only in being turned inside out
   Can it deny itself so that the meaning
   Pierces in any given point
   And in the texture of the sea, O
   Sky-blue-violet raiment given
   Not to be heeded
   Only as an oblique arch through which sails
   Perpendicular
   The speeding hollow bullet of these times
   Of mud and velvet, these
   Choreographed intrusions.
   Farther from far away
   No more the colored echoes ring
   On the afternoon groundswell already dissolved
   In the thousands of hastening
   Feet of birds and raindrops
   In wasted penitence sucked back
   Up to the crest again
   From which the view is fine as views go
   From low, stubby towers
   Of which there aren’t too many
   Here
   Like cash registers in a darkened store
   Even as afresh dawn approaches, before
   The winds come.

   Further on up only birches
   Grow and the red sweater
   Is for you. You breathing
   Into the angle of shadow in sunlight
   Of the frosted kiosk that was taken
   By men with tools and a surveying kit.
   That was long after
   The night out on the glacier.

   In the morning the children and kittens ran around.

   It wasn't necessary to remind us
   Once we were seated at our desks in the school
   Under the giant tree-roots sheathed
   In moss about the quartz lightning
   Tumbling down the bed of the stream
   As on a stair. We were quick and ready
   For level plant-games in the sun
   That arrived just at noon as a horizontal line.
   The error was in the hollowed-out, weed-choked
   Afternoon and even it was only confession
   Of too many strands of vagueness, neuters
   Too independent of each other and yet
   Abashed with the other heretics like ourselves:
   Clusters of black inkberries sweeping the horizon
   And we always prepared for a fight
   Yet so innocent we have no place to go.



   The spaces between the teeth told you
   That the smile hung like an aria on the mind
   And all effort came into being
   Only to yank it away
   Came at it
   Hard as the lines of citrus planted
   In firm yet wavering rows
   All across the land to the water.
   Bells were rung
   For some members of the family only,
   These relatives like scarlet trees who infested
   The background but were not much more than
   The dust as it is seen
   In folds of the furniture,
   These were the ones who were always
   Pushing out toward the Pacific coast— what
   A time we all had of it, but all that part
   Is over, in a chapter
   That somehow has passed us by. And yet, I wonder.

   Certainly the academy has performed
   A useful function. Where else could
   Tiny flecks of plaster float almost
   Forever in innocuous sundown almost
   Fashionable as the dark probes again.
   An open beak is shadowed against the
   Small liturgical opera this time.
   It is nobody’s fault. And the academy
   Has saved it all for remembering.

   It performs another useful function:
   Pointing out the way at the beginning
   When everybody giggled nervously and
   Got lost against the peach-fuzz sky
   Where too many nice miracles were always
   Happening and the blood-colored ground
   Grasped them like straws, for a minute.
   There was a smoother, less ambiguous way
   To be determined and its banners shook like smoke
   To become an arch of the bridge
   And the bridge was acknowledged in good time
   But never to this day
   As its echo in the sky performing to meet it
   Behind invisible cataracts and cloud catafalques
   And yet, the carrion still
   Steams here, the mote
   Pursues the eye, and all is other and the same

   Of which the rite dismantles bit by bit
   The blind empathy
   Of a homeland. It emerges as a firm
   Enigma, burnished, filled in.

   Furthermore, there was nothing like
   Shadows of oranges
   In the new game, nothing fanciful
   And abstract one step away from foggy
   Reality. The series were all sisters
   Back in the fifties when more of this
   Sort of thing was allowed. Two could

   Go on at once without special permission
   And the dreams were responsible to no base
   Of authority but could wander on for
   Short distances into the amazing nearness
   That the world seemed to be. Sometimes
   We would all sing together
   And at night people would take leave of each other
   And go into their houses, singing.
   It was a time of rain and Hawaii
   And tears big as crystals. A time
   Of reading and listening to the wireless.
   We never should have parted, you and me.












  
  




 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-3 12:44:39 | 显示全部楼层
II
   
   I photographed all things,
   All things as happening
   As prelude, as prelude to the impatience
   Of enormous summer nights opening
   Out farther and farther, like the billowing
   Of a parachute, with only that slit
   Of starlight. The old, old
   Wonderful story, and it’s all right
   As far as it goes, but impatience
   Is the true ether that surrounds us.
   Without it everything would be asphalt.
   Now that the things of autumn
   Have been sequestered too in their chain
   The other part of the year become
   Visible
   And the summer night is like a goldfish bowl
   With everything in full view, yet only parts
   Are what is actually seen, and these supply
   The rest. It’s not like cheating
   Since it is all there, but more like
   Helping the truth along a little:
   The artifice lets it become itself,
   Nestling in truth. These are long days
   And we need all the help we can get.
   
   We are to become ashamed only much later,
   Much later on, under the long bench.
   And it is not like the old days
   When we used to sing off-key
   For hours in the rain-drenched schoolroom
   On purpose. Here, whatever is forgotten
   Or stored away is imbued with vitality.
   Whatever is to come is too.
   
   How can I explain?
   
   No matter how raffish
   The new clients moving slowly along,
   Taking in the sights, placing bets,
   There comes a time when the moment
   Is full of, knows only itself.
   Like a moment when a tree
   Is seen to tower above everything else,
   To know itself, and to know everything else
   As well, but only in terms of itself
   Without knowing or having a clear concept
   Of itself. This is a moment
   Of fast growing, of compounding myths
   As fast as they can be thrown off,
   Trampled under, forgotten. The moment
   Not made of itself or any other
   Substance we know of, reflecting
   Only itself. Then there are two moments,
   How can I explain?
   It was as though this thing---
   More creature than person---
   Lumbered at me out of the storm,
   Brandishing a half-demolished beach umbrella,
   So that there might be merely this thing
   And me to tell about it.
   It was awful. And I too have no rest
   From the storm that is always something
   To worry about. Really. My unworthiness
   Like a loose garment or cape of some sort
   Constantly sliding off the shoulders,
   Around the elbows ... I cannot keep it on,
   Even as I am invisible in the eye
   Of the storm, we two are blind,
   And blind to the inaudible repercussions,
   The strange woody aftertaste.
   
   After that the wave came
   And left no mark on the shore.
   The waves advanced as the tide withdrew.
   There was nothing for it but to
   Retreat from the edge of the earth,
   
   In that time, that climate expecting rain,
   Behind some brackish business
   On the margin intuiting cataclysms of light.
   All that fall I wanted to be with you,
   Tried to catch up to you in the streets
   Of that time. Needless to say,
   Although we were together a good part of the time
   I never quite made it to the thunder.
   
   The boy who cried “wolf” used to live there.
   This place of islands and slow reefs,
   Like petals of mercury, that fold up
   Whenever that allusion is made.
   It falls off the others like
   Water off piled-up stones at the base
   Of a waterfall, and the petals
   Curl up, injured, into themselves.
   Only the frozen emphasis
   On a single thing that was out of sight
   When the allusion was made, remains.
   
   We all bought tickets to the allusion
   And are disappointed, of course.
   But what can you do? Events have
   A way of snapping off like that, like
   The glassblower’s striped candy canes
   Of glass at a moment he knows is coming,
   Is there, even. The old,
   Wonderful story. Not yet ended.
   
   You who approach me,
   All grace and linearity,
   With my new crayons I think I’ll
   Do a series of box-sprays---stippled
   Cobalt on the gold
   Of a sun-pure afternoon
   In October when things change over.
   There is no longer time for a line
   Or rather there are no lines in the time
   Of ripeness that is past,
   
   Yet still pausing on the ridge
   Stealing into permanence.
   
   It was all French horns
   And oboes and purple vetch:
   That was what it was all about, but
   What it came to be came later
   And other---a scene, a
   Simple situation, something as
   Basic as two people sitting in the sun
   With no thought of the morrow, or of today,
   As the whispers mingled in a choir outlining them
   And we took a lesson away from this,
   A lesson like a piece of cloth.
   It’s going to be different in the future
   But now the now is what matters,
   Knowing itself old, and open to vengeance,
   And, in short, up to nobody’s expectations
   For it, as dank and empty
   As an old Chevy parked under the trees
   Amid dead leaves and dogshit, everybody’s
   Idea of what was coming true for them
   Which is now burning in lava-like letters
   In the sky, a piece of good news
   If you agree that good news is what
   Is happening at this very instant.
   The California sun turned its back on us
   So we chose New England and the more vibrant
   Violet light of tame tempests,
   Dreams of sleeping watchdogs,
   And the whole house was full of people
   Having a good time, and though
   No one offered you a drink and there were no
   Clean glasses and the supper
   Never appeared on the table, it was
   Strangely rewarding anyway.
   It gave one an idea of what they thought of one:
   Even the ocean that came crashing almost
   Into the back yard did not seem ill-disposed
   
   And that was something. Presently
   Out of this near-chaos an unearthly
   Radiance stood like a person in the room,
   The memory of the host, perhaps. And all
   Fell silent, or stayed at their musings, silent
   As before, and no one any longer
   Offered words of advice or misgiving, but drank
   The silence that had been silence before,
   On this scant strip of slag,
   Basking in the same light as before,
   Inhabiting the same thought:
   A shelf of breasts and underwear packaging
   Rumored in the dark ages.
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

   II
   
   我拍摄了所有的事情,
   所有的事情都是作为前奏
   发生的,作为巨大的夏夜打开得
   越来越远的急躁的前奏,就像降落伞的
   鼓起,只有那一道星光的
   裂缝。那古老的、古老的
   奇妙的故事,一切都好
   就其现状来说,但是急躁
   才是包围我们的真正的以太。
   没有它,一切都将是沥青。
   既然秋天的事物
   也被隔离在它们的链条中
   一年的另一部分变得
   清晰可见
   夏夜就像一个金鱼缸
   一切都在全视野中,但只有部分
   是实际看到的,这些提供了
   其余的。它不像欺骗
   因为它就在那里,但更像
   帮助真理前进一点:
   诡计让它成为它自己,
   依偎在真理中。这些漫长的日子
   我们需要所有能得到的帮助。
   
   我们将感到羞愧,只有在很久以后,
   很久以后,在长凳下面。
   这与过去不同
   那时我们常常在被雨水
   淋得湿漉漉的教室里故意走调地
   唱歌几个小时。在这里,任何被遗忘
   或储存的东西都充满活力。
   无论什么到来也是如此
   
   我怎么解释?
   
   不管多么放荡
   新客户都慢慢地前进,
   欣赏风景,下注,
   那时间到了,这一刻
   充盈,只知道它自己。
   就像这一刻,这时候一棵树
   被视为高耸于其他一切之上,
   了解它自己,也了解其他
   一切,但只按照它自己
   而不知道,也没有关于它自己
   清楚的概念。 这是一个
   快速成长的时刻,一个让合成神话
   以最快的速度被抛弃、
   践踏,遗忘的时刻。这一时刻
   不是由它本身或我们所知的任何
   其他物质构成的,只是反映
   它本身。那么有两个时刻,
   我怎么解释?
   就好像这东西---
   比人有更多生物性---
   从暴风雨中笨重地向我走来,
   挥舞着一把半毁了的沙滩伞,
   于是就可能只有这件事
   和我来讲述它。
   它太可怕了。我也无法从风暴中
   得到休息,这总是担心的
   事情。真正地,我的无价值
   就像一件宽松的衣服,或某种披风
   不断地从肩膀上滑下来,
   绕着肘部…我不能坚持下去,
   即使在暴风雨眼中我是
   看不见的,我们两个都是瞎子,
   无视听不见的反响,
   奇怪的木头回味。
   
   之后海浪来了
   在岸上没有留下任何痕迹。
   波浪前进着,当潮水退去。
   没有任何东西,除了
   从地球的边缘撤退,
   
   在那个时候,气候预期会下雨,
   在一些含盐的事务后面
   在直觉到光的灾难的边缘。
   整个秋天,我都想和你在一起,
   试图在当时的街道上
   追上你。不用说,
   虽然我们在一起愉快的时间很长
   但我从没有让它完全喊出。
   
   那个叫“狼”的男孩过去住在那里。
   这地方有岛屿和缓慢的暗礁,
   就像水星的花瓣一样,每当作出暗示
   它们就会折叠起来。
   它从其他东西上落下,像
   瀑布底部堆积的石头上的水一样
   落下,花瓣
   卷起,受伤了,变成了它们自己。
   只有冻结的强调
   对视线外的单一东西
   当暗示出现,保持。
   
   我们都买了典故的票
   很失望,当然。
   但是你能做什么呢?事件有
   一种突然折断的方式就像,就像
   吹玻璃工的玻璃条纹糖果棒
   在他知道即将到来的时刻,
   它存在,甚至。“那古老的,
   精彩的故事”。还没有结束。
   
   你们这些接近我的人,
   所有的优雅和线性,
   带着我的新蜡笔画,我想我会
   做一系列喷剂框---点状的
   钴,在十月的一个
   纯粹阳光金色的
   午后,当一切发生变化时。
   不再有时间去画线
   或者更确切地说,在已经过去的
   成熟时间里没有画线,
   
   但仍然停在山脊上
   偷偷地进入持久性。
   
   这一切都是法国号
   双簧管和紫色野豌豆:
   这就是它的全部,但
   它存在的东西是后来到达的
   和别的东西---一个场景,一个
   简单的形势,某种一样
   基本的东西,就像两个人坐在阳光下
   不考虑明天,或今天,
   就像唱诗班里的低语混合在一起勾勒出它们的轮廓
   我们从中吸取了教训,
   就像一块布的一个教训。
   未来会有所不同
   但现在,这现在才是最重要的,
   知道它自己老了,对报复打开,
   而且,简言之,达不到任何人对它的
   期望,就像一辆停在枯叶中的树和狗屎中的
   旧雪佛兰一样潮湿、空旷,每个人
   对即将实现它们的事情的想法
   现在燃烧在天空中像熔岩的
   字母中,一则好消息
   如果你同意好消息就是
   此刻正在发生的事情。
   加利福尼亚的太阳背对着我们
   所以我们选择了新英格兰,更生机勃勃的
   紫罗兰色驯服的风暴的光,
   梦见了熟睡的看门狗,
   整个屋子都挤满了人
   大家玩得很开心,虽然
   没有人请你喝一杯,也没有
   干净的玻璃杯,晚餐
   从没有出现在桌子上,这是
   奇怪的回报,不管怎么说。
   这让人们对他们所想有了一个观念:
   即使是几乎冲进后院的大海
   也似乎没有什么恶意
   
   而是某物。不久
   从这近乎混乱的局面中,一种非尘世的
   光芒像一个人站在房间里,
   主人的记忆,也许。所有的人都
   陷入沉默,或保持着沉思,像以前一样
   沉默,没有人再
   提出建议或疑虑,而是喝下了
   以前曾经作为沉默的沉默,
   在这片不足的熔渣上,
   像以前一样沐浴在同样的阳光中,
   栖居于同样的思想:
   一架在黑暗时代传闻的
   乳房和内衣包。
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   II
   
   我曾在一首诗中
   读到过一件事,这让我想起了它:
   黑暗的,潮湿的街道
   (现在七点就黑了)
   闪烁着,欣喜若狂,伴随着精灵的
   细矛般的号角声。是感叹词的
   摇篮曲。
   
   当整个天空移动并停留
   在原来的位置直到下一次时
   无法找到它。
   就像一份在百货公司的暑期工作
   它会持续不断停留,
   打破瞬间,隐藏
   亲吻,
   带走我们的任何东西。
   它的温度是黑暗,
   它的味道,沉默,痛苦的欢迎
   在森林的边缘
   当你开始到家的时候。
   
   而且,关于它的描述
   太多了,好像每次
   都是从零开始到一个虚构的
   数字。没有人看到它
   只是晚间新闻,大多数情况下,
   是白昼之光的一个翻译
   或者是出于好意
   刮擦的两把小提琴,你想,但
   对谁?简言之,任何一种温顺的
   表现都是在黑暗的稻草
   和逐渐变黑的树木的映衬下
   直到回味认领了它。
   这里没有什么像
   潮湿,孤独所建立的
   炎热的不眠:
   这里没有什么能被人看到
   像这座城市被看到的那样,
   在夜间最精确,也许
   在成千上万的方言检测它的时候
   它的精神状态的轮廓
   逐渐艰难地缩减并清晰
   直到下一次。
   卧室里的嘈杂声慢慢地消失
   
   最后线绳保存
   于是衬里完全粘在一起
   或者像一条竖直的铅垂线进入空中
   代表所有垂直的建筑
   它们斥责并安静地惊艳着
   淡蓝色的天空。
   
   这里的商店不卖任何
   人们想买的东西。
   甚至很难准确地说出
   他们在卖什么---合为一体,你可能会
   在布谷鸟钟的许多部件旁边
   发现一堆通风机,
   加上用过的政府文件和成堆的
   盐水虾罐头,还有一位
   极其优雅的女售货员,穿着
   印花雪纺绸,看起来完全来自
   另一个世界。但是---想什么?---
   在意料之中,我猜,你
   在这里挑选某些东西,在
   你需要它们的地方,而且
   暂时不要其他东西,
   尽管它们可能是必要的。
   每一件收藏品,其差距和其具有的东西
   一样显著。我们中最聪明的人
   收集差异,知道这是实现比邻居更完整收集的
   唯一途径。它也更便宜
   更容易炫耀优势。
   夜雨抽打着收集,
   颠簸,潮水的汹涌
   淹没了对它的记忆。只剩下一片黑暗的田野
   
   但随着早晨的回归,同样
   熟悉的树枝和碎片
   从露水覆盖的稻草堆中伸出四肢。
   这些收藏品,至少对一些人来说,
   仍然存在。这很重要
   对他们、税吏
   和税务爱好者来说,因为
   现在没有比它已经有的
   更大的损失了。车库可以容纳它。
   
   整个
   晚上我都在等你的电话。
   早期从来不是这样。
   
   甚至鸟类也比这更快乐。
   你
   没有权利从生活中拿走一些东西
   然后把它放回,故意地,放在
   它的双倍体旁边,原来的紧张
   不经意地来自于它。
   
   收藏品成熟了。
   业余爱好者蜂拥而至,想看看它。
   总有一天,这个想法
   会被删除、提取出来,
   从细节的骚动
   从被编号的展品中
   而收集到的将是永无止境的。
   
   几个人总是机械地留下来
   朝脚手架看几眼。
   我们中有很多人选择:
   吹牛大王、藤壶、从地下
   飞奔进太阳的
   老保守者!
   
   没关系,不管水果是绿色的,
   或是没有明确定义的似乎没有通向任何地方的人行道
   只要时钟被放在某人的行李里。
   
   欢庆的圆润的笑容
   总是在那里,
   是这个时代的积淀
   和渗透的永久风景的
   一部分,或者漂流物,只是一点点。
   亲爱的昨天,
   你丑陋不堪,充满了承诺
   而今天,三角洲正在形成:
   水,或者是沙洲,延伸得
   几乎太远了,以至于它们对彼此的意味并不是
   它们对我们仍然意味着的东西。
   
   它们能为你做的另一件事
   也是庆祝,但这是另一种形式:
   在天窗下的
   棕色研究的舞蹈,
   永恒的忧郁的音乐
   只要它演奏,因为永恒
   是一只眼睛,有些东西避开了眼睛:
   礼貌的手势,四月洪水淹没的
   小溪旁的怯懦的告别,
   虚假的火花,结束,边缘。
   
   这些置换,结合
   在一个温和的说出来的奇思妙想的椭圆形
   它们不烦扰任何人,然而
   收到的邀请是多么少啊!
   他们说他们在邮件方面遇到了麻烦
   这么多人都搬走了,因为
   我们在一个安静的拖车公园的阴影下
   变得越来越有流动性
   在那里没有人介意等
   一个人检查完上个世纪
   精心制作的机械玩具
   或者玩扭曲的、有划痕的78张
   过去伟大花腔的唱片。
   人们总是可以自由地沉浸在历史中
   直到腰部。现在,山脉
   离城市如此之近,令人惊叹
   以至于就像是在度假
   
   只是为了呆在家里看看它们。
   这是一个人所能做的一切。
   
   吸入那片刻,极冷的
   新鲜水泥气味,你必须把它传递
   在去学校的路上。
   
   对于所有患有丹毒的人
   额头和脸颊上的皱纹
   都是从内部产生的,就像反向疤痕
   
   对于所有那些穿着旧衣服的人
   带着期待它们的沉睡表情
   
   对那些熨烫衣服
   和那些剪成一段白布的妇女
   
   玻璃塞已经被移除
   我们可以呼吸!海洋被拉走了。
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
   II
   
   Something I read once
   In some poem reminded me of it:
   The dark, wet street
   (It gets dark at seven now)
   Gleaming, ecstatic, with the thin spear
   Of faerie trumpet-calls. A lullaby
   That is an exclamation.
   
   It cannot be found
   As when the whole sky shifts and stays
   Where it is until the next time.
   Like a summer job in a department store
   It stays on and on,
   Breaking up the moments, hiding
   The kissing,
   Taking whatever is there away from us.
   Its temperature is darkness,
   Its taste, the silent, bitter welcome
   On the edge of the forest
   When you were starting to reach home.
   
   Also, too much is written
   About it, as though each time
   Were starting from zero toward an imaginary
   Number. No one sees it’s
   Just the evening news, mostly,
   A translation into the light of day,
   Or two fiddles scraping along
   Out of kindness, you think, but
   To whom? In short, any kind of tame
   Manifestation against the straw
   Of darkness and the darkening trees
   Until the aftertaste claimed it.
   Nothing here is like the
   Wet, hot vigil
   That loneliness erected:
   There is nothing here that can be seen
   The way that city could be seen,
   Most precisely at night, perhaps
   When thousands of tongues inspect it
   And the outline of its state of mind
   Tapers off hard and clear
   Until the next time.
   The noises in the bedroom dissolve slowly
   
   And at last the thread holds
   So that the lining adheres strictly
   Or as a plumb line erected straight into the air
   To stand for all vertical constructions
   That chide and quietly amaze
   The pale blue of the sky.
   
   The shops here don’t sell anything
   One would want to buy.
   It’s even hard to tell exactly what
   They’re selling---in one, you might
   Find a pile of ventilators next
   To a lot of cuckoo-clock parts,
   Plus used government documents and stacks
   Of cans of brine shrimp, and an
   Extremely elegant saleslady, in
   Printed chiffon, seeming to be from a different
   World entirely. But that’s---que voulezvous?---
   Par for the course, I guess. You
   Pick up certain things here, where
   You need them, and
   Do without the others for the moment,
   Essential though they may be.
   Every collection is as notable for its gaps
   As for what’s there. The wisest among us
   Collect gaps, knowing it’s the only way
   To realize a more complete collection
   Than one’s neighbor’s. It’s also cheaper
   And easier to show off to advantage.
   At night rain whips the collection,
   The plunge, the surge of the tide
   Drowns the memory of it. Only a dark field remains
   
   But with the return of morning, the same
   Familiar sticks and pieces poke
   Their extremities out of the dewy mound of straw.
   The collection, at least for some people,
   Is still there. And it matters
   To them, and to tax collectors
   And taxation buffs, because
   Now none of it will get lost
   Any more than it already has. A Garage can contain it.
   
   All
   Evening I have waited for your call.
   The early period was never like this.
   
   Even birds are happier than this.
   You have
   No right to take something out of life
   And then put it back, knowingly, beside
   Its double, from whom
   The original tensions unwittingly came.
   
   The collection matures.
   Amateurs flock to it, to get a look at it.
   And some day the idea
   Will have been removed, extracted,
   From the flurry of particulars
   From numbered exhibits,
   And the collected will have no end.
   
   A few always stay behind mechanically
   On a glimpsed piece of scaffolding.
   There are many of us to choose from:
   Blowhards, barnacles, old fogeys
   Rushing up from under the earth
   Into the sun!
   
   It doesn’t matter that the fruit is greenish,
   Or that the ill-defined sidewalks seem to lead nowhere
   As long as the clock is stowed in somebody’s luggage.
   
   The round smile of celebration
   Is always there,
   Is part of the permanent scenery
   Of this age’s accumulation
   And seeps, or drifts, only a little.
   My dear yesterday,
   You were ugly and full of promise
   And today the delta is forming:
   The water, or is it sandbars, stretching away
   Almost too far for them to mean to each other
   What they still mean to us.
   
   Another thing they can do to you
   Is also celebration, but of another kind:
   The dance that is a brown study
   Under the skylight,
   The music of eternal moping
   As far as it goes, since eternity
   Is an eye, and some things elude the eye:
   Polite gestures, timid farewells
   Alongside a flooded creek in April,
   The false sparkle, the finish, the edge.
   
   These permutate, combine
   In a gentle ellipse of spoken vagaries
   That pester nobody, and yet
   How few invitations are received!
   They say they 're having trouble with the mails
   And so many people have moved as
   We become an increasingly mobile populace
   In the deep shade of a quiet trailer park
   Where nobody minds waiting
   For one to finish examining the elaborate
   Mechanical toys of the last century
   Or playing warped, scratched 78 records
   Of the great coloraturas of the past.
   One is always free to sink into history
   Up to the waist, and the mountains are
   Now so breathtakingly close to the city
   That it’s like taking a vacation
   
   Just to stay home and look at them.
   That's all one can do.
   
   Inhaling the while the extremely cold
   Fresh cement smell which you must pass
   On your way to school.
   
   For all those with erysipelas
   And the wrinkles on the forehead
   And the cheeks that come from within,like reverse scars
   
   For all those wearing old clothes
   With the dormant look of expectation about them
   
   For the women ironing
   And who cut into lengths of white cloth
   
   The glass stopper has been removed
   We can breathe! The ocean has been pulled away.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    

  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-4 15:42:43 | 显示全部楼层
  

   These people, you see,
   Had to come to appear to thrive
   And somewhat later sidestep the destiny
   That pretended not to see them.
   It was all necessary so that some source,
   An origin of the present, might
   In the scent of verbena and dreams of
   Combat locked in the sky over the midocean
   Gradually give less and less of itself
   And in so dying bequeath the manner
   Of its being to the sidewalk shrubbery
   And so enable it to become itself
   Even though that self is only the sometimes-noticed
   Backdrop for ourselves and all
   We wondered whether we would become,
   Pockmarked flecks of polluted matter
   Infrequently visible in the hail of ventilated indifference
   Or seconds of radiation, our own very special
   Thing we had been trying to get our hands
   On for so many years.
   
   Honey, it’s all Greek to me, I---
   
   (And just to make sure you get
   It: the thought crossed my mind
   That I would do well to take up my studies again,
   I seemed to have become less averse to laughter
   And less disinclined for certain small pleasures,
   And I began quietly to reason with myself
   About this matter, as I usually do about others,
   So that I regretfully concluded
   That I would soon again be the same man as before---)
   
   Meaning: the same nausea when I heard cheerful talk,
   The same grief, the same deep and prolonged meditation,
   And almost the same frenzy and oppression.
   
   Supposing that you are a wall
   And can never contribute to nature anything
   But the feeling of being alongside it,
   A certain luxury, and now,
   They come to you with the old matter
   Of your solidity, that firmness,
   That way you have of squaring off
   The maps of distant hills, so that nature
   Seems farther apart from itself because of you.
   Is it this you have done?
   And a certain grassy look, the color
   Of old semiprecious stones, has to be
   What’s coming out of you, for the two of you.
   And the mechanical reverie is cut up by fits
   Of blaring trumpets and alarms, in the night.
   
   Forward then into the yellow villages.
   Despite the eerie setbacks
   Of our subpolar ambience, we are
   Living, we are dwelling on a network
   Of insane desires handled frugally.
   Passport in hand, we arrive in the morning
   At the station, the dumb train
   Vaults you along into forests of
   Broccoli, or tracts of leathery
   Tundra, one eye on the digital watch.
   The tonal purity grows, and dissipates
   But meanwhile the plateau remains staunch,
   It’s only the towers that dot it that tend
   To look pierced by the sky
   Or fade away absentmindedly, altogether.
   
   The naked report arrived vividly
   In the night.
   Groaning for the latter day brought us
   To this place, a trough of silent chatter
   Between two notable waves. And we must arrange
   These filaments of silence as an elephant trap
   Over the grid of city conversations and background doings.
   The quietude
   Of the future to be built, beside which
   Today’s valors and sighs must appear
   As vanished suburbs beside some eighteenth-century
   Metropolis, or stairs rolling down to a sea
   Of urgent scrolls and torsades:
   A Baltic commonplace riven by tremendous
   Hairline fissures as deep as the heavens.
   In other words, leave it alone.
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  

   这些人,你看,
   不得不表现得很兴旺
   后来又躲开了
   假装看不到他们的命运。
   这一切都是必要的,所以某来源,
   一个现在的起源,也许
   在马鞭草的香味中,在
   锁在大洋的天空中战斗的梦想中
   渐渐地给它自己留下越来越少的东西
   在这样的死亡中,给人行道上的灌木丛
   留下了它的存在方式
   从而使它成为它自己
   即使那个自我只是偶尔被注意到的
   我们自己和我们所想知道
   是否我们会变成的一切的背景,
   污染物质的麻点
   在公开表达的冷漠中或几秒钟的辐射中
   很少能看到,这是我们自己
   多年来一直试图亲身体验的
   非常特别的东西。
   
   亲爱的,这对我来说都是希腊语,我---
   
   (只是为了确保你得到
   它:“一个念头穿过我的脑海
   我会好好再开始我的学习,
   我似乎不再那么讨厌笑
   不再那么不愿干某些小的乐趣,
   我开始悄悄地就这件事与自己
   进行辩论,就像我通常对别人做的那样,
   因此,我遗憾地得出结论
   我很快就会再次成为以前一样的男人---”)
   
   意思是:“同样的恶心,当我听到愉快的谈话时,
   同样的悲伤,同样的深刻而持久的沉思,
   几乎同样的狂怒和压抑。”
   
   假设你是一堵墙
   你永远无法为大自然做出任何贡献
   除了在它旁边的感觉,
   一定的奢侈,而现在,
   它们带着你坚固性的
   旧物质走向你,那种坚定性,
   那种你拥有的摆好
   远山地图的方式,所以大自然
   因为你而显得离它自己更远。
   这就是你所做的吗?
   一种草绿色的外观,古老的
   次等宝石的颜色,一定是
   从你出来的,为你们俩。
   在夜里,机械的幻想被一阵
   刺耳的喇叭声和警报声打断了。
   
   然后前进进入黄色村庄。
   尽管我们的近极地环境
   遭遇了可怕的挫折,“我们
   活着,我们仍然生活在”
   一个由节省使用的疯狂欲望组成的网络中。
   护照在手,我们早上到达
   车站,哑巴的火车
   会沿花椰菜的
   森林,或是大片皮质的苔原
   给你盖拱顶,一只眼睛盯着数字手表。
   色调的纯净度在增长,也在消散
   但与此同时,高原依然坚固,
   只有点缀它的塔楼
   看起来似乎被天空刺穿
   或者心不在焉地消失了,完全地。
   
   赤裸裸的报道在夜里
   生动地出现了。
   “近代的呻吟”把我们带到了
   这个地方,在两个显著的波浪之间
   有一个寂静唠叨的低谷。我们必须
   将这些沉默的细丝安排成一个大象陷阱
   覆盖在城市对话和背景行为的网格上。
   未来的
   宁静即将建立,在它旁边
   今天的勇气和叹息一定会
   像十八世纪大都市旁边消失的郊区一样
   出现,或者像滚向一片急促的
   卷轴和螺旋的海洋的楼梯一样:
   波罗的海一个平凡的地方,被巨大的
   细线裂缝撕裂,像天空一样深。
   换句话说,别管它。
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  

   不久前某一天我结束了去看狗展会
   注意到一个漂亮的女孩在四处张望
   好像很困惑。我走到她跟前说:
   
   “对不起,但你找不到你想要的
   狗舍吗?
   如果找不到,我很乐意帮助你。”
   
   “哦,谢谢!”她回答说。“你
   不介意让我看到他们在哪里
   展出海洋灵缇吗?”
   
   我最初来到这里,我
   来到这个远离太阳
   那一边的平坦地方,
   我想我的污渍必须被烧灼。
   我已经十一个月
   没碰饮料,但我的头
   好像陷在衣领里。我
   没有朋友,因为我从一个地方到另一个地方
   
   走得太快了,只有一个助手。
   在印度的夏天,时间总是
   虚假的黎明。我走路的地板上
   褪色的痕迹可能是
   我自己制造的,或者最多
   是一些外部机构制造的。我没有理由
   为我的木乃伊环境感到高兴,但
   我日复一日相当高兴
   就像一座尖塔在太阳下欢腾
   这是最后一次握手。
   我穿着我的天气
   带着一种和蔼可亲的隐秘气氛,
   一旦玩笑结束,我毫不费力地
   找到回家的路。我可以睡觉。
   我能坚持。仅仅在这个范围,太阳穴拱顶的
   嗡嗡声让我感到不安
   因为我查阅了我的怀表,并把它
   温柔地放在我的胸前口袋里。
   但是有一个时间和一盏灯
   没有接近,它在岁月中
   离开了我。
   
   不要鞭打它。记住
   你的其他担保对于你来说多么疯狂,
   你的欲望多么绝望,环境
   多么饱受煎熬,或者泛滥着
   被危险塞满。
   狂欢的
   泡泡消失了,蒸汽哭泣着它们对大地的重荷。
   但在那家酒店
   夜幕持续,雨
   继续。太多的哲学
   是关于它所能承受的一切,我们等待
   男人和鸭子离开,但大多数东西
   仍然留在我们身边,
   植根于深思的土壤。
   大象之脚的雨伞架
   过去曾经在那里,为什么,
   一定是有人把它换了,或者是上次的
   灾难把它从天空以外的深处
   
   捞了出来,或者它就在这里,
   让我们看到,但暂时不见了。
   或者可能有人只是听说过它
   或者它被错误地
   写在一本账簿的一页上,它被错误地
   在一封信中被邮寄。也许是灰尘,
   空气外面的空虚,吞噬了它。
   或者,在大小奇特、不连续的
   史前古器箱中,它保持着自己的位置,但只能部分
   看到,因为周围的
   旋钮和色调抢走了它的完整存在。
   或者一张照片被拍摄下来,之后
   它可能会被摧毁,现在
   照片和底片在前方某一缕中
   丢失,在那里人们将遇到这和所有
   其他偏离形式的瞬间生命
   在一个矛盾中,这将成为它的重点。
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   I was over to the dog show the other day and
   Noticed a nice-looking girl gazing around
   As if puzzled. I went over to her and said:
   “Pardon me, but can’t you find the kennel
   You wish?
   If not, I shall be glad to assist you.”
   “Oh, thank you!” she replied. “Would you
   Mind showing me where they are
   exhibiting the ocean greyhounds?”
   I came out here originally I
   Came to this flat place
   On the side away from the sun,
   I think my stain must be cauterized.
   I have touched no drink
   For an elevenmonth, yet my head
   Seems stuck in my collar. I have
   No friends because I move too rapidly
   From place to place, only an assistant.
   The time is always false dawn
   In Indian Summer. Faded markings on
   The floor where I walk could have
   Been produced by me, or at best
   Some outside agency. I have no reason
   To rejoice in my mummy condition, yet
   Am fairly happy from day to day
   Like a steeple rejoicing in the sun
   It is the last to shake hands with.
   I wear my weather
   With a good-natured air of secrecy,
   And have no trouble finding my way home
   Once the fun is done. I can sleep.
   I can stand up. The buzzing in the vault
   Of the temple disturbs me only insofar
   As I consult my pocket watch and replace it
   Affably in my breast-pocket.
   But There is a time and a light
   Which do not approach, which leave me
   In the years.
   Don’t flog it. Remember how
   Insane your other undertakings seemed to you,
   How hopeless your desires, how tortured
   The ambience, or riddled
   With the stuff of hazard.
   The orgy
   Bubbles away, the vapors weep their burthen to the ground.
   But in that hotel
   The night is ongoing, the rain
   Continues. Too much of a philosophy
   Is about all it can stand, and we wait
   For the men and ducks to go away, and still
   Most everything stays with us,
   Rooted in thoughtful soil.
   The elephant’s-foot umbrella stand
   That used to be over there, why,
   Somebody must have changed it, or the last
   Catastrophe fished it up out of the depths
   Beyond heaven, or it is here,
   For us to see, yet absent for a while.
   Or perhaps someone merely heard of it
   Or it got written down the wrong way
   In a page of an account book that got mailed
   In a letter by mistake. Perhaps the dust,
   That emptiness on the outside of air, ate it.
   Or in the bin of odd-size and discontinued
   Artifacts it holds its own while seen
   Only partially because the surrounding
   Knobs and hues rob it of a full presence.
   Or a photograph was taken, after which
   It could be destroyed, and now
   The photograph and the negative are lost
   Up ahead in one of the strands
   Where one shall encounter this and all the
   Other deviating forms of momentary life
   In a contradiction which shall make its point.

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-5 12:48:16 | 显示全部楼层

   That’s interesting. In my diary
   I have noted down all kinds of exceptional
   Things to go with the rest
   As one who naps beside a chasm
   Swollen with the hellish sound of wind
   And torrents, and never chooses
   To play back the tape.
   Waking Refreshed if not alert, he steps forth
   Into the centuries that grew like shadows
   Under tall trees while he slept;
   The days rub off like scales, the years
   Like burrs or briars plucked
   Patiently from the sleeve, and never sees
   Or hears the havoc wrought by his passing,
   Abysses that open up behind
   His perilous, beribboned journey, the jalopy
   Disappearing deep into vales
   To re-emerge suddenly on heights, through
   The tunnel of a giant sequoia. And always
   An old-time mannerliness and courtesy informs
   The itinerary, leaving us
   Without much to go on.
   
   Once it becomes fatality,
   Of course,
   The journey is at an end, and it is just beginning---
   Innate---
   A moody performance.
   The critics hated it.
   Now one borrows money from his friends,
   In double time, the consequences
   Blur the motives. The contours of the figures
   Are curved and fat. He goes out among the trees,
   Sees the lights in the valley far below.
   Up here the air is black, ice-cold, of a
   Terrifying purity, doubled over somehow.
   But your story isn’t getting boring,
   On the contrary, the slowing-down speeds up the
   Afterthought. We are perverse spelling and punctuation.
   
   It could not be confirmed
   That the recent violent storms were a part of the pattern
   Of civil calamity that had overtaken the outpost.
   Perhaps they were fatal but parallel,
   Wounds inflicted on a corpse, footnotes
   To the desert, the explosion
   That a quiet, mediocre career is. We read
   Through some Haydn quartet movements last night
   But this morning my hand and heart are heavy,heavy alack.
   
   The day before yesterday it seemed to me
   That my cherished sorrow was about to depart,
   And yesterday morning too. And now, fatality
   Has overtaken it. The end
   Has been quiet, and no one has told the rabbits
   And dying bees. Finally some warmth
   From the death floated downstream to us,
   Saving a few moments of mildness
   Among the by-now unmanageably thick grease-crayon
   Outline that coagulates like a ball of soot in the air
   Watched by hemophiliac princes, like an orange.
   
   And as mushrooms spring up
   After great rains have purged the heavens
   Of their terrible delight, so the weight of event
   And counterevent conspired to shift the focus
   Of the scenery away from the action:
   It was always wartime Britain, or some other place
   Dictated by the circumstances, never
   The road leading over the hill
   To yet another home. Rudeness, shabbiness---
   We could have put up with more than a little
   Of these in the hope of getting some bedrest,
   But a measured calm, maddening in
   Its insularity, always prevailed at the window,
   Priming the hour with anguish, and yet
   It was never any later, there was never anything
   More to do, everybody kept telling you
   To relax until you were ready to scream,
   And now this patient night has infused,
   In whose folds only one soul is awake, in the whole wide world.
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   那很有趣。在我的日记中
   我记下了各种异常的
   事情,伴随着其余的
   作为一个在峡谷旁小憩的人
   肿胀着地狱般的风声
   和激流,从不选择
   重放磁带。
   醒来时神清气爽,如果不警觉的话,他会向前步入
   几个世纪,它们就像大树下的
   阴影般成长,在他睡觉的时候;
   白昼如鳞片暗淡,岁月
   如毛边或荆棘,耐心地
   从袖子里拔出,却从未见过
   或听到他经过时所造成的浩劫,
   深渊打开了,在他
   危险的、饰有缎带的旅程后,那辆老爷车
   消失在山谷深处
   突然在高处重新出现,穿过
   一棵巨大红杉的隧道。而且总是有
   一种旧式的举止和礼貌,影响
   行程,使我们
   没有太多事情继续。
   
   一旦它成为宿命,
   当然,
   旅程就结束了,而它才刚刚开始---
   与生俱来的---
   一场喜怒无常的表演。
   在行程安排中,
   评论家们痛恨它。
   现在人们向他的朋友借钱,
   在双倍的时间里,结果
   模糊了动机。这些人物的轮廓
   是弯曲的,丰满的。他走到树林中,
   看到下面远处山谷里的灯光。
   这里的空气是黑色的,冰冷的,纯净得
   可怕的,不知怎么翻了一番。
   但是你的故事并没有变得令人厌烦,
   相反,慢下来会加速
   事后的思考。我们一意孤行的拼写和标点错误。
   
   无法确认
   最近的暴力风暴是否是
   突然降临在前哨的内部灾难模式的一部分。
   也许它们是致命的,但又是平行的,
   遭受创伤的尸体,沙漠中的
   脚注,一个
   安静,平庸的职业所带来的爆炸。昨晚
   我们读了海顿四重奏的一些乐章
   但今天早上我的手和心都很沉重,沉重,呜呼。
   
   前天,似乎在我看来
   我所珍视的悲伤即将离去,
   昨天早上也是如此。现在,死亡
   已经超越了它。结局
   是平静的,没有人告诉兔子
   和垂死的蜜蜂。最后,一些
   来自死亡的温暖飘向了我们的下游,
   保留了一些温和的时刻
   在现在难以控制的厚厚的油脂蜡笔
   轮廓中,它们凝结得像血友病王子看到的
   空气中的一个烟灰球,像一个橘子。
   
   就像蘑菇迅速生长
   在暴雨净化了它们
   可怕喜悦的天空之后,因此,事件
   和反事件的重压合谋
   将风景的焦点从行动上移开:
   它总是战时的英国,或是其他
   由环境支配的地方,从来没有过
   山通向另一个家的
   道路。粗鲁、寒酸---
   对希望能睡个好觉这些事
   我们本来可以忍受多一点,
   但是一种有节制的平静,令人发狂,在
   它与世隔绝的环境中,在窗外总是占优势,
   用痛苦引爆了时间,然而
   时间从不晚,再也没有
   更多事可做了,每个人都不停地告诉你
   要放松,直到你准备好尖叫,
   而现在这个耐心的夜晚已经注入,
   在整个广阔的世界里,只有一个灵魂在它的褶皱里清醒。
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
   我喜欢想象,虽然
   没有什么比这个曾经存在的立场
   更尴尬。它一定是
   一棵老苹果树的树干
   蜜蜂挖空它来酿蜜,
   它本身现在消失,一种记忆的
   残余,一种手势时间
   对任何人都不特别造出,对它自己
   甚至对它自己也不,一种抽搐,
   一种剧痛,现在长久以来不可见
   在低压区
   在天气图上。一种震颤
   远离个人
   及其日常需求,一本书中
   要查找的数字,或那本书的
   目录号,或两者兼而有之,
   书中的数字和目录号
   白色鸟粪装订在明亮的蔓越莓上,
   在两个标题下
   都涉及到大量,全等孪生数字。
   
   我们的时代,事实上,是“一个时代对一个时代的讲述”,
   一旦它成为定局。
   之后,
   它像石笋一样漂移,把
   愚蠢的争论向前推进了一英寸。
   当然,所有这些都必须
   与希望平行进行,以显示
   祖传的联接,而且,更重要的是,淹没
   任何争夺忠诚的谣言。
   这仅仅是一个避免阴影
   和僵硬光的碎片的问题,
   同时又不听从太阳,
   和海岸。没有半裸的限制,
   而且,在橙色光中,虽然太阳成功地
   散发在这个地球的整个球体上,不再避开
   人们的视线,时间不少于
   彩灯舞会期望你
   对自己,在这里地球上和一切时间的描述。
   
   一个接一个的
   死亡大军,就像一只葡萄蚜虫
   从未成功地抹去假定
   多长时间的亲密知识
   尽管年复一年残酷的努力,但最初
   种植它的那些人的头脑
   仍然一样,而那些继续跟上
   不断变化的时间和模式,同时
   毫不费力地保留着的人,
   就好像所有这些都是悲歌和托卡塔
   (恰巧如此),
   指南。一旦给予
   他们就会被生活中悲伤的快乐所遗忘,
   对它们的尊重几乎是每位竞争者
   义不容辞的责任,没有人,包括他们,
   会因此而变得更广阔。然而
   流传着一个故事:饥饿的音乐家、
   江湖艺人、蚱蜢和蚂蚁
   它们卑鄙的炉边与荒芜的户外
   形成了如此不明显的对比。仅仅演奏一种乐器,
   似乎,总有一天会使人意识到
   靠它谋生是不可能的,
   会迫使自己卖淫,无辜地,
   以获得更大的快乐,就像接着的
   第一次小快乐所带来的伤害一样。
   没有出路,除非
   竖琴的声音足以分散
   争吵的雷声的注意力,因为
   据说戈格和马戈不断准备,
   或者记忆的丧失(它不可能,根据定义,
   发生)使人忘记交通
   和它所暗示的一切。记忆的丧失本身就是一种音乐,
   一种音乐。
   同时,像叶子一样向树后倾斜
   变得更老,是一种没有舒适感的
   成就。
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
   I like to imagine though
   That nothing so awkward as the stand ever
   Existed. It must have been
   The trunk of an old apple tree
   And bees hollowed it out to make honey,
   Itself now gone, a remnant
   Of a memory, a gesture time made
   To no one in particular, to itself
   Or not even to itself, a tic,
   A twinge long invisible now
   On the low-pressure area
   On the weather map. A tremor
   Far removed from the individual man
   And his daily wants, a number
   To be looked up in a book, or the catalogue number
   Of that book, or both,
   The number in the book and the catalogue number
   In white guano on the brilliant cranberry binding,
   Concerns galore
   Under both headings, the identical twin numbers.
   
   Ours, actually, is an “age on ages telling,”
   Once it has become finality.
   Afterwards,
   It drifts like a stalagmite, advancing
   Pea-brained arguments an inch forward.
   Of course all this has to go on
   Parallel to the hoping, so as to display
   The ancestral linkage, and, more importantly, to drown out
   Any rumors of competing loyalties.
   It is merely a question of avoiding the shadow
   And the starched patch of light,
   At the same time deferring to no sun,
   No shore. No half-naked limit,
   And, in the orange light that the sun succeeds nevertheless
   In shedding all over this terrestrial ball, to avert
   One’s gaze no longer and no less time than is intended
   By the illuminating party to be your account
   Of yourself, here on earth and for all time.
   
   A grand army of fatality succeeding
   One after the other like a phylloxera
   Never succeeded in erasing intimate
   Knowledge of how long that was supposed to be
   Despite ferocious efforts from age to age the same
   From the minds of those men in which it had been planted
   Originally, and who continued to keep up
   With the changing time and modes while retaining
   With no effort at all,
   As though all were elegy and toccata
   (Which happens to be the case),
   The guidelines. Once given
   They can be forgotten in the sad joy of life,
   Reverence for which is almost incumbent
   On each contestant, and no one, including them,
   Will ever be wider for it. Yet
   Thereby hangs a tale, of starving musicians,
   Strolling players, grasshopper and the ant
   Whose contemptible fireside contrasts so untellingly
   With the barren outdoors. Just to play an instrument,
   It seems, is to have to come round one
   Day to the impossibility of making a living on it,
   To being forced to prostitute oneself, innocently,
   For the greater pleasure which is as the damage
   Succeeding on the small first pleasure.
   And there s no way out, unless
   The sound of harps is sufficient distraction
   Against the thunder of the fray “for which(1)
   Gog and Magog are said to be continually preparing,
   Or loss of memory (which cannot, by definition,
   Take place) render one oblivious to the traffic
   And all it implies. That loss of memory Which is itself a music,
   A kind of music.
   And meanwhile, growing older like leaves that lean back
   Against the trees, is an accomplishment
   Without comfort.
   
   -------
   (1)原文如此,没有反引号。
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-6 21:40:11 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-8-7 14:00 编辑



  原文发不出来,后面两楼补









   感觉没有必要用玫瑰色的眼镜看世界,
   为了“可爱”而过活,
   为了创造巨大的新形式并给它们留出空间居住人,
   你阻碍了任何方向,无论是对是错。
   “灵魂的诱奸”不会发生。
   十一月的长雨,长雨的
   十一月,寂静的树林,
   像指南针一样张开来接收异常,
   将它压回潮湿的大地,
   某人嘴唇上低语的影子。

   你既不能定义
   也不能抹去它,而且,在手电筒的光下看到,
   披上了非存在的
   刺耳野蛮的织物,它
   在火光中显得格外突出。
   这多于任何意味着存在的事情。
   然而,不知何故令人悲哀,仿佛
   三维效果是以新鲜的模糊感
   为代价实现的
   它升起一根树枝,比支撑它的
   无叶树枝的泥沼略高,
   而现在,热切地,疲惫,它又沉回到了
   其他树枝通常令人满意的
   轮廓之下。它吃了
   你给它的食物,主要是把自己
   坚守,在围栏的一个角落里。
   你从来没有对它说话,除非用最亲切的
   语气,它悲伤地回答说,
   如果有点礼貌的话,多么,现在
   你希望你能把这些交流记录下来!
   有一点是肯定的:没有什么
   可以取代它;与
   赐给你的一样致命,所以现在
   它从你身上除掉了,是给你的安慰,
   没有什么能代替它的位置。

   这不是一个空虚的问题,只是
   一个其他人似乎从不冒险的地方,
   一个沉没的帕纳索斯。
   有一个小小的变化,一个
   在重聚时复活的相当的机会,
   在自动的问候中,从
   厚颜无耻的语言中召唤:

   “于是你以为这就是
   那个地方,他带给你,更新的
   剪影,在最高的山坡上
   形成的最新夕阳,到经常
   传闻的约会,到一个
   像雪花形状的畜栏,爱
   模糊每一点。然而,你
   站得很稳,看不到
   它通往哪里。诱惑者仍然呆在家里。”

   然而去哪里,带着残破的翅膀
   分析最高天?扇形地平线上的
   云杜鹃地?啊,最近
   沸水滚滚的土地,女巫的
   担忧,拖离
   码头的船只,
   已经深深滑入蓝色精纺毛织物的
   海洋规范?但这正是我所做的。

   总是有人认为你应该
   从阴沉的秋日夕阳中回头,就像微风中的乳清护送
   我们爬上斜面,其外观,起初也很
   阴沉,熟练得
   犹如沐浴在魔法中,当它的密度,
   “一道闪电,在经过时可见并很微弱,”
   以其完美的欲望
   如初升的月亮的尖叫
   击昏了理解的官能。
   因此,最好是和吟游诗人住在一起,
   认真地玩至少一场
   游戏。老前辈会
   让你接管旧租约。
   他们中的一个将在你中。

   如果在水上有音乐会
   我们可以回头。焦油在海鸥
   古怪临床表现的牙齿中向上游飘浮;
   岸上布满花,我以前
   知道这些花的名字,
   在诗歌许可证接管并废除一切之前。
   人们遮住眼睛,在海岸上
   挥手:向我们还是向我们身后的人?
   就在一切似乎都要出错的时候
   音乐开始了;后来,会找到
   并提供丢失的点心,
   道路变成焦糖,就像第一批星星
   放入怯懦的显现,像雪花莲一样。
   不知何故,你发现力量
   无法抗拒地从这一切中带走。
   但在这片土地上的剪贴簿和明信片
   相册中,你被记住了,尽管你不在那里出现,
   因为曾经有一列火车经过
   你过夜的地方,一座高高的,像钉子一样的
   透明纪念碑被竖立在你的记忆里,
   只是不要去那里。一个人可以
   像间谍一样生活在这片土地上,而不必
   侵入这片终有一死的,被人遗忘的边疆。
   在看不见的合唱团的诗篇中
   有一个你的胚芽,它像煤一样生活在
   这片只会忘记你的土地上
   充满敌意的冷漠之中。你的手
   是它编织物和雏鸟的核心。
   你是它的保证。









   从选美比赛和随之而来的
   争吵中回到家里,她没有
   太多的感受。这个世界
   更加模糊,没有那么恶化,一段
   紧张头痛,但也是
   建筑的暗示和灵感的时期:
   苦恼了一天,然后清新的梦
   像一口自流井一样冒出泡沫,在它所有的
   精确观察的细节财富,
   它真实的存在中,表面上看
   但长时间令人震惊,把树根对着扎进面具后面
   迟钝的泥土里。然而,就像一种
   已经消失的痛苦,它的内在
   是非常持续的东西,它的现在
   为了整体的更大利益而离去。
   一顶像冬果一样的
   深红色珠宝的冠冕慢慢地垂到
   雪白的卷发上,梦变成
   一个人,一个不能站立或坐下的
   美丽公主。年长的客人们还记得
   这些都如何没有被预测到,尽管这个神秘的词,
   “魔法,”在多年前
   就已经被想象。我们
   如何生活?从故事的开始
   到它不可避免的,瞬间的结束,它口袋里的
   所有宝藏都立刻在哪里一扫而光,
   在镜面的桌面上?等着
   有人低声说一句话,让它们恢复到
   它们天鹅绒的小丘上,让一切又好起来?

   只有卡通动物知道
   进入框架里面多么艰难,然后
   发出声音,或者最终印上
   一个黑色的爪子印在宽阔、眩目的白色
   锦缎沙漠上,当公司三三两两地离开时。有人
   在遥远的地方发出了一声认可的尖叫,进入最远的
   枝形吊灯的文明但昏暗的世界。
   一架商用飞机飞驰而过。再一次
   该奖项将不会颁发。
   远处的平原与它们
   在这些透明的墙壁上的照片相匹配,
   仅此而已。没有孩子
   来缓解成人生意的紧张,
   没有新的有趣的动物,只有庄严、想象中的
   交通和商业世界的
   声音抽象。没有人
   再嘲笑这些辉煌的错误。

   然而,我们这些了解它们的,
   中年漂流者,不知何故
   通过层层麻木的舒适感、
   物质主义和空间的羽绒被,意识到了
   在根源上苦苦挣扎的意义有多大,以及如何
   在它融化之前把它的一些带回家(就像所有人
   都会,梦境和云母般闪闪发光的人行道、云层
   和办公楼、谈话
   和出神,直到
   有一天,他们再也做不到了,大量的
   风景部分地游荡
   在废弃的地形上,破碎的篱笆
   和窗户被破布填满)而歌谣
   仍在卖方耳边包围。

   在演讲开始时,边界
   问题又被提到。
   树木和建筑物都是多孔的
   天空的穹顶也是如此。
   这场谈话没有任何结果,但
   在它的空间里。

   它正在收缩,它被观察…
   我们想要的呼吸,建造并躺倒
   在夜晚的睡眠中,在破烂的
   树荫下,在雨中打开,夜晚的沙沙作响。
   还有潮湿的,像狗的味道,
   教堂钟声的鸣响点缀着雷声
   和闪电,田野里的
   痛苦和小小的胜利。
   一切都是一根
   深陷身体太深的轴,打开风景,
   新的人,融入新的对话,
   然而却很遥远,就像一个人的后背很遥远一样。
   这一切似乎都是两年半前的事
   对于困在阁楼上的不耐烦的太阳来说
   当时它想干的一切只是写数学和单词,
   因为尽管在凌晨时分,一些风铃声
   从天上缓慢飘下来,人们还是忍不住
   注意到潮湿,空旷的街道上
   频繁出现的蹄声齐鸣。
   没人说会变成这样
   但当然,没人知道,现在他们中的大多数人
   都死了。
   有一个,然而,仍隐约可见,
   广告牌大小,在十一年前的
   流浪汉夜空中。它是
   谁的手,滑稽地放在你的喉咙上,
   从格子袖口浮现?
   因为很久以前
   你被许诺过安全同行权
   从短暂的、轻微的痛苦
   到这些并非乏味的出生痛苦
   因此,因此,一幅总是透过黑色花边看到的风景
   变成为你的这一
   机构,曲折,正如我们将看到的一样,
   不时地通过谨慎的航海典故
   和零碎的装饰,总计到
   这些到手的东西,而不是别的:暗示
   永远保持它的柔软和笔直,只要
   没有其他人拿起你嗡嗡的电话。
   在任何乐器上演奏它。它在重击中
   随时准备听从你的命令,尽管被沉入了
   终结的那天老鼠出没的
   玫瑰余烬堆中。一件纪念品。









   Back home from the beauty contest
   And its attendant squalors,she doesn’t feel
   Like much. The world
   Is vaguer and less pejorative, a time
   Of stressful headache but also
   Of architectonic inklings and inspiration:
   Agony for a day, and then the refreshing dream
   Bubbles up like an artesian well in all its
   Wealth of accurately observed detail,
   Its truth of being, on the surface
   But striking long, pointed roots into the dull earth
   Behind the mask. Yet like a pain
   That went away, its immanence
   Is very much an ongoing thing, its present
   Departed in the greater interest of the whole.
   A coronet of dark red jewels
   Like winter berries was slowly lowered
   Onto the snow-white curls, and the dream became
   A person, a beautiful princess unable to stand
   Or sit. And the older guests remembered
   How none of it had been predicted, though the mystery word,
   “Magic,” had been imagined
   Many years before. How
   Do we live from the beginning of the tale
   To its inevitable, momentary end, where all
   Its pocket’s treasures are summarily emptied,
   On the mirroring tabletop? And wait
   For someone to whisper the word that restores them
   To their velvet hummock, sets all right again?

   Only the cartoon animals know
   How hard it was to get inside the frame, and then
   To make a noise, or eventually to place
   An inky paw-print on the wide, blinding white
   Damask desert as the company was leaving
   In twos and threes. Someone
   Projects a shriek of recognition far up, into the civilized
   But dim world of the farthest chandelier.
   A commercial airliner streaked by. Once again
   The prize will not be awarded.
   The distant plains match up with
   The pictures of them on these transparent walls,
   And that is all. No children
   To relieve the tensions of the adult business,
   No new funny animals, only the vocal abstractions
   Of the solemn, imaginary world of transportation
   And commerce. No one
   Laughs at the brilliant errors any more.

   Yet we who came to know them,
   Castaways of middle life, somehow
   Grew aware through the layers of numbing comfort,
   The eiderdown of materialism and space, how much meaning
   Was there languishing at the roots, and how
   To take some of it home before it melts (as all
   Will, dreams and mica-sparkling sidewalks, clouds
   And office buildings, the conversation
   And the trance, until
   A day when they can do no more, and the mass
   Of the scenery wanders partially
   Over the defunct terrain of broken fences
   And windows stuffed with rags) while the ballad
   Still rings in the seller’s ear.

   In the beginning of speech the question
   Of frontiers is taken up again.
   And the trees and buildings are porous
   And the dome of heaven.
   The talk leads nowhere but is
   Inside its space.

   It is contracting, it is observed...
   Breath we wanted, to build and lie down
   In slumber at night, under the tattered shade
   Of the trees, open to the rain, rustling of night.
   And the wet, doggy smell,
   The pealing of church bells interspersed with thunder
   And lightning, the distress
   And tiny triumphs of the field.
   Everything is a shaft
   Sunk far too deep into the body, opening landscapes,
   New people, mingling in new conversations,
   Yet distant, as the back of one’s head is distant.
   It all seems like 2 1/2 years ago
   To the impatient sun trapped in the attic
   When all it wants is to be able to write about mathematics and the word,
   For although a few wind-chime notes filter down
   From heaven in the small hours, one cannot help
   But note the frequent fanfare of hoofbeats
   In the wet, empty street.
   No one said it would turn out this way
   But of course, no one knew, and now most of them
   Are dead.
   One, however, still looms,
   Billboard-size in the picaresque
   Night sky of eleven years ago. And whose
   Hand is it, placed comically against your throat,
   Emerging from a checkered cuff?
   Because a long time ago
   You were promised safe-conduct
   From a brief, mild agony
   To these not-uninteresting pangs of birth
   And so, and so, a landscape always seen through black lace
   Became this institution
   For you, inflected, as we shall see,
   From time to time by discreet nautical allusions
   And shreds of decor, to amount
   To these handfuls and no other: a reminder
   To keep it soft and straight forever as long
   As no other pick up your ringing phone.
   Play it on any instrument. It is in whack
   And ready to do your bidding, though sunk
   In the rat-infested heap of rose embers
   Of the terminating day. A keepsake.










 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-7 13:54:56 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-8-7 14:01 编辑

   Feeling no need to look at the world through rose-colored glasses,
   To get by on “cuteness,”
   To create large new forms and people them with space,
   You thwart any directions, right or wrong.
   The seduction de l 'ame will not take place.
   The long rains in November, November
   Of long rains, silent woods,
   Open like a compass to receive the anomaly,
   Press it back into the damp earth,
   The shadow of a whisper on someone’s lips.

   You can neither define
   Nor erase it, and, seen by torchlight,
   Being cloaked with the shrill
   Savage drapery of non-being, it
   Stands out in the firelight.
   It is more than anything was meant to be.
   Yet somehow mournful, as though
   The three-dimensional effect had been achieved
   At the cost of a crisp vagueness
   That raised one twig slightly higher than the
   Morass of leafless branches that supported it,
   And now, eager, fatigued, it had sunk back
   Below the generally satisfying
   Contours of the rest. It had eaten
   The food you gave it, and kept to itself
   Mainly, in a corner of the pen.
   You never spoke to it except in the kindest
   Tones, and it replied sadly,
   If somewhat politely, and how much, now
   You wish you had kept a record of those exchanges!
   One thing is sure: nothing
   Can replace it; as fatally
   As it was given to you, so now
   It has been removed from you, for your comfort,
   And nothing stands in its place.

   It is not a question of emptiness, only
   Of a place the others never seem to venture,
   A sunken Parnassus.
   There is a slight change, a chance rather
   Of its coming to life at the reunion,
   Amid the automatic greetings, summonses
   From a brazen tongue:

   “And so you thought this
   Was where he brought you, the
   Updated silhouette, late sunlight
   Developed on the tallest slope, to the assignation
   Rumored so often, to a corral
   Shaped like a snowflake, and love
   Blurring each of the points. Yet you
   Stand fast and cannot see
   Where it is leading. And the seducer remains at home.”

   (这里有一页原文是空白,不知道是不是缺页---译者按)


 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-7 13:56:22 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-8-7 14:01 编辑

   Yet whereto, with damaged wing
   Assay th’empyrean? Scalloped horizon
   Of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land? O land
   Of recently boiling water, witches’
   Misgivings, ships
   Pulling away from piers,
   Already slipping deep into the norm
   Of blue worsted seas? Yet that is just what I did.

   There are always those who think you ought to
   Turn back from dull autumn sunsets like whey in the breeze that escorts
   Us up inclined planes whose appearance, dull too
   At first, is experienced
   As if bathed in magic, when its density,
   “A flash of lightning, seen in passing and very faintly,”
   Stuns the apprehending faculties
   With the perfection of its desire
   Like the scream of the rising moon.
   It is best to abide with minstrels, then,
   To play at least one game
   Seriously. The old-timers will
   Let you take over the old lease.
   One of them will be in you.

   If there were concerts on the water there
   We could turn back. Tar floated upriver
   In the teeth of the gulls’ outlandish manifestations;
   The banks pocked with flowers whose names
   I used to know,
   Before poetic license took over and abolished everything.
   People shade their eyes and wave
   From the strand: to us or someone behind us?
   Just as everything seemed about to go wrong
   The music began; later on, the missing
   Refreshments would be found and served,
   The road turn caramel just as the first stars
   Were putting in a timid appearance, like snowdrops.
   And somehow you found the strength
   To be carried irresistibly away from all this.
   But in the scrapbooks and postcard albums
   Of the land, you are remembered, Although you do not figure there,
   And because a train once passed near where
   You spent a night, a tall, translucent
   Monument like a spike has been erected to your memory,
   Only do not go there. One can live
   In the land like a spy without ever
   Trespassing on the mortal, forgotten frontier.
   In the psalms of the invisible chorus
   There is a germ of you that lives like a coal
   Amid the hostile indifference of the land
   That merely forgets you. Your hand
   Is at the heart of its weavings and nestlings.
   You are its guarantee.








 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-8 10:18:42 | 显示全部楼层

   At that moment, fatality
   Or some woman resembling her, angel,
   Goddess, whatever: “the Beautiful Lady”,
   Arrives to announce the Brass Age---
   “You are being asked to believe
   No more in the subtle possibilities of silver,
   Which, like the tintinnabulation of an ethereal
   Silver chime, marking an unknown hour
   From a remote, dismal room, no longer
   Promises harvests, only the translucent melancholy
   Of the skies which follow in their wake,
   Pale, greenish blue, with magnificent
   Clouds like overloaded schooners, that dip
   To rise again, higher, and seem
   Endlessly on the move, until they round
   What? Is there some cape, some destination,
   Some port of debarkation in all this?
   There is only the slow but febrile motion
   Of sky and cloud, a toast, a promise,
   A new diary, until one gets too close
   And becomes oneself part of the meaningless
   Rolling and lurching,so hard to read
   Or hear, and never closer
   To the end or to the beginning: the mimesis
   Of death, without the finality---is
   There anything in this for you?
   Sad, browning flowers, tokens
   Of the wind’s remembering you, damp, rotting
   Nostalgia under a head of twigs or at the end
   Of some log spangled with brand-new, ice-green lichens,
   Dead pine-needles, worthy
   Objects of contemplation if you wish, but there is
   Less comfort but more interest in the drab
   Clear moment that enshrines us
   Now, in this place. No one
   Could mistake this for morning, or afternoon,
   Or the specious perfection of twilight, yet
   It is within us, and the substance
   Of your latest interventions. Therefore, begone!”
   
   The voice
   Straddled the stone canyon like vapors.
   In the distance one could see oneself, drawn
   On the air like one of Millet’s
   “Gleaners,” extracting
   This or that from the vulgar stubble, with the roistering
   Of harvesters long extinct, dead for the ear, and in the middle
   Distance, one’s new approximation of oneself:
   A seated figure, neither imperious nor querulous,
   No longer invoking the riddle of the skies, of distance,
   Nor yet content with the propinquity
   Of strangers and admirers, all rapt,
   In attitudes of fascination at your feet,waiting
   For the story to begin.
   
   All right. Let’s see---How about “The outlook wasn’t brilliant
   For the Mudville nine that day”? No,
   That kind of stuff is too old-hat. Today
   More than ever readers are looking for
   Something upbeat, to sweep them off their feet.
   Something candid but also sophisticated
   With an unusual slant. A class act
   That doesn’t look like a class act
   Is more like ...
   It goes without saying
   That I enjoy
   You as you are,
   The pleasant taste of you.
   You are with me as the seasons
   Circle with us around the sun
   That dates back to the seventeenth century,
   We circling with them,
   United with ourselves and directly linked
   To them,changing as they change,
   Only their changes are always the same, and we,
   We are always a little different with each change.
   But in the end our changes make us into something,
   Bend us into some shape maybe
   No one we would recognize,
   And it is ours, anyway, beyond understanding
   Or even beyond our perception:
   We may never perceive the thing we have become.
   But that’s all right---we have to be it
   Even as we are ourselves. Anyway,
   That’s the way I like you and the way
   Things are going to be increasingly,
   With the seasons a mirror of our indeterminate
   Activities, so that they do end
   In burgeoning leaves and buds and then
   In bare twigs against a Pater-painted
   Sky of gray, expecting snow ...
   How can we know ourselves through
   These excrescences of time that take
   Their cues elsewhere? Whom
   Should I refer you to, if I am not
   To be of you? But you
   Will continue in your own way, will finish
   Your novel, and have a life
   Full of happy, active surprises, curious
   Twists and developments of character:
   A charm is fixed above you
   And everything you do, but you
   Must never make too much of it, nor
   Take it for granted, either. Anyway, as
   I said, I like you this way, understood
   If under-appreciated, and finally
   My features come to rest, locked
   In the gold-filled chain of your expressions,
   The one I was always setting out to be---
   Remember? And now it is so.
   Yet---whether it wasn’t all just a little,
   Well, silly, or whether on the other hand this
   Wasn’t a welcome sign of something
   Human at last, like a bird
   After you’ve been sailing on and on for days:
   How could we tell
   The serene and majestic side of nature
   From the other one, the mocking and swearing
   And smoke billowing out of the ground?
   Because they are so closely and explicitly
   Intertwined that good
   Oftentimes seems merely the necessary
   Attractive side of evil, which in turn
   Can be viewed as the less appealing but more
   Human side of good, something at least
   Which can be appreciated?
   But poetry is making things in the past;
   The past tense transcends and excuses these
   Grimy arguments which fog over as soon as
   You begin to contemplate them. Poetry
   Has already happened. And the agony
   Of looking steadily at something isn’t
   Really there at all, it’s something you
   Once read about; its narrative thrust
   Carries it far beyond what it thought it was
   All het up about; its charm, no longer
   A diversionary tactic, is something like
   Grace, in the long run, which is what poetry is.
   Musing on these things he turned off the
   Great high street which is like a too-busy
   Harbor full of boats knocking against each
   Other, a blatantly cacophonous if stirring
   Symphony, with all its most
   Staggeringly beautiful aspects jammed against
   The lowest motives and inspirations that ever
   Infected the human spirit, into a
   Small courtyard continued by an alley as
   Though a sudden hush or drop in the temperature
   Suddenly fell across him, like steep
   Building-shadows, and he wondered
   What it had all been leading up to. Up there
   Wisps of smoke raced away from grimy
   Chimney pots as though pursued by demons;
   Down here all was yellowing silence and
   Melancholy though not without a secret
   Feeling of satisfaction at having escaped
   The rat race, if only for a time, to plunge
   Into profitless meditations, as threadbare
   As the old mohair coat he had worn from
   Earliest times, and which no one
   Had ever seen him doff, no matter
   What the prevailing meteorological conditions were.
   These were now the fabric
   Of his existence, and fabric was precisely
   What he felt that existence to be: something old
   And useful, useful and useless at the same time.
   
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

   在那一刻,命运女神
   或与她相似的女人,天使,女神,无论什么:“美丽的女士”
   来宣布黄铜时代---
   “你正被要求不再相信
   银的微妙可能性,
   它们,就像一个飘渺的银钟的
   叮当声,在一个遥远,沉闷的房间里
   标志着一个未知的时刻,不再
   许诺丰收,只有那半透明的忧郁的
   天空紧随它们的醒来,
   苍白的,绿蓝色的,伴随壮丽的
   云彩像超载的纵帆船,它会浸入
   再次上升,更高,似乎
   无休止地移动,直到它们围绕着
   什么?在这一切中,有一些岬角,一些目的地,
   一些卸货港吗?
   只有天空和云彩
   缓慢而炽热的运动,祝酒词,承诺,
   一本新的日记,直到人们离得太近
   成为自己毫无意义的
   翻滚和振动的一部分,如此难以阅读
   或听到,从未更接近
   结束或开始:死亡的
   模拟,没有结局---这里面
   有什么东西是为你吗?
   悲哀,褐黄色的花朵,象征着
   风对你的回忆,潮湿,腐烂的
   怀旧之情,在树枝的前端下,或者在一些木头的
   尽头,点缀着崭新的,冰绿色地衣,
   死松针,值得
   沉思的东西,如果你愿意的话,但是存在
   更少的舒适但更多的感兴趣,在我们现在
   所珍藏的单调清爽的
   时刻,在这里。没有人
   会把这误认为是早晨、或下午,
   或者是暮色中似是而非的完美,然而
   它就在我们内部,以及你们
   最近干预的实质。因此,走开!”
   
   声音
   像蒸汽一样横跨着石头峡谷。
   在远处,人们可以看到自己,像米勒的一个
   “拾荒者”一样,从粗俗的
   茬口中抽出这或那,伴随收割者
   为了耳朵长长的灭绝,死亡的喧闹,在中间的
   距离,一个新的自我的近似:
   一个坐着的身影,既不专横也不暴躁,
   不再唤起天空之谜,距离之谜,
   也不满足于陌生人
   和仰慕者的亲近,都全神贯注,
   站在你的脚下以迷人的姿态,等待
   故事的开始。
   
   好吧。让我们看看---“那天穆德维尔九号的前景
   并不灿烂”怎么样?不,
   那种东西太旧了。今天
   读者比以往任何时候都更希望看到
   一些乐观的东西,清扫它们离开它们的脚。
   直率也老练的某些东西
   带有不同寻常的倾向。看起来不像
   课堂表演的课堂表演
   更像是……
   不用说
   我喜欢
   你的本来面目,
   你令人愉悦的味道。
   你和我在一起,就像
   伴随我们的太阳周围的季节循环
   它们追溯回十七世纪,
   我们和它们一起旋转,
   与我们自己团结在一起,并直接与它们
   联系在一起,随着它们的变化而变化,
   只是它们的变化总是相同的,而我们,
   我们总是随着每一个变化而有所不同。
   但最终,我们的改变使我们变成了某种东西,
   使我们弯曲成了某种
   我们识别出是没人的形状,
   而且它是我们的,不管怎样,超越了理解
   或甚至超越了我们的感知:
   我们可能永远无法感知我们已经变成的东西。
   但没关系---我们必须成为它
   即使我们是我们自己。不管怎么说,
   这就是我喜欢你的方式,事情
   将会越来越多地,
   伴随我们不确定活动的一面镜子的
   季节的方式,因此它们确实终止
   在激增的叶子和蓓蕾中,然后
   在父辈描绘的灰色天空背景下
   光秃秃的树枝,期待着下雪……
   我们如何通过这些时间的赘疣
   来了解自己,而它们
   将它们的线索带到了别处?如果
   我不属于你,我该把你
   委托给谁?但你
   将以自己的方式继续下去,完成
   你的小说,并拥有一个
   充满快乐、活跃的惊喜、奇怪的
   曲折和性格发展的生活:
   魅力是固定在你
   和你所做的一切之上的,但你
   永远不能从它得到太多,也不能
   认为它是理所当然的。不管怎样,正如
   我所说,我喜欢你这样,充分理解
   如果没有被充分欣赏,最后
   我的容貌开始休息,锁在
   你表情的镀金锁链中,
   那是我一直想成为的那一个---
   记得吗?现在它是这样。
   然而---无论这一切是否只是一点点、
   明智、愚蠢,或者是否从另一方面来说,这
   最终不是一个受欢迎的
   人类迹象,就像你
   连续航行了好几天之后的一只鸟:
   我们怎么能区分
   大自然平静和庄严的一面
   从另一个,嘲笑、咒骂
   和从大地滚滚而出的烟雾?
   因为它们是如此紧密和明确地
   缠绕,以至于善
   往往似乎只是邪恶
   必要的吸引人的一面,而邪恶反过来
   又可以被视为善的不那么吸引人但更
   人性化的善的一面,一些至少
   可以欣赏的东西?
   但诗歌正在制造过去的东西;
   过去时超越并原谅了这些
   肮脏的争论,当你开始沉思它们
   这些争论就模糊了。诗歌
   已经发生了。而盯着
   某样东西看的痛苦其实
   根本不存在,这是你曾经
   读过的东西;它的叙事主旨
   载着它远远超出了它所认为的
   激化的一切;它的魅力,不再
   是一种转移注意力的策略,它有点像
   优雅,从长远来看,这就是诗歌的本质。
   沉思着这些事情,他离开了
   大商业街,它就像是一个繁忙的
   港口,充满船只,相互
   撞击,一首喧闹的粗腔横调,如果激动人心的
   交响乐,带着它所有最
   惊人美丽的一面,被人类精神
   所受到传染的最低限度的
   动机和灵感堵塞,进入一个
   小院,由一条小巷延续着,仿佛
   突然一片寂静或气温骤降
   突然降临在他身上,就像陡峭的
   建筑阴影。他想知道
   这一切究竟导致了什么。在那里
   一缕缕烟雾从肮脏的
   烟囱顶帽中飞走,仿佛被恶魔追赶;
   在这里,一切都是发黄的沉默和
   忧郁,虽然不是没有一种秘密的
   逃脱了激烈竞争的
   满足感,哪怕只是一段时间,陷入了
   徒劳无益的沉思,就像他
   最早穿的旧马海毛大衣一样
   破旧,而且从来没有人
   见过他脱下它,无论
   普遍的气象条件如何。
   这些就是他现在
   存在的结构,而结构正是
   他认为存在的东西:在同一时间
   既古老又有用,既有用又无用。
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  

   这是一个非凡的下午:
   天空在某个时刻变得漆黑一片,尽管
   仍然有足够的光线可以看到周围的事物。
   在漆黑的背景下,一切都显得非常
   节日和优雅。但谁在乎?
   在白银时代,属于我们的,事情
   以这种方式发生难道不是很正常吗?
   像银玫瑰的呈现这样的动机
   比比皆是,没有人根本上
   真正关注任何事情。人们
   要么太震惊,要么太专注于
   他们自己的琐碎追求,而不去花费时间精力关心
   他们周围发生的事情,即使
   这件事结果证明非常有趣
   就像现在经常发生的情况一样。
   你会看到他们购买
   这部或那部歌剧的门票,但他们
   会告诉你多少次他们是否喜欢它
   或任何东西?有时
   我认为,我们正在因为我们拥有
   并欣赏和感激的东西太多而受到惩罚,
   因为归还给它们的敏感比较少。
   仅仅一分钟的当代存在
   就有这么多可以提供的,但是谁
   能评估它,制定
   适当的箴言,用几句
   精选的智慧之词向我们精确展示
   我们周围到底发生了什么?
   
   不是批评家,当然,尽管这恰恰是
   他们应该做的,然而,你有
   多少次读到过对我们社会
   以及社会中所有人和事的
   真正有意义的批评,对我们人类来说?
   我并不是说很多聪明和智慧的东西
   都没有被写出来,无论是批评家
   诗人还是一般的作家
   你到底认识谁
   谁能准确地描述一个领域的
   感受和倾向,以这样的方法
   让你希望自己置身其中,或者更好地
   让你意识到自己实际上置身其中
   无论是好是坏,没有任何
   可以想象的出路?
   这就是过去
   伟大的诗人所做的,和一些
   伟大的批评家。但是今天
   没有人关心或支持任何东西,
   即使是人们崇拜的少数几位诗人,尽管
   你看不到他们放弃诗歌事业,
   远离它。我们的
   批评家理应让诗人们更清楚地了解
   他们在做什么,这样诗人们就可以
   逐一从他们的作品中退后一步,并被它迷住
   这样就为公众腾出空间
   让他们围拢,也被它迷住,
   然后,有希望地,让他们的生活变得有意义,
   把秩序带回到他们单调存在的
   杂乱无章的房子里。如果他们
   能更好地看到正在发生的事情
   那么这种理想的效果可能会出现,
   但今天的艺术家和作家不会拥有它,
   也就是说他们不会那样看。
   他们确实看到了某种方式,这种方式
   对他们来说很有趣,但却
   不能帮助你的平庸面包师或啦啦队队长
   精确看到完全相同的方式,这是
   唯一能把他们
   从绝望、他们沮丧、不满意的生活的
   纠结的混乱中解救出来的东西。
   以与作家
   或艺术家大致相同的方式看待事物
   也无济于事,事实上,如果有,它让事情变得更糟
   因为那么另一个人认为他
   或她已经发现了艺术让他们
   感兴趣的任何东西,歌剧院
   宴会上猩红天鹅绒上的
   那些钻石眼泪的原因,
   继续横冲直撞,他或她的情绪上演
   就像横幅,带有一种新的感官革命的
   奇怪装置,但它注定
   会以失败告终,除非那个人恰好是
   对他们做这一切的同一个
   艺术家,这当然是不可能的,
   在一个白银时代无论如何都不可能
   在这个时代里,许多闪闪发光、有趣的
   东西和人在每个十字路口
   像暴风雪一样袭击人们
   但仍然看不见、未知和未开发,
   在只要求自我满足的
   敏感的电气气候中,
   不需要外界或部分时间的帮助
   来吸收和享受一切。
   因此,必须发展一种新的批评学校。
   首先,新的
   批评应该考虑到,这是我们
   制造的,因此
   不要急于批评我们:我们
   可以为自己这样做,而且已经这样做了。
   它也
   不应该把自己当作一个适合
   进行批判性分析的主题,因为它
   只有通过我们才能了解它自己,我们
   只有通过成为我们自己,我们的
   智慧之树的树皮的一部分。那么,它
   应该批评什么,为了驱散
   一直欺骗着我们的古怪幻觉,
   画面、横财、在嚎叫中
   吞没的俏皮话?这些
   是谁的科目?然而,这一切
   都是按定义的关乎新批评的
   主题,也就是我们:要改变它
   就要数我们自己的肋骨,就好像纳西索斯
   生来就是瞎的,每天仍在
   披着斗篷的池塘里出没,而不知道为什么。
   
   他们感到它是悲哀的方式---
   诗歌---
   仿佛它可以使我们的生活
   与我们对自己的感觉同步,
   并在我们开始思考时
   在它们和“生活”之间架起一座桥梁。
   没有人能真正做好一部分
   在一个女人在她的钱包携带的所有东西里,
   比如说,而且还有其他的方法
   可以在广泛的东西里找到。
   然而,悲伤已经建造到
   描述中。谁能
   不带感情地开始描述它?
   这么多的观点,这么多的细节
   可能都很重要。当
   我们写完小说或
   评论文章,它确实说过的,不管
   它写得多么好,它只是在嘲弄
   一个整体的想法,这个整体是由所有现在多半看不见的
   想法、事物的
   鬼魂和它们的原因组成的,
   因此它接管、抓住了本应是
   我们创造性写作的
   闪光点和光辉,即使它已经死了
   或者从来没有被召唤回生命,也不可能是
   任何活着的东西,就像我们设法
   不知何故写在纸上的东西一样。
   下午软化了,
   与这一切无关。
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  

   
   This has been a remarkable afternoon:
   The sky turned pitch-black at some point though there
   Was still enough light to see things by.
   Everything looked very festive and elegant
   Against the inky backdrop. But who cares?
   Isn’t it normal for things to happen this way
   During the Silver Age, which ours is?
   Motifs like the presentation of the Silver Rose
   Abound, and no one really pays much attention
   To anything at all. People
   Are either too stunned or too engrossed
   In their own petty pursuits to bother with
   What is happening all around them, even
   When that turns out to be extremely interesting
   As is now so often the case.
   You will see them buying tickets
   To this or that opera, but how many times
   Will they tell you whether they enjoyed it
   Or anything? Sometimes
   I think we are being punished for the overabundance
   Of things to enjoy and appreciate that we have,
   By being rendered less sensitive to them.
   Just one minute of contemporary existence
   Has so much to offer, but who
   Can evaluate it, formulate
   The appropriate apothegm, show us
   In a few well-chosen words of wisdom
   Exactly what is taking place all about us?
   
   Not critics, certainly, though that is precisely
   What they are supposed to be doing, yet how
   Often have you read any criticism
   Of our society and all the people and things in it
   That really makes sense, to us as human beings?
   I don’t mean that a lot that is clever and intelligent
   Doesn’t get written, both by critics
   And poets and men-of-letters in general
   But exactly whom are you aware of
   Who can describe the exact feel
   And slant of a field in such a way as to
   Make you wish you were in it, or better yet
   To make you realize that you actually are in it
   For better or for worse, with no
   Conceivable way of getting out?
   That is what
   Great poets of the past have done, and a few
   Great critics as well. But today
   Nobody cares or stands for anything,
   Not even the handful of poets one admires, though
   You don’t see them quitting the poetry business,
   Far from it. It behooves
   Our critics to make the poets more aware of
   What they’re doing, so that poets in turn
   Can stand back from their work and be enchanted by it
   And in this way make room for the general public
   To crowd around and be enchanted by it too,
   And then, hopefully, make some sense of their lives,
   Bring order back into the disorderly house
   Of their drab existences. If only
   They could see a little better what was going on
   Then this desirable effect might occur,
   But today’s artists and writers won’t have it,
   That is they don’t see it that way.
   They do see a certain way, and that way
   Is interesting to them, but
   Doesn’t help your average baker or cheerleader
   To see precisely the same way, which
   Is the only thing that could rescue them
   From the desperate, tangled muddle of their
   Frustrated, unsatisfactory living.
   Seeing things
   In approximately the same way as the writer or artist
   Doesn’t help either, in fact, if anything, it makes things worse
   Because then the other person thinks he
   Or she has found out whatever it is that makes
   Art interesting to them, the reason
   For those diamond tears on the scarlet
   Velvet of the banquette at the opera,
   And goes on a rampage, featuring his or her emotions
   As the banners with a strange device of a new revolution
   Of the senses, but it’s doomed
   To end in failure, unless that person happens to be
   Exactly the same person as the artist who is doing
   All this to them, which of course is impossible,
   Impossible at any rate in a Silver Age
   Wherein a multitude of glittering, interesting
   Things and people attack one
   Like a blizzard at every street crossing
   Yet remain unseen, unknown and undeveloped
   In the electrical climate of sensitivities that ask
   Only for self-gratification,
   Not for outside or part-time help
   In assimilating and enjoying whatever it is.
   Therefore a new school of criticism must be developed.
   First of all, the new
   Criticism should take into account that it is we
   Who made it, and therefore
   Not be too eager to criticize us: we
   Could do that for ourselves, and have done so.
   Nor
   Should it take itself as a fitting subject
   For critical analysis, since it knows
   Itself only through us, and us
   Only through being part of ourselves, the bark
   Of the tree of our intellect. What then
   Shall it criticize, in order to dispel
   The quaint illusions that have been deluding us,
   The pictures, the trouvailles, the sallies
   Swallowed up in the howl? Whose subjects
   Are these? Yet all
   Is by definition subject matter for the new
   Criticism, which is us: to inflect
   It is to count our own ribs, as though Narcissus
   Were born blind, and still daily
   Haunts the mantled pool, and does not know why.
   
   It’s sad the way they feel about it---
   Poetry---
   As though it could synchronize our lives
   With our feelings about ourselves,
   And form a bridge between them and “life”
   As we come to think about it.
   No one has ever really done a good piece
   On all the things a woman carries inside her pocketbook,
   For instance, and there are other ways
   Of looking out over wide things.
   And yet the sadness is already built into
   The description. Who can begin
   To describe without feeling it?
   So many points of view, so many details
   That are probably significant. And when
   We have finished writing our novel or
   Critical essay, what it does say, no matter
   How good it is, it merely mocks the idea
   Of a whole comprised by all those now mostly invisible
   Ideas, ghosts
   Of things and reasons for them,
   So that it takes over, seizes the glitter
   And luminosity of what ought to have been our
   Creative writing, even though it is dead
   Or was never called to life, and could not be
   Anything living, like what we managed
   Somehow to get down on the page.
   And the afternoon backs off,
   Won’t have anything to do with all of this.
   
   
   
  
  
  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-10 22:39:24 | 显示全部楼层
  

   I was waiting for a taxi.
   It seemed there were fewer
   Of us now, and suddenly a
   Whole lot fewer. I was afraid
   I might be the only one.
   Then I spotted a young man
   With a guitar over his leg
   And next to him; a young girl
   Seated on the pavement, sitting
   Merely. Not even
   Lost in thought she seemed, but
   Accepting the waiting for it
   Or whatever else might be in the channel
   Of time we were being ferried across.
   Her face was totally devoid of expression
   Yet wore a somehow kind look, so I was glad
   Of it in the deepening fever of the day.
   No sign
   Did she make of interest to her companion
   Who ever and anon did searchingly
   Regard her face, as though to ascertain
   That the signs he wished to read there
   Were indeed not there, that there was nothing
   In her aspect to cause him to change
   And from time to time
   Would stare at his guitar, as though
   Rapt in concentration of what it would be like
   To play something on it, yet
   No stealthy movement of his hand
   Was e’er discerned, no fandango or urgent
   Serenade compelled his trusting back
   To arch in expectation of an air
   Which might have refreshed us all, given
   The gloom of that moment, made us think
   Of past scenes of cheerfulness, and remember
   That they could easily happen again, unless
   The mechanism had jammed, and we
   Were to be tenants forever of a time
   With little to hold the interest, and no
   Promise of relief in movement.
   And afterwards it was as though decay
   Or senility of time had set in.
   The scene changed, of course, and nothing
   Was, again, as once it had been.
   And therefore I do not see how I
   Shall ever be able to acquire again
   My old love of study, for it seems to me
   That even when this infirmity of time
   Has passed, the knowledge
   Will always remain with me that there is one
   Thing more delightful than study, and that once
   I experienced it. And though it was not joy
   But rather something more like the concept of joy,
   I was able to experience it like a fruit
   One peels, then eats. It’s no secret
   That I have learned the things that are
   Truly impossible, and left alone much
   That might have been of profit, and use.
   One destroys so much merely by pausing
   To get one’s bearings, and afterwards
   The scent is lost. To use it
   I must forget the clouds and turn to my book,
   Whose shifting characters, like desert sand
   Betray my own fatigue, and loss
   Of time, that ever, with nervous, accurate fingers
   Cross-hatches the shade in the corner
   Of the piazza where I stand, and leave
   The lighted areas scarcely perforated, almost
   Pristine. Lovers in parked cars
   Undulated like the sensibility that refrigerates
   Me at those times: and who
   Could pick up the pieces, over and over?
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  

   
   我在等出租车。
   我们现在似乎
   更少了,而且突然
   整个少了很多。我担心
   我可能是唯一的一个。
   然后我发现一个年轻小伙子
   腿上套着一把吉他
   他旁边;一个年轻女孩
   坐在人行道上,只是
   坐着。她似乎
   甚至没有陷入沉思,而是
   接受了等待它
   或是我们被渡过的
   时间通道中的其他任何东西。
   她的脸上完全缺乏表情
   但却莫名其妙装出一种和蔼可亲的样子,因此,我为此
   感到高兴,在这一天愈演愈烈的狂热中。
   她没有
   表现出对她的同伴感兴趣的迹象
   她的同伴不时彻底地
   打量着她的脸,仿佛要确定
   他希望在那里读到的迹象
   确实不在那里,她的容貌中
   没有任何东西能使他改变
   不时地
   盯着他的吉他,仿佛
   全神贯注地想在它上面演奏什么
   会是什么样,但
   却不曾觉察出它的手有什么
   隐秘的动作,也看不出
   它的舞步或急促的小夜曲迫使他信赖地回到
   拱门,期待着一种可能会
   让我们大家精神振奋的气氛,因为被给予的
   那一刻的阴郁,使我们想起了
   过去的欢乐场面,记住
   它们很容易再次发生,除非
   机制被堵塞,我们
   将永远是一个没有什么利益的
   时代的租户,也没有
   任何用行动救济的承诺。
   之后,到来的时间似乎
   开始衰退或衰老。
   当然,场景发生了变化,一切都
   不,再一次,像从前那样。
   因此,我不知道我
   将如何才能重新获得
   我对学习的旧爱,因为在我看来
   即使这段时间的虚弱
   已经过去,知识
   仍将一直伴随着我,有一件事
   比学习更令人愉快,而且一旦
   我经历了它。虽然它不是快乐
   而是更像快乐的概念,
   我能够体验它就像一个水果
   一块果皮,然后吃。这不是什么秘密
   我已经学会了真正
   不可能的事情,并留下了许多
   可能有益,和有用的东西。
   人们破坏了这么多东西,仅仅通过停下来
   摸清自己的方向,然后
   气味就消失了。要使用它
   我必须忘记云彩,转向我的书,
   其变化无常的性格,如沙漠中的沙子
   暴露了我自己的疲劳,和时间的
   流逝,那就是,用紧张、准确的手指
   在我所站的广场角落里
   交叉孵出阴影,留下
   几乎没有穿孔的灯光区域,几乎是
   原始的。停在车里的恋人
   像当时冷藏我的感觉一样
   起伏:谁能
   拾起碎片,一次又一次?
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

   
   然而,不冒犯我们的写作
   (例如济慈的《蚱蜢》十四行诗)
   镇静和奉承了我们大脑中
   更容易、更不易兴奋的部分,用这样的方式从而建立了一个
   生动、充满活力的事件转盘,
   一些精选事件,尽管如此,还是有它们自己的真实性和它们自己的方式直接
   与我们交谈,而不需要任何努力,这样
   我们就可以忽略不存在的东西---
   死亡模式,像抵抗狂风的秋叶一样
   旋转的想法,
   最终可以真正提醒我们
   我们的一些想法有多大和强大---
   不是巨人或泰坦,但坚强、坚定的
   人类必须具备良好的幽默感
   和对一定程度的现实的把握,这就
   足够了---将不得不是,
   因此引导我们逐渐回到那些
   我们已经忘记的名字的词语,童年的
   老朋友,然后一切
   终于被原谅,我们
   可以坐下来和它们安静地交谈几个小时,
   我们自己的词语,这样当睡眠来临时
   没有人会承担责任,当灯
   被修饰时,最后也不会有任何责备
   被提到。故事
   流传至今,我们作为它们的一部分生活着,
   关心它们和我们自己,终于温暖起来。
   
   所有的生命
   都是一个在梦中
   以永远不能完全听到或理解的音调
   向人讲述的故事,一个人醒来时
   希望听到更多,要求
   更多,但一个人醒来就要死了,唉,
   然而一个人从来没有
   注意到这一点,这个故事
   在讲述中仍然如此壮丽
   以至于它高耸于生命之上,就像某座宏伟的
   教堂尖顶,远远高于
   围绕着它繁殖的生命(它
   关心的是什么,毕竟?)甚至
   没有瞄准天空,远远高于它
   却似乎更近了,仅仅因为如此
   模糊和毫无意义:塔尖的距离
   远远超过了这些,而故事
   伴随其讲述,就像
   从极远处看到的哥特式建筑,
   以这样一种方式隆隆作响
   让我们忘记了那惊人的
   距离:从正在继续的
   事情中醒来,在我们无意中
   听到的小说中,一直以来。
   并不是说写作可以超越生活,
   至多,写作的行为可以
   大大超越,它赖以生存
   和模仿的想象力,在它的延展性,它的快速
   唠叨,从一行跳到另一行,
   从一页跳到另一页:它
   既太遥远,又太近,无法超越它,
   它就是它,很可能,而这正是
   我们醒来后才听到的:也许只是
   顺着抱怨,或者某个人
   对某件事情的半成型的
   想法的清单,太贪婪,
   甚至不能以自己为食物,因此
   迷失在睡眠的
   泥泞中,以及永远在外面的一切中,
   注定要被告知,永远也
   听不到它自己。
   有时,一条令人愉快的、有酒窝的
   溪流突然间似乎流动得如此缓慢
   以至于人们不知道自己是否应该读这条溪流
   而不是另一条溪流。
   在迷人的空气中,人们
   想象自己听到了华尔兹、兰德勒,和埃科塞斯
   并得出结论,正是文学
   在这样做,因此
   它必须一直这样做。它的效果太好了,
   结局太幸福了
   以至于它不可能是生活,因此它一定
   是某个被欺骗的诗人大脑的产物:生活
   永远不会如此令人满意,也不会放纵
   人类真正的激情独处。
   
   
  
  
  
  
        
   Yet the writing that doesn’t offend us
   (Keats’ “grasshopper” sonnet for example)
   Soothes and flatters the easier, less excitable
   Parts of our brain in such a way as to set up a
   Living, vibrant turntable of events,
   A few selected ones, that nonetheless have
   Their own veracity and their own way of talking
   Directly into us without any effort so
   That we can ignore what isn’t there---
   The death patterns, swirling ideas like
   Autumn leaves in the teeth of an insane gale,
   And can end up really reminding us
   How big and forceful some of our ideas can be---
   Not giants or titans, but strong, firm
   Human beings with a good sense of humor
   And a grasp of a certain level of reality that
   Is going to be enough---will have to be,
   And so lead us gradually back to words
   With names we had forgotten, old friends from
   Childhood, and then everything
   Is forgiven at last, and we
   Can sit and talk quietly with them for hours,
   Words ourselves, so that when sleep comes
   No one is to blame, and no reproach
   Can finally be uttered as the lamp
   Is trimmed. The tales
   Live now, and we live as part of them,
   Caring for them and for ourselves, warm at last.
   
   All life
   Is as a tale told to one in a dream
   In tones never totally audible
   Or understandable, and one wakes
   Wishing to hear more, asking
   For more, but one wakes to death, alas,
   Yet one never
   Pays any heed to that, the tale
   Is still so magnificent in the telling
   That it towers far above life, like some magnificent
   Cathedral spire, far above the life
   Pullulating around it (what
   Does it care for that, after all?) and not
   Even aiming at the heavens far above it
   Yet seemingly nearer, just because so
   Vague and. pointless: the spire
   Outdistances these, and the story
   With its telling, which is like gothic
   Architecture seen from a great distance,
   Booms on in such a way
   As to make us forget the prodigious
   Distance of the waking from the
   Thing that was going on, in the novel
   We had been overhearing, all that time.
   Not that writing can transcend life,
   Any more than the act of writing can
   Outdistance, the imagination it feeds on and
   Imitates in its ductility, its swift
   Garrulity, jumping from line to line,
   From page to page: it is both
   Too remote and too near to transcend it,
   It is it, probably, and this is what
   We have awakened only to hear: maybe just
   Along list of complaints or someone’s
   Half-formed notions of what they thought
   About something, too greedy
   Even to feed on itself, and therefore
   Lost in the muck
   Of sleep and all that is forever outside,
   Condemned to be told, and never
   To hear of itself.
   Sometimes a pleasant, dimpling
   Stream will seem to flow so slowly all of a
   Sudden that one wonders if it was this
   Rather than the other that one was supposed to read.
   In the charmed air one
   Imagines one hears waltzes, landler, and ecossaises
   And concludes that it is literature
   That is doing it, and that therefore
   It must do it all the time. It works out too well,
   The ending is too happy
   For it to be life, and therefore it must
   Be the product of some deluded poet’s brain: life
   Could never be this satisfactory, nor indulge
   That truly human passion to be all alone.
   
   
   
   
    

  
  
  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-14 13:08:08 | 显示全部楼层


   Yes, it was a fine gift that you sent
   Me, your book, wherein I could read
   The very syllables of your soul, as dark-arched
   And true as any word
   You ever grunted, and whose truant
   Punctuation resumed again the thread
   Of what is outside, outdoors, and brought
   It all ingeniously around to the beginning again
   As a fountain swipes and never misses
   The basin’s fluted edge. But how in
   Heck can I get it operating again? Only
   Yesterday it was in perfect working order
   And now the thing has broken down again.
   Autumn rains rust it. And their motion
   Attacks my credulity also, and all seems lost.
   Yet fences were not ever built to last:
   A year or two and all is blown away
   And no trace can be found.
   As a last blessing
   Bestow this piece of shrewd, regular knowledge
   On me who hungers so much for something
   To calm his appetite, not food necessarily---
   The pattern behind the iris that lights up
   Your almost benevolent eyelash: turn
   All this anxious scrutiny into some positive
   Chunk to counteract the freedom
   Of too much speculation. Tell me
   What is on your mind, and do not explain it away.
   
   “The egrets are beginning their annual migration.
   From the banks of the Hag River a desolate
   Convoy issues, like a directional pointing hand.
   There is a limit to what the wilderness
   Can accomplish on its own, and meanwhile,
   Back in civilization, you don’t seem to be
   Doing too well either: those flying
   Bits of newspaper and plastic bags scarce
   Bode better for him who sits and picks at
   The secret, when suddenly
   The meaning knocks him down, a light bulb
   Appears in a balloon above his head: it had nothing
   To do with what the others were thinking, what
   Energies they poured into the mould of their
   Collective statement. It was only
   As a refugee from all this that living
   Were possible if at all, but it cast no shadow,
   No reflection in the mirror, and was nervous
   And waifed, so strong was the shuttle
   Of accurate presentiment plying directly
   Between it and the discarded past. Playing
   A game is the only way to see it through, and have it
   Finally integral, but the matter is that
   This is somewhere else: its rails
   Run deep into the leafy wilderness, sink
   And disappear under moss and slime
   Long before the end is reached. It’s a crime,
   And meanwhile your velvet portrait presides,
   Benevolent as Queen Anne, over the scene
   Below, and at no point
   Do reality and your joyous truth coincide.”
   
   So sang one who was in prison, and the erosion
   Process duly left its mark
   On the wall:
   Only a wan, tainted shadow leaned
   Down from the place where it had been.
   The eroding goes on constantly in the brain
   Where its music is softest, a lullaby
   On the edge of a precipice where the whole movement
   Of the night can be seen:
   How it begins, undresses, and disappears
   In hollows before the level is seen to rise.
   And then we are in a full, static music,
   Violent and spongy as bronze, but
   There is no need, no chance to examine
   The accidents of the surface that stretches away
   Forever, toward the ultramarine gates
   Of the horizon of this tidal basin, and beyond,
   Pouring silently into the vast concern
   Of heaven, in which the greatest explanation
   Is but a drop in the bucket of eternity;
   Mon reve.
   But why, in that case,
   Whispered the petitioner, pushing her
   Magenta lips close to the thick wire mesh
   That separated them, rubbing
   Her gloved hand athwart it as though
   Devoured now by curiosity, can
   God Let the eroding happen at all, since it is all,
   As you say, horizontal, without
   Beginning or end, and seamless
   At the horizon where it bends
   Into a past which has already begun?
   In Truth, then, if we are particles of anything
   They must belong to our conception
   Of our destiny, and be as complete as that.
   It’s like we were children again: the bicycle
   Sighs and the stars pecking at the sky
   Are unconstrained in spite of the distance:
   The blanket buries us in a joyous tumult
   Of indifference when night is
   Blackest
   So that we grow up again as we were taught to do
   Before that. With the increase of joy
   The sorrow is precipitated out, and life takes on
   An uncanny resemblance to the
   photograph of me
   That everybody said was terrible, only now it is real
   And cannot be photographed.
   It was nice of you to love me
   But I must be thinking about getting back
   Over the mountain
   That divides day from night:
   Visions more and more restless
   All now sunk in black of Egypt.
   
   

   是的,这是你送给我的一份精美的
   礼物,你的书,在其中我能读到
   你灵魂的每个音节,就像你曾经咕哝过的
   任何一个字一样有黑暗拱形
   和真实,它的逃学
   标点又重新回到了
   外面,户外的线索,巧妙地
   把它全部重新带到了一开始
   就像喷泉挥起,从不错过
   水池的凹槽边缘。但真见鬼
   我怎么才能让它重新运行呢?就在
   昨天,它还处于完美的工作状态
   现在又出了故障。
   秋雨使它生锈。它们的运动
   也攻击了我的轻信,一切似乎都无法恢复。
   然而,围栏并没有被建造到可以持久:
   一两年后,一切会被吹走
   找不到任何痕迹。
   作为最后的祝福
   把这段精明、规律的知识
   授予我这个渴望这么多东西
   来平息他的食欲的人,而不是必要的食物---
   虹膜后面的图案照亮了
   你近乎仁慈的睫毛:把
   所有这些焦虑的细察变成一些积极的
   厚块,以抵消
   过度投机的自由。告诉我
   你脑海中是什么,别把它解释成别的东西。
   
   “这些白鹭正开始每年的迁徙。
   从黑格河畔,一支凄凉的
   护航队发出,像一只指点方向的手。
   荒野本身所能完成的事情
   是有限的,同时,
   回到文明,你似乎
   也做得不太好:那些飞扬的
   报纸碎片和塑料袋缺乏
   更好的兆头,对坐在那里采摘
   秘密的他来说,而突然间
   含义打倒了他,一个灯泡
   出现在他头顶上的一个气球里:它与
   其他人的想法,即
   他们在集体陈述中
   倾注的能量无关。只有
   作为一个来自这一切的难民,生活
   才有可能,如果真会发生的话,但是它没有阴影,
   没有镜子中的倒影,紧张
   而哀嚎,准确的预感
   直接穿梭在它和被抛弃的
   过去之间,如此强烈。玩
   游戏是看穿它,并最终使它
   完整的唯一方法,但问题是
   这是另一个地方:它的铁轨
   深深地延伸到多叶的荒野,在
   到达终点之前很久
   就在苔藓和黏液下
   下沉和消失。这是犯罪,
   而与此同时,你的天鹅绒肖像,
   像安妮女王一样仁慈,
   主持着下面的
   场景,现实和你
   快乐的事实在任何一点上都不一致。”
   
   一个在监狱里的人这样唱着,侵蚀的
   过程在墙上充分地
   留下了痕迹:
   只有一个苍白、污浊的影子
   从原来存在的地方倾斜下来。
   侵蚀在大脑中持续不断
   在那里其音乐最柔和,是可以看到
   夜晚的整个运动的
   悬崖边上的摇篮曲:
   它是如何开始的,脱去衣服,在看到
   水平上升之前消失在凹陷处。
   然后我们在一个完整的、静止的音乐中,
   青铜色般的暴力和海绵状,但是
   没有必要,没有机会去检查
   那永远远远延伸的表面的
   事故,朝向这个潮汐盆地
   地平线上的深蓝色的门,然后在更远处,
   静静地倾注进天堂广阔的
   关怀中,其中最伟大的解释
   不过是永恒的水桶中的一滴水;
   我的梦。
   但是为什么,在这种情况下,
   请愿人低声说,把她的
   品红嘴唇按在分开它们的
   粗铁丝网附近,反向
   擦着她光泽的手,就像
   出于好奇鲸吞现在那样,上帝
   会让侵蚀完全发生,因为它就是一切,
   正如你所说,水平的,没有
   开始或结束,在
   地平线上无缝的,在那里它弯曲成
   一个已经开始的过去?
   事实上,那么,如果我们是任何东西的粒子
   它们必须属于我们命运的
   概念,与那些一样完整。
   就像我们再一次是孩子一样:自行车的
   叹息和在天空中飞翔的星星
   尽管在远处也是不受约束的:
   毯子把我们埋葬在一片欢快的
   冷漠的喧嚣中,当夜幕
   最黑时
   这样我们就可以像以前被教导的那样再次
   成长。随着快乐的增长
   悲伤被沉淀析出,生命呈现出
   一个不可思议的
   类似于我的照片,每个人都说它是可怕的,只有现在它是真实的
   不能被拍摄。
   你爱我真是太好了
   但我一定在想回到
   分开白天
   和黑夜的那座山上:
   越来越不安的幻觉
   现在全都渗透在埃及的黑色里。
   
   
   

   我也担心
   这方法是你的。你
   也能从它得到一些东西。
   否则,黑夜就没有尽头。
   
   否则,哭泣的救世主
   安慰我们,在真理
   从窗户飞出的那些夜晚
   将永远不会在你的心上
   挂上星号。整个人生
   就像在一片茂草丛中
   漫步,及时伴随着
   吹来的风。在老年
   不会跳到你那时成为的
   这个赤裸裸的老人身上,只不过是一次轻推
   并承诺会有更多的晚餐:有些事情我必须做。
   
   你怎么能从这个地方
   到离这里不远的地方
   却没有人看见你这样做?
   去地下室的旅程
   不可见地,未知地执行…
   弗雷德叔叔和他的雪茄
   所有我的老米尔德里德.贝利唱片
   和一只非常聪明的袋鼠
   和我一起驾驶,我们都坐在
   我们老哈德逊的后座上。
   
   这并没有解释很多---
   仪式没有---
   但就像现在自然界的骚乱一样
   疯狂,这场风暴傲慢的
   无常,平静的天空
   对重新开始的不耐烦,
   这房子几乎一样地逗留。
   有一天,屋檐上的一点
   锈迹,一点胶带被去掉
   它的故事也会在别处,
   很快被去掉,就像一个走廊,头
   必须再次喷嚏出一个花的想法。
   那音乐,同样古老的音乐,将会重生。
   
   这么多常住的方式
   把缺点和满足感加起来
   如果能找到一些,我
   向你致敬,以便你享受
   过去那圆润肥沃的死亡。
   啊,印象深刻。如果我们
   永远不在一起,交易就维持。
   我们比以往更想要它,为他们,我们
   和我们,既然它已经缩成了
   一根黏糊糊的、难看的根。但是现在
   礼物在火堆前已经干涸
   我们必须重新开始飞行。
   
   喜欢你的人首先
   出现。这一幕是公开的
   一个由占星者组成的国家开始
   展开遗忘的狂热,那一刻
   你们彼此依偎在一起,以后
   再也不是这些花的问题
   在那个时代,在那个公寓里
   听到的言论也不是问题。光线照到的地方
   你和他都不能辩驳那种微妙的负罪感
   霸权,它在不断的
   十字架屏风危机中把你们连成环
   用旧广告到处被刺穿
   在阳光下闪耀,发光。
   你被抛到了宇宙的
   最低处,你们俩都喜欢它。
   在这段时间里,我可以说更大更重要的
   命运正在政治战线和市场上
   展开,重要的问题
   你们无法也不愿意理解,
   尽管你们知道忽视它们会带来危险,
   但现在任何一个小学生都可以背诵它们。
   
   然而,不知何故,这也不是一个好兆头
   在你的成熟中,你选择无视
   如此沉重的东西,带着潜在的悲剧后果
   像风暴云一样悬挂在你的头顶
   无法知道其他的事情,即使潜入
   你纯真的浅流
   不希望听到把世界
   聚集在一起并点燃它的消息。
   即使在那时,这也不是天真无邪,而是一种渴望
   为了在夜晚突然到来的
   成熟时刻,保持童年的
   强烈光芒,弄得眼花缭乱
   被它们非常单一的通道
   就像闪烁在五月的夜晚瞥见的
   开满白花的树木一样,在夏天的暴风雨
   结束所有的航海梦想并希望有
   好天气和好运之前,在霜冻
   像魔法外套到来之前。所以
   我对你说:当心那不公义的
   右边空白;左边
   是正当的,可以照顾自己
   但在它们之间的东西会扩张,摆动
   终点有时会越过有意识的
   探究点,信手弹奏在近乎
   无限的,禁区中。因此,
   你所有的故事都应该用语言来表达,以便
   修补匠和熟练工可以适当地
   检查它并找到它,然后继续
   或突然在一个沉睡的夜晚
   飞蛾身体的砰砰声会唤醒你
   并把你和它一起拖进火光,
   踢着,尖叫着。然后
   可能被写下来的东西被视为
   已经说了,听到了,沉默
   再次在这个地方流动并覆盖它。
   
   
   
   
      
   And I too am concerned that it
   Be this way for you. That you
   Get something out of it too.
   Otherwise the night has no end.
   
   Otherwise the weeping messiah
   Who comforts us on those nights
   When truth has flown out the window
   Would never place an asterisk
   On your heart. Tour whole life
   Would be like walking through a field
   Of tall grasses, in time with the wind
   As it blows. And in old age
   There will have been no jump to the barefaced
   Old man you then are, only a nudge
   And promise of more suppers: some things I have to do.
   
   How is it that you get from this place
   To that one only a little distance away
   Without anybody's seeing you do it?
   The trip to the basement
   Performed unseen, unknown ...
   Uncle Fred and his cigars
   All my old Mildred Bailey records
   And a highly intelligent kangaroo
   Riding with me, all of us in the back seat
   In our old Hudson.
   
   It doesn ’t explain much---
   Rituals don’t---
   But as frantic as the commotion in nature
   Now is, the grand impermanence
   Of this storm, impatience
   Of the calm skies to start again,
   The house stays much the same.
   One day a little bit of rust
   At the eaves, a bit of tape removed
   And its story will have been elsewhere,
   Soon removed, like a porch, and the head
   Must again sneeze out an idea of flowers.
   That music, the same old one, will be born again.
   
   So much for the resident way
   Of adding up the drawbacks and the satisfactions
   If any are to be found, and
   I salute you so as you enjoy
   The mellow fecund death of that past.
   Ah’m impressed. And should we
   Never get together, the deal stands.
   We want it for them and we and us
   More than ever now that it has dwindled
   To a sticky, unsightly root. But now
   The present has dried out in front of the fire
   And we must resume the flight again.
   
   Someone who likes you first
   Comes along. The act is open
   And a nation of stargazers begins
   To unwrap the fever of forgetting, the while
   You sidle next to each other and never
   Afterward shall it be a question of these blooms
   In that time, of speech heard
   In that apartment. Nowhere that the light comes
   Can you and he argue the subtle hegemony
   Of guilt that loops you together
   In the continual crisis of a rood-screen
   Pierced here and there with old commercials
   Shimmering and shining in the sun.
   You are cast down into the lowest place
   In the universe, and you both love it.
   All this time larger and I may say graver
   Destinies were being unfurled on the political front
   And in the marketplace, important issues
   That you are unable and unwilling to understand,
   Though you know you ignore them at your peril,
   That any schoolchild can recite them now.
   
   Yet somehow it doesn’t bode well that
   In your sophistication you choose to disregard
   What is so heavy with potential tragic consequences
   Hanging above you like a storm cloud
   And cannot know otherwise, even by diving
   Into the shallow stream of your innocence
   And wish not to hear news of
   What brings the world together and sets fire to it.
   It wasn't innocence even then, but a desire to
   Keep the severe sparkle of childhood for
   The sudden moments of maturity that come
   Surprisingly in the night, dazzling
   By the very singleness of their passage
   Like white blossoming trees glimpsed
   In the May night, before the tempests of summer
   Put an end to all dreams of sailing and hoped-for
   Good weather and luck, before the frosts come
   Like magic garments. And so
   I say unto you: beware the right margin
   Which is unjustified; the left
   Is justified and can take care of itself
   But what is in between expands and flaps
   The end sometimes past the point
   Of conscious inquiry, noodling in the near
   Infinite, off-limits. Therefore
   All your story should be phrased so that
   Tinkers and journeymen may inspect it
   And find it all in place, and pass on
   Or suddenly on a night of profound sleep
   The thudding of a moth’s body will awaken you
   And drag you with it vers la flamme,
   Kicking and screaming. And then
   What might have been written down is seen
   To have been said, and heard, and silence
   Has flowed around the place again and covered it.
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-16 09:52:44 | 显示全部楼层
  

   The enduring obloquy of a gaze struck
   The new year, cracking it open
   At the point where people and animals,each busy
   With his own thoughts, wandered away
   In unnamed directions. If there is a fire,
   I thought, why single out the glares
   Impaling those least near it
   In such a way as to reflect them back
   On its solid edifice? But here
   In a tissue of starlight, each is alone and valid.
   
   You can stand up to breathe
   And the garment falling around you is history,
   Someone’s, anyway, some perfectly accessible,
   Reasonable assessment of the recent past, which
   With its pattern dips into the shadow of the folds
   To re-emerge and be striking on the crest
   Of them somewhere, and thus serves
   Twice over, as plan and decoration,
   A garden plunged in sun seen through a fixed lattice
   Of regrets and doubts, pinned there
   For a variety of good reasons, alive, stupid
   As a sail stunned in a vast haze,
   Perfect for you. And you rise
   Imperfect and beautiful as a second, a continent
   Whose near coast alone can be seen, but
   Which makes up for that in the strength of the confusion
   Building behind it, and is at rest.
   
   And I’ll tell you why:
   The elaborate indifference of some people, of some person
   Far out on the curve
   Is always rescued by another person
   And this will be some forgotten day three years ago
   At today’s prices. The tensions, overlaid,
   Superimposed, produce an effect of “character”
   And quizzical harmony, like the outdoors.
   
   But on death’s dark river,
   On the demon’s charcoal-colored heaths
   Where the luscious light never falls, but fluffy
   Cinders are falling everywhere, the persons
   Gesture hurriedly at each other from a distance.
   Surely this is no time to play dumb, or dead, but
   A directive has not been issued.
   At the plant they know no more about it than you do
   Here, and in the dump behind
   They are singing of something else, trilling surely
   But no one any longer can make any sense of it.
   It is as though you had paid the bills
   But the sun keeps writhing: “For this
   I gave apples unto the tawny couch-grass, kept ledgers
   In my time, as you do in yours?
   That a badger with a trumpet on a far tussock
   May rake in the calls, and none of it
   Ever gets distributed to the poor, which I had stipulated
   As being part of the deal? And who are we poor workers?
   Not much surely, but we were
   Just getting over the shock of dispossession
   When this happened, and now this on top of it.
   Who is any the wiser? What are we to make of
   What now appears to be our lot, though we did nothing
   To deserve it? Our efforts were in some way
   Directed at a greater good, though we never forgot
   Our own interests, as long as they harmed no one.
   And now we are cast out like a stone. Surely
   The sun knows something I do not know
   Although I am the sun.”
   And slowly
   The results are brought in, and are found disappointing
   As broken blue birds’-eggs in a nest among rushes
   And we fall away like fish from the Grand Banks
   Into the inky, tepid depths beyond. It is said
   That this is our development, but no one believes
   It is, but no one has any authority to proceed further.
   And we keep chewing on darkness like a rind
   For what comfort it can give in the crevices
   Between us, like those between your eyes
   When you speak sideways to me, and I cannot
   Hear you, though farther out there are those
   Who hear you and are encouraged, and their effort
   Brightens on the side of the mountain.
   “I haven’t seen him since I’ve been here”---and I,
   All liking and no indifference, transfixed
   By the macaronic, like a florist, weary and slippy-eyed,
   Athwart blooms, compose, out of what the day provides,
   Mindful of teasing and subtle pressures put,
   Yet careful to seize the pen first. “What
   Have you been up to?” Well, this time has been very good
   For my working, the work is progressing, and so
   I assume it’s been good for you too, whose work
   Is also doubtless coming along, indeed, I know so
   From the sudden aging visible in both of us, tired
   And cozy around the eyes, as the work prepares to take off.
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   凝视的持续抨击撞击着
   新年,打开了它
   在那一点上人们和动物,都忙于
   他自己的思绪,朝着
   无名的方向游荡。如果有火,
   我想,为什么要单独挑出
   刺穿最不靠近它的人的眩光
   以便将它们反射回到
   它坚固的建筑物上?但在这里
   一片星光中,每一个都是独立有效的。
   
   你可以站起来呼吸
   落在你身上的衣服就是历史,
   有人,不管怎样,一些完美的可理解的,
   对最近的过去的合理评估,其图案
   浸入褶皱的阴影中
   重新出现,并在它们的顶部某处
   引人注目,因此服务了
   两次,作为计划和装饰,
   一座花园插入进阳光中,透过一个
   由遗憾和怀疑组成的固定格子被看到,出于
   各种各样的好理由被钉在那里,活生生的,愚蠢得
   像一张在茫茫雾霭中惊呆的帆,
   非常适合你。而你不完美
   而美丽地崛起,像第二个,大陆
   其海岸附近只有一个可以看到,但
   它弥补了它建筑在它背后的
   混乱的力量,并且安眠。
   
   我会告诉你为什么:
   有些公民,有些人在最新的
   曲线上精心制作的冷漠
   总是被另一个人拯救
   这将是三年前的某个被遗忘的日子
   以今天的价格。这种张力,覆盖,
   叠加,产生了一种“性格”的效果
   以及古怪的和谐,像在户外。
   
   但在死神黑暗的河上,
   在恶魔的炭色荒原上
   那里甘美的光从未落下,但到处都
   落下蓬松的煤渣,人们
   从远处匆忙地相互打手势。
   的确,现在没时间装聋作哑、或装死,但
   指令尚未发布。
   在工厂里,他们对这件事的了解并不比你在这里
   更多,在后面的垃圾堆里
   他们在唱着别的东西,当然是颤音
   但再也没有人能理解它。
   就好像你已经付了账
   但太阳还在不停地翻腾:“为了这
   我把苹果给了黄褐色的沙发草,记着账本
   在我的时代里,像你在你的时代一样?
   一只在远处的草丛上挂着喇叭的獾
   可以耙着电话,而没有一台
   曾经分发给穷人,这是我规定的
   交易的一部分?我们这些可怜的工人是谁?
   确实不多,但当这一切发生时
   我们刚刚从被剥夺的震惊中
   恢复过来,而现在,这一切都逼近了它。
   谁更聪明?对我们现在似乎所是的很多东西
   我们理解为什么东西,虽然我们没有做
   任何值得做的事?我们的努力在某种程度上
   是为了更大的好处,尽管我们从未忘记
   我们自己的利益,只要它们不伤害任何人。
   现在我们像石头一样被赶了出去。太阳
   确实知道一些我不知道的事情
   虽然我是太阳。”
   慢慢地
   结果带来了,发现令人失望
   就像在灯芯草丛中的巢中,破碎的蓝鸟蛋
   我们像鱼一样从大河岸跌落到
   远处漆黑、微温的深处。据说
   这是我们的发育,但没有人相信
   这是,但没有人有任何权力进一步开始。
   我们不断地咀嚼着黑暗,像一块外皮
   希望安慰它的东西能屈服于
   我们之间的缝隙,就像你对我侧身说话时
   你两眼之间的缝隙一样,我听不见
   你的声音,尽管远处那些
   听到你声音并受到鼓励的人,他们努力
   在山的一侧变得更加光明。
   “自从我来这里以后,我就没见过他”---而我,
   都喜欢,没有冷漠,被两种语言
   混合的诗文刺穿,就像一个种花人,疲惫而滑溜的眼睛,
   横跨花朵,写作,出自于白天提供的东西,
   留心着戏弄和微妙的压力,
   但小心翼翼地先抓住笔。“你一直
   忙些什么?”嗯,这一次对我的工作
   很好,工作正在进行,所以
   我想这对你也很好,你的工作
   毫无疑问也在进行中,事实上,我从
   我们两人的突然明显衰老中知道了这一点,在工作
   准备开始时,眼睛周围感到疲惫和舒适。
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  

   “早上来了,晚上也来了。”
   我会抑制你
   在赞美你的时候,但首先
   我会翻转你的脚
   用这片永远苗条的白杨气候
   让你快活,像一个知情的人那样。
   我会说出你的表情
   在正式散步和花园的床上
   重玩你的三轮车。现在可以确定
   一些非常美丽的景色。我不会
   戴手套,这样你就可以看到
   有钴眼的蛇,给你带来
   橄榄、香蕉、番石榴和日本柿子的供品。此外,
   我将懒散地等待你,这样
   海景将慢慢移入
   成为这间屋子的墙壁。
   但正是在这一天
   我想做点什么,
   纪念点什么,
   不是“永远”或即将到来的那一天。
   所以我会给你
   你想要的一切,不知道
   我将如何付账单,只是
   像黄昏时我曾经在森林里看到的
   飞燕草或鸟头一样把它保持在记忆里。
   它们中的很多都为此来
   适合你,如果我不能拥有你
   我会想一些办法解决这个问题
   直到这一小时在巨大的
   勇气和真理中敲响
   在那里看到人们从各地跑来跑去
   伟大的奏鸣曲的演奏
   可能会被视为恢复了一些断断续续,
   “那”真理瞬间迸发出火花
   就像雪松在篱笆和天空上变黑
   就在滑过真理的扣眼以前---
   司空见惯,偶然事件。
   
   一个诚实的杀手会抓住你
   并那样告诉你,然后离开。
   但是悔恨的水池是如此之大
   没有一滴水能增加它,而诉说
   只会使它在自己的内心
   产生回响,朝着不存在的中心回响。
   无论你是在地球的粘土盖上
   寻找夜莺还是求救信号,一切
   都是一样的:早上你的脸
   和你晚上没有表情的
   蓝格子脸在密码被释放之前
   都是一样的,而我们
   和你一起来,到同样的词根或逗号人,
   都是新的现在,但没有区别。
   
   他会炮制这些古拉什
   使一切井然有序
   然后消失,就像哈姆雷特,在猜测的
   暴风雪中,共计占据了
   前沿一段时间,直到
   除了前沿什么都不存在,就像时代的
   前额,无言,醉醺醺,想象
   所有五种形状,从未处于一种平静的
   状态,尽管总是被揭露
   和揭露,把它自己当作黑暗中的
   一个机会,完全生活在一个甜蜜的
   现实发现的梦中。
   
   我漫步在每一条肮脏的街道上
   知道粉刷过的房间是多么漂亮,
   记得羽毛床是柔软的,杰克,
   正在吃腐烂的奶酪。就像果园里
   猿猴的叽叽喳喳声,口号
   像天空中的旗帜一样招揽我们:
   傻瓜冲到我的脑袋里,我这样写。
   
   我会从我的欲望和想象的空隙中
   抹去所有琐碎的
   温柔记录,找到那里的
   白色。睡眠的颜色
   已经褪去,一片空白
   正在形成,它华丽的轮廓
   像法国号的声音一样冲洗真实,
   然后不知何故,它在角落里挤着或
   紧缩着,在它聚集自身的
   褶皱中,再一次,所有的差异
   都是彩虹之间的差异,或是舞蹈中的
   粘连,当它到达它的音高时
   溶解和加强。再一次,雄心壮志被视为
   不是虚度的事。读报纸
   我们被激发了,去和它竞争,即使
   它似乎没有什么问题,最后还是
   投了赞成票。我们冲动地
   继续前行,生活似乎充满了希望,
   雄心壮志是如此之新近,以至于几乎
   比生活更强大,它做出了自己的
   定义,并为它们付出了代价。当然
   生活必须是这样的,庄严
   而快乐,就像被猎人的号角
   和他们的狗租借的
   秋天的木柴一样,纯粹在快乐之中,
   彻底改变,完全
   违背了亲密的名字,但却保证了
   轻松的胜利。时间正当似乎
   太过丰盛,太过充实的时候,但现在,十一月风中的
   瘦骨头被视为美味、
   刚好足够的
   饥饿之年的象征。
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
     
   “The morning cometh, and also the night.”
   I’ll dampen you
   As I celebrate you, but first
   I’ll turn your feet over
   And enjoy you with this ever slenderer
   Aspen climate, as one in the know would do.
   I’ll mouth expressions of yours
   And replay your tricycle in the formal walks
   And garden beds. Some very pretty views
   Can be ascertained now. I’ll not
   Put a glove on so you may see the snake
   With the cobalt eyes, and bring you offerings
   Of olives, bananas, guavas, Japanese persimmons. Furthermore,
   I will await you in indolence, so that
   The view of the sea will move in slowly
   And become the walls of this room.
   But it was on this day that
   I wanted to do something,
   Commemorate something,
   Not “never”or that day coming up.
   So I offer you everything
   You may ever want, not
   Knowing how I’ll pay the bills, just
   Keeping to the memory of it like larkspur
   Or a bird’s head I once saw in a forest at dusk.
   Lots of them are coming to prepare you
   For this, and if I can’t have you
   I’ll figure out some way out of this
   Until the hour tolls its distinction
   Amid great bravery and truth
   Where men are seen running in and around from all over
   And the rendition of great sonatas
   May then be seen to give back some fitful,
   Momentary spark of “the” truth
   As cedars blacken against the fence and the sky
   Just before slipping through the buttonhole of truth---
   The commonplace, casual occurrence.
   
   An honest killer would have caught you
   And told you that way, and gone away.
   But the basin of remorse is so vast
   No drop ever increases it, and telling
   Only makes it reverberate
   Inward upon itself, toward the center that is not there.
   And whether you search for nightingales
   Or distress signals on the earth’s clay lid, all
   Is much the same: your face at morning
   And your blue-plaid face at evening with no
   Expression are nevertheless the same
   Until the code is ventilated, and we who have
   Come down with you, to the same root or comma,
   Are new now, but with no difference.
   
   He would cook up these goulashes
   Make everything shipshape
   And then disappear, like Hamlet, in a blizzard
   Of speculation that comes to occupy
   The forefront for a time, until
   Nothing but the forefront exists, like a forehead
   Of the times, speechless, drunk, imagined
   In all its five shapes, and never in one state
   Of repose, though always disclosed
   And disclosing, keeping itself like a chance
   In the dark, living wholly in a dream
   Sweet reality discovers.
   
   I wander through each dirty street
   Knowing how painted rooms are bonny,
   Remembering feather beds are soft, and Jack,
   Eating rotten cheese. As the babble
   Of apes in an orchard are the slogans
   That solicit us like pennants in the sky:
   Fools rush into my head, and so I write.
   
   I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records
   From the interstices of my desirings
   And imaginings, and find the whiteness
   That was there. Already the colors of sleep
   Are fading, a blankness
   Is taking shape, and its magnificent outline
   Washes true like the sound of a French horn,
   And then somehow, sqwunched or
   Scrunched down in the corner, in the folds
   It collects itself, again, and all the differences
   Are differences among rainbows, or adhesions
   In the dance, that dissolve and strengthen
   As it reaches its pitch. Again, ambition is seen
   As no idle thing. Reading the papers
   We are inflamed to emulate it, even as
   There seems nothing wrong with it, and finally
   Vote for it. Impetuously
   We travel on, life seems full of promise,
   And ambition is so recent as to be almost
   Stronger than living, and makes its own
   Definitions and pays for them. Surely
   Life is meant to be this way, solemn
   And joyful as an autumn wood rent by the hunters ’
   Horns and their dogs, unmixed with pleasure,
   Turned inside out, violating
   The very name of intimacy, but assured
   Of an easy victory. Time was when it seemed
   Too rich, too filling, but now the lean
   Bones of the November wind are seen as dainty,
   And just sufficient,
   Emblems of the famished year.
   
   
    

  
  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-17 22:14:29 | 显示全部楼层

   Anyway, I am the author. I want to
   Talk to you for a while, teach you
   About some things of mine, some things
   I’ve put away, more still that I remember
   With a tinge of sadness, even
   Regret around the sunset hour, that puts these
   Things away, jettisons’em, pulls the plug
   On’em, the carpet out from under their feet:
   Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes
   Wanly soliciting passersby, but without much
   Hope of interest. Nevertheless, the
   Things I want to visit with you about
   Are important to me. I’ve kept them so long!
   
   Zephyrs are one. How
   Idly they played around me, around
   My wrists, even in the bygone time!
   
   And pictures---
   Pictures of capes and peninsulas
   With big clouds moving down on them,
   Pressing with a frightening weight---
   And shipwrecks barely seen (sometimes
   Not seen at all) through the snow
   In the foreground, and howling, ravenous gales
   In the background. Almost all landscapes
   Are generous, well proportioned, hence
   Welcome. We feel we have more in common with a
   Landscape, however shifty and illconceived,
   Than with a still-life: those oranges
   And apples, and dishes, what have they to do
   With us? Plenty, but it’s a relief
   To turn away from them. Portraits, on the other
   Hand, are a different matter---they have no
   Bearing on the human shape, their humanitarian
   Concerns are foreign to us, who dream
   And know not we are humane, though, as seen
   By others, we are. But this is about people.
   Right. That’s why landscapes are more
   Familiar, more what it’s all about---we can see
   Into them and come out on the other side.With
   People we just see another boring side of ourselves,
   One we may not know too well, but on the other
   Hand why should we be interested in it?Better
   The coffee pot and sewing basket of a still-life---
   It’s more human, if you want, I mean something
   A human is more likely to be interested in
   Than pictures of human beings, no matter how well drawn
   And sympathetic-looking. However, as the author
   Of this, I want to buy a certain picture,
   A still-life in fact, from a man who has one
   And need the permission of the man
   In order to do so. Unless I can acquire it
   I can never feel the point of any of this. Oh,
   I can see it intellectually, all right, but to really
   Feel it, experience it, I have to have the picture.
   That’s all. I’d hate to give it up.
   
   

   
   无论如何,我是作者。我想
   和你谈一会儿,教你
   关于我的一些东西,一些
   我扔掉的东西,我记得更平静
   带着一丝悲伤的味道,甚至
   围绕日落时分的遗憾,它把这些
   东西扔掉,废弃了它们,拔掉了
   它们的插头,从它们脚下的地毯上摆脱:
   即使如此,它们说,就像站在狭窄的跑道里
   苍白地招徕路人一样,却没有多少
   兴趣的希望。尽管如此,我
   想和你一起参观的东西
   对我来说很重要。我们留了它们这么久!
   
   西风就是一个。它们
   怎么无目的地围着我玩,围着
   我的手腕,即使在过去的时间!
   
   照片---
   海角和半岛的照片
   乌云在它们上面移动,
   令人惊恐的重量压着---
   海难几乎看不见(有时
   根本看不见)穿过
   前景中的雪,背景中,咆哮着,贪婪的
   飓风。几乎所有的风景
   都很慷慨,比例好,因此
   很受欢迎。我们觉得,我们与风景有更多的
   共同点,尽管诡异且拙劣,
   与静物相比:那些桔子
   苹果,盘子,它们与我们
   有什么关系?足够,但是离开它们
   是一种解脱。肖像画,另一
   方面,则是另一回事---它们无法
   忍受人类的形态,它们的人道主义
   关切对我们来说是陌生的,我们做梦
   不知道我们是人道的,但,正如其他人
   所看到的那样,我们是。但这是关于人的。
   对。这就是为什么风景更加
   熟悉的原因,从它的一切中看到更多---我们可以看进
   它们,然后从另一边走出来。伴随着
   人,我们只是看到了自己另一个无聊的一面,
   一个我们可能不太了解的一面,但另一
   方面,我们为什么要对它感兴趣呢?更好的是
   静物的咖啡壶和缝纫篮子---
   它更人性化,如果你想的话,我的意思是
   人类比人类的照片更可能
   感兴趣的东西,不管画得多么好
   看起来多么富有同情心。但是,作为这个的
   作者,我想买一张图片,
   事实上这是一幅静物画,出自一个拥有一幅的人之手
   需要得到这个人的许可
   才能这样做。除非我能获得它
   否则我永远感觉不到这一切的意义。哦,
   我能理智地看到它,好吧,但要真正
   感受它,体验它,我必须有图片。
   就这些。我憎恨放弃。
   

   
   啊太阳,上帝的创造物,
   发光发热一小时,迷惑我的敌人
   要不然让他们像我一样。我想写
   像数学一样不精确的诗。我一直
   坐着制作泥饼,在闪闪发光的阳光下,
   赠送它们的难度
   并不重要,只要我想让你
   喜欢它们。享受这些!你很忙,我知道,
   但可以抽出时间来做这件事。总有一天
   人们会记住它们---这种情况经常发生---
   你会和你的内裤一起被抓住。
   此外,你能用铜耙
   耙多少溪流,不计数;
   倾泻的雾驱赶了多少,云雀
   和扶犁人的喜悦?在被占领的国家里
   你被提升为神的规约,没有人
   质疑你的工作,它的有效性,所有人
   都只是渴望支持它,他们的献身
   为了把你的加冕努力推到最高点:
   从来没有过
   这样的公民投票,但你必须获得它
   即使这样,准备,净化你自己,使自己配得上它
   尽管没有人会注意到。然后,当你
   沉没,在一片荣耀的火焰中,你会发现
   你已经写下了这一切,已经
   发生的一切,以及未来可能
   成为的一切,并且不介意
   消失在已经变得
   沉默、带着等待竖立着的
   峭壁后面,紧张而急切就像新郎
   想让你沿着它的脊椎倒下:
   
   “保护者
   来自草丛,儿子从底部升起。”
   
   我听说在春天,山脉会发生变化
   很少关心太阳(尽管如此
   它会继续,做好事,把樱草
   和其他小植物从模子里带来,将
   贫瘠的页岩变成仙境,诱使
   云母从平坦、不受赏识的人行道上闪烁出来,
   使周围的一切转向,但让它变得
   令人愉悦),占据着就像它们
   正推进自己的欲望,将
   它们的统治权扩展到周围平坦、安静的土地上。
   但再也没有人因为疏忽而受到惩罚:
   似乎,事实上,是为了促进
   世界活动中令人愉快的一面。有时看似
   鲁莽、语无伦次,甚至肮脏的东西
   现在是最短的距离;每件事都要做
   而且,更重要的是,应该
   这样做,而且只有这样,
   幸福才能维持,鱼才能留在
   深处,而不是用肘推天空中的鸟儿;
   因为这一切都是正确的,只有
   在它滑离之后才被注意到,因为
   它是高贵而奇妙的东西,所以其他的
   异象可能会出现并占据同样的空间。
   
   
        
   0 sun, God’s creation,
   Shine hot for one hour, confounding my enemies
   Or else make them like me. I want to write
   Poems that are as inexact as mathematics. I have been
   Sitting making mudpies, in the sparkling sunlight,
   And the difficulty of giving them away
   Doesn’t matter so long as I want you
   To enjoy them. Enjoy these! You are busy, I know,
   But could find time for this. Some day
   People will remember them---this always happens---
   And you’ll be caught with your pants down.
   Besides, how many streams can you rake
   With your copper rake, without counting;
   How much pouring fog chase away, larks
   And ploughmen delight? In the occupied countries
   You are raised to the statute of a god, no one
   Questions your work, its validity, all
   Are eager only to support it, to give of themselves
   So as to push your crowning effort over the top:
   Never
   Had any such a plebiscite, but you must earn it
   Even so, prepare, purify yourself to be worthy of it
   Although no one will notice. Then, when you
   Are setting, in a blaze of glory, you’ll find
   You have already written about this, about all
   That’s already happened, and everything that could be
   In the future, and won’t mind
   About disappearing behind yon crag
   Which already is grown silent, erect
   With waiting, tense and eager as a bridegroom
   For you to fall alongside its spine:
   
   “The protector
   Came from the tussock, the son rose up from the bottom.”
   
   I have heard that in spring the mountains change
   And seldom pay any mind to the sun (who continues,
   Nonetheless, to do good deeds, bringing
   Cowslips and other small plants out of the mould, changing
   The barren shale to faerie, coaxing
   Mica glints out of the flat, unappreciative sidewalks,
   Turning everything around but making it
   Delightful), occupied as they are
   With furthering their own desires, spreading
   Their dominion over the flat, quiet land around them.
   But no one is punished for inattention any more:
   It seems, in fact, to further the enjoyable
   Side of the world’s activities. What seemed
   Reckless, incoherent, even filthy at times
   Is now the shortest distance; everything gets done
   And, more important, ought to be done
   This way, and only in this way,
   For happiness to sustain, and fish to remain
   In the depths, not elbowing the birds of the skies;
   For it all to come right and not be noticed
   Until just after it has slipped by, for the noble
   And wonderful thing it is, so that the other
   Visions may arise and occupy the same space.
   
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-19 22:37:53 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-8-21 13:04 编辑



  

   To be consigned to this world
   Of life, a sea-world
   Which forms, shapes,
   Faces probably decorate---
   It is all as you had suspected
   All along, my dear.
   They proliferate slowly, build,
   Then clog, and in weathering
   Become a foundation of sorts
   For what is afterwards to be erected
   On this plot of unfinal ecstasies---
   Benign, in sum.They don’t just go away, either.
   But like a hollow tower
   Let in some sun, and keep the wind
   Far hence; whatever can destroy
   Us loses,but it’s pretty hard to say
   How far we have come, how much accomplished
   And whether there’s a lot more to be said:
   But for stretches at a time of life the outlined
   Masks and scabbards which are our vague
   Impression of what is probably going on
   All around us, keep us distracted,
   From playing and working too hard.
   And yet life is not really for the squeamish either.
   The hyacinths are dying
   At the end of a broad blue day
   Whose words somehow have not touched you.

   Mad to sacrifice next to them
   In late life, you were “just looking”
   Instead when the uneasy feeling that a jewel
   Might someday be around crossed you
   But I can’t figure out
   What ever happened. You treasured it,
   I contain you, and there are a few clouds
   Down near the baseboard of the room that prevent
   Us from ever continuing our conversation
   About the terrible lake that exists behind us.
   Piss and destruction
   Are the order of the day, the office blues,
   The Monday morning smiling through tears
   That never come.

   Partly because you always expect the impossible,
   But also because here, on the level of personal
   Life, it becomes easier to say, nay, think
   The transversals that haven’t stopped
   Defining our locus, have indeed only begun
   To, you are invited, and cannot refuse,
   To share this wall
   Of painted wooden tulips, the wooden clouds
   In the sky behind it, to feel the intensity
   As it is there. Good news travels fast
   But what about the news you forgot
   To tell until now, so we can’t tell
   All that much about it? Well, it joins us.
   The ground is soaked with tears.
   The tears of centuries are being wiped away.
   The tower is beaded with sweat that
   Has smiled down on our effort
   For so long.

   The lovers saunter away.
   It is a mild day in May.
   With music and birdsong alway
   And the hope of love in the way
   The sleeve detaches itself from the body
   As the two bodies do from the throng of gay
   Lovers on the prowl that do move and sway
   In the game of sunrise they play
   For stakes no higher than the gray
   Ridge of loam that protects the way
   Around the graveyard that sexton worm may
   Take to the mound
   Death likes to stay
   Near so as to be able to slay
   The lovers who humbly come to pray
   Him to pardon them yet his stay
   Of execution includes none and they lay
   Hope aside and soon disappear.
   Yet none is in disrepair
   And soon, no longer in fear
   Of the flowers their arrears
   Vanish and each talks gaily of his fear
   That is in the past whose ear
   Has been pierced by the flowers and the air
   Is now contagious to him

   He walks by the sea wall
   With a mate or lover and all
   The waves stand on tiptoe around the ball
   Of land where they all are.
   Thus, by giving up much,
   The lovers have lost less than
   The average man.

   No bird of paradise flies up
   With an explosive cry at his touch,
   The lover’s, yet all
   Are made whole in the circle that rounds
   Him, filled the whole time with sweet sounds.

     
   It is not the disrepair of these lives
   Where we may find the key to all that gives
   Eloquence and truth to our passing thoughts,
   And shapes them as a shipwright shapes
   The staves for the hull of some desolate
   Ship; rather, it is in the disrepair
   Of these lives that we not find despair
   But all that nourishes and comforts death
   In life and causes people to gather round
   As when they hear a good story is being told
   And makes us wish we were younger but also cherishes
   Our advancing years, and to find there no fears.
   The tower was more a tower inside a house.
   Even its outside (tendril-clogged crannies)
   Was shaded from the view of most.
   It grew chaste, and slim, like a prism
   In a protected, secular environment
   That overlooked the torment, fogs and crevasses
   Of orderly religion. That house
   Grew all alone in a desolate avenue
   (Avenue so shady)
   That people began to forget coming to
   Long before its present state
   Of patched-up oblivion, and even
   In those days were those who remembered back
   To what seemed a state of true freedom:
   Bopping down the valleys wild, beaks
   Tearing the invisible ear to shreds
   But was actually a rudimentary stage
   Of serfdom dating from the Silver Age.
   Now, however, that house was as it was
   Never going to be: a modest yet firmly
   Rooted pure excrescence, a spiritual
   Rubber plant:
   A grave no one wanted to visit
   Which remained popular and holy down
   to the present afternoon,
   Something which nobody in particular
   Was interested in, yet which mattered more
   To the earth’s population in general
   Than practically anything they could think of.
   It was history just as it disappears in the
   Twilight of yesterday and before it
   Materializes today as everything that is
   Fresh, young, and strange, and almost
   Out of the house and half
   Way down the street---
   An index, in other words, of everything
   That is not going to and is going to happen
   To us once we forget about its progress
   And actually begin to feel better
   For having done so.

  
  
  
  

   被交付给这个生命的
   世界,一个海洋的世界
   它的形式,形状,
   表面或许点缀着---
   这一切都是你一直
   怀疑的,我亲爱的。
   它们缓慢地增殖,建造,
   然后堵塞,在风化中
   成为后来在这一
   不确定的狂喜情节中
   建立起来的东西的基础---
   良性的,大体上。它们也不会消失。
   但就像一座中空的塔
   让一些阳光进来,因此让风
   远离这里;任何能摧毁
   我们的东西失败了,但很难说
   我们已经走了多远,完成了多少
   是否还有更多的话要说:
   但在生命时期的绵延,有轮廓的
   面具和剑鞘就是我们
   对周围可能发生的事情
   模糊的印象,这让我们分心,
   从太努力的游戏和工作中。
   然而,生活也不真正是为了那些神经脆弱者的。
   风信子在一个广阔的
   蓝色的一天结束时正在死去
   它的话不知怎么没有打动你。

   在晚年,在它们之后
   疯狂地牺牲,你“只是看着”
   反而,一种不安的感觉,就是有一天
   一颗宝石可能会越过你周围
   但我不理解
   曾经发生了什么。你珍惜它,
   我包容你,房间的底板附近
   有几片云彩,阻止
   我们继续谈论
   我们身后存在的可怕湖泊。
   小便和破坏
   是一天的秩序,办公室的忧郁,
   星期一的早晨含泪微笑
   永远不会到来。

   部分是因为你总是期待不可能,
   但也因为在这里,在个人生活的
   层面上,它变得更容易说,不,想想
   那些没有停止定义
   我们轨迹的横截线,实际上只是
   开始,你被邀请,不能拒绝,
   分享这面
   绘有僵硬郁金香的墙,它后面
   天空中僵硬的云,感受在那里的
   强度。好消息传得很快
   但是你到现在都忘了告诉
   那消息说了什么,所以我们不能告诉你
   它那么多?嗯,它加入了我们。
   地上浸泡着泪水。
   几个世纪的眼泪正在被擦掉。
   塔上布满了汗珠
   它在我们的努力下微笑
   如此久。

   情侣们漫步离开。
   五月温和的一天。
   总是伴随音乐和鸟鸣
   以及爱的希望妨碍了
   袖子从身体上分离它自己
   就像两个身体从徘徊的同性恋
   情侣人群中分离出来一样,他们
   在日出的游戏中移动和摇摆,他们玩的
   赌注不比灰色的
   壤土山脊高,它们保护着
   墓地周围的道路,教堂司事蠕虫可能会
   带到高地
   死神喜欢
   呆在附近,以便能够杀死
   谦卑地前来祈祷他
   原谅他们的恋人,但他的
   死刑暂缓执行不包括任何人,他们
   将希望搁置一旁,很快消失。
   然而,没有东西年久失修
   不久,不再害怕
   花,他们的欠款
   消失了,每个人都愉快地
   谈论着他过去的恐惧,他的耳朵
   被花刺穿了,空气
   现在对他有传染性

   他和伴侣或情人一起
   走过海堤,所有的
   波浪都踮着脚尖绕着
   陆地的球,它们都在那里。
   因此,由于放弃太多,
   恋人失去的
   比平均起来的男人少。

   没有哪只天堂鸟飞起
   带着爆炸性的叫声,在他的触摸下,
   情人的,然而一切
   都变得完整,在环绕他的

   圆圈里,整个时间充满了甜美的声音。


   不是在这些年久失修的生活中
   我们才可以找到开启一切的钥匙,它为我们
   逝去的思想提供雄辩和真理,
   并塑造它们,像一个船工
   为一些荒废的船的船身塑造
   木棍;相反,正是在这些年久失修的
   生命中,我们没有发现绝望
   而是一切滋养和抚慰生命中的
   死亡,使人们聚集在周围
   仿佛他们听到一个好故事正在被讲述
   使我们希望自己更年轻,但也珍惜
   我们的晚年,并发现没有恐惧。
   这座塔是房子里附加的一座塔。
   甚至它的外部(卷须堵塞的裂缝)
   也被大多数人的视角遮蔽。
   它变得纯洁、纤细,就像一个
   在受保护的,世俗环境中的棱镜
   它忽略了有序宗教的
   折磨、迷雾和裂缝。那所房子
   孤零零地生长在一条荒凉的林荫大道上
   (林荫大道如此阴暗)
   那些人们开始忘记
   早在它现在被匆忙修补的
   遗忘状态之前就来临,甚至
   在那些日子里,那些人的记忆回到
   似乎是真正的自由状态:
   击打着山谷荒野,鸟喙
   把看不见的耳朵撕成碎片
   但实际上这是白银时代
   农奴制的一个初级阶段。
   然而,现在,那座房子
   将来永远不会是以前的样子:一个谦逊但根基
   牢固的纯粹赘疣,一个精神上的
   橡胶植物:
   一座没有人想去参观的坟墓
   它一直到今天下午都
   很受欢迎和神圣,
   没有人特别感兴趣的
   东西,然而,对
   地球上的人口来说,这通常比他们
   实际上能想到的任何事情都重要。
   这是历史,就像它
   在昨天的暮色中消失一样,在今天
   成为现实之前,就像一切
   新鲜、年轻、陌生,几乎
   走出家门,走到
   街的一半---
   换句话说,一切的一个索引
   不会和将发生在我们身上的
   一切,一旦我们忘记了它的进步
   并且真正开始因为这样做而
   感觉更好。

  
  
  
  
   不久,它们也会
   出现在你的脑海中。
   你会想知道饥荒最初的用途
   是什么,在
   我们看了关于它的电影之后。
   盐水虾被拿来
   仙女布丁放在它们旁边。
   它很好,虽然---
   上面有肉。

   我们性交得太久了,
   不过,你看。
   现在呆在家里或
   去任何地方都太晚了,除了去看那部
   我们俩看过十几遍或更多次的电影。
   当然,这很好---这就是为什么
   我们如此频繁地看它的原因---
   但过了一会儿后,人们会觉得自己已经经历了它
   并想继续其他生活经历。
   然而,我们不断返回它---
   它很好,毕竟,我们现在知道了
   它的情节和人物,这使它成为
   我们自己的,用从来没有过
   我们自己生活的方式。我们非常了解
   自己和彼此;另一方面
   动作总是新的,虽然没有情节,
   但还是相同的。脚趾再次指向
   人行道,春天
   在空气中,“妓院”一词
   像落日中的丝带一样飘浮,倾覆了
   青少年的平衡,它从来都只是
   持续的崩溃,带来了
   音乐、小乐趣,和一些
   营养,但总是回到
   平坦、开始前狭窄时间的条件,
   一种地平线的样本
   在有地方容纳它之前
   既然它存在,它看起来
   几乎是驯服的,或者与我们
   一直想象的那种成熟不同。

   在农场的海洋中
   干草的梦想让我们旋转到
   那些看起来只有想象的
   地平线,没有空间,天地之间
   没有凹槽,金属的,
   没有丰腴的肉体,似乎,像孩子们,
   我们每个人都会说他或她
   有多好,然后就被遗忘,
   思想,恰当的词语。

   但有时黑暗
   掩盖了这个不太真实的地平线,它
   对我们来说变得坚定。在那里
   人们想象着树木的喷发,一旦
   白昼来临,它们会持续片刻,
   顽固的,粘稠的白昼混合物。

   如果所有大公爵的
   所有随从都伸展成很远的粉末状
   无穷,而你站在
   一级最上面的台阶上,等待着
   将你的论点推进到光环中,而
   此时此刻的时间
   突然似乎在下降,楼梯
   变成了一个巨大的吊床,上面散落着枯叶
   和蚂蚁,宇宙的地平线
   使它上升,变成秃顶的东西,充满了
   无法表达和无法形容的威胁,
   没有任何一个字曾经
   证明欲望的结构
   它已经进入它的构造,黑暗的现在,
   心不在焉的花朵,沉默的小鸟,还有许多
   几乎不在场的其他东西,不需要
   途径,也不需要出生的方式,
   谁来问候你?这可能就是
   你想告诉我的:开门。
   你的希望、恐惧、抱负、灵感
   对我来说是一本封闭的书。你
   不安地接受一个无关紧要的东西,
   比如一个临时厕所,这被,很好地,
   变回,成了遥远,被你的动词
   就像眨眼的蜻蜓,它们履行职务
   靠近“关心”的底部
   似乎和闯入者一样遥远,它们自己
   被后来到达的从别的东西
   掉下来的东西所取代,这只是
   一部分,但这只是,关于
   古老、古老的精彩故事的包裹:
   优雅和线性
   带着我们,沐浴着我们,把小西风的
   肮脏颜色变成了
   下一个最好的东西:矮小的领班,
   非常短的玫瑰。



   不用说,我不能,
   “为了我的生命,”弄清楚我们俩为什么
   都在这里。你又在听海顿的四重奏,
   接着是总谱。后来
   我在你身上到处游荡。不管怎么说,这就是
   我想要你的方式,事情
   会不断增长的方式。

   “现在来谈谈我悲惨的业务。”
   月亮,处于昏迷状态,然而会倾听
   说出的一切。我们所说的
   任何一个词都会被记录下来并
   分类,任何人都可以去查阅。
   暴风雨并不重要;即使当风
   将要摧毁屋顶,大海
   正在敲打前门,我们的话语,
   甚至是低语,甚至是未表达的思想都被
   引导到这口述历史的污水池中。
   你可能想知道接下来会发生什么。

   当爱找到了它的家,永远不要改变。
   “朋友”的祝贺,
   但不是在我们的时代。它像院子一样
   开放而受限地坐着。
   然而,也有开始的无声开始,
   除了祈祷,什么都没有,尽管
   我们现在似乎可以用我们的思想感觉到
   这是一个介于祈祷
   和祈祷的答案之间的地方。

  
  
  
  

  
  

   Before long they too
   Turn up in your mind.
   You wonder what the original uses
   Of famine were, after
   We saw the film about it.
   The brine shrimp were brought
   And the fairy pudding placed next to them.
   It’s good though---
   It has meat on it.

   We fucked too long,
   Though, you see.
   Now it’s too late to stay home
   Or go anywhere except to that film
   We’ve both seen a dozen or more times.
   Of course it’s good---that’s why
   We saw it so often---
   But after a while one feels one has lived it
   And wants to get on with other living experiences.
   Yet we keep returning to it---
   It is good, after all, and we know the plot
   And the characters by now, which makes it
   Ours in a way that living our own lives
   Never does. We know ourselves
   And each other only too well; on the other
   Hand the action is always new, though plotless,
   The same. Toes are again pointed
   Down a sidewalk, spring
   Is in the air and the word “brothel” floats
   Like a ribbon in the sunset, upsetting
   The teen balance that was never anything
   But a continuing collapse, that brought
   Music and minor pleasures, and some
   Nourishment, but always rolled back the conditions
   To that flat, narrow time before the beginning,
   Kind of a sample of the horizon
   Before there was any place for it
   And now that it exists it seems
   Almost tame, or not as ripe
   As we always imagined it would be.

   In the sea of the farm
   The dream of hay whirls us toward
   Horizons like those only
   Imagined, with no space, no groove
   Between the sky and the earth, metallic,
   Unfleshed, as though, as children,
   Each of us might say how good
   He or she is, and afterwards it is forgotten,
   The thought, the very words.

   But there are times when darkness
   Hides this not very real horizon, and it turns
   Steadfast for us. Sprays
   Of trees are imagined there, and they endure
   For a while once daylight has come,
   The stubborn, sticky mixture of daylight.

   If all the retinues of all
   The archdukes stretched away into a powdery
   Infinity, and you stood
   On the top step but one, waiting to advance
   Your argument into the aura, and time suddenly
   At that moment seemed to sag, and the staircase
   Became a giant hammock littered with dead leaves
   And ants, and the horizon of the universe
   Raised it up into something bald and filled
   With unexpressed and inexpressible menace,
   No word of which would ever
   Attest to the configuration of desires
   That had gone into its construction, dark now,
   Absent-minded flowers, reticent birds, and much
   Else that is scarcely present, needing
   No avenue, no way to be born,
   Who would greet you? Which might be
   What you want to tell me: open the door.
   Your hopes and fears, ambitions, inspirations
   Are a closed book to me. And your
   Uneasy acceptance of what doesn’t really matter,
   Like a makeshift latrine, is, well,
   Changed, back into remoteness by your verbs
   Like winking dragonflies that officiate
   So far down near the bottom of “caring”
   As to seem interlopers, themselves
   Displaced by later arrivals
   That fell off the others, are part
   And parcel, but that merely, of
   The old, old wonderful story:
   Grace and linearity
   That take us up and bathe us, changing
   The dirty colors of the little zephyrs
   Into the next best thing: short gaffer,
   Very short roses.

    It goes without saying that I can’t,
   “For the life of me,” figure out why we were both
   Here. You are again listening to Haydn quartets,
   Following them with the score.Afterwards
   I wander all over you. Anyway that is the
   Way I want you, the way things are
   Going to be increasingly.

   “Now to my tragic business.”
   The moon, in a coma, listens nevertheless
   To all that is said. Any word we
   May have ever uttered gets recorded and
   Catalogued, and anybody can go and look them up.
   The storms don’t matter; even when the wind
   Is about to demolish the roof, and the sea
   Is banging on the front door, our words,
   Even whispers, even unuttered thoughts are
   Channeled into this cesspool of oral history.
   You may be wondering about what comes next.

   Never change when love has found its home.
   Compliments of “a friend.”
   But not in our day. It sits
   Open and limited like the yard.
   Yet there are silent beginnings of beginnings,
   Nothing but prayers, though it seems
   That we can now feel with our minds
   Which is someplace between prayers
   And the answer to prayers.

  
  





 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-21 13:03:27 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-8-21 13:07 编辑



  
   It goes without saying that
   To have it make sense you
   Would have to belong to all who are asleep
   Making no sense, and then
   Flowers of the desert begin, peep by peep,
   To emerge and you are saved
   Without having taken a step, but I
   Don’t know how you’re going to get
   Another person to do that. It all boils down to
   Nothing, one supposes. There is a central crater
   Which is the word, and around it
   All the things that have names, a commotion
   Of thrushes pretending to have hatched
   Out of the great egg that still hasn’t been laid.
   These one gets to know, and by then
   They have formed tightly conpartmented, almost feudal
   Societies claiming kinship with the word:
   (If on a priority basis however
   It takes longer to catch them)
   And their age flows out of time, is left
   Like a bluish deposit on the brown ploughed fields
   That surround our century: like the note of a harp.



   The phosphorescent spring fails, and newer,
   Numbered days come up. The wind pulls at
   The leaves of the calendar, peels them off one by one
   In a fitful expression of what time is like
   As it goes by, that’s like a look
   Out of a window, and then the moment has gone away
   From the window
   The vast quantities of scum
   Did not materialize. Only the sterile minuet
   Proceeds at an always altered rate
   Leading to bad feelings here and there
   But the main feeling is safe and out of reach.

   Love is different.
   It moves, or grows, at the same rate
   As time does, yet within time:
   The waxing is invisible, and can never be felt
   Outside time, as a few things--- happiness,
   For instance---can. As perennial as time
   Is, and as insipid to the tongue, yet it
   Is built in another street; such luminescence
   As it has, it takes from the idea of itself
   Each of us has, and knows not, except
   To recognize, and feel secure again about its growing:
   I mean that it is a replica
   Of itself, which is itself the replica,
   Counterfeited from itself, which is something
   False, yet true, like the moon, and whose
   Earthly reflection is of a truly
   Hair-raising solidity, like the earth
   Dissolved in the sun, suffused with a kinetic
   Purpose it could never have for us
   Unless we dreamed it. It is, then,
   Gigantic, yet life-size. And
   Once it has lived, one has lived with it. The astringent,
   Clear timbre is, having belonged to one,
   One’s own, forever, and this
   Despite the green ghetto that intrudes
   Its blighted charm on each of the moments
   We called on love for, to lead us
   To farther tables and new, surprised,
   Suffocated chants just beyond the range
   Of simple perception. These, brown
   Motes, may unclasp themselves like
   Japanese paper flowers at any moment,
   Rending themselves into a final
   Fixed appreciation of themselves and whatever
   They were going to be confronted with
   Lest the politicians despair of its ever
   Becoming a diamond that gives back the night
   Into its smallest box and learns to live
   With itself, like a true feeling.



  
  
  
  
  


   不言而喻
   要想让它有意义,你就
   必须属于所有毫无意义地
   睡着的人,然后
   沙漠的花朵开始,偷窥接着偷窥,
   呈现,你就得救了
   不需要迈出一步,但我
   不知道你要如何让
   另一个人做到这一点。这一切归结于
   虚无,有人认为。有一个中央火山口
   就是这个词,它周围
   所有的东西都有名字,画眉的
   骚乱假装是从尚未下蛋的
   大蛋中孵化出来的。
   这些人开始了解,到那时
   它们已经形成了坚固的联系,几乎是封建的
   社会,声称与这个词有血缘关系:
   (然而,如果在优先的基础上
   需要更长的时间才能抓住它们)
   它们的年龄随着时间流逝,就像
   一个蓝色的沉积物留在我们这个世纪
   周围的棕色耕地上:就像竖琴的音符。


   发出磷光的春天失败了,更新的、
   有编号的日子到来。风拉扯
   日历的叶子,一片一片地剥掉它们
   时断时续地表达着时间的流逝
   像什么,这就像从窗户
   向外看,然后那一刻从窗户
   消失了
   大量的浮渣
   没有成形。只有枯燥无味的小步舞曲
   总是以一种不断变化的速度进行
   在这里和那里导致不好的感觉
   但主要的感觉是安全的,遥不可及的。

   爱是不同的。
   它移动,或增长,以与时间
   相同的速度,但在时间内:
   蜡化是无形的,在时间之外永远
   感觉不到,就像少数东西---幸福,
   比如说---可以。如同时间一样
   永久,对舌头来说是平淡的,但它
   却建在另一条街上;这种发光
   它具有,来自于对它自身的理念
   我们每个人都具有,而且都不知道,除了
   认识,再一次感受到它成长的安全:
   我的意思是,它是自身的
   复制品,复制品就是它本身,
   从它自身被伪造,它是虚假的
   东西,但又是真实的,就像月亮,它
   在地球上的倒影是一种真正
   令人毛骨悚然的坚固,就像地球
   在太阳下融化,充满了一种运动的
   目的,除非我们梦见它
   否则它永远不会为我们所拥有。因此,它是,
   巨大的,但却是真人大小。一旦
   它有生命,人们就和它一起生活。青涩的,
   清晰的音色,属于一个人,
   一个人自己的,永远,尽管
   这绿色的贫民区侵入了
   它被破坏的魅力,在我们呼唤爱的
   每一刻,将我们带到
   更远的桌子和新的、惊讶的、
   令人窒息的圣歌,恰好超出了
   简单的感知范围。这些,棕色的
   微粒,可能会像
   日本纸花一样随时散开,
   渲染它们自己,进入对自己
   和他们将要面对的任何事情的
   最终固定的欣赏中
   以免政客们对它曾经
   变成一颗钻石感到绝望,它将黑夜
   带回它最小的盒子,学会与自己
   共处,就像一种真实的感觉。

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



   在所有这些
   进入白昼的配件中,尽管经过打磨
   和竖立,但仍然没有出现
   对道路的描述。为了
   一长串人的消息,一路上阻止了
   每个人,民俗领域
   挤满了穿着太阳和月亮
   编织在一起的温和衣服的人,笑容
   一半欢闹,一半悲剧性,因此他们
   似乎是一些超越喜剧和悲剧的
   宇宙浪漫的幽灵,他们的爱倾泻在
   洪水现在不再出现和停止的堤坝
   和屏障上,一片广阔而宁静的海洋
   由太阳和风编织而成,还有
   比爱更亲切的真实亲吻。

   友善的话语就像金苹果
   和银罐。

   我想我想我想都是徒劳的
   最后我用我的名字思考。

   现在记住我
   永远记住我
   想想我们
   在一起的乐趣。
   朋友。

   我会告诉你们情人们,正是这个小男孩或父亲
   因为他们所有的肉
   有着现在的气味或话语。

   一个小男孩跑开了
   不再被人看见,他现在被人看见了
   和以前一样,抽象地,特别地,
   肉体和肉体的外表,
   他和爱的小男孩
   没有什么不同,他的母亲
   是爱的女士,她安排了这一切
   她很好地超越了邪恶
   和腐败的阴影,别人把它们
   扔到我们的角落,但我们总是在它们身边。

   有人认为他脾气暴躁,粗暴
   但事实上,他的是所有场合的场合
   人们可以称任何东西为爱
   只要他被锁在终结的
   菲尼斯中,并且仍然走在前面。
   (这可能是第四种
   最重要的爱
   但只要情侣们还在六月
   看着月亮,在月亮下编织手指
   我们就不知道这里发生了什么,
   我们是否应该离开。)

   但我反对所有形式的肉体
   性行为---也反对雄山羊,
   永远不能忍受它们。这就是为什么
   很难站起来公开宣布
   我所珍爱的悲伤离去,
   我的食欲回来了,因为所有的恋人
   都是从我集体无意识,幻象的屏幕上
   投射出来的阴影
   它们不会说是或不是,而是不断地戳
   地上,寻找埋藏在那里的宝藏。

   一年一两次没问题
   但更多的是释放出海平面
   街道上成群结队的路人、正确物体
   和准确时刻的阴影。
   因此,后来我们开始忍受
   我们记得的状态
   在梦中无意中听到它
   我们所有丰富的发明
   都是对周围邪恶吃的泻药
   直到我们去追求它,
   缺席地证明它,它才可能存在。
   因此,我不能向
   拥挤的、闪闪发光的人群推进太多:
   它太快就丧失物质形态,我的遗忘
   是那里精确定义的代价
   除此之外,没有人会想看到它
   那么多细节(肉赘和一切)
   他知道有一天他自己也不得不
   以这种方式出现,背对着
   他带着如此困难变成的一切,
   一个轻蔑的情人,孤独而苍白地
   游荡着,忘记了他喜爱的对象
   是什么,只剩下巴甫洛夫式的
   爱的反射,试图提醒他
   有一天它会是什么样子,它是如何
   成为它的。当我们意识到这一点时,它们
   变得更苍白,但更固定,对这一天
   和这一时刻更具统治力,这是一直以来
   正在逼近的东西,我们
   都在努力尝试的睡眠,整天都在避免
   但没有成功,直到夜晚的
   陷阱在我们的身下坍塌,我们
   透明和不伤感地浮现,像其他的,由爱和时间
   构成,彼此之间的关系
   就是他自己和每一个之间的关系。

   我在白天哭泣,
   在夜季哭泣,并不沉默。
   但什么能清洁我的内心?
   通向虚无的道路
   就是通向万物的道路。把我
   关在里面的那条通道
   被捧香炉的人堵住了
   这将导致一种不同的生活。
   然而,所有行为
   都是平等的,在一片被戳入历史的
   翡翠叶的眼中
   但对它自身和社会的感觉
   不等同于历史。

   历史是一片森林
   其中一片独立的、位置确定的叶子
   不可能出现
   导致暴风雨的数量和变化
   像冬天在路边盛开的
   单一风暴中的雨滴
   一样多,如果以这种方式
   将其视为心灵无法控制的
   对象,则会像白色一样,导致霜冻般的沉默
   和不被注视的寒冷。

   它是一连串地标中的一个地标,
   永远不会被收获。

   这场惨烈的事故,正如印刷品栏目
   所认为的那样,更新了,
   短暂地,但对其意义的
   记忆并没有消失。
   我们不是忘记,而是变得更好。

   之后是游戏的时候。

   黄河(那条河,
   不是 I. P.戴利的小说)其普及程度
   遭受下降,虽然它
   经过世界上人口最多的
   地区之一。想想看。
   在高地上,被宝塔和寺庙
   挤满,光线
   开始退去,这是
   没有人想要的流行。但在平坦的
   峡谷深处,河流正在逐渐
   萎缩。现在没有人来
   打扰黑暗,最深邃的
   支流带着孤独的气息
   沉默着。它如何
   独自舞动,在冬天的阳光下
   或在秋天的污秽中。它变得
   向内生长,带着这个
   通过我们的存在,当我们进入
   一个新的篇章,困惑,可能兴奋,
   但仍然是新的一个,全都一样。


  
  
  

  
  
  
  
   In all these
   Accessories of going down into day, though polished
   And bristling, the telling of the way
   Still fails to appear. Stopping everyone
   Along the way for news of a long list
   Of people, the field of folk
   Is full of people in gentle raiment
   Of the sun woven with the moon, and smiles
   Half hilarious and half tragic, so that they
   Seem specters of some cosmic romance
   Beyond comedy and tragedy, and their love pours
   Over the dikes and barriers that are no more
   Now that the flood has occurred
   And stopped, a broad and quiet ocean
   Woven of the sun and wind and true
   Kisses that are heartier than love.
   Kind words are like apples of gold
   And pitchers of silver.
   I thought I thought I thought In vain
   At last I thought with my name.
   Remember me now
   Remember me ever
   And think of the fun
   We had together.
   A friend.
   I will tell you lovers, it is the little boy or sire
   That has a present smell or word
   For all their meat.
   A little boy was running away
   To be seen no more, who is now seen
   As before, in the abstract and the particular,
   The flesh and the appearance of flesh,
   Who is not unlike the little boy
   Of love, with his mama
   The lady of love, who arranged all this
   And who is good beyond the shadows
   Of evil and corruption others throw
   Into our corner but we are always beside them.
   Some think him mean-tempered and gruff
   But actually his is an occasion for all occasions
   And one can get by calling anything love
   As long as it’s locked up in the Finis
   Of the end, and still come out ahead.
   (This is probably the fourth most
   important kind of love
   But as long as lovers still look at the moon
   In June, weaving fingers under the moon
   We cannot know what happens here,
   Whether or not we should go away.)
   But I’m against all forms of physical
   Sexual activity---against billy goats, too,
   Never could stand 'em. Which is why
   It’s difficult to get up in public and proclaim
   About my cherished sorrow departing,
   My appetite coming back, since all lovers
   Are shadows projected from behind on the screen
   Of my collective unconscious, eidolons
   That won’t say yes or no, but keep prodding
   The ground for the treasure buried there.
   One or two a year is all right
   But more than that releases the shadow
   Of throngs of passersby, of the correct object
   And the precise moment in the sea-level street.
   So later we come to abide
   By the state as we remember it
   And in dreams overhear it
   And all our richness of invention
   Is as physic to the evil of the surround
   Which can’t exist until we go after it,
   Prove it by default.
   Therefore I can’t advance too much
   Toward the packed, glittering crowd:
   It dematerializes too soon and my oblivion
   Is the cost of the precise definition there
   Besides which no one would ever want to see it
   In that much detail (warts and all)
   Knowing he would have to come out that way
   Himself one day, and turn his back on all
   He had with such difficulty become,
   A pejorative lover, alone and palely
   Loitering, having forgotten what the object
   Of his affection was, with only the Pavlovian
   Reflex of loving left to try to remind him
   What it was all like one day, how it could have
   Been. And as we realize this, they
   Grow paler but more fixed, more sovereign
   For this day and this hour, are what
   Has been bearing down all along, the sleep
   We have tried without success to ward off
   All day, until the trap
   Of night caves in under us and we emerge
   Pellucid and dry-eyed as the others, beings made of
   Love and time, who are to each other
   What each is to himself.
   I cry in the daytime,
   And in the night season, and am not silent.
   But what shall clean me within?
   The way to nothing
   Is the way to all things. The thoroughfare
   That kept me inside
   Is blocked with thurifers
   That would lead to a different kind of life.
   Yet all behaviors
   Are equal in the eyes of a jade leaf
   Prodded into history
   But with a sense of itself and of society
   Unequal to history.
   History is a forest
   In which a separate, positioned leaf
   Could not occur
   Leading to storms as multitudinous and varied
   As the drops in a single storm
   That flowers by the roadside
   In winter, as white if taken this way
   As an object which the mind can never
   Control, leading to frosted silence
   And cold unregard.
   It is a landmark in a chain of landmarks,
   Never to be harvested.
   The atrocious accident, as ascribed
   In columns of print, refreshes,
   And briefly, but the memory
   Of its signification does not go away.
   Instead of forgetting, we become nicer.
   After which it is time to play.
   The Yellow River (the river,
   Not the novel by I. P. Daly) has suffered a
   Decline in popularity, though it
   Passes through one of the world’s most
   Populous regions. Think about it.
   On the heights, jammed with pagodas
   And temples, the light
   Is starting to recede, the popularity
   That no one wants. But in the flat
   Depths of the gorges, the river is waning
   On. Now no one comes
   To disturb the murk, and the profoundest
   Tributaries are silent with the smell
   Of being alone. How it
   Dances alone, in winter shine
   Or autumn filth. It is become
   Ingrown, and with this
   Passes out of our existence, as we enter
   A new chapter, confused and possibly excited,
   Yet a new one, all the same.




 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-22 22:10:26 | 显示全部楼层


   III
   
   But, what is time, anyway? Not,
   Not certainly, the faces and pleasures
   Encrusted in it, the “beautifly varied streets,”
   The wicked taunting us to some kind of action,
   Any kind, with hands partially covering
   Their faces, to hide or to mock us, or both.
   No, these things are part of time,
   Or are rather a kind of parallel tide,
   A related activity. And the markings?
   
   Some say that the measuring of time
   Is a recognition of what it is, but
   I think the things that are in it
   Are more like it, though not quite it.
   
   Actually what is in it is controlled
   And colored by the units of measuring it.
   That summer jog you had
   A long time ago
   Is probably it, it fits so
   Neatly over it anyway, nobody
   Could ever tell the difference.
   And what was said
   All afternoon, long afternoons
   Ago, whatever it was, and it
   Was something special, you know
   You really can remember it.
   
   I wanted to forget it but it was like
   Not remembering it and having the whole
   Force of it brought home to you, and who
   Wants that? Who cares, anyway, about
   What it is or what it was like?
   You must be mad to care. Yes,
   I am mad, I thinks and I do care.
   I can’t help it. I am mad,
   And don’t care. But it will not remain
   Any more outside of me for all that.
   It is the marrow of my thought
   That all night I stand up chewing,
   Trying to remember things, mostly things
   I’d forgotten, and who
   Remembers these? And also
   Some things I
   Actually remembered, and here I am
   Trying to remember them all over again, to have
   Them live up to me.
   And it is as it was when I was a kid:
   The moment stays on, but is
   Lacing up its shoelaces or engaged
   In some other form of maddening and hard to
   Notice activity, but it gets its work done,
   And still it can stay it has stayed
   Around long enough to count for that
   So that it is I who have aged without
   Having done anything, certainly nothing
   To deserve it, like a lost cause.
   
   I would just love to go
   Would love it
   And you too want to go, with me,
   And there is no reason not to, noticing
   Keeping us here, we
   Can go out into the street
   Where nobody is, no dirt
   Any more, and climb to the lower edge of the sky
   And wait there, and soon
   Someone will come to take care of us.
   
   All I want
   Is for someone to take care of me,
   I have no other thought in mind,
   Have never entertained any.
   When that day comes I’ll go gladly
   Into whatever situation or room you want me in
   To take care of.
   And meanwhile I’ll wait, obligingly, full
   Of manna and joy, for that to take place
   Which it will, soon.
   
   But why you
   May ask do I want someone to take care of me
   So much? This is why:
   I can do it better than anyone, and have
   All my life, and now I am tired
   And a little bored with taking care of myself
   And would like to see how somebody else might
   Do it, even if that person falls on their face
   In the attempt.
   When leaves pass over, and then ice
   And finally warm, bottled-up breezes
   I’ll notice how it has all seemed the same until now,
   This very moment, and as a
   Duck takes off into the nether blue,
   Find my rationale or whatever,something
   Inside these movements all around me that
   Enclose me loosely like a cage with the bars
   Wide enough apart to walk through
   Into the open air, onto God’s road, in the blond,
   Shambling sunlight, and look back
   After all that, thinking how fortunate
   It has all been on the whole, and how, though joy
   Has been lacking, and that severely on occasion,
   Happiness has not. I must
   Make do with happiness, and am glad
   To do so, as long as everyone
   Is happy and doesn’t mind. The car
   Drove back to get me, through miles and miles
   Of mud ruts and mangrove swamps, and stopped
   And I got in and it drove away
   To a slightly less flat land where you
   And I can build a new life together on the shore
   Several inches above sea level as the blue
   Whitecaps on the charging waves come foaming in.
   
  
  

   III
   
   但是,时间是什么,不管怎样?不,
   不确定,镶嵌在它里面的面孔
   和欢乐,“美丽多变的街道,”
   邪恶以某种行动嘲弄我们,
   任何种类,用手部分地遮住
   它们的脸,隐藏或嘲笑我们,或两者兼而有之。
   不,这些东西都是时间的一部分,
   或者说是一种平行的潮流,
   一种相关的活动。那些标记呢?
   
   有人说,时间的测量是
   对它是什么的一种认识,但
   我认为它里面的东西
   更像它,尽管不完全是它。
   
   实际上,它里面的东西是
   由测量它的单位来控制和着色的。
   很久以前你做的
   那个夏天的慢跑
   很可能就是它,总之它
   非常整齐地安装在它上面,没有人
   能分辨出区别。
   整个下午,很久以前的
   下午,说些什么,
   不管它是什么,它
   都很特别,你知道
   你真的能记住它。
   
   我想忘记它,但它就像
   不记得它和拥有整个
   它带回家给你的力量,谁
   想要这个?不管怎样,谁在乎,它
   是什么或它是什么样子?
   你在乎一定是疯了。是的,
   我疯了,我想,我真的很在乎。
   我情不自禁。我疯了,
   不在乎。但尽管如此,它不会
   再留在我之外。
   这是我思想的精髓
   我整夜站着咀嚼,
   试图记住事情,大部分是
   我已经忘记的,谁
   记得这些?还有
   一些我确实
   记得的事情,我在这里
   正试图重新记住它们,让
   它们不辜负我。
   它就像我小时候一样:
   这一刻还在停留,但
   系紧它的鞋带,或者从事
   其他形式的疯狂和难以
   注意的活动,但它完成了它的工作,
   而且它仍然可以停留它已经停留
   在周围足够长的时间来计算它
   所以是我变老了,没有
   做任何事情,当然没有什么
   值得做的,就像一个失败的事业。
   
   我只是喜欢行走
   喜欢它
   你也想行走,和我一起,
   没有理由不,注意到
   把我们留在这里,我们
   可以走到
   没有人的街上,不再
   有灰尘,爬到天空的下边缘
   在那里等待,很快
   就会有人来照顾我们。
   
   我想要的一切
   就是有人照顾我,
   我心里没有别的想法,
   从来没有娱乐过。
   当那一天到来的时候,我会很高兴地
   走进你想让我进来照顾的
   任何情况或房间。
   与此同时,我会等待,亲切地,满怀
   天赐之物和喜悦,即将
   发生的事情,很快。

   但你为什么
   会问我这么想有人
   照顾我?这就是为什么:
   我可以做得比任何人都好,并且拥有
   我的整个一生,而现在我对照顾自己
   感到疲倦和一点厌倦
   并且想看看其他人会
   怎么做,即使那个人在尝试
   落在他们的脸上。
   当树叶飘过,然后是冰
   最后是温暖的,藏着气的微风
   我注意到,直到现在,这一刻,一切如何似乎
   都是一样的,当一只
   鸭子飞入下方的蓝色,
   找到我的理由或无论什么,在这些
   围绕着我的运动中,某些东西
   松散地将我包围起来,就像一个笼子,带着栅栏
   足够宽,相距穿过
   户外,走到上帝的道路,在金色、
   蹒跚的阳光下,然后回顾
   这一切,想想这一切是
   多么幸运,又多么,尽管缺乏
   欢乐,而偶尔严重,
   幸福并没有。我必须
   设法应付幸福,我很高兴
   这样做,只要大家都
   开心,而且不介意。汽车
   开回来接我,穿过数英里的
   泥泞的凹槽和红树林沼泽,停下
   我进了车,车开到了
   一个稍不平坦的平地,在那里你
   和我可以一起在海拔几英寸的岸上
   建立新的生活,当汹涌的海浪上的
   蓝色白浪冒出泡沫时。
      

   III
   
   但我希望他在这里。
   没有他,有些事情会改变,
   有些事情我们会继续理解,
   直到他回到我们身边。
   
   日落不是它不知道的
   反射---即使它知道这事
   可以被知道,但不是
   反射。
   
   有时,当我们看到另一个人
   走在街上或
   站在一边时,我们觉得
   我们应该上去和那个人说话
   因为他们期待着死亡。
   但我们不,或很少,与陌生人说话。
   
   禁止
   与陌生人有太多关系。
   我们可以撒谎,在短期内相处
   这样,我们就可以走出家门
   看看那里有什么,但我们可以
   转身回去,不跟
   在那儿的其他人说话
   不管他们是谁。
   
   我们会感到羞耻,在某些日子里
   这一切都被带到了面前
   我们在其中,
   我们还不知道法令,那个人
   也知道它。我们很少
   受到朋友的邀请,更不用说陌生人。
   
   这就是有太多朋友的难题:
   我们忘记了他们中的大多数,而就在
   我们最需要他们的时候,他们却不见了。
   我们在任何被给予的时刻
   都没有朋友,或者他们已经离开了。
   
   然而,我们确实有朋友,当我们需要他们。
   他们几乎总是在附近,海岸上
   有他们。湖水退去
   向靠近的,像一条长凳的苍白的地平线。
   我们不再被要求
   现在我们觉得我们已经放弃了他们。
   他们永远不会依赖我们
   即使我们下降,一路下降,
   到他们那里去。他们可能不再喜欢我们。
   
   但是夕阳看到了它的倒影,在
   曲线中
   被治愈。人,不是所有的,都是
   成对或三个地回到我们身边的。节日
   也是如此,光照在脸上
   所有的人都向你
   嘘了一声,他们回到了寺庙的
   地方,似乎再也没有乡村气息。
   
   虽然他们有自己的香水
   但它通过雾不断增长。
   这些树---请原谅---一直微笑着---生长在
   综合材料中
   它们在上面和下面交替游动
   不再欣赏
   不再停下来思考
   或问为什么事情会是这样
   而不是你认为的它们
   将要的成为
   会更好的那样。
   一些被遗忘的地狱之光
   让它们进入了一种新的思维状态,乞求
   成长的问题,
   附加的减音器。
   
   美貌迫切要求
   深入身体,深入
   反应的棺材,将光线分成
   两个不相等的部分。一个
   是为了我,另一个是为了我的东西
   比如我的记忆和每次
   我想介绍的变化,我想起
   特别的一个,但会反复考虑,
   对另一种方式感到失望,它的
   结果是,不管往锅炉里
   铲什么东西,让引擎继续运转
   这一切都会减少到这个或那个别的
   黑色的记忆,总是一样的,尽管如此
   总是健康的。哦,谁
   能判断他们的记忆,以免它们
   已经被他们估量过?
   
   但现在是四月,
   万物中商业化的气息,我应该
   忘记过去,思考
   未来的长笛和前提,无论
   令人满意的性生活是
   列入议程的事情之一,还是有人再次
   忘记了它---像他们一样---
   艺术生活
   现在也很重要,被视为
   可能是最重要的,略
   高于其他,而快乐
   毕竟是命中注定的。不是吗?我的意思是
   否则,我们他妈的在这里
   干什么,担心它,让它在我们的头上
   崩溃,试图从这个沙坑挖出
   我们的道路?不,
   它一定是命中注定的,以某种方式,被
   某个人,否则我们会不喜欢它,
   在它飞的时候认出它,然后再随便
   坐下来,知道,就像真理知道
   一个真实的故事,当它听到一个,所以我们,再次
   沿着湖边漫步,会听到花朵
   想象在神圣的天空下闪耀的蓝色火烈鸟。
   
   

   III
   
   But I want him here.
   Something is changed without him,
   Something we will go on understanding
   Until he returns to us.
   
   The sunset is no reflection
   Of its not knowing---even its knowing
   Can be known but is not
   A reflection.
   
   Sometimes when we see another person
   Walking down a street or
   Standing to one side, we feel
   We ought to go up and speak to that person
   Because they expected to die.
   But we do not, or seldom, speak to strangers.
   
   It is forbidden
   To have much to do with strangers.
   We can lie, and get along in short periods
   That way, we can go out of our house
   To see what is there, but we can
   Turn around and go back and not speak
   To the others who were there
   No matter who they were.
   
   We could feel ashamed, on some days
   That it was all brought before
   And we in it,
   That we have not known an edict, and that
   Person knows it too. We are seldom
   Invited by friends, and even less by strangers.
   
   That is the problem of having too many friends:
   We forget most of them, and just
   When we need them most, they are gone.
   We have no friends at any given
   Moment, or they are gone away.
   
   However, we do have friends when we need them.
   They are almost always around, the shore
   Has them. The lake recedes
   Toward the close, pale horizon like a bench.
   We were not asked any more
   And now we feel we have given up on them.
   They will never rely on us
   Even if we were to go down, all the way down,
   To them. They might not like us any more.
   
   But the sunset sees its reflection, and
   In the curve
   Is cured. People, not all, come back
   To us in pairs or threes. And so
   Are festive, the light in the face
   And all people shoo
   You, they are back on the place
   Of the temple, and nothing seems rustic any more.
   
   They have their own perfume though
   And it keeps growing through the mist.
   The trees---excuse me---keep smiling--- are grown
   In the comprehensive materials
   That swim alternately over and under
   Never appreciating any more
   Never stopping to think
   Or ask why things are this way
   And not the way you thought they
   Were going to be
   which would have been nicer.
   The light of some forgotten hell
   Leaves them in a new state of mind, begging
   The question of growth,
   Of additional dampers.
   
   The prettiness urges
   Far into the body, deep
   Into the coffin of reactions, splitting light
   Into two unequal portions. One
   For me, the other for my things
   Like my memories and the changes I’d
   Want to introduce each time I’d come to a
   Particular one but would turn over instead,
   Disappointed with the other way it’d
   Turn out shoveling no matter what
   Into the boiler to keep that engine going
   And it would all reduce to this or that other
   Blackened memory, always the same, always
   Healthy in spite of it. O who
   Can judge their memories lest they have
   Already been sized up by them?
   
   But it is April now,
   An air of commerce in things, and I should
   Forget the past and think about
   The flutes and premises of the future, and whether
   A satisfactory sex life was one of the things
   Included in the agenda or somebody forgot it
   Again---just like them---
   And the life of art
   Matters a lot now too, is seen
   To be perhaps the most important of all, slightly
   Overtopping that other, and joy
   Is after all predestined. Isn’t it? I mean,
   Otherwise, what the fuck are we doing
   Here, worrying about it, having it all collapse
   On our heads trying to dig our way out
   Of this sand pit? No,
   It’s got to be preordained, in some way,by
   Someone, otherwise we wouldn’t like it,
   Recognize it as it flies, and sit down casually
   Again, knowing that, as the truth knows
   A true story when it hears one, so we, wandering
   Along the lake again shall hear blossoms
   And imagine radiant blue flamingoes against the sacred sky.
   



 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-25 09:18:26 | 显示全部楼层



   The Americans, with a sigh, never call it
   By another word than its name. O
   People who loiter by the Pacific,
   Whose swaggering insouciance might convince
   If left to play, and who can never lie,
   Not even from the truth, how is it
   With you, nestling all of you on one side?
   The buildup predicted by others never
   Quite matriculated, and now some of you
   Are in this impasse, preparing to stay, while
   Others straggle here and there, finding
   Food, shelter, deserts, and in the tall
   Tales some kindling, an advantage, and
   You never look down.
   
   The narrator:
   Something you would want here is the
   Inexpressible, rage of form
   Vs. content, to show how the latter,
   The manner, vitiates the thing-in-
   Itself that the poem is actually about
   And which, for this reason, cannot
   Be considered the subject. Living
   On the tranquil slope of an inactive volcano
   All these days which group themselves
   Into decades, consuming
   The egg puddings of each one of these days
   Is like unto form as subject matter
   Perceives it through the cracks in its
   Makeshift cell, and knows
   There is light and activity outdoors to which
   It can never contribute, but of which
   It must needs always be aware, and this
   Oozing sore is progress, slow
   And miserable at times but magnificent
   In its conception, in theory, and may never
   Be anything more than this, but knows
   About itself. Luckily, the object
   Keeps making itself known to the opinions
   About form and remains strong and warm
   Long after it has gone out of fashion
   And so never ceases, even in its earliest
   Days preceding its demise, to be a runic
   Maquette of the ideal poem-construct
   Even after it has finally washed its hands of all
   Notion of form, pleads ignorance or conflict
   Of interest, and releases Barabbas to the
   Delighted distraction of the rabble whose
   Destiny is always to be of two minds
   About everything and will end up on your doorstep
   If you don’t watch out:
   You private yet public excuse for a still
   Active poetasting writer but whether what
   Is lasting in your work will last is the
   Big question: it’s poetry, it’s extraordinary,
   It makes a great deal of sense. It starts out
   With some notion and switches to both, yet
   The object will be partially perceived by the forms
   Around it it is responsible for.
   
   

   美国人,叹了一口气,再也不用
   除了它名字外的别的词来称呼它。哦
   那些游荡在太平洋边的人们,
   如果留下来玩,他们
   大摇大摆的漫不经心可能会
   让人信服,他们永远不会说谎,
   甚至不会说实话,你
   怎么样,把你们所有人都放在一边?
   其他人预测的积累从未
   完全被录取,现在你们中的一些人
   陷入了这僵局,准备留下来,而
   其他人则四处游荡,寻找
   食物、庇护所、沙漠,和一些
   火种夸大的传说,一种优势,而且
   你永远不会往下看。
   
   叙述者:
   你在这里想要的是一种
   无法言传的,形式与内容的
   愤怒,以显示后者,
   方式,如何弄坏在它自身内的
   东西,即诗实际上所涉及的东西
   而且在其中,由于这个原因,不能
   将其视为主题。生活
   在一座死火山的宁静斜坡上
   所有这些日子,将自己分成了
   几十年,这些日子
   每一天都消耗蛋布丁
   就像朝向一种形式,因为主题事关
   通过其临时牢房的裂缝
   感知它,并且知道
   户外有它永远无法贡献的
   光和活动,但它
   偏偏总是意识到这一点,而这种
   渗出的痛处就是进步,有时
   缓慢而痛苦,但辉煌
   在它的概念上,在理论上,也许永远不会
   是超出这个的任何东西,但知道
   它自己。幸运的是,这个对象
   不断地让它自己关于形式的观点
   出名,并且在它过时很久之后
   仍然保持坚固和温暖
   因此从不停止,即使在它消亡之前的
   最初几天,仍然是
   理想诗歌结构的北欧文字模型
   即使在它最终对所有形式概念
   洗手之后,以无知或利益冲突
   为借口,释放巴拉巴到
   乌合之众高兴的消遣,他们的
   命运是对每件事总是
   三心二意,如果你不小心
   他们最终会站在你家门口:
   你的一个仍然活跃的蹩脚诗作家的
   私人但公开的借口,但你的作品
   是否能持久是一个
   大问题:它是诗歌,它很特别,
   它制造了大量意义。它从
   一些概念开始,然后切换到两者,然而
   对象将部分地被它所负责的
   周围的形式感知。
   

   至于其他人,伟大之夜的
   公民,怪胎,怪人,
   共党和皮条客:曾经都是她的,
   钻石女王,
   就像他们称呼她的。她的真名
   是罗西娜.埃斯特哈齐。她就是这么想的。
   
   后来战争推迟了。
   男朋友们涌向田野。
   她认为这是某种保护
   也不认为这个伟大的夜晚特别
   危险。
   
   花园欣欣向荣
   因为工艺项目可以在晚上
   制作。几年来,和平存在。
   我们可以利用这段时间来改变
   回到进入我们自己
   更好的方法。这些年已经变成了
   一场化妆舞会。很好!我们也会用它,
   向完全陌生的人敬酒。
   当冬天结束,湿透的春天
   甚至持续更长的时间,从井的深处
   抽取的一罐水是
   回报和几乎所有事情的结束,
   欢乐侵入了这一切。让它
   很难写。
   
   事实上,最近只有几封信,
   来自外界的赞美合唱,我不停地
   把日记丢到不同的地方,忘记了
   我在说什么,让它与
   壤土和腐殖质结合起来,也许很快
   就会形成一朵星星形状的花。如果不是,
   我们每个人仍然在工作的快乐中
   完成我们所有的工作,以便以后可以
   品尝吊床的更大快乐,然后我们
   可以欣赏如此多的填充物,因为它
   只是填料,一种到处都
   需要的,使莫扎特交响乐保持
   分离并逐渐引导我们,每个人
   都回到了感觉的碎片,那是我们
   从那里开始的地方。难道这不奇怪吗
   这里一直是家,我们没人
   知道吗?我们的航程
   是什么样子,我们这么快就忘记了?
   是什么帆船,什么货船被制造,出现了
   然后阴沉地消失在从地平线上
   跌下来的厚厚的泡沫中?这是一所
   什么样的学校,他们教你这些东西,
   却忽视了那些重要的东西,那些让我们四处
   感受的东西,因此失去了我们的名字
   和我们的狗,然后回来了,回到
   水车下的混乱中
   以至于现在一切都在旋转,与
   港口的入口本应该有的几乎没有什么相似之处,但现在
   几乎被削成为无?
   
   

   As for those others, citizens
   Of the great night, freaks, weirdos,
   Commies and pimps: once it was all hers,
   The Queen of Diamonds,
   As they called her. Her real name
   Was Rosine Esterhazy. That’s what she thought.
   
   Then the war was postponed.
   The boyfriends flooded the fields.
   She thought it was some protection
   Nor was the great night considered especially
   Dangerous.
   
   The flower fields thriving
   On craft items which can be made
   At night. And for a few years, there is peace.
   We can use this time for changing, shifting
   Back to be a better way
   Into ourselves. These years have become
   A masquerade. Fine! We’ll use that too,
   Drinking toasts to perfect strangers.
   When the winter is over, and the sodden spring
   That goes on even longer, a pitcher of water
   Drawn deep from the well is to be
   The reward and the end of just about everything,
   And joy invades all this. Makes it
   Hard to write about.
   
   Just a few letters lately, in fact,
   Choruses of praise from outsiders, and I keep
   Dropping my diary different places, forgetting
   What I was talking about, letting it combine
   With the loam and humus, and maybe a quick
   Star-shape of a flower is produced. If not,
   Each of us still has all our work to be done
   In the joy of working so that the even greater joy
   Of the hammock may be tasted later on, and so much
   Of the padding may be appreciated then for what it is,
   Just stuffing, of the kind that is needed
   Everywhere, that keeps the Mozart symphonies
   Apart and gradually leads us, each of
   Back to the fragment of sense which is the place
   We started out from.Isn’t it strange
   That this was home all along, and none of us
   Knew it? What could our voyages
   Have been like, that we forgot them so soon?
   What galleons, what freighters were made to appear
   And as sullenly to vanish in the thick foam bearing
   Down from the horizon? What kind of a school
   Is this, that they teach you these things,
   And neglect whatever was important, that we were made to feel
   Around for and so lost our names
   And our dogs and were coming back, back
   Into the commotion under the waterwheels
   So that everything is spinning now, bears
   Very little resemblance to what was supposed to be the entrance to the port, but is now
   Whittled away to almost nothing?
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-26 22:22:40 | 显示全部楼层

   Note that, in the liturgical sense
   Of history, the way I see it, we are falling down
   In our duty toward the dustman’s spasms, derelict
   And decrepit as regards the outside world.
   Deduce a spasm? Aye, a very
   Insomniac’d tear it down so as to rebuild
   And resell it. Tear his tattered ensign
   Down? I don’t know, I thought it looked nice
   Hanging overhead, though I could
   Be wrong. Valentine, I need you,
   The mice in the plaster disturb all my reasoning
   On this vale, this slope. The outer districts
   Were succinct, full of enough plans,
   But on the interior was the abysm, no
   Invitation available, nothing about
   The plodding fever that grew him, and the worries
   That came after. No clue.
   In industry we are persuaded that we may in some
   Connection contribute a certain stone or effort
   And this lazily winds away over the hill.
   Or say that between the effort and the screws
   Some scorpion intruded, and to top
   It off a storm interfered with the rescue efforts
   Blurring them? What then? What do you make
   Of the red traffic light turning green to admit
   A few cars farther on in the shuffle when night
   Binds the tubing with rain and you
   Can see yourself only as you used to be in college?
   
   Make you mine
   Valentine
   Feelin’fine too if consumed
   With energy to be mad and go on
   Confessing even if it means that the sought-after
   Absolution be rescinded after a time and those who
   Looked silently at you for a while direct
   Their gaze downward to the sunlit
   Tundra. And you go out to the party
   As toes slip into shoes
   And I am not just left on the corner
   But am as the traveling salesman of a joke
   With a permanent hard-on and no luck and
   All these samples in this here suitcase. Wanna see’em?
   Otherwise, why, we don’t know too much. Fellow was over
   Here recently from the British Isles,
   Wanted to see something of how the life goes
   On. He never made it back. Well some of us
   Enjoy that way too as though we knew
   Life was a picnic or parade down under the
   Hassles and disrobing, the dust,
   But now well we pretend to see otherwise
   Into the great blue eyes of concrete that best
   Our city, in the time of industry, and so
   Panic slowly in the vegetal heart of things
   Until told to disconnect the operation.
   No wonder so many of us
   Get discouraged, know not where to turn.
   The truth is that nowhere in Europe,
   India or America is this a straight line
   Drawn, vertically, from one point to another
   So as to connect them and in so doing
   Provide a lot of firn and refreshment
   For the students so they may never
   Feel insecure again. Such a line may exist
   But it would be horizontal, like the Northwest Passage,
   And not connect people up with anything else.
   It’s a wager, and emptiness, and though warm
   And the color of baked loaves in the sun
   It has no idea of nourishment or where
   You should go.
   
   

   
   注意,在历史的礼拜仪式
   意义上,在我看来,我们正跌落在
   对清洁工的痉挛、被遗弃
   和腐朽的外部世界的责任中。
   推断痉挛?是的,一个十足的
   失眠症患者会毁掉它,以便重建
   和转售它。撕掉他那破旧的
   旗?我不知道,我觉得挂在头顶
   看起来不错,虽然我可能
   错了。瓦伦丁,我需要你,
   灰泥里的老鼠扰乱了我在
   这个山谷,这个斜坡上的全部推理。外围地区
   简明扼要,充满足够的计划,
   但内部是深渊,没有
   可获得的邀请,没有关于
   缓慢的狂热,事关他的成长,和随之而来的
   担忧。没有线索。
   在工业界,我们被说服,在某些
   联系中,我们可能会贡献出一块石头或一点努力
   而这一切都会懒散地从山上卷走。
   或者说,在努力和螺丝之间
   一些蝎子闯入,而最重要的是
   暴风雨干扰了救援努力
   使它们变得模糊?然后呢?你有何感想
   对红灯变绿,允许
   几辆车在拖曳中继续前行,当夜幕
   绑住装成管状的雨水,你
   只能像以前一样在大学看到自己?
   
   让你成为我的
   瓦伦丁
   感觉也很好,如果消耗
   精力直至发疯,继续
   忏悔,即使这意味着受欢迎的
   赦免被取消,一段时间后,那些
   默默地看着你片刻的人直接
   将注视投向阳光普照的
   苔原。你出去参加聚会
   就像脚趾滑进鞋子
   我不只是被留在角落里
   而是作为一个玩笑的旅行推销员
   带着一个永久的阴茎勃起,没有运气
   所有这些样品都放在这个手提箱里。想看看吗?
   否则,为什么,我们知道的不多。这家伙最近
   从不列颠群岛来到这里,
   想看看生活是如何继续的
   一些事情。他再也没有回来。很好,我们中的一些人
   也喜欢这种方式,就好像我们知道
   生活是一场野餐或游行,在
   激战和脱衣、灰尘之下,
   但现在我们假装看到了别的
   混凝土的蓝色大眼睛,在工业时代
   胜过了我们的城市,因此
   在事物的植物心脏中慢慢恐慌
   直到被告知断开运作。
   难怪我们中的许多人
   会感到气馁,不知道转向哪里。
   事实上,在欧洲、
   印度或美国,没有一条直线
   画出,垂直,从一个点到另一个点
   可以将它们连接起来,这样做
   可以为学生提供大量的冰雪和点心
   让他们永远不会
   再次感到不安全。这样一条线可能存在
   但它将是水平的,就像西北航道,
   不会把人们与其他任何东西联接。
   这是一种赌博,一种空虚,虽然温暖
   阳光下烤面包的颜色
   它没有营养或
   你应该去哪里的观念。
   
   

   但我不想让你认为我
   关心任何事情,而不是冒雨
   回家到内堂
   屋顶下的灵巧
   小岛上。然而在早晨
   迅速地,无法摆脱
   那魔法,它进入疯狂的一切
   在他呼吸和布道,
   嫉妒一切除了他自己的“沉默”的钟声中,
   教区居民们陆续退出,留下最后一个汉子
   在准热带小岛上;他好像
   又一个人被留下来。没有人关心
   它的训练---它滑过的油腻的
   鹅卵石和岩石不再占据
   任何人的注意力,墙纸上
   储藏的鬣狗性交越多,一旦
   他回来,如果有的话,这些
   被记录下来的东西
   就越少。我们澄清一切,
   把它扔掉,然后牧场来
   吞食我们以后的需求,剩下的是
   没人用的那种。
   
   一些经过认证的坚果
   会试图告诉你它的诗,
   (它非同寻常,它产生了大量意义)
   但要小心,否则他会从一些
   新的概念或其他开始,并切换到两者
   让你更聪明,而不是更空虚,尽管
   站在山边。
   我们不得不担心
   系统和设备,这里没有
   能量,也没有怒气。
   我们必须接管下水道计划---
   否则流动的清澈的水,一层
   一层,将有它的一天
   并消失。同样的道理也适用于商业:
   躲在一些办公室的摩天大楼里,它
   常常忙于预测商业计划的未来
   但试着在街上
   做这事,看看它能让你走多远!你
   真的必须把自己隔离起来,看看
   你已经走了多远,但我
   不打算谈论这个。
   
   我对你和我
   绕山而来的方式相当满意
   忽略然后涂抹了它的边缘,尽管
   我们在逆风中敏锐地感觉到它。
   起初你是一名秘书,直到
   有一天相信你,然后那个黑人
   用你似乎不知道从哪里长出来的燃料
   取代了你的车头灯。现在,
   冷静下来,就像一根科林斯圆柱
   你不断成长,攀登着天空的
   高基座。
   

   But I wouldn’t want you to think I
   Cared for anything rather than go home
   In the rain to the crafty islet
   With the gasoline under the cellar
   Roof. Yet betimes
   In the morning stuck with the
   Magic of turning into everything
   Insane amid chimes he breathes and preaches,
   Envy of all but himself Silent,
   The parishioners file out, leaving the last man
   On the quasi-tropical islet; he is left
   As if alone again. No one cares
   For its train---what greasy pebbles and rocks
   It slithered over occupy
   No one’s attention any more and much
   More is in store for the hyenas coupling
   In the wallpaper and much less will have been
   Noted down about this once he returns,
   If ever. We clarify everything,
   Throw it away and then the ranch comes
   To devour our after-need, and what
   Is left is of the kind no one uses.
   
   Some certified nut
   Will try to tell you its poetry,
   (Its extraordinary, it makes a great deal of sense)
   But watch out or he’ll start with some
   New notion or other and switch to both
   Leaving you wiser and not emptier though
   Standing on the edge of a hill.
   We have to worry
   About systems and devices, there is no
   Energy here no spleen either.
   We have to take over the sewer plans---
   Otherwise the coursing clear water, planes
   Upon planes of it, will have its day
   And disappear. Same goes for business:
   Holed up in some office skyscraper it’s
   Often busy to predict the future for business plans
   But try doing it from down
   In the street and see how far it gets you! You
   Really have to sequester yourself to see
   How far you have come but I'm
   Not going to talk about that.
   
   I’m fairly well pleased
   With the way you and I have come around the hill
   Ignoring and then anointing its edge even if
   We felt it keenly in the backwind.
   You were a secretary at first until it
   Came time to believe you and then the black man
   Replaced your headlights with fuel
   You seemed to grow from no place. And now,
   Calmed down, like a Corinthian column
   You grow and grow, scaling the high plinths
   Of the sky.
   
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-8-29 19:54:28 | 显示全部楼层

   
   Its idea is that the Latin text
   Might also have existed in German or be so close
   It doesn’t matter any more and the cottage
   Be shut up at the end of summer and be there
   Come early or mid-spring, but this
   Presupposes a helpless mankind pigeonholed
   With a rival deity so that neither can make
   The hands of the clock move and it all goes down
   In darkness, with the sun. To the supreme
   Moment then, but it spreads out in sullenness
   Over a vast tidal plain to dissipate in what
   It is not even sure is horizon, is nothing but
   Images. Earthly inadequacy
   Is indescribable, and heavenly satisfaction
   Needs no description, but between
   Them, hovering like Satan on airless
   Wing, is the matter at hand:
   The essence of it is that all love
   Is imitative, creative, and that we can’t hear it.
   
   Oh, once
   A long time ago, in towns and cities
   The line was different. We lived
   Indifferently then, but perhaps more accurately,
   And once it was over we knew
   What to do with it. We carried out
   Our neighbors’ lives and they had our
   Instructions about where to go. We lived
   Inadequately, blushing, but we knew we were
   On the outside and that only one thing
   Prevented us from traveling inward, and that
   Thing was our knowledge of how little we imagined
   Everything. As though a door
   Were enough to stop the average person and he
   Would just curl up on the doormat forever.
   
   But this
   Person turned out to be mass-produced. He was funny
   And knew about elegance, how to dress
   For an occasion, yet the error that incites us
   To duplication was missing, or inexact. We have
   Not spoken to him. It should be outrageous
   To do so. Yet to ignore him will bring no light.
   But to get it right
   We might ask this once: how goes it
   Down there? What objects
   Have you found recently?
   
   “There are no trade winds. The ocean too
   Is someone’s idea. The pleasant banter of
   The elements cannot disguise this basically
   Thin concept, nor remove us from
   Contemplation of it, and that is the best
   Answer that may precede the question.
   Until later
   When the shooting fires light up the sides
   Of the volcano and each task and catastrophe
   Become clear and succinct. By that time kindness
   Will have replaced effort.”
   
   Why keep on seeding the chairs
   When the future is night and no one knows what
   He wants? It would probably be best though
   To hang on to these words if only
   For the rhyme. Little enough,
   But later on, at the summit, it won’t
   Matter so much that they fled like arrows
   From the taut string of a restrained
   Consciousness, only that they mattered.
   For the present, our not-knowing
   Delights them
   Probably they won’t be devoured
   By the lions, like the others, but be released
   After a certain time. ‘
   Meanwhile, keep
   Careful count of the rows of windows overlooking
   The deep blue sky behind the factory:we’ll need them.
   
   

   它的观念是,拉丁语文本
   可能也存在于德语中,或者是如此接近
   以至于不再重要,小屋
   在夏末关闭,在早春
   或仲春时就在那里,但这
   预设了一个无助的人类把一个匹敌的神
   留在记忆里,这样任何一个都不能使
   时钟的指针移动,它都会在黑暗中
   倒下,随着太阳。到了那个时候的
   最高时刻,它却阴沉地蔓延到
   广阔的潮汐平原上,在它
   甚至不确定的地平线上消散,只不过是
   图像而已。地球上的不足
   是无法形容的,天堂的满足
   不需要描述,但在
   它们之间,就像撒旦在无空气的翅膀上
   盘旋,是近在咫尺的问题:
   它的本质是所有的爱
   都是模仿的,创造性的,我们听不到它。
   
   哦,曾经
   很久以前,城镇里的
   线路是不同的。那时我们过着
   冷漠的生活,但也许更准确地说,
   当生活结束后,我们知道
   该拿它怎么办。我们实施了
   邻居的生活,他们得到了我们的
   指示去哪里。我们生活得
   不充分,脸红了,但我们知道我们
   在外面,只有一件事
   阻止我们向内旅行,而且
   事情是我们想象一切的知识
   多么少。仿佛一扇门
   足以让普通人停下,而他却只是
   永远蜷缩在门垫上。
   
   但这个人
   后来被证明是批量生产的。他很滑稽,
   懂得优雅,知道如何穿着
   以适应场合,然而,激励我们
   复制的错误却不见了,或者说是不准确的。我们没有
   和他谈过。这样做应该是
   反常的。然而,忽视他不会带来光明。
   但为了让它正确
   我们可能会问一次:它到底是
   怎么进行的?你最近
   发现了什么东西?
   
   “没有信风。海洋也是
   某人的思想。这些元素
   令人愉快的玩笑既不能掩盖这一基本上
   微不足道的概念,也不能转移我们
   对它的沉思,而这可能是
   问题之前的最佳答案。
   直到后来
   喷火照亮了火山的
   两侧,每一项任务和灾难
   都变得清晰简洁。到那时,善良
   将取代努力。”
   
   当未来是黑夜,没有人知道
   他想要什么,为什么还要继续在椅子上
   播种?不过,如果只是为了押韵
   也许最好还是保留
   这些词。不太足够,
   但后来,在山顶上,它们
   像箭一样逃离了约束意识的
   绷紧的弦,关系就
   不那么大了,只是它们有关系。
   就目前而言,我们的不知道
   让它们高兴
   它们可能不会被狮子
   吞食,像其他狮子一样,而是在一段时间后
   被释放。
   同时,仔细保持
   工厂后面俯瞰深蓝色天空的
   几排窗户的总数:我们会需要它们。
   
   

   其他人,男高音,医生,
   希望我们在它上面走,看看我们对它的
   感觉如何,在他们尝试任何事情之前,然而
   我们在谁家呢?难道我们不能安静地
   坐着,因为我们不会在家里这样做吗?
   喇叭声在布满麻点的
   高墙上飞溅,忘记了多刺的
   棕榈树,这一切对我们所有人来说都结束了,
   不仅仅是我们,但在内部,它
   注定会再次发生,一遍又一遍,像
   海滩上的波浪,认为它有这个
   伟大的想法,像那样来到海滩上
   摔碎,真的,它已经,还有
   其他的以前已经离开,还有其他的将
   跟随,非但没有侵蚀这一个人
   行为的香辣,这一知识反而播下了
   一颗永恒的努力的种子,因为
   只发生一次的恐惧,并继续这样,
   然而,这种独创性不应阻止
   我们的视野从那排水管
   吸收,日日夜夜,我们所有的方程式,
   使我们变得脆弱、解放,总之不是男人。
   
   死于恐惧
   在紫罗兰色的夜晚,你开始了解
   祖先们是如何看待它的,以及是什么
   打动了他们,并没有更接近
   神圣的谜语,它正在老去,
   在永恒的阳光蜂蜜中如此美丽
   并激励我们走上一个公司
   不会购买的更高的
   演讲场地,于是回到我们的正面看台的
   座位上,带着感觉已经用
   抽象而圆滑的思想的羊肠线
   修补了的相反原则,这些思想在夜晚
   只来了一次,诞生并永远离去
   在缝线被拆掉后留下了
   痕迹,但谁能说它们是
   真正发生的事的痕迹,而不是
   今天的复写?因为
   我们长期幻想的最显著的东西(一块
   总是太慢或太快的手表)
   是一种从远处环绕它的生动的
   成就感。没有必要
   接近,会从这里完成
   解决得更好,你会看到。
   
   因此,这些巨大的石板材料
   出现,极少其他的东西,没有
   关于它们的任何信息,但这在本世纪
   没问题。稍后
   我们会看到它在另一个时代会是
   什么样子,但目前它既不是
   你的,也不是人民关注的问题,可能会
   随着它的衰落而闪闪发光,但现在
   它不得不这样做,因为任何魔法
   都是在正确的时间出现的种类。
   没有预言
   但它是成排发生的,在你们
   遥远的国家你们称之为“堆料”。
   
   但你要离开了:
   几个月前,我得到了一份特价品
   从哥伦比亚磁带俱乐部,特雷
   豪特,印第安纳州,在那里我可以买一盘
   磁带,然后免费得到另一盘。我接受了
   这笔交易,买了一盘磁带,然后
   选择了一盘免费的。但因为
   我的免费磁带被多次收费。
   我已经写了好几次了,但都
   不能好转,你能试试吗?
   

   
   Others, the tenor, the doctor,
   Want us to walk about on it to see how we feel
   About it before they attempt anything, yet
   In whose house are we? Must we not sit
   Quietly, for we would not do this at home?
   A splattering of trumpets against the very high
   Pockmarked wall and a forgetting of spiny
   Palm trees and it is over for us all,
   Not just us, and yet on the inside it was
   Doomed to happen again, over and over, like a
   Wave on a beach, that thinks it’s had this
   Tremendous idea, coming to crash on the beach
   Like that, and it’s true, it has, yet
   Others have gone before, and still others will
   Follow, and far from undermining the spiciness
   Of this individual act, this knowledge plants
   A seed of eternal endeavor for fear of
   Happening just once, and goes on this way,
   And yet the originality should not deter
   Our vision from the drain
   That absorbs, night and day, all our equations,
   Makes us brittle, emancipated, not men in a word.
   
   Dying of fright
   In the violet night you come to understand how it
   Looked to the ancestors and what there was about it
   That moved them and are come no closer
   To the divine riddle which is aging,
   So beautiful in the eternal honey of the sun
   And spurs us on to a higher pitch
   Of elocution that the company
   Will not buy, and so back to our grandstand
   Seat with the feeling of having mended
   The contrary principles with the catgut
   Of abstract sleek ideas that come only once in
   The night to be born and are gone forever after
   Leaving their trace after the stitches have
   Been removed but who is to say they are
   Traces of what really went on and not
   Today’s palimpsest? For what
   Is remarkable about our chronic reverie (a watch
   That is always too slow or too fast)
   Is the lively sense of accomplishment that haloes it
   From afar. There is no need
   To approach closely, it will be done from here
   And work out better, you’ll see.
   
   So the giant slabs of material
   Came to be, and precious little else, and
   No information about them but that was all right
   For the present century. Later on
   We 'd see how it might be in some other
   Epoch, but for the time being it was neither
   Your nor the population’s concern, and may
   Have glittered as it declined but for now
   It would have to do, as any magic
   Is the right kind at the right time.
   There is no soothsaying
   Yet it happens in rows, windrows
   You call them in your far country.
   
   But you are leaving:
   Some months ago I got an offer
   From Columbia Tape Club, Terre
   Haute, Ind., where I could buy one
   Tape and get another free. I accept-
   Ed the deal, paid for one tape and
   Chose a free one. But since I've been
   Repeatedly billed for my free tape.
   I’ve written them several times but
   Can’t straighten it out—would you Try?
   
   
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