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(美)约翰.阿什贝利诗歌草译

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 楼主| 发表于 2021-4-3 22:54:48 | 显示全部楼层


它一定很复杂
   
   (选自Hotel Lautreamont)
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   在旧房子里有阁楼
   在那里怀疑逗留着,关于夜盲的
   腐蚀性影响:即,
   它的受害者是否能直接与其他地方
   发生的一连串事件联系在一起?如果是这样,
   我们应该摆脱与我们的工作线的
   
   相似。房子周围说的话
   对几个漂亮的证人中的一个
   产生了不适当的影响。而且,就像滑稽女人所做的那样,
   她开始和任何一个和每一个
   对话者谈话,出自于伤害的方式。有一天
   你醒来,她们跳过。或者
   
   总是这样空洞?很难
   记起不再存在的时间。也许
   你的记忆在耍你?也许
   从来没有像丽莎.马丁斯这样的人?
   也许当你站起来,穿着埃纳. 杰迪克的鞋
   走最后一英里时,一切都结束了,
   
   他们拉着瞎子很快忘记你了。
   一旦忘记了你就和死者一样好,
   总之。现在谁来帮你?
   你倒不如被困在撒哈拉的一口井的
   底部。他们不知道你还活着,
   或者你的生活仅仅是一个典范
   
   当你活着的时间来到。
   时髦的现在总是对那轻微的
   不光彩的过去感到奇怪。你的
   伴娘们散落在风中。
   你不想吃午饭。也许
   去散步,一会儿喝杯茶?
   
   我们月底见!
   他们喊叫。现在它一直在滴答,
   那里一定有个谜在下面,
   真讨厌。如果需要一整夜
   然后其他侦探能解决的话,我会找到它的。
   我只是被雇来做中间人。我的旅行结束了,
   
   如果我有一条建议给你,那就是
   检验椽子,模子。
   你不能说,谁可能会对你缺席的仁慈
   讨价还价,回来时
   留下你拿包,焦躁不安,
   准备开学,但是流浪的空气是黑色的,
   
   因为带着春天的消极承诺。
   男孩们还在排练他们
   没结束的部分,真的
   不关我的事。桌子对椅子说。
   我在这里受限。这是为知道的一切,
   说实话。在大赦期间,我走出了
   
   敞开的大门。街上挤满了人,
   来回跑,说话不连贯。我本来
   应该在别的地方,但没人知道。
   在困惑中我回到了家。
   现在新闻记者每天都在纠缠我们。
   我出生是为了什么?更多的实验?
   
   他们为什么要为保险丝而战斗?这似乎不像
   那些人在那里听的那样无害;
   同时,每个人都是新气候
   和新国家的嫌疑犯。风把一页
   旧巨著翻了一页,接着一页又一页,很快
   就把它们翻阅得太快,停不下来。
   
   反正里面什么也没有。时间继续前行
   到另一个边界,越过透明的
   叶脉、枪、驳船的带状物,到他开始的地方。
   当然,民主党的日子永远都不见了,但真正离去的是
   注意力的跨度。当他们在房子建成后
   派人来找你时,更聪明的办法
   
   就是限制你的赌注,做一个兄弟般的双胞胎
   用床上用品制作,用拖把做假发
   当你在绳梯上刮墙的鳞片
   成为下一个新事物,想着
   警告别人不要这样做。一个人远离
   内心矛盾态度的城市,以自己
   
   神圣的幻想完好无损地逃离,也有自己的误解,直到整个
   心态呈现出一种大量象征性的
   外观,一颗冷漠的宝石,天气的
   玩具,连续光的洗涤。
   
   我简直不敢相信我在这儿
   在这由几个相互冲突的国家刻画出的
   
   小共和国。这就足够了,也许,在我的表演边缘
   我受到了质疑。现在
   我从自己的冷静中安全了,还有许多其他人,
   仅仅健忘就能拯救五十三条生命,
   让他们分享你的力量,继续
   向上看。因为毕竟我们是三个
   
   原创的,我们班的校长、副校长和
   财务主管。他们构成了偿还
   那些隐蔽的债务,被立即
   从学校里拿出来交给父母。
   那是最重要的,那时,后来。没有人
   说你必须实践原则,事实上,它们是什么?
   
   这有什么不同,人们来得太近
   在丰富的变黑的剧场,如果他们所有人
   所追求的只是哄你进入光,
   看着你片刻的眨眼,然后继续,它们也会,
   到更大的竞技场,每一个在风中,
   在沙滩上,芦苇里,生长着?因为即使它没有
   
   精确地惩罚你,事情已经
   经历了,经验也被封住了。
   哦,我现在应该
   读什么书?因为它们都是新的,而且
   被使用过,
   在我在飞叶上写我的名字时。听着,
   这是另一本未读的,不是写的。你是时候选择了。
It Must Be Sophisticated
   
   
   
   There are attics in old houses
   where doubt lingers as to the corrosive
   effect of night-blindness: namely,
   are its victims directly linkable to a chain
   of events happening elsewhere? If so,
   we should shrug off resemblances
   
   to our line of work. What was said around
   the house had undue influence on one of several
   shapely witnesses. And, as dames do,
   she started talking to any and every
   interlocutor out of harm’s way. One day
   you wake up and they've skipped. Or was it
   
   always empty like this? It's hard
   to remember a time when it wasn't. Maybe
   your memory's playing tricks on you? Maybe
   there never was such a person as Lisa Martins?
   Maybe it's all over when you stand up
   to walk the last mile in Enna Jettick shoes,
   
   and they draw the blind quickly to forget you.
   Once forgotten you're as good as dead,
   anyway. And who would help you now?
   You might as well be trapped at the bottom of a well
   in the Sahara. They don't know you're alive,
   or that your life was anything but exemplary
   
   when it came time for you to live.
   The fashionable present keeps queening it
   over the slightly dishonorable past. Your
   bridesmaids are scattered on the wind.
   You don’t feel like having lunch. Maybe
   a walk, and a cup of tea later?
   
   We’ll see you at the end of the month!
   they cried. Now it keeps ticking,
   there must be a mystery down there,
   darn it. I’ll find it if it takes all night
   and then some other sleuth can solve it.
   I was only hired as a go-between. My tour is ended,
   
   and if I’ve a piece of advice for you, it’s
   check out the rafters, the mouldings.
   You can’t tell who might have bargained
   for clemency in your absence, leaving you holding
   the bag when you got back, restless,
   ready to start school, but the vagrant air’s black,
   
   what with the negative promise of spring.
   The boys are still rehearsing their parts
   they haven't been over, and really
   it's none of my business. Said the table to the chair.
   I was confined here. That’s all I know,
   truthfully. During the amnesty I walked
   
   out through the open gate. The streets were full of people,
   running back and forth, talking disjointedly. I was
   supposed to be somewhere else, but no one knew it.
   In the confusion I returned home.
   Now the newshounds pester us daily.
   What was I born for? More experiments?
   
   Why are they fighting over a fuse? It doesn't
   seem to be harmless like those people are listening to over there;
   at the same time, everyone's a suspect in the new
   climate and country. The wind turns a page
   of the old tome, then another and another; soon
   it's riffling through them too fast to stop.
   
   There's nothing in it anyway. Time to move on
   to another frontier beyond the transparent frieze
   of foliage, guns, barges, to where he began.
   Sure, dem days is gone forever, but it's the attention span
   that’s really gone. Back when they'd send for you
   once they got a house built, it was clever
   
   to hedge your bets and produce a fraternal twin
   made of bedclothes with a mop for a wig
   while you scaled the wall on a rope ladder
   to be the next new thing that thinks
   and cautions others not to. Far from the
   inner city of conflicting attitudes, one fled with one’s
   
   holy illusions intact, one’s misconceptions too, until the whole
   mindset took on a largely symbolic
   look, an indifferent jewel, toy
   of the weather, of successive washes of light.
   I can hardly believe I’m here
   in this tiny republic carved out of several conflicting
   
   principalities. It's enough, perhaps, that I was questioned
   at the edge of my performance. That now I’m safe
   from my own sang-froid and scores of others,
   that mere forgetfulness can save up to fifty-three lives,
   that they can share your power and go on glancing
   upward. Because after all we were the three
   
   original ones, the president, vice-president and treasurer
   of our class. And were formed to repay
   what obscure debt and be summarily
   taken out of school and handed over to our parents.
   It's what matters then, and after. No one
   says you have to live up to principles; indeed, what are they?
   
   What difference does it make which one came too close
   in the richly darkened theater, if all
   they were after was to coax you into the light,
   watch you blink a minute, and then pass on, they too,
   to the larger arenas, each in the wind,
   in the sand, the reeds, growing? Because even if it doesn’t
   
   punish you exactly, the thing has been
   lived through, the experience sealed.
   O what book shall I read
   now? for they are all of them new, and used,
   when I write my name on the flyleaf. Look,
   here is another one unread, not written. Time for you to choose.
   
   

晨曲
   
   (选自Hotel Lautreamont)
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我的朋友,你好吗?
   我满口面包屑地
   写作,在这座月亏的夏日城市里
   如同红宝石般的颗粒庄严地沉入
   白昼的谷底,其他的则
   从它们身边飘起,变成了云朵的交谈。
   我们是否都知道我们是切面---
   受惊,相当,而鬼魂般出现的东西
   继续着街头生活,停下来
   套住一只长袜,粗暴地,饱受责难,
   到处都是离别?
   啊如果它是一本书的厚度,
   层积,或更糟的是,进入章节的意义
   彼此覆盖像一匹马的毯子。
   但是什么东西在发芽,意志。
   
   另一天,他把它比作巴黎
   车流的轰鸣,一开始这一切似乎是多么昂贵;
   后来,一只麻雀。包括他们所有人都下车,
   弯腰,并留心着。第一个已经
   站起来了,在男人眼里。她的泳衣
   获得了一等奖,但我不得不说,气候从来没有
   滋养着更多的好运,也没有像一件非凡的
   铅笔写的东西一样出现,挂在屋顶上
   让所有人都能看到,直到他们看到为止,由此而来的淘金热
   让我们降落在监狱中。在这里,像以往一样,有些人
   是信徒。一流的成功者。
   这样,一个人就可以做到
   成为自己。把天窗的搭扣
   提起来这件小事再也没有
   使冬天生病,这只小猫。
   
   到了晚上,只想到下雨。
Alborada
   
   
   
   My friend, how are you?
   I write with my mouth full
   of crumbs in this waning summer city
   as ruby grains sink majestically
   to the bottom of day and others float
   up past them, into something that speaks of cloud.
   Do we all know we’re aspected---
   frightened, rather, while what comes as a ghost
   continues as street life, pausing
   to hitch a stocking, rambunctious, reproved,
   all over the partings?
   O if it were the thickness of a book,
   laminated, or worse, into the meaning of chapters
   that overlay one another like a horse's blankets.
   But what shoots up, will.
   
   Another day he likened it to the roar
   of Paris traffic, how expensive it all seemed at first;
   later, a sparrow. Besides they all get out of their cars,
   stoop, and notice. Then the first one's
   risen, in men's eyes. Her bathing suit
   took first prize but I have to say climate never
   nourished luck more, nor came out as an extraordinary
   pencilled thing draped across rooftops
   for all to see, till they saw, and the resultant gold-rush
   landed us in the pokey. Here, as ever, some
   are believers. Top-notch achievers.
   In this way one gets to do it
   and become one’s self. Never
   again did the small matter of a raised
   skylight's hasp sicken the winter, the kitten.
   
   By evening only the thought rained.
   

如何继续
   
   (选自Hotel Lautreamont)
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   哦,从前有一个女人
   她开了一家商店
   向离码头不远的游客
   出售小饰品
   游客们来看岛上遥远的地方
   会有什么样的生活。
   
   这总是那儿的一个聚会
   总是有不同但非常好的
   新朋友给你建议
   或爱上你,这是很好的
   每个人都从对方变得如此完美
   这是一个诗歌和讽刺的
   奇迹
   
   在这个不安全的地区
   很多是可怕的和肮脏的
   但似乎没有人
   很介意
   聚会继续从一个房子到另一个房子
   商店里到处都是大量的
   朋友和情人
   冬天有月光
   夏天有星光
   每个人都很高兴发现了
   他们所发现的
   
   然后有一天,船开走了
   不再有做梦的人,只有沉睡者
   在码头上神情沉重地
   移动着,仿佛他们知道如何
   在这些小饰品和纪念品中
   随机的现代家具店
   和大风来了,说
   是时候把你们所有人
   从树梢带到小径上的
   小房子了,如此受惊吓
   到了该走的时候
   如果没有其他人,他们谁也不会离开
   因为他们说我们在这里都是一个
   如果我们一个走了,另一个就不会走
   风在对星星低语这句话
   人们都起身
   并回顾爱情
How to Continue

   
   
   Oh there once was a woman
   and she kept a shop
   selling trinkets to tourists
   not far from a dock
   who came to see what life could be
   far back on the island.
   
   And it was always a party there
   always different but very nice
   New friends to give you advice
   or fall in love with you which is nice
   and each grew so perfectly from the other
   it was a marvel of poetry
   and irony
   
   And in this unsafe quarter
   much was scary and dirty
   but no one seemed to mind
   very much
   the parties went on from house to house
   There were friends and lovers galore
   all around the store
   There was moonshine in winter
   and starshine in summer
   and everybody was happy to have discovered
   what they discovered
   
   And then one day the ship sailed away
   There were no more dreamers just sleepers
   in heavy attitudes on the dock
   moving as if they knew how
   among the trinkets and the souvenirs
   the random shops of modern furniture
   and a gale came and said
   it is time to take all of you away
   from the tops of the trees to the little houses
   on little paths so startled
   And when it became time to go
   they none of them would leave without the other
   for they said we are all one here
   and if one of us goes the other will not go
   and the wind whispered it to the stars
   the people all got up to go
   and looked back on love
   
   
   
下面是一些散诗:

无序与光明
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   回答:我会抛弃它。
   她失去了丈夫。是时候了。
   它即将更模糊,伟大的同谋
   把我们都考虑进去。
   
   我不知道这是什么,剩余。
   你不会永远到达那里。
   几十年前,在狗们检查过它之后
   它就成了它们库存的一部分。
   
   …进来了,四周的脚踝像是
   他拥有了这个地方(是的,从某种意义上说)。
   他们的迅速行动吸引了她。
   现在不是早晨。更像是
   
   一周后。我会站在你这边,寻找
   我们俩都知道有的东西:我们摇摇欲坠的基础设施。
   你别插手。
   你开了我的玩笑。你的药丸,他催促道。
   
   吃一顿野蛮的早餐,
   注视,仔细思考。你来了,热情
   如歌。我是说,那是他让我们说的。
   树木似乎同意。
   
Disorder and Light
   
   
   Answer: I would dump it.
   She lost her husband. It was time.
   The more blurry it’s gonna be, the great complicator
   takes us all into account.
   
   I don’t know what this is, remnant.
   You won’t get there forever.
   Decades ago, after the dogs inspected it
   it became part of their repertory.
   
   …Comes in and ankles around like
   he owned the place (which he did, in a sense).
   Fast action on their part drew her on.
   This wasn’t morning. It was more like
   
   a week from now. I’ll be on your side, searching
   for what we both know is there: our crumbling infrastructure.
   You stay out of it.
   You’ve got to be kidding me. Your pill, he urged.
   
   Have a wild breakfast,
   eyed and mulled. There you go, passionate
   as a song. I mean, that’s what he told us to say.
   The trees seem to agree.
   
   
   
  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-4-20 22:10:53 | 显示全部楼层
有点晚
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   那个穿着绿色滑雪十字褡的女孩
   还没有从广播学校毕业。
   让我们注意。
   
   向前看,为什么,他向前挥动着嘴示意。
   夏天的生活不困难吗?
   神药在
   速显液前面倒下,
   速显液像一支部队似地跑开。
   
   一大群老年人会读到这个
   高兴地,心甘情愿地,然后走进夜晚的怀抱,
   然后亲吻。“把你赶出去,把你赶出去!”
   有时一只手臂被指控:
   你可以感觉到,蓝色衬衫,
   粘液中央,一个晚上四次。
   但这能让我得到什么?
   小点心。
   
   当郊区的示威活动有点萎缩
   你伸出你的脚,
   离开它或者亲吻它
   甚至两年前,
   夏尔曼在这儿告诉我们。
   我想我应该留下来
   
   斗鸡眼的王八蛋…      
   他喜欢他,他看得出来。正在发生的事。
   歹徒不想再和他睡在一起,
   但管它呢。休假时间
   实际用来收集绒毛…好了,孩子们。
   廉价的谋杀,被桃子驱动…我一路上
   看到的那些样本够多。
   
Late-ish
   
   
   
   The girl in the green ski chasuble
   hasn't yet graduated from radio school.
   Let's pay attention.
   
   Looking ahead, why, he waved his mouth along.
   Doesn't life get difficult in the summer?
   The divine medicine for it collapsed
   in front of the shortstop,
   who took off like a battalion.
   
   Crowds of older people who would read this
   happily, willingly, then walking into night's embrace,
   then kiss.“To turn you out, to turn you out! ”
   Sometimes an arm is accused:
   You could have felt it, the blue shirts,
   phlegm central, four times a night.
   But what does that get me?
   Light refreshments.
   
   When the suburban demonstration kind of shrunk
   you put your foot out,
   leave it or kiss it
   or even two years ago,
   Charmaine here tells us.
   I think I should stay ...    
   
   Cross-eyed sonofabitch ...    
   He liked him, he could tell. A de-happening.
   The gangster no longer wanted to sleep with him,
   but what the heck. With time off
   for actual fuzz collected ... All right, boys.
   Cheap murders, peach driven ... I seen enough of those
   samples along the way.
   
  
  
把手留在里面
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   而且,塔特尔先生过去不得不在街上跑。
   现在,每一次友谊发生,它们都被满满预订。
   在树荫下和石蒜花一起玩很不错,
   但是当你的拳击搭档第一个到那里
   你想知道这一切是否值得。“是的,为什么这么做?”
   我暂缓。这音乐要花很多时间
   在我身上成长。我没有恶意。我帮过他
   他以前被骗。蠢事。我的胃口都很好。
   孩子们也可以随意出入。
   我只要求你们在我们之间做出选择,然后结束这次选举。
   但在任何给定的时间都不要露出你的手太多。
   然后向上用管道输送主要的,把手留在里面,
   或者改变誓言。大胆,持久的求爱威胁就在我们眼前
   就像瘟疫,我们谁也说不出有什么麻烦
   将被析出,一旦它有其方式与我们一起。
   我们的家是沼泽地。晚饭后是全景的。
   你温柔地看了它一下。
   
   在外面,它从来没有变成金色。
   
Leave the Hand In
   
   
   
   Furthermore, Mr. Tuttle used to have to run in the streets.
   Now, each time friendship happens, they're fully booked.
   Sporting with amaryllis in the shade is all fine and good,
   but when your sparring partner gets there first
   you wonder if it was all worth it. “Yes, why do it? ”
   I'm on hold. It will take quite a lot for this music
   to grow on me. I meant no harm. I've helped him
   from getting stuck before. Dumb thing. All my appetites are friendly.
   Children too are free to go and come as they please.
   I ask you only to choose between us, then shut down this election.
   But don't reveal too much of your hand at any given time.
   Then up and pipes the major, leave the hand in,
   or change the vows. The bold, enduring menace of courtship is upon us
   like the plague, and none of us can say what trouble
   will be precipitated once it has had its way with us.
   Our home is marshland. After dinner was wraparound.
   You got a tender little look at it.
   
   Outside, it never did turn golden.
   
  
  
淡紫色笔记本
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   
   “说的次数够多,现在是八月。”
   ---杰弗里.G.奥布莱恩,《三年》
   
   在群体中你需要灌木叛军,
   路过时使那张小椅子麻木的。
   如果我们击倒它们
   七个地区将会露面。
   看起来你不需要油。
   我想会很好。
   她觉得这样好吗,
   或是对听它的人来说,
   什么都不用做,不用想,
   (章节待定)?
   
   或是对听它的人来说,
   突然的哈欠,历史或其他。
   家政学。歌咏会博士
   找不到回去的路。
   我不知道那些,但是
   在她的灯下你还能看见
   尴尬的仪式,太严肃?
   让它就这样,不完美的开始超出了
   我要去的地方。
   永恒奏鸣曲外的监狱,
   唯一的焦虑,
   既然你想知道它们不做什么,
   从你的红色零度的心的书页
   等着摸你的脸。
   
   尽管它们知道,但
   它根本不存在,
   不,熬夜和上床睡觉,
   除非它落在大脑的右侧
   放有这么多赝品,
   月亮金块…
   
   我不会让它们松懈。
   猛攻一个干净的前线,
   这前进了一大步。
   
   这些居民,他们早就开始扔它们。
   继续向泥泞敞开你的大门!
   
   乘中午的气球去仰光,
   马来胶学院,
   去冰淇淋的地方,
   
   因为,真的,这有什么区别?
   当你该回家的时候。
   眼泪和鲜花,
   
   看看你的手有多脏。
   我们有一个可爱的一角硬币。
   很快就七点我问你。
The Mauve Notebook

   
   “Say it enough times and it's August. ”
   ---Geoffrey G. O'Brien, "Three Years"
   
   On a set you need bush rebels,
   that numbing little chair while passing.
   If we knock 'em out
   seven precincts are going to show up.
   It looks like you don't need oil.
   I think it'll be fine.
   Did she think that might be good,
   or for the man who listens to it,
   nothing to be done or thought,
   (section pending)?
   
   Or for the man who listens to it,
   an abrupt yawn, history or the other.
   Home economics. Dr. Singalong
   can't find his way back.
   I don't know about that, but
   at her lamps do you still see
   the awkward ceremony, too serious?
   Leave it that way, imperfect start beyond
   where I was going.
   Prison outside the perpetual sonata,
   the only anxiety,
   since you wonder what they don't do,
   from your red zero heart page
   waiting to touch your face.
   
   Although they know about it and
   it literally doesn't exist,
   no, stay up and go to sleep,
   unless it falls on the right side of the brain
   positioned for so many forgeries,
   moon nugget...
   
   I don't cut 'em any slack.
   Assault on a clean front,
   that's a lot to be turning into.
   
   These residents, they start throwing 'em early.
   Continue to open your door to mud!
   
   Take the noon balloon to Rangoon,
   gutta percha academy,
   to the place of ice cream,
   
   because, really, what difference does it make?
   When it was time you went home.
   Tears and flowers,
   
   see how dirty your hands are.
   We had a lovely dime.
   Soon it will be seven I ask you.
  
  
行为不端者的影响
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   好斗的乞讨,当众撒尿、言语威胁,
   当众裸体和违反集装箱开放法的行为
   一直伴随着我们,为什么
   我们要在这里待很久,
   甚至这么久?我请你
   礼貌一点,不要打断晚上的工作。
   
   适应你很有趣,
   你不能更好了。
   这和以前一样现代。
   
   他们受到了他的影响:今晚播出了一些
   肮脏的杂志。(在混乱中,幸存者的报告。)
   
   花的复古的猫赋格曲不是一直在溢出,
   像那样吗?这也不是第一次。
   专业塔夫绸站起来笑,
   调查或沟通。你要熬夜的
   那晚,别人会亲吻,
   他谈起你,我不知道是什么。
   不管怎样,进来吧,
   不要缺乏断言的故事。
   
   我们说的是平民骚乱。
   是的,好吧,也许你应该服一片。
   
   (不要咬或咀嚼。)
People Behaving Badly a Concern

   
   Aggressive panhandling, public urination, verbal threats,
   public nudity and violation of the open container law
   followed us down the days, for why
   are we here much longer,
   or even this long? I ask you
   to be civil and not interrupt night's business.
   
   It was fun getting used to you,
   who couldn't have been more nicer.
   This was as modern as it had ever been.
   They were influenced by him: some dirty magazine
   on the air tonight. (Amid the chaos, reports of survivors.)
   
   Didn't the flowers' restoration cat fugue keep spilling,
   and like that? It wouldn't be the first time, either.
   The pro-taffeta get up and laugh,
   investigate or communicate. The night you were
   going to stay up late, others will kiss,
   and he talks about you, and I don't know what.
   Come in, anyway,
   and don't lack for tales of the Assertion.
   
   We're talking civilian unrest.
   Yes, well, maybe you should take one.
   
   (Do not bite or chew.)
  
  
壁炉上传来的声音
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   就像一颗结尾的假牙,在笑话店
   命运接近,静静地倾斜。让我们看看…
   在最后一句中有另外的意义,
   这意味着我们不能把
   发生在我们身上的事情等同于我们沿着街区发生的事情。
   我们有些犹豫地走近:
   让“我不敢”等待“我会。”
   现在不是四月吗?事情不是更可能
   在这个季节或任何季节持续吗?我们喜欢的节奏。
   多于节奏,它们为尴尬的袭击提供了
   一种救生工具。嗯,总有一天我们也会长大,
   台灯不会取消驳船,当它
   接近马路拐角。
   
   嗯,我们
   抽出它。这相当于自我重要性。
   海是不是方言
   只有英雄才能描述。你为什么不给我采摘一个?
   似乎他们都冲到甲板的
   另一边,引起了警报。
   风把剩下的破布吹得枯萎。
   坚持一分钟,我们会把你抬到高处。
   没有理由花时间和羊皮纸日落一起,
   他听到,也不能留下来。森林里的白色、粘糊糊的气味
   把我们的收入吸进梦中。
   蛋白在室温下干燥。
   
   在我成熟时,我像你一样是机器人
   但从未取消我的兴趣。
   我们都试图出发,但很少会
   轻率地忍受最初几天的定向。
   这很有趣,我是说,有这么多人来投射
   启蒙或娱乐。如果你住在
   一个鹪鹩的房子里,你会很快理解我的意思。
   
   这,不用说,是我最后一次
   听到他们的消息。我继续得到他们的飞行员
   在邮件里,但这个项目仍然无人居住。
   花和羊用你能看到的东西
   塞满了入口。橙色的海洋
   轻轻向前推进,一直在寻找观众,
   但你只能在自我形成的方式中做这么多。
   我不期待别的,
   但看起来不对。也不是不对,
   只是形式上的。夜晚意味着季节
   而且很多都是关于顽皮的叙述方式,而在白天
   它是一个与人行道齐平的问题。
   
   别忘了检查前门的
   每一个盒子,给送奶的人留零钱。
   可惜他们发现了我们。就像我说的,
   没有陪审团曾会判他或我有罪。那么你走吧。
   蛋是一个谜,一棵树是那谜的一片。
   我有愉快,但不平衡的时间。
   我的助手们可以主张得一样多。让我们知道
   我们欠你多少钱。气球正上升到
   蕨类植物、茶杯烟囱、条纹长袜之上。
   训练轮太长。我一次走三个星期。
A Voice from the Fireplace
   
   
   Like a windup denture in a joke store
   fate approaches, leans quietly. Let's see ...
   There was moreover meaning in the last clause,
   meaning we couldn't equate
   from what was happening to us down the block.
   We approached with some hesitancy:
   Let "I dare not" wait upon "I would."
   Wasn't it April? Weren't things more likely to last
   in this or any season? Rhymes we like.
   More than rhythm, they provide a life preserver
   for embarrassing sorties. Um, someday we'll be grown up too,
   the desk lights not cancel the barge
   as it approaches the corner of avenues.
   
   Well, we
   sweated that out. It amounts to self-importance.
   Whether the sea is a vernacular one
   only heroes can describe. Why don't you pluck me one?
   Seems they all rushed to the other side
   of the deck, causing alarm.
   Wind shriveled the rags that were left.
   Hold on a minute, we'll get you aloft.
   No sense taking up time with vellum sunsets,
   he hears, and cannot stay. The whitish, gluey smell
   of the forest imbibes our earnings in a dream.
   Egg whites dry at room temperature.
   
   In my mature moments I was robotic like you
   but never canceled my interest.
   We all attempt starting out, yet few undergo
   the first few days of orientation lightly.
   Which is funny, I mean with so many around to project
   enlightenment or entertainment. If you live
   in a wren house you'll quickly understand what I mean.
   
   That, needless to say, was the last time
   I heard from them. I continue to get their flyers
   in the mail but the project remains uninhabited.
   Flowers and goats cram the entrance with something
   you can see over. The orange sea propels itself
   lightly forward, ever in quest of spectators,
   but you can only do just so much in the way of self-formation.
   I hadn't expected it to be otherwise,
   yet it doesn't seem right. Neither is it unjust,
   only pro forma. Nights imply seasons
   and much in the way of impish narrative, while in daylight
   it's a matter of getting flush with the pavement.
   
   Don't forget to check every box
   on the front door and leave change for the milkman.
   Too bad they spotted us. Like I say,
   no jury will ever convict he or I. Off you go then.
   An egg is a puzzle, a tree a piece of that puzzle.
   I've had a pleasant but uneven time.
   My helpmates could aver as much. Let us know
   how much we owe you. The balloon is ascending
   above ferns, teacup chimneys, striped stockings.
   So long training wheels. I'm gone for three weeks at a time.
  
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-4-21 22:53:05 | 显示全部楼层


给养蜂人的捐献
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   他如此犯了更好的错误。
   早餐时传到周围:
   一家人和一切,在那里有一种近似的力量感,
   请律师。更少的日志重量,你的文本策略
   打败其他选择,是慵懒的。
   尘土中的二重唱开始,
   开始。再一次。
   
   他夜里进入公司。
   26号是星期一。
Alms for the Beekeeper

   
   He makes better errors that way.
   Pass it around at breakfast:
   the family and all, down there with a proximate sense of power,
   lawyering up. Less log-heavy, your text-strategy
   beat out other options, is languid.
   Duets in the dust start up,
   begin. Again.
   
   He entered the firm at night.
   The 26th is a Monday.
  

蓝图和其他
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   街对面的那汉子似乎很幸福,
   或者高兴。有时搬运工会逃避场地。
   你和军队玩了很多游戏之后
   你就是我最好的客户。
   
   我已经干了五次。
   制作的万圣节。让我不要说它。
   那老汉想见你---现在。
   没关系,但是找你自己的。
   你想停止使用这些吗?
   
   上次获胜的人叫我坐在小便器上。
   不要把能涂抹自己的东西涂抹别人。
   如何成为城市里我爱的一个。
   穿内衣的男人…一个传记领域
   就像我们住在山里,
   
   落下的那个地方。是的,我知道你有。
   商品的宝藏,你知道,“婴儿潮的嗡嗡声。”
   外面的乡巴佬雕塑。
   (他们不会看到任何人。)
   
Blueprints and Others

   
   The man across the street seems happy,
   or pleased. Sometimes a porter evades the grounds.
   After you play a lot with the military
   you are my own best customer.
   
   I've done five of that.
   Make my halloween. Ask me not to say it.
   The old man wants to see you--- now.
   That's all right, but find your own.
   Do you want to stop using these?
   
   Last winning people told me to sit on the urinal.
   Do not put on others what you can put on yourself.
   How to be in the city my loved one.
   Men in underwear    ...    A biography field
   like where we live in the mountains,
   
   a falling. Yes I know you have.
   Troves of merchandise, you know, “boomer buzz. ”
   Hillbilly sculptures of the outside.
   (They won't see anybody.)
   
  

白昼的撞击
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   不管是港湾线还是东海岸线
   与它同房都不是任何人的生意,直到你到达那里,
   眼皮闪烁,满足于从上面蓝色而来的
   一个更多的豁免。就像我们说的,
   人们开始对这个被淤泥堵塞的港口
   表现出兴趣。对我们班上所有人都知道的来说
   可能又是夏天。
   是的,没错。从我们的狗栖木上弹起,
   我们不得不和它们最后一个一起翻滚。
   
   我来这儿已经有一会儿,
   但我下定决心。什么,我不是印了,
   一堆小记录,几乎是西西里岛的斜坡吗?
   这是我的朋友:
   舒适的袜子(现在男孩们)后来会看到。他们来了吗?
   内部杂货店不得不拿走三套夹子。
   和他谈复杂的家务。
   我不是你想的那样。留住前意识。
   这只是“议会的洪流”,不用感到害怕。
   
Day Bump

   
   Whether the harborline or the east shoreline
   consummated it was nobody's biz until you got there,
   eyelids ashimmer, content with one more dispensation
   from blue above. And just like we were saying,
   the people began to show some interest
   in the mud-choked harbor. It could be summer again
   for all anyone in our class knew.
   Yeah, that's right. Bumped from our dog-perch,
   we'd had to roil with the last of them.
   
   It's taken a while since I've been here,
   but I'm resolved. What, didn't I print,
   little piles of notes, slopes almost Sicilian?
   Here is my friend:
   Socks for comfort (now boys) will see later. Did they come?
   The inner grocery had to take three sets of clips away.
   Speaking to him of intricate family affairs.
   I'm not what you think. Stay preconscious.
   It's just the “flooding of the council. ” No need to feel afraid.
  

一堆东西
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我把你喷射到所有事件
   知道这不是这个发生的
   当我们在外面,它看起来很好。
   你为什么不想有一个新的前景
   站在未来几年里?
   看,你的房子,一个以前人类的能源建筑,
   在五月和我们一起撞上几天
   果然,极地构成要素
   带来了一些更容易的诗,
   我猜这是件好事。至少
   我们有些人很放松,包括汽船比尔。
   
   他什么也没喝。
   为他们的挑战做好准备
   是一回事,接受挑战又是另一回事。
   如果我能给你一个建议,那就是:
   取笑香油,然后忍受昏睡,
   以照耀它在新包装的浅洪水
   我们的敌人处理的。他们应该知道。
   
   《金粉双胞胎》从未停止恳求胡塞人
   描写这条小路。没有莎士比亚。
   透过窗户,卡萨诺瓦。
   在那些日子愚蠢的事件中
   无法入睡,林肯冻僵的脚起皱。
   
Bunch of Stuff
   
   
   To all events I squirted you
   knowing this not to be this came to pass
   when we were out and it looked good.
   Why wouldn't you want a fresh piece
   of outlook to stand in down the years?
   See, your house, a former human energy construction,
   crashed with us for a few days in May
   and sure enough, the polar inscape
   brought about some easier poems,
   which I guessed was a good thing. At least
   some of us were relaxed, Steamboat Bill included.
   
   He didn't drink nothing.
   It was one thing
   to be ready for their challenge, quite another to accept it.
   And if I had a piece of advice for you, this is it:
   Poke fun at balm, then suffer lethargy
   to irradiate its shallow flood in the new packaging
   our enemies processed. They should know.
   
   The Gold Dust Twins never stopped supplicating Hoosiers
   to limn the trail. There's no Shakespeare.
   Through the window, Casanova.
   Couldn't get to sleep in the dumb incident
   of those days, crimping the frozen feet of Lincoln.
   
  

钢铁和空气
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   现在我想不起来我是怎么
   拥有它的。它不是管道(汇流点?)而是一个地点。
   地点、运动的和秩序的。
   旧秩序的地点。
   但这场运动的尾部是新的。
   驱使我们说出自己的想法。
   毕竟,这很像一个海滩,你站在那里
   不想再往前走了。
   当你不想再往前走就好了。
   它就像一个理由,选出你
   把你安放在一直想去的地方。
   到目前为止,这是公平的,跨越,已经跨越。
   然后在另一个世界里没有承诺。
   在这里。钢铁和空气,斑驳的存在,
   小灵丹妙药
   和我们的幸运。
   然后就变得很酷。
   
Steel and Air
   
   
   And now I cannot remember how I would
   have had it. It is not a conduit (confluence?) but a place.
   The place, of movement and an order.
   The place of old order.
   But the tail end of the movement is new.
   Driving us to say what we are thinking.
   It is so much like a beach after all, where you stand
   and think of going no further.
   And it is good when you get to no further.
   It is like a reason that picks you up and
   places you where you always wanted to be.
   This far, it is fair to be crossing, to have crossed.
   Then there is no promise in the other.
   Here it is. Steel and air, a mottled presence,
   small panacea
   and lucky for us.
   And then it got very cool.
   
   
  

边界问题
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   在这里的生活中,他们会理解。
   不然怎么可能?我们也曾摸索过,
   不明智,直到边缘开始让路,
   在此一切都阴沉,或迷失,或两者兼而有之。
   
   现在是时候了,它什么都没有。
   
   我们吃了一顿美餐,我和我的朋友,
   从牛奶桶里啧啧地喝着,抓着新鲜的蔬菜。
   然而生活是一片沙漠。回家,真诚地。
   你还是可以决定。但它需要温暖。
   否则诡计和微妙将变得不可能
   在留给我们的几年或几小时内。“是的,但是…”
   标志性的乞丐们也拖着脚走了。我告诉过你,
   一旦违背出现它就会变成一个裂口
   在任何人有机会动摇之前。小镇远侧的
   一场争端很快就爆发成
   一场战争,而且结束得也很突然。治愈的趋势
   在它之前扫过一切,进入小河,矿井,
   进入任何你正在注视的口袋。真正的迷失
   弥补了它。总是我们要付出代价。
   
   我有一个建议要提:尽你可能试探性地
   拔出刺。用木浆在窗户上
   涂上灰泥,以抵挡正午打算使它成为一种谜,
   长生不老药的阴暗。驱逐讲真话。
   据我所知,这就是重点。
   每一项新的调查都重建了紧迫感,
   就像一座沙堡。进一步的反射暗中破坏它,
   最终导致它的崩溃。我们可以从远处
   看到这一切,就像在弯曲的算盘上,以紧急的模式
   从一开始,但到那时,差遣几乎不重要。
   是友情,或者类似的东西,起作用,
   仔细观察我们,像我们是莎草纸一样,希望找到一个
   正确的态度,在煤气灯下的空气中勾勒,夜晚的友好兼并。
Boundary Issues

   
   Here in life, they would understand.
   How could it be otherwise? We had groped too,
   unwise, till the margin began to give way,
   at which point all was sullen, or lost, or both.
   
   Now it was time, and there was nothing for it.
   
   We had a good meal, I and my friend,
   slurping from the milk pail, grabbing at newer vegetables.
   Yet life was a desert. Come home, in good faith.
   You can still decide to. But it wanted warmth.
   Otherwise ruse and subtlety would become impossible
   in the few years or hours left to us. "Yes, but . . ."
   The iconic beggars shuffled off too. I told you,
   once a breach emerges it will become a chasm
   before anyone's had a chance to waver. A dispute
   on the far side of town erupts into a war
   in no time at all, and ends as abruptly. The tendency to heal
   sweeps all before it, into the arroyo, the mine shaft,
   into whatever pocket you were contemplating. And the truly lost
   make up for it. It's always us that has to pay.
   
   I have a suggestion to make: draw the sting out
   as probingly as you please. Plaster the windows over
   with wood pulp against the noon gloom proposing its enigmas,
   its elixirs. Banish truth-telling.
   That's the whole point, as I understand it.
   Each new investigation rebuilds the urgency,
   like a sand rampart. And further reflection undermines it,
   causing its eventual collapse. We could see all that
   from a distance, as on a curving abacus, in urgency mode
   from day one, but by then dispatches hardly mattered.
   It was camaraderie, or something like it, that did,
   poring over us like we were papyri, hoping to find one
   correct attitude sketched on the gaslit air, night's friendly takeover.
   
   
   
   
   
   
  


 楼主| 发表于 2021-5-11 21:08:59 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-5-12 21:11 编辑

平均粒子
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   有时像一秒钟这样的东西
   冲刷这条街的基础。
   父亲和他的两个助手
   被允许离开。
   其中,一个女人,问道:“我们
   为什么一开始就来到这里
   来到这个潮湿的城堡?”
   
   有些日子比其他日子更糟,
   即使我们不能相信它们。
   但那从来不是我关心的问题,
   病人推理道。
   
   唱,滚动,或永远不会被我们猛烈抨击成
   冰冷的意义,或为它的拳头。
   
   如果你能相信的话,我要感谢来这儿
   谈判我们获释的王子。
   
   你是对的。民谣又退回
   到大气中。
   它们不会再来。
   建造你的平静。
Mean Particles
   
   
   Sometimes something like a second
   washes the base of this street.
   The father and his two assistants
   are given permission to go.
   One of them, a woman, asks, “Why
   did we come here in the first place,
   to this citadel of dampness?”
   
   Some days are worse than others,
   even if we can’t believe in them.
   But that was never a concern of mine,
   reasoned the patient.
   
   Sing, scroll, or never be blasted by us
   into marmoreal meaning, or the fist for it.
   Kudos to the prince who journeyed here
   to negotiate our release, if you can believe it.
   
   You’re right. The ballads are retreating
   back into the atmosphere.
   They won’t be coming round again.
   Make your peace.
   
  

  情节喜剧
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   
   我在你纸上留下的东西:
   最疯狂的情节之一,永远超过我。
   你喜欢间谍活动吗?浇水的符咒?
   
   我的豆荚抛到一边,我将走在人类的街道上,
   保护旧的三角帆不受新的迷你剧的伤害。
   
   我可以发誓
   它在不完整的后院移动
   来支持对话,要求被捆绑。
   然后是时候采取步骤
   给出脆弱的回应,
   最后他写下了这一天。
   
   它发生在水里
   所以很好。
   
   它准备好合并:
   为迷路的香草,他的赞助商的
   命运时代的味道。在那沙发上。
   
   我越过了州界,因为它们正在重新埋葬这些东西。
   你打破了时间锁,新娘的罐子...    
   但我们确实说过会回来。
   
Dramedy  
   
   
   Things I left on your paper:
   one of the craziest episodes that ever overtook me.
   Do you like espionage? A watered charm?
   My pod cast aside, I'll walk in the human street,
   protect the old jib from new miniseries.
   
   I could swear it moved
   in incomplete back yards
   to endorse the conversation, request to be strapped in.
   Then it will be time to take the step
   giving fragile responses,
   and finally he wrote the day.
   
   It happened in the water
   so that was nice.
   
   It comes ready conflated:
   vanilla for get lost, flavor of the time
   of his sponsor's destiny. Be on that sofa.
   
   I was crossing the state line as they were reburying the stuff.
   You break the time lock, the bride's canister    ...    
   but we did say that we'd be back.
   
  

小幅上升
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我们坐在那里,我
   开了一个玩笑说
   它多么不吻合:时间,
   一分钟流出得
   比它抓住的
   前面那一分钟快。
   那样的话,我说,
   不会有浪费。
   浪费几乎被消除。
   
   回来一会儿
   到现在的主题,一幅画,
   看起来像是被看见了,
   半转身,略带忧虑,
   但它必须注意
   前方升起的东西:一个幻觉。
   因此,诗歌溶化在
   灿烂的湿气中,并把我们
   读给我们。
   一个模糊的概念。太多的文字,
   却珍贵。
   
Uptick
   
   
   We were sitting there, and
   I made a joke about how
   it doesn't dovetail: time,
   one minute running out
   faster than the one in front
   it catches up to.
   That way, I said,
   there can be no waste.
   Waste is virtually eliminated.
   
   To come back for a few hours to
   the present subject, a painting,
   looking like it was seen,
   half turning around, slightly apprehensive,
   but it has to pay attention
   to what's up ahead: a vision.
   Therefore poetry dissolves in
   brilliant moisture and reads us
   to us.
   A faint notion. Too many words,
   but precious.
   
   
   
   
  
亚当式的雪
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   让我们试试这个天真无邪的模式,如果没有
   比它的持久力更好的理由:被锁定在一个
   与地球轮廓的兴亡一致的连续体中,
   居住在汤姆.蒂德勒的特殊恳求
   和现金和携带的土地上。在结账台排着长长的队
   是一个行为的理由,悲伤和戏剧性,显出
   潮汐波的轮廓。因为必须的东西是,必须的,
   老牧师说,他的脸,一个
   爪印的迷宫,在总是
   及时到达的雪中,来对抗
   或幽默,在睡觉前,这是你的选择。
   突然,轮廓解锁了
   它们所隔离的形式,只是为了使它简单
   和平等。
   
   啊,但所有的假货都不相似。
   我认为我们必须勉强接受这件大事
   因为质量,尽管是一个生存的问题,
   但这是一个如此个人的呼吁。有时候,它根本就不存在
   否则一个虚弱的女孩会藐视它,说
   在森林里的链轮中没有明显的
   标准,没有什么判断任何人,也没有被评判的。
   的确,缺乏色彩的清新
   产生像时间一样的效果;
   你可能会在这一刻穿过蓟
   然后穿过一片薄冰,下一刻不知道
   有什么不同,只是你被授予了一个扩展。
   确保你把这一团糟收拾干净。除了
   听广袤的隔开的嘘声就好
   漫长的一天,睡眠没有被分配。
   然而,人们只能质疑这个系统是如何出现的,
   创造它自己,我想,
   因为还没有别的东西承担起这一责任。
   如果它让你觉得更快乐,看到
   人们为某些事独自生活的恐惧,见鬼,
   请便,一个巴掌拍不响
   毕竟,还是什么,不是吗?
   你马上回到那梦想的
   传送带上,天平适度地倾斜到
   你自己的企业、巢穴、标准问候
   和不寻常的礼节组合中。
   结局不能承担过错。
   
   它读着,就像一条小溪的立体日记
   有一天,它侧身穿过房子
   在其通向与我们永远无法穿越两次的河流
   约会的路上。而逐步的
   扩大位于附近:我们不能再称之为后退
   但可能会再次遇到它,在其他时候,在不同的预兆下。
Adam Snow  
   
   
   Let’s try the ingenuous mode, if for no better
   Reason than its staying power: locked into a continuum
   That rises and falls with the contours of this earth,
   Inhabiting a Tom Tiddler’s ground of special pleading
   And cash and carry. Long lines at the checkout counter
   Are a reason to behave, sad and dramatic, silhouetted
   Against the tidal wave. For what must be, must be,
   The old priest said, his face a maze
   Of claw-prints in the snow
   Which always arrives in time to antagonize
   Or humor,before bedtime,it’s your choice.
   And suddenly outlines unlock
   The forms they were sequestering, just to make it simple
   And equal.
   
   Ah, but all fakes aren't alike.
   I think we must settle for the big thing
   Since quality, though a matter of survival,
   Is such a personal call. Sometimes it’s nowhere at all
   Or a faint girl will make light of it, saying
   In the sprockets in the backwoods there are no noticeable
   Standards, nothing to judge one or be judged by.
   It’s true the refreshing absence of color
   Produces an effect like that of time;
   That you may be running through thistles one moment
   And across a sheet of thin ice the next and not be aware
   Of any difference, only that you have been granted an extension.
   Make sure you clean up this mess. Other than that
   Listening to widely spaced catcalls is OK
   The livelong day, and sleep isn’t rationed.
   Yet one can only question how the system arose,
   Creating itself, I suppose,
   Since nothing else has yet taken that responsibility.
   If it makes you happier to feel, to see the horror
   Of living one’s life alone for something, what the heck,
   Be my guest, it takes two to tango
   After all, or something, doesn’t it?
   And you get right back on that conveyor belt
   Of dreams to tip the scale modestly
   Into your own enterprise, nest-egg, portfolio
   Of standard greetings and uncommon manners.
   The ending can’t take the blame.
   
   It read like the cubist diary of a brook
   That sidled past the house one day
   On its way to a rendezvous with some river
   We can never cross twice. And the gradual
   Escalation lay near by: we cannot call it back
   Yet may meet it again, in other times, under different auspices.
   
弃权
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   不是害羞的游客,跳上罗马含盐的台阶---
   从一辆巴士上的威尼斯广场,透明的情感经过。
   旧矿井。不只是
   像它的一部分的某物
   而是它的全部,就像它不是。声音
   “请告诉我你爱我”在说,
   铁质的纪念碑漂流过,
   钉在木头上的拱门,
   洞穴,盲目的拳头,
   黑色和蓝色水面上的绿色海藻
   以及朋友们兴奋的精准,
   “在斯克内克塔迪看到一朵云的男人
   影响着地球另一边他不认识的人,想要他的人
   我们应该拥有那朵玫瑰,荷兰人分开工作。”
   蓝色的塔,尖叫声,盲目的玫瑰经过。
   
   所以我们有这几样东西。
   那是一个夏日的午后或夜晚,平底船中的狂喜
   在叩击的蜜月上。
   但他想起了那些夜晚,被摧毁的家园
   金色的泪水为他流下。
   所以我们有了这些白砖。
   新娘穿着白色…
   
   他穿着白色西装,拿着白色报纸和苹果,他的手和脸都是白色的;
   云在冷笑,但驶入了白色的天空。
Abstentions
   
   
   Not the shy tourist, hopping up the salty steps of Rome---
   The Piazza Venezia from a bus, the transparent emotions go by.
   The old mines. Not
   Just something resembling a part of it
   But all of it as it is not. The voice
   “Please tell me that you love me” said,
   The iron monuments drift by,
   The arches nailed to wood,
   The caves, blind fists,
   Green seaweed on the black and blue water
   And the friends’ precision with excitement,
   “The man who sees a cloud in Schenectady
   Affects someone he does not know on the other side of the globe, who wants him
   And we shall have that rose, Dutch work apart. ”
   Blue towers, squeals, the blind roses go by.
   
   Therefore we have these few things.
   It was a summer afternoon or night, glory was in the gondola
   On the percussive honeymoon.
   But he thought of the nights the ruined homes
   The gold tears shed for him.
   Therefore we have these white bricks.
   The bride wore white...
   
   He wears a white suit,carries a white newspaper and apple,his hands and face are white;
   The clouds sneer but go sailing into the white sky.
   
   



 楼主| 发表于 2021-5-13 22:16:39 | 显示全部楼层
在越来越多的证据中
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我在读关于恐龙的书:
   一旦挠搔阶段结束,海市蜃楼
   或家务已经开始,世界对辐射理论
   敞开了大门(成吨的辐射,想想它,
   颠倒所有正常的程序
   于是悲观的蜡球开始
   从斜面上再次滑落
   带来更远的概念走向其死亡,同时鼓励
   无限悬念接管我们的政府,并威胁成为我们所知的生命!)
   是时候在寒冷的沙漠溜走到人们的岗位上
   (不是撒哈拉沙漠,实际上更像戈壁)
   在被称为放逐的悲伤中等待
   那一点的再次出现,尽管它可能永远不会这样做,
   那奇怪的制服是什么?
   
   只是我们幸福地生活在永恒的土地上
   我的心灵之火仍然伴随着我们,然后
   阻止这些谈判的对象成为
   远离键盘的玩具(当然,这是后来
   发生的,每一种可能性都会实现,如果一个人等待足够长的时间,
   只有到上下文可能已经消失的时间,脆弱
   如夏日的甜蜜或窗台上的灯光,然后,
   然后,为什么文字会被视为常规
   只是没有人想再玩;游戏
   有自己的时尚太像真理所为)我们的生活来自于
   被变成一个大得无法处理,不合理的废墟;
   就像砖石的风化,就像飞蛾们在毯子里默默地工作
   即使你读到这篇文章,我也看不出有什么理由抱怨
   或低语,随行人员喜欢我,同意我
   说现在不是合适的时间和地点,
   如果现在就开始,争论会被用透视法缩小。
   然而,这种似乎永远不会消失的牙痛,
   在夜晚温和地燃烧着,某种东西的
   心跳,预示着没有灾难,除非一个又一个
   被无光泽的的灰色天空华盖的寂静森林的联盟
   被解释为这样,但是我认为我们的和平
   应该从疑问和真正有助于
   我们的思想和日常活动的补贴中受益
   如果和平是我们真正想要的,尽管
   罗马的蜡烛撕开夜晚。
   很容易跋涉,假装成一个男孩
   当你想问的东西在内心深处,
   而不是丰富的保证,它们是秋天的
   是它们最终解决,成为一个悲哀的方式
   虽然大量和重要的评论在我们不耐烦地
   站立的地方,等待天气迈出第一步,
   当这发生的时候,首先匆匆忙忙地走开
   无声无息地抱怨,一般把自己当作
   一个极好的公害,再也没有时间给出。
   
   如果竟然发生了这种事,总有窗户
   放着花盒,它们后面还有梦幻般的年轻女孩。
   在飞往南方的长途飞行之前
   有些鸟儿会停下来作最后一次激动的告别,这么多
   阻止最后通牒不让它起草,真的
   在第一次飘落的雪花中,一项工作完成:
   以前的一些鲁莽的承诺所遗留下来的能量
   其结果并不是一个坏的选择。盛夏
   正午昆虫的钻探必须先于此或
   其他事情,梦想因为某些事情而被赋予质感
   和进一步的物质。现在看来
   井然有序。一切似乎都很好。
   风暴,你看,没有泄露它的任何秘密,
   也没有给出任何东西。在任何情况下都不会有人
   重复它。跟着来的压力的迹象
   作为混乱的结果是可以解读的
   如果这是人们想要的,但是电
   把它们烤成自己认知的形状,它想
   给我们好一点的东西,让我们
   用余生去寻找,怀疑它是否放错地方。
   在过去,这本该是免费的。
   
  Amid Mounting Evidence
   
   
   I was reading about dinosaurs:
   Once the scratching phase is over, and the mirage
   Or menage has begun, and the world lies open
   To the radiation theory (tons of radiation, think of it,
   Reversing all normal procedures
   So that the pessimistic ball of wax begins
   To slide down the inclined plane again
   Bringing further concepts to their doom while encouraging
   The infinity of loose ends that
   Is taking over our governmen and threatening to become life as we know it!)
   It is time to slink off to one’s post in some cold desert
   (Not the Sahara, more like the Gobi actually)
   And wait amid that sadness known as banishment
   For the point to reappear, though it may never do so,
   And what was that strange uniform?
   
   Only that we lived happily in ever-after land
   And the fire of my mind was still with us then
   Prevented the object of these negotiations from becoming a toy
   Farther down the keyboard (and of course this did happen
   Later on, every potential is realized if one waits long enough,
   Only by that time the context may have faded, fragile
   As summersweet or the light on a windowsill, and then,
   And then, why the text will be seen as regular
   Only no one wants to play anymore; games
   Have their fashions much as truth does) and our lives from
   Being turned into a shambles too large to deal with, unreasonable;
   And as masonry weathers, as moths are silently at work in blankets
   Even as you read this, I saw no reason for complaint
   Or murmur and the entourage liked me, agreeing
   With me that this wasn’t the right time nor place,
   That arguments would be foreshortened if initiated now.
   Yet this toothache that never seems to go away,
   Burning mildly through the night, heartbeat
   Of something, augurs no calamity unless leagues
   And leagues of silent forest canopied by matte-gray
   Sky are to be construed as such, but I chink our peace
   Should be given the benefit of a doubt and allowances
   Surely made for all our thoughts and daily activities
   If peace is what we really want, Roman
   Candles ripping open the evening notwithstanding.
   It’s so easy to trudge and pretend to be a boy
   When deep down what you want is asking,
   Not rich assurances that are autumnal
   In the way they finally work out and become a sad
   Though voluminous and vital commentary on our standing
   Impatiently, waiting for the weather to make the first move,
   And when this happens, be the first to scurry away
   Complaining inaudibly and in general installing
   Oneself as a capital nuisance, never to be given the time of day again.
   
   And if this should happen there are always windows
   With flower-boxes and dreamy young girls just behind them.
   There are birds who stop by for one last agitated farewell
   Before the long flight to the south, and so much more
   To prevent the ultimatum from being drawn up that really
   In the first falling flakes a job does get done:
   Energy left over from some previous and saucy commitment
   Turns out not to have been such a bad option. The drilling
   Of noon insects in high summer had to precede this or something
   Else, the dream be given texture and further substance
   Because of something. It seems
   Shipshape now. Everything seems to be all right.
   The storm, you see, told none of its secrets,
   Gave nothing away. There would have been no one to repeat it to
   In any case. And the signs of stress that follow
   In the wake of confusion are there to be read
   If that is what one wants, but the electricity
   Bakes them into shapes of its own cognizance, its wanting
   To give us something a little better to spend
   The rest of our lives looking for, wondering whether it got misplaced.
   In the old days this would have been on the house.
   
   
  
顶部艺术家
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   撞车宝贝,那新兵来了。
   沿着一条路闲荡的总是一个顽固而
   孤独的男人;他看到真相就转脸。
   否则,太多的人会看到它并欢呼。
   这就是时尚:朴素而遥远。
   
   我总是这样日间活动。
   我忘了我要说什么。
   在那些悲伤的时刻,没有什么是最好的。
   
   我坚持招致我们
   因此愿意交谈的动机。
   明亮的海滩打圈离开
   进入操场和黑暗。
   用过度的欢笑安慰我。
   灯光下长满苔藓,
   一句格言把我缝进褶边。
   
   我很乐意为长辈们死
   但他们似乎不想这样。
   很好,这将是我们以后的日子
   没有落魄者玷污。回走一点
   
   那鱼缸里好像有鱼栖息。
   下午的密度又关闭了。
   孩子们不完全地返校;
   糖果条纹的校车停在十字路口。
   人们圆滑而饶舌。
   汽车看到了即将发生的事情,
   
   从它的头上举起多么沉重的负担。
   有些人希望如此。很多人都很平静。
   我们喂鸟以抵抗下雨的下午的办公室。
   所有的电话都被窃听。
   和弦向往决心。
  Roof Artist
   
   
   Crash baby, the new recruits have arrived.
   Along one road traipses the always stubborn and solitary
   man; he has seen the truth and turned away.
   Otherwise, many more would have seen it and crowed.
   This is the fashion: frugal and far-off.
   
   I am always this diurnal.
   I forget what I was going to say.
   Nothing is best in times as sad as these.
   
   I stick to the motivation that begot us
   and thus am willing to talk.
   Bright beaches looped away
   into playgrounds and the dark.
   Comfort me with excess hilarity.
   Moss grows in the lamplight,
   an aphorism hems me in.
   
   I would be glad to die for the old folks
   but they don’t seem to want it.
   Fine, this will be for our later days
   no sorehead will sully. Going back a bit
   
   it looks as though fish inhabit that aquarium.
   The afternoon density has closed again.
   Children in patches return from school;
   the candy striped school bus stops at the intersection.
   People are tactful and talkative.
   The car sees what is coming,
   
   what a great burden has been lifted from its head.
   Some wish it. Many are calm.
   We feed the birds against an office rainy afternoon.
   All the phones are tapped.
   The chord desires resolution.
   
  
简短的回答
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我大部分时间被迫梦游。
   我们坚持这些老办法,被困扰
   有时,然后间歇泉消失,
   时间损毁内部。就其内部和本身而言,并没有
   巨大的轰鸣声,与及时弥补它
   在速度上损失的力量相互对抗的力量。
   瀑布,峡谷,在开始,一个我告诉过你如此的
   皇家成员回来迎接我们。
   你的旅行怎么样?哦,我不是最后一个
   你看到的,折叠起来像一个
   自在之物的梦的边缘。好吧,那我们
   总共有什么?一纸薄薄的过去,
   就是这样,真可惜。我们反刍着
   老圣歌和后来发生的事,为什么
   还要凝思这些。为什么要让事情变得比它们已经是的
   更困难?因为如果它以另一种方式
   无聊,那也会很有趣。
   这就是我说的。
   
   那个无赖,他跳过了栅栏。
   我现在在擦我的夹鼻眼镜。你有没有收到
   那个说他一旦结束就会回来的人的信,
   他甚至在我睡觉的时候都躲着我?那是一个特别
   有前途的时期,我们想。现在太阳出来了
   又下雨了。就像纲要里的
   一天。我为你担保,
   我们可以继续滚动,仿佛什么也没有升起,
   地平线森林回顾我们。传教士
   摇了摇头,福音传道者平衡了两个线轴
   在他的小临时绳子的末端。我们走得太远了。
   我们一天左右就得回来。
   
  The Short Answer
   
   
   I am forced to sleepwalk much of the time.
   We hold on to these old ways, are troubled
   sometimes and then the geyser goes away,
   time gutted. In and of itself there is
   no great roar, force pitted against force that
   makes up in time what it loses in speed.
   The waterfalls, the canyon, a royal I-told-you-so
   comes back to greet us at the beginning.
   How was your trip? Oh I didn’t last
   you see, folded over like the margin
   of a dream of the thing-in-itself. Well, and
   what have we come to? A paper-thin past,
   just so, and ‘tis pity. We regurgitate
   old anthems and what has come to pass, and why
   dwell on these. Why make things more difficult
   than they already are? Because if it’s boring
   in a different way, that’ll be interesting too.
   That’s what I say.
   
   That rascal, he jumped over the fence.
   I’m wiping my pince-nez now. Did you ever hear from
   the one who said he’d be back once it was over,
   who eluded me even in my sleep? That was a particularly
   promising time, we thought. Now the sun’s out
   and it’s raining again. Just like a day from
   the compendium. I’ll vouch for you,
   and we can go on scrolling as though nothing had risen,
   the horizon forest looks back at us. The preacher
   shook his head, the evangelist balanced two spools
   at the end of his little makeshift rope. We’d gone too far.
   We’d have to come back in a day or so.
   
   
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-5-15 22:55:59 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-5-16 16:59 编辑




  
仪式二

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

   当女仆们带着她们从某个正式关闭的地方
   买来的油回来时,已经太晚了---
   门锁着,新郎不让她们们进去。
   他说他不认识她们。这是真的:他不认识。
   不只是她们睡着了忘记了油。
   她们已经正式改变了。她们是不同的人,
   只是因为想成为危机的一部分而被排除在外。

   这些上几周的日子里
   你没有想要房子这事
   已经清扫了破坏性的电影院。
   他们从各地赶来观看,有些人
   成群结队地留下来。嫉妒,当然。
   我的手指以前从未处理过
   这个难题。就像摘下太多戒指。
   一架齐柏林飞艇在完全冲洗过的天空中飞过,微笑着,
   知道这一切都会登上晚间新闻。

  
  

  
Ritual II


   When the maids returned with the oil they’d bought
   from some place that was officially closed, it was too late---
   the door was locked, the bridegroom wouldn’t let them in.
   He said he didn’t know them. And it was true: He didn’t.
   It wasn’t just their falling asleep and forgetting about the oil.
   They had officially changed. They were different persons,
   excluded just for wanting to be part of the crisis.

   Not having you desire the house
   the days of these last weeks
   has swept into disruptive cinema.
   They came from all over to view, some stayed
   in droves. Envy, of course.
   My fingers never had to deal with this puzzle
   before. It was like taking off too many rings.
   In the thoroughly rinsed sky a zeppelin passed, smiling,
   knowing it would all be on the evening news.

  
  





  
未发行的电影

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

   让我们从中间开始,照例。自从我烧伤我的嘴以后
   我用两种方式说话,一种是不情愿的解释者,另一种是在台下
   做梦的人,使那些可能把你从这梦中吵醒的人安静下来,
   不完美的琵琶演奏者起床。然后,叹息,心烦,尖叫
   如此变成了它的织物,人们听着,看看这一次窗格上
   什么样的文字成形。我不想养成这样一个
   不安的习惯,不过,因为当宇宙真的变成恐怖电影
   这将意味着日本人给孩子们的汗衫,而且不寻常的、看不见的
   我们这些人的缺点陷入在屏幕上顶嘴,除非,当然,
   上帝为我们预言的非自然的和平已经像海底的一个巨大的贝壳一样
   固定下来,在这种情况下,我们都将被原谅和遗忘,
   就像函授学校的学生一样。我的意思是,有什么能拯救我们
   当我们的生活瞄准墙上的某个接近但无法达到的标记时?
   没有人,害怕,一个迄今为止闻所未闻的紧压的密度的东西
   它可能会和它们中的空间一起释放所有的年份!鸡蛋增长,
   太多植物,失常的光线,失常的东西的味道。

   我们知道得太多,太多,残酷,无法用任何媒介表达,
   包括沉默。到避难所意味着让它最终
   在精神的挡墙下过滤,它把它自己如此推荐给我们以至于我们永远不能
   是另一个,成为一个完全不同的栖息地,在那里这些交易
   是昆虫翅膀脆弱的声音,被剥夺了就像现在引诱人们的现实一样的
   某种东西的坚实的叮当声。这就是一切,我们看到太晚了,一个有诀窍的
   问题,但诀窍和风一样普遍,它现在保护,
   现在打击,并不是我们的。因此,我们今年更加拘谨,可以逃避
   某些对抗,获得某些缺乏抵抗力的交情的释放
   而不着眼于他们可能变成什么,挫败一些
   中层官员的计划,直到有一天终于静止下来,忙碌地,
   在你家台阶。把它放进一个干净的罐子里。把它从一直以来的时间中
   拯救出来,不要把它提升得太远,超越威尼斯人对未来
   早逝的盲目,其中我们模糊地看到了自己形象的预示和
   我们将要发生的事情,像擦伤的皮一样散落在地上。只说
   不能对我们做的事,现在,让我们不断地偏离边界
   陷入疯狂和倒退,到那时,平静地,我们就会明白,优越的学科
   是存在于我们内心的东西,是吸引一切向朝向我们的东西。
   但只不过要小心轻浮的姿态,那是它自己微笑的象征,它把一个人
   紧紧地夹在自己的过去上,在其中一个人迷失了。最好把生人生命的
   否定音量贯彻到只是这一边空虚的
   某一点,这样就可以让一切过去。那些也许饥饿,或口渴,
   或疲倦的人;那些生活在风景中而不完全了解它的人,可能会,
   因为他们的无知和需要帮助在同一季节重新绽放到一个新的
   角度或结,不会再感到不需要。所以,不管怎样,它是
   由少数人,一百,也许一千个仓促受教育的人写的,相信的。

   门会永远在风中砰砰作响,夜蛾袭击屏幕,直到
   我们知道我们又在想什么。那一天也许会指引我们。
   所以梦又弯回了自然的某物(总是这样!),在我们出发的地方
   搁浅,为安全和噪音愤怒。老桨架
   被苔藓包裹着,同样的轮胎印在沙砾上。我们聚在一起
   吵架或做爱,不记得在我们之前有过的
   乖戾野心,也许比我们活得久,但我们不应该知道这一点,不会有什么不同
   即使今晚我躺在这里,现在把一根手指放在这本书的一页上,现在
   放在另一页上,好像把它种在那里,我就可以比在那些拥挤的队伍中预示的
   繁忙的命运长得更大。真的,这没什么不同:
   如果我们所有人都将成为一个人,或另一个,在我有这个不完美的愿景的那一刻
   和明天之间的空间中。然而,当大理石的
   灰尘逐渐被刷去,一个人确实偶然碰到了它,那一瞬间的
   间隔像宝石一样正式,一大群好心的敌军不可能
   取代。我听到它在召唤我。我必须重新开始。
   这是最后一次这样做的机会。我太想要它了,然后这个世界
   被切碎得像一条毯子,等待着这一切的发生,像一个吻一样回到它,
   回到沥青海中那个令人愉快的三角形,那里很少有人难以
   打车,所有的魔法都在起作用,邪恶的人和唯一被误导的人。
   我在我年轻时的短袖睡衣中被重新创造。

  
  

  
Unreleased Movie


   Let’s start in the middle, as usual. Ever since I burnt my mouth
   I talk two ways, first as reluctant explainer, then as someone offstage
   In a dream, hushing those who might wake you from this dream,
   Imperfectly got up as a lutanist. Then sighs, whirrs, screeches
   Become so much its fabric that one listens to see what words materialize
   On the windowpane this time. I don’t want to make an uneasy habit
   Of this though, because when the universe does turn into a horror movie
   It will mean Japanese undershirts for the kiddies and unusual, invisible
   Demerits for those of us caught talking back at the screen, unless, of course,
   The unnatural peace God predicted for us has settled like a giant shell
   Over the ocean floor, in which case we shall all be forgiven and forgotten,
   Like students in a correspondence school. And I mean what shall be saved
   Of us as we live aimed at some near but unattainable mark on the wall?
   Not, one fears, a thing of hitherto unheard-of compacted density
   That might relieve all the years with spaces in them, years of !eggy growth,
   Too much foliage, the wrong light, the wrong taste to things.

   There is so much we know, too much, cruelly, to be expressed in any medium,
   Including silence. And to harbor it means having it eventually leach under
   The spiritual retaining wall that so commends itself to us we can never
   Be other, and become a different habitat altogether in which these transactions
   Are the brittle sounds of insect wings, robbed of the solid clink of something
   Like the reality that now accosts one. It is all, we see too late, a question
   Of having the knack, but the knack is as universal as the wind that now protects,
   Now buffets, and is not ours. Thus, we are more formal this year, can escape
   Certain confrontations, obtain the release of certain compromised acquaintances
   Without looking at what they may have become, foil the plans of a few
   Middle-echelon apparatchiks until the day that finally does come to rest, busily,
   At your doorstep. Put it into a clean jar. Save it from the time which
   Has been, without promoting it too far beyond the Venetian blind of that
   Future’s early demise, in which we saw ourselves pre-figured dimly and what would
   Happen to us scattered all over the ground like bruised rinds. Only say what
   Cannot be done to us, for now, and keep us ever straying over the border into
   Insanity and back, and by then, becalmed, we shall know the superior discipline
   As something lived within us, something that magnetizes everything toward us.
   But beware the merely frivolous gesture, token of its own smile, which clamps
   One supremely to one's own past, in which one is lost. Better the negative
   Volumes of the lives of strangers carried out to a certain point just this side of
   Emptiness, so as to be done with it. And those who may be hungry, or thirsty,
   Or tired; those who lived in a landscape without fully understanding it, may,
   By their ignorance and needing help blossom again in the same season into a new
   Angle or knot, without feeling unwanted again. So, at any rate, it is written
   And believed by some few, a hundred or maybe a thousand of the summarily instructed.

   Doors will forever bang in that wind, night moths assault the screens until
   We know what we are thinking about once more. And that day may guide us.
   So the dream curved back into something natural (it always does!), beached us
   Where we started, furious at being safe and sound again. The old oar-locks
   Encased in moss, the same tire marks in the gravel. And we come together
   To quarrel or make love without any memory of the crabbed ambitions that were there
   Before us, and may outlive us but we shan't know this, it won’t make any difference
   Even tonight as I lie here placing a finger now on one page of the book, now
   On another, as though by planting it there I might outgrow the busy destiny
   Predicted in those teeming lines. Really, it makes no difference:
   If we are all going to be one, or together, in the space between the moment
   I had this imperfect vision and tomorrow. Yet, as marble
   Dust is gradually brushed away one does come upon it, that split-second
   Interval as formal as a jewel, that an army of well-meaning enemies couldn’t
   Possibly displace. I hear it calling to me. I must turn over a new leaf.
   It is the extreme last chance for doing so. I want it so much.And then the world is
   Shredded as a blanket waiting for this to happen, returns to it like a kiss,
   To that agreeable triangle in a sea of asphalt where one so rarely has difficulty
   Getting a taxi, and all magic works, the wicked and the only misguided.
   I am recreated in the short-sleeved pajamas of my youth.
  
  





  
早晨的紧张

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

   这场风暴重建自身
   如同一个洞,在时间
   和世界的疲倦的薄片中,
   以及在它的表面上所有仍有待完成的旧工作中。
   到了早上,丈夫回到岸上,
   请那条鱼帮另一个忙,
   利维坦现在,耐心越来越弱了。他们的回答
   从海浪的锯齿状物中冒出来:

   “太晚了!然而,如果你分析
   把你带到这一层的
   抽象好运,你也必须解开那些
   在你思想蜂巢中禁闭的蜜蜂,把讨厌
   和荣耀带入更清晰的焦点。为什么,
   其他人也会在忘记
   从灌木丛中拔出一根夜光棒之前哀求
   它让我们对自己感到疑惑
   直到幸运或裙带关系走上正轨!只有我说,
   你的独特性并不是那么独特
   门必须在剃光的头上关上
   它们才能弹个半开。拿走这个。
   它的承诺等于权力。”如此强烈地
   被动摇,回到人们的恍惚状态,对任何请愿者
   都没有多大的承诺,即使是卑躬屈膝的人。但是,在它的动机单一的
   夜晚,所有的奖励都是平等的,因为不可能出现的东西
   对从某个敌对星球的有利位置的生存策略
   没有兴趣。事情同样继续,
   就像黑暗和船让天空起伏不平。

  
  

  
Morning Jitters


   And the storm re-established itself
   As a hole in the sheet of time
   And of the weariness of the world,
   And all the old work that remains to be done on its surface.
   Came morning and the husband was back on the shore
   To ask another favor of the fish,
   Leviathan now, patience wearing thin. Whose answer
   Bubbled out of the waves’ crenellations:

   “Too late! Yet if you analyze
   The abstract good fortune that has brought you
   To this floor, you must also unpluck the bees
   Immured in the hive of your mind and bring the nuisance
   And the glory into sharper focus. Why,
   Others too will have implored before forgetting
   To remove a stick of night from the scrub-forest
   That keeps us wondering about ourselves
   Until luck or nepotism has run its course! Only I say,
   Your uniqueness isn’t that unique
   And doors must close in the shaved head
   Before they can spring ajar. Take this.
   Its promise equals power.” To be shaken thus
   Vehemently back into one’s trance doesn’t promise
   Any petitioner much, even the servile ones. But night in its singleness
   Of motive rewards all equally for what cannot
   Appear disinterested survival tactics from the vantage
   Point of some rival planet. Things go on being the same,
   As darkness and ships ruffle the sky.


  
  






  
解谜我

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

   下雨天最好,
   事物在地面产生的夹角
   有一些永恒性;
   在道歉之后不起飞。
   速度表在日落时分。

   正巧在他们说话时,太阳开始消失在云层后面。
   对,所以最好有一个模糊的轮廓
   但覆盖着,紧紧地,围绕一个人像复仇喜悦的
   某种东西的情绪。在树林里
   也都是一样。

   当我对你知道得很少的时候,我想我更喜欢你。
   但恋人就像隐士或猫:他们
   不知道什么时候进来,停止
   折断树枝吃晚饭。
   我在那小车站里等着你

   而且应该,我怀着对你的计划
   和星星的未来的
   全部兴趣,它让我渴望
   只想跪下来,在锯屑中
   寻找快乐。

   六月和钳子几乎不看我们的路。
   那么大胆一点,正在那时
   这朵云想象着我们,想象着我们的故事
   将要发生的一切,我们追上了
   自己,但他们是别的自我。

   随着它,整个城市开始
   成为一个地方生存,在那里人们可以相信搬到
   一个特定的名字,并在那里,然后
   更多的行动清爽地跌回到死亡。
   我们可以在风暴中幸存下来,像彩虹一样

   戴着帽子,害怕追溯我们刚刚
   最近过去的足迹,
   害怕在那里找到一个聚会。
   啊在你整个的一生中,你曾经被这样
   戏弄吗,它变成了你的思想?

   那里还有一些人在混合的
   梅荫和疲惫的阳光下在岸边闲逛,听命于
   对岸的设施,我们夹杂着
   喘不过气来的问候和泪水,最近品尝着
   珍贵的物资。

  
  

  
Riddle Me


   Rainy days are best,
   There is some permanence in the angle
   That things make with the ground;
   In not taking off after apologies.
   The speedometer’s at sundown.

   Even as they spoke the sun was beginning to disappear behind a cloud.
   All right so it’s better to have vague outlines
   But wrapped, tightly, around one’s mood
   Of something like vengeful joy. And in the wood
   It’s all the same too.

   I think I liked you better when I seldom knew you.
   But lovers are like hermits or cats: they
   Don’t know when to come in, to stop
   Breaking off twigs for dinner.
   In the little station I waited for you

   And shall, what with all the interest
   I bear toward plans of yours and the future
   Of stars it makes me thirsty
   Just to go down on my knees looking
   In the sawdust for joy.

   June and the nippers will scarcely look our way.
   And be bold then it’s then
   This cloud imagines us and all that our story
   Was ever going to be, and we catch up
   To ourselves, but they are the selves of others.

   And with it all the city starts to live
   As a place where one can believe in moving
   To a particular name and be there, and then
   It’s more action falling back refreshed into death.
   We can survive the storms, wearing us

   Like rainbow hats, afraid to retrace steps
   To the past that was only recently ours,
   Afraid of finding a party there.
   O in all your life were you ever teased
   Like this, and it became your mind?

   Where still some saunter on the bank in mixed
   Plum shade and weary sun, resigned
   To the installations on the opposite bank, we mix
   Breathless greetings and tears and lately taste
   The precious supplies.

  
  




  
表面上

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

   一个人可能喜欢休息或读书,
   去散步,在餐桌上庆祝,
   心不在焉地拍着狗,同时
   思考着阴郁的想法---这么多单独的
   做法,一个人不知道
   对这事未来要
   干什么。它会再次显露自己,
   或只是在一种人为的平静中
   (它)关于一个人下定决心要做得更好
   但却要达成更艰难的交易,
   下一次?

   园丁不能创造世界
   巫婆也不能破坏它,然而
   这位疯狂的医生却安全地
   呆在他厚墙的实验室里,
   在常绿的边界后面,现在黑色
   反抗着雪,精确得就像袜子的缝
   又拉直了一样。在那边从来
   没有任何消息。

   一种很可能永久的僵化
   似乎已经接管了。钟摆
   静止;季节
   进入季节的匆忙,表面上不完整。
   一种不正当的秩序已经被放置
   在那里的节点,在那里一年分支成
   一种诡计,成奉献的
   另一种疲倦,但那是停滞的:
   一张褪色的旧快照
   很快就会消失。

   因此,没有观众
   和代理人哭得“够多”,
   以至于战斗的钟声停止了,
   失败的记忆像花朵一样优雅
   因此也永远在它的道路上---
   我的意思是,它们忍受着,总是在周围,
   即使它们不在,他们的名字也在,
   一种坚固的,宜居的冒险的
   增加营养的剂量。

   从逐渐变暗,煤
   就燃烧着落下。有两种方法。
   你必须试着从桌子上
   站起来,放松地坐下来,在另一个国家,
   穿着红色的背带
   朝着人们自己的时空。
  
  

  
Ostensibly


   One might like to rest or read,
   Take walks, celebrate the kitchen table,
   Pat the dog absent-mindedly, meanwhile
   Thinking gloomy thoughts---so many separate
   Ways of doing, one is uncertain
   What the future is going to do
   About this. Will it reveal itself again,
   Or only in the artificial calm
   Of one person's resolve to do better
   Yet strike a harder bargain,
   Next time?

   Gardeners cannot make the world
   Nor witches undo it, yet
   The mad doctor is secure
   In his thick-walled laboratory,
   Behind evergreen borders black now
   Against the snow, precise as stocking seams
   Pulled straight again. There is never
   Any news from that side.

   A rigidity that may well be permanent
   Seems to have taken over. The pendulum
   Is stilled; the rush
   Of season into season ostensibly incomplete.
   A perverse order has been laid
   There at the joint where the year branches
   Into artifice one way, into a votive
   Lassitude the other way, but that is stalled:
   An old discolored snapshot
   That soon fades away.

   And so there is no spectator
   And no agent to cry Enough,
   That the battle chime is stilled,
   The defeated memory gracious as flowers
   And therefore also permanent in its way---
   I mean they endure, are always around,
   And even when they are not, their names are,
   A fortified dose of the solid,
   Livable adventure.

   And from growing dim, the coals
   Fall alight. There are two ways to be.
   You must try getting up from the table
   And sitting down relaxed in another country
   Wearing red suspenders
   Toward one’s own space and time.


  
  





  
雪篱笆

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

   节食有助于姿势,
   就像阅读有助于思考。
   他们可能会被迫
   进入另一个形态,我们周围的世界
   会因为大地的概念
   变成黑色。

   雪篱笆强加于那睡眠。
   一直以来,雪选择了不同的
   忙碌形式。它被阻止
   呆在它想呆的地方。
   蓝天将为这首
   由老维克特洛拉演唱的音乐买单
   它唱的是一个恋人和他的心腹
   还有一个躲在桥下
   桶里的女人。

   在西方,一切都变成了肉。
   少数人感激,更多的人厌烦。
   我们可以在那湖边吃午饭,
   喝附近农场的啤酒。
   演员们和我一起
   走向那些平静。
  
  

  
Snow Fence


   Dieting aids posture,
   as reading helps thought.
   They may be forced
   into another shape, and the world
   around us becomes black
   with notions of the ground.

   A snow fence imposes that sleep.
   All along it snow has chosen different shapes
   of busyness. It has been prevented
   from staying where it wanted to.
   Blue sky will pay for this
   music from an old Victrola
   singing about a lover and his henchman
   and the woman hiding in a barrel
   under the bridge.

   In the west it all turns to meat.
   A few are grateful, more are bored.
   We could have lunch by that lake,
   drink beer from a nearby farm.
   And the actors walked with me
   to those calms.


  
  


   
塔希提岛慢跑
   
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我们接近自己,
   然后尖叫说世界是歪的。
   如果一个人能看到
   镜子里他(或她)倒影的轮廓,
   
   最后一个结就会解开,
   那艘大船就会滑入
   大西洋的深处。谁让你
   这么说的?你为什么来这里?
   
   我们需要更多像你这样的人
   告诉我们我们不喜欢什么。的确,
   衰老会在这个过程中消失。
   我们会像年轻的白痴一样
   
   坐在草地上,陷入一些个人的咒语中
   当锅炉爆炸的时候。你会说,
   “我战胜不下那顶帽子,”而我,
   假装不明白,会说,
   “我能给你拿点什么?”
   
Tahiti Trot
   
   
   We close in on ourselves,
   Then yelp that the world is awry.
   If one person could see his(or her),
   reflection outlined in the mirror
   
   the last knot would come untied,
   the great ship slip into the depths
   of the Atlantic Ocean. Who told you
   to say that? Why have you come here?
   
   We need more people like you
   to tell us what we're not like. True,
   aging would get lost in the process.
   We’d be sitting on the grass like young
   
   idiots, involved in some personal spell
   when the boiler exploded. You'd say,
   “I can’t get over that hat,” and I,
   pretending not to understand, would say,
   “Can I get you anything?”
   
   
  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-8 22:05:54 | 显示全部楼层



我收集的作者的短诗都翻译完毕,下面是作者的长诗翻译:



漏壶
   
   (选自Rivers and Mountains)
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   


   天空没有?从向最近掉下来的
   另一个权威的运动返回,在你现在走的路上
   尽你需要大量地用力拧
   剧烈的阳光。为什么只有在你醒来后才会发生的理由
   是因为蒸汽就从那些云层中消失了
   当周围的地形
   都是丘陵地带的时候,而这些丘陵地带
   和在那里的更多空气必须被计入总数:也就是说,
   更多的适合性读进了没有减少的结果,比土地。
   这意味着永远不要接近它背后
   操作的基本原理,比海市蜃楼
   困惑的实体。一半的意义,一半感觉到
   出自于作为夏天空闲深处的
   叶子的运动。扩大到较小的通风气流。
   这个回答很容易被唤醒,从虚假突进到
   有意志的瞬间,几乎没有被召唤入存在
   在它膨胀之前,其方式就像瀑布
   在不同的水平上鼓起。话语的每一刻
   都是真实的一;同样地,没有一个是真实的,
   不过是从空气到空气弹回,一个蛇形的
   姿态是隐藏在和谐信息
   背后的真相,空气隐藏天空的方式,是,实际上,
   就在这一刻,从肢体到肢体撕下它:但是
   天空已经恳求,这大约是
   一种优雅的不缺席,就像任何一方
   都有权利期待的那样:是否它是暂时离开的
   某个造物主的形式,
   带着尊重与超然联姻,因此这些碎片
   被视为光谱的一部分,独立自主
   却象征着它们蹒跚到达的时间;
   另一方面,这一切是否都
   被视为不幸运。一种反复出现的白色,像
   石头脸上的欢乐,催人向前,像
   只意味着灰尘的鼻孔。但是这个论点,
   就是它的方式,已经把这些抛在脑后:它
   是,它会让你相信,前面的白色喧嚣
   事关重大:未成形的喊叫,火箭,
   做作的转身,以及被上层阴影
   向某个信仰的云
   或其未声明的圆周发出的声调。但是光
   也已经从那里消失了,它可能是
   线收缩成一个平面。我们听到了太多
   关于它的进一步行动,最后似乎
   它是我们,而不是我们考虑了它,这是
   提示这个问题的答案,而且
   后者,就像一个在枕头上醒来的人
   有一种梦到整个事情,
   回到梦中去参与,直到
   最后一个词耗尽的感觉;当然,这是
   同一种类的和平,就像在太阳下晒网,
   我们必须在大约一个小时前
   朝着整个事情前进。只要它在那里
   你就会渴望它,因为它墙上的标签陷得
   更深,仿佛被正好合在它身上的
   阳光挖空了;它既是海市蜃楼,又是出场的
   渺小,悲惨的整体都
   被召集,在任何给定的时刻,像你的眼睛
   和它们所说的一切,比如你的手,在失去的
   口音中,超出了任何曾经想再要的梦。
   让这个不断地回来,从---
   更多的无中,真的,比惊讶于你的缺席
   并准备继续对话进入
   那些神秘和接近的地区,它是
   它被推进的精确时间。
   看到它,当它,分开时间,
   把彩色的桨抛向
   分裂的未来的泥沼,只是为了消除混乱
   允许水平面走进它仰慕地
   站在周围的凝视中,就在那时,正是这些
   时刻才是真理,尽管每一个时刻都逐渐变少
   成了周围遥远的夜晚。但
   这不正是它们的盲目吗,相反,难道这不正是
   它们如此互相转化
   任何一方都不会再清楚地看到它的方法的事实吗,它
   不会摇晃想象力,只要它保持
   这样的方法,比得上排斥星光的照耀
   湿透那存在的每个瞬间,以一种自私自利的方式,
   仿佛它们的循环时间只是一些更隐蔽的
   时间的倒转,变得众所周知的复仇目的
   一旦它的结果或多或少地建立了
   地平线的面貌。但是,那些永恒的弹性
   和盲目时刻的条件
   被秘密地连接,这样
   它们的道路就会再次交叉,分离
   只会再次连接在一个最终的假设中,就像一声喊叫升起
   并在发现所走过的距离的
   朗读式性质时永无止境。所有这一切
   并非没有微小的变化和惊喜,然而
   一个无形的喷泉不断地破坏和刷新预言。
   那么,它们的持久性是否仅仅是一种
   被理解的确信的功能,这种
   确信,你可能会说,对调节任何结果
   大有帮助?但一开始没有
   任何声明。只有一种停止呼吸的浪费,
   一种暗哑的呼喊,把一切都塑造成了一种投射出来的
   后遗症,这种后遗症由于扮演了为它们准备的角色而成为孤儿,
   尽管人们不能忘记,这种空虚,这些预言的本质是,
   它只能在这里发生,在这一页上
   抱得太近,难以辨认,发芽出涂改,除此以外它们
   把一切都结束在刚才计划的
   透明球体里,螺旋式地向外更远延伸,它的
   姿态最终溶入天气中。
   这是从第一次会见的悲伤中走出来的
   漫长的路:一种半胜利,一种仍然保护着它的
   事件和停顿的想象的感觉,方式是
   一台望远镜保护着它对远山的看法
   它们全包括,来来往往,
   正确地上升到其他水平,准备在夜幕降临时
   那些小图形停下来的地方过夜,
   旁边是一片空旷的个人风景中某些
   响亮的洪流,它所有的深层优势是
   它是围绕着没有坚持的东西,如此光荣地
   提供的气息,并以同样的精神被接受。
   事实上,在那些高墙里存在乐趣。
   每时每刻似乎都在盯着看到几百年前的
   利润和礼节,一种古老的看的方式
   不断地把嘴唇塑造成微笑。或者
   就像在一个夏日的清晨,站在一个港口的边缘
   四周都是水投下的谨慎的阴影
   一种感觉,再一次,空虚,但整个事情的组织方式
   却很丰富,规模多么神奇,真正意义上的人的水平,巨人的形象
   不比前来向他们请求的人大多少:
   :瞬间不仅给了它自己,也
   给了它保持它,它不变成尘土
   也不变成前面某处手势的方法
   而是变得复杂,像新的黑暗通道中的
   激流,眼泪和笑声,这是
   生命的标志,在这种情况下遥远的生命。
   然而,像往常发生的一样,总会有那么一刻
   行动不再足够,这种
   真正进展的平静
   确定会变成另一种平静的
   碎片,回到结论,它的前提
   是在达成任何正式协议之前进行的,因此
   一份传票是所有这一切背后巨大原因的影子
   就像一个第二个,僵硬的身体背后的你知道是你的那一个。
   现在,眼泪玷污了合同是徒劳的,因为
   它是自由起草的,而且同意作为保险
   靠近它现在正如此有效地
   寻求建立的条件。它把另一个世界缩小,
   望远镜的圆形世界,变成一种非常细小的粉末或灰尘
   小到空间都记不起来。
Clepsydra


原文发不出来,不费那个事了。


   
   
   
   
  





 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-8 22:08:15 | 显示全部楼层
从那以后,任何感觉的迹象都被
   舒适和安全所缩短,某种优雅甚至
   像船上的配件,毕竟这是
   世界上最正常的东西。是的,也许,但“毕竟”这话
   对于理解这一条件几乎
   夸张的严格性很重要,为什么,尽管如此,
   前者持续的有效性似乎
   在很长一段时间内都不大可能恢复。
   “毕竟,”那也是很有可能的,的确
   在一天的扩展视角中各种各样的事情
   都是可能的,这就像它高兴得脸红,而且越来越红,
   所以光会沉入它自己,变得又黑又重
   像一个被墨水玷污的表面:最近的情况
   看起来有些不太好或
   不太正确:所有这些
   新建筑的目的不是
   为每个都感到如此重要关系的交流提供一个
   保护的媒介吗,现在它不是给自己一个宫殿的气氛吗?
   可是她的头发从来没有这么长。
   那是一种幸福感,如果你愿意的话,仿佛一种最微小的
   遥远冲动把整个表面描绘得超级敏感
   但它的强烈却仍然默许着
   这种已经过去的善良的本质
   它是对过去如何是你的一种
   甜蜜的承认,如果你愿意,不仅保持无形
   而且用这种方式进行
   荒谬的阐述,并以此延长你的无所发现之舞
   在脆弱,无用的建筑中,尽管如此
   这是你的欲望地图,无可厚非,超越
   疯狂和接近夜晚的脚趾,只要
   你想这样安排它。你的行为
   是对抗这宁静的入侵的
   哨兵。也许你成功了很久,也许你的岁月
   成为即使现在也在耗尽它自己
   进入瞒骗我们的最后一次努力;这只能是
   世界地图:在它们的失败比如这种半岛中,成为
   我们不愿接近的延长,而且
   美好的日子显著地继承于
   我们将永远不会一直被诱惑去居住的事件。我
   并不是说一个部分成功的尝试
   是对立的;任何人都能读到那页,它只需
   在他面前被闯入。我是说,现在,更广泛的东西,
   所有的私人方面的总和,在外面的东西中
   变得清晰可见,就像在岩石
   和树叶中,就像遥远的以太的无形的眼神
   和突然封闭你自己的铁拳里。
   我从这一整体上看到了自己,同时
   我只是一个透明的图表,是礼貌和
   私人的话语,即将落下的肯定。
   即使这一生命的碎片,我也要感谢你
   如此接近,以至于把对其他自愿生活的知识
   封闭在外,所以,把它的根留在黑暗中,直到你
   成熟,当你的头发实际上是
   树枝,光从它们中倾泻而过。
   它以一种如此的方式强化回声,从而
   形成一个通道来吸收每一个正确的运动。
   这样,任何方向都是正确的,
   首先引导你,通过你到
   我自己,那是超越你,是一个与空间一样的东西,
   那就是那些口吃的车辆,依然未知,
   真心地吃着天空,因为差异
   永远无法弥补:所以,为什么不审视距离呢?
   他似乎一辈子都在再三重复着
   同样的愚蠢的话;与此同时
   婴儿的命运也温和地成熟了;那天晚上
   就要有一个会议或他们的聚集。
   当然,他离开了它,因为他快乐地躺着,在
   那片田野的温热边缘或任何一个
   中心开始秘密搅动的东西上醒来,但更多地是,因为
   分钟的连续籍由接受它们,就像人们接受了雨滴
   因为它们形成了阵雨,而不必担心接下来的好天气。
   为什么所有的气候和音乐不成长就
   不应该平等?应该有一种长久的满足
   平衡,把一切都保持在适当的位置,照顾
   发育不良的记忆,帮助它们独自站着
   回到世界,而不必再回头看
   它们可能变成什么,即使这样做,它们
   可能只是曾经是的一个事实,看不见,
   仍然像空气一样环绕着我们,是我们最细微的脚步
   和呈现在它们上的音符之间的分界力。
   因为一切都是相对的
   我们在纯粹智慧和娱乐的球体中
   永远不会看到,比摸索不完整的
   前存在的阴影更多,如此靠近它的燃烧,像嘴
   闭上你所有努力,像死亡的
   时刻,但停留,愤怒地把它的意图设计
   燃烧到你大脑的房间中,直到
   你独自醒来,确定它
   不是梦,你唯一的线索,通向为什么墙壁
   会打开你,为什么窗户不再谈论
   时间,而是它们自己,透明的守护者,你
   为隐藏的东西而发明。它现在已经
   长大,或者离开了,就像一颗宝石
   存在于没有人去看它的时候,而这种
   存在会削弱你自己。也许你在这里被耽搁
   只是为了让别的地方某人目标的特殊光芒
   在房间的锐角意外地
   燃烧。这不是问题,那么,
   没有白白生活。意思是,你的这种
   遥远形象,你真实存在的方式,是对你
   如何看待自己的考验,不管你是否
   犹豫,都可以假设你赢了,这种
   木质的和外在的表现
   会让你的意思完全回响
   没有留下任何东西,从那周长现在闪亮
   带着前可能性成为现实,你
   必须像衣服一样穿它们,在你的单一
   和孪生存在的阴影中移动,原封不动地清醒在
   对它的欣赏中
   ,而早晨依然存在,在身体被夜晚的脸改变之前。
   
   

   
   Thereafter any signs of feeling were cut short by
   The comfort and security, a certain elegance even,
   Like the fittings of a ship, that are after all
   The most normal things in the world. Yes, perhaps, but the words
   “After all” are important for understanding the almost
   Exaggerated strictness of the condition, and why, in spite of this,
   It seemed the validity of the former continuing was
   Not likely to be reinstated for a long time.
   “After all,” that too might be possible, as indeed
   All kinds of things are possible in the widening angle of
   The day, as it comes to blush with pleasure and increase,
   So that light sinks into itself, becomes dark and heavy
   Like a surface stained with ink: there was something
   Not quite good or correct about the way
   Things were looking recently: hasn’t the point
   Of all this new construction been to provide
   A protected medium for the exchanges each felt of such vital
   Concern, and wasn't it now giving itself the airs of a palace?
   And yet her hair had never been so long.
   It was a feeling of well-being, if you will, as though a smallest
   Distant impulse had rendered the whole surface ultra-sensitive
   But its fierceness was still acquiescence
   To the nature of this goodness already past
   And it was a kind of sweet acknowledgment of how
   The past is yours, to keep invisible if you wish
   But also to make absurd elaborations with
   And in this way prolong your dance of non-discovery
   In brittle, useless architecture that is nevertheless
   The map of your desires, irreproachable, beyond
   Madness and the toe of approaching night, if only
   You desire to arrange it this way. Your acts
   Are sentinels against this quiet
   Invasion. Long may you prosper, and may your years
   Be the throes of what is even now exhausting itself
   In one last effort to outwit us; it could only be a map
   Of the world: in their defeat such peninsulas as become
   Prolongations of our reluctance to approach, but also
   Fine days on whose memorable successions of events
   We shall be ever afterwards tempted to dwell. I am
   Not speaking of a partially successful attempt to be
   Opposite; anybody at all can read that page, it has only
   To be thrust in front of him. I mean now something much broader,
   The sum total of all the private aspects that can ever
   Become legible in what is outside, as much in the rocks
   And foliage as in the invisible look of the distant
   Ether and in the iron fist that suddenly closes over your own.
   I see myself in this totality, and meanwhile
   I am only a transparent diagram, of manners and
   Private words with the certainty of being about to fall.
   And even this crumb of life I also owe to you
   For being so close as to seal out knowledge of that other
   Voluntary life, and so keep its root in darkness until your
   Maturity when your hair will actually be the branches
   Of a tree with the light pouring through them.
   It intensifies echoes in such a way as to
   Form a channel to absorb every correct motion.
   In this way any direction taken was the right one,
   Leading first to you, and through you to
   Myself that is beyond you and which is the same thing as space,
   That is the stammering vehicles that remain unknown,
   Eating the sky in all sincerity because the difference
   Can never be made up: therefore, why not examine the distance?
   It seemed he had been repeating the same stupid phrase
   Over and over throughout his life; meanwhile
   Infant destinies had suavely matured; there was
   To be a meeting or collection of them that very evening.
   He was out of it of course for having lain happily awake
   On the tepid fringes of that field or whatever
   Whose center was beginning to churn darkly, but even more for having
   The progression of minutes by accepting them, as one accepts drops of rain
   As they form a shower, and without worrying about the fine weather that will come after.
   Why shouldn’t all climate and all music be equal
   Without growing? There should be an invariable balance of
   Contentment to hold everything in place, ministering
   To stunted memories, helping them stand alone
   And return into the world, without ever looking back at
   What they might have become, even though in doing so they
   Might just once have been the truth that, invisible,
   Still surrounds us like the air and is the dividing force
   Between our slightest steps and the notes taken on them.
   It is because everything is relative
   That we shall never see in that sphere of pure wisdom and
   Entertainment much more than groping shadows of an incomplete
   Former existence so close it burns like the mouth that
   Closes down over all your effort like the moment
   Of death, but stays, raging and burning the design of
   Its intentions into the house of your brain, until
   You wake up alone, the certainty that it
   Wasn't a dream your only clue to why the walls
   Are turning on you and why the windows no longer speak
   Of time but are themselves, transparent guardians you
   Invented for what there was to hide. Which has now
   Grown up, or moved away, as a jewel
   Exists when there is no one to look at it, and this
   Existence saps your own. Perhaps you are being kept here
   Only so that somewhere else the peculiar light of someone's
   Purpose can blaze unexpectedly in the acute
   Angles of the rooms. It is not a question, then,
   Of having not lived in vain. What is meant is that this distant
   Image of you, the way you really are, is the test
   Of how you see yourself, and regardless of whether or not
   You hesitate, it may be assumed that you have won, that this
   Wooden and external representation
   Returns the full echo of what you meant
   With nothing left over, from that circumference now alight
   With ex-possibilities become present fact, and you
   Must wear them like clothing, moving in the shadow of
   Your single and twin existence, waking in intact
   Appreciation of it, while morning is still and before the body
   Is changed by the faces of evening.
   
   
   
    

  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-10 22:15:50 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2021-6-11 20:43 编辑



   
溜冰者

   (选自 Rivers and Mountains )
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   1.

   这些分贝
   是一种鞭笞,一种进入存在加入的
   声音的实体,并且是分开的。
   在温暖的二月天,它们的颜色
   促进了大量的惯性,而臀部
   从貌似的紫罗兰中刺出,进入一种新的
   需求,它难倒了绝对,因为在无限系列的
   下一个意义上,这并不是新的
   但,可以说,预先存在的或预先貌似的
   在这样一种方式中,比如说滑稽地与意想不到的对比
   并以某种方式把我们都推向毁灭。

   这里一条围巾飞行,那里一声兴奋的呼唤响起。

   答案是,它是新奇的
   引导这些快速叶片到冰上
   投射到一个更精细的表达(但以能量
   为代价)其轮廓我不记得。
   颜色责骂着从我们溜走。人类的头脑
   除了一些湿透的“垃圾”或哀叹的凄凉的两个音符的主题外
   也许什么都不能保留。

   但是水面泛起涟漪,整个光线都变了。

   我们这些孩子为我们的身体感到羞耻
   但我们笑着,要求着,再次谈论性
   一切都很好。清晨刺耳的波浪
   像煤气一样飘进天空。
   但有多少幸存?我们任何一个人有多少幸存下来?
   我们收集文章---殖民地的邮票
   上面有油腻的取消标记,淡紫色、品红和巧克力色,
   或者我们在街上看到的长相滑稽的狗,或者亮丽的评论。
   人们收集子弹。印第安纳州,印第安纳波利斯的一名男子收集各个时代的弹弓,以此类推。

   从我们的收藏中减去,尽管,这些会持续一段时间,漫无目的地收藏。我们仍然支持他们。
   但他们的能量太少了!在膨胀的沙滩上
   黑暗恶魔摇摇晃晃,风暴恶魔紧随其后!
   诚然,在那可怕的混乱中,悦耳的鸣叫声确实在继续,
   某些回声并没完全令惊恐的耳膜不快。
   一些阵发性是手鼓的晚餐,另一些显示议钢琴室或风琴阁楼
   最不和谐的夜晚迷住我们,甚至死后。这,毕竟,可能是幸福:大号音符淹没在大洪水中,木琴、小提琴、帽贝、优雅音符的破裂,被称为蛇的乐器、中提琴、风琴、锁骨、弹球机、电钻、还能知道些什么!
   演出很快就到达你的耳朵;无声而泪痕斑斑,在尸检的震撼中,你站在那里聆听,尤其
   被头发的记忆淹没,那是你井喷的一部分,
   那是竖琴、钹、钟琴、三角琴、木鱼、英国号角和节拍器的咯咯声!仍然没有预感,前后没有痛苦的感觉。
   通道保持,没有让步。你的确到达很远。

   但从“不感兴趣”出发到“老而无趣,”
   被朋友包围,虽然是晚年,
   聆听精神的翅膀,虽然遥远……
   为什么我要急忙脱掉衣服砍倒你?
   “我是昨天,”我的缺点是永恒的。
   我不希望频繁到场,因为我知道
   自己不足以满足你目前的要求
   我有一个模糊的直觉,我是另一个我们与其一起开始的“我”。
   我的脸颊像一堵到你泪水的空白的墙,渴望
   爱抚那另一个,仿佛你让他永远地离开了。

   从那以后,视觉的证据
   被生命垂危的树木的巨大阴影所取代。

   一个孩子对这个
   正常的、不成形的实体的奉献....

   当这些词轻快地飞过时被遗忘,每一次
   都像从低空飘落的雪,或是从树林里冲出来的兔子一样把意思带下来。
   多么奇怪,狭窄的透视线
   似乎总是相遇,虽然平行,而一个疯狂的鬼魂却能做到这一点,
   会使房子在远处显得那么遥远,就像
   似乎那马,拖着透视线的雪橇。
   远处暗淡的旗帜,将死去…什么都没有得到整理。在它们笼子里的猪

   还有这么多的雪,却杂乱着垃圾和灰烬
   好让大教堂能生长。出自于这个春天,建造一个可以忍受的
   灌木丛的事务,在橡树魔杖的后面可以感觉到大海,无声地倾泻。
   春天带着冬天的承诺,黑色的常春藤再一次
   在门廊上,黄色的透视带就位
   马靠近它们哭泣。

   今天早上穿过我脑子的如此多
   我只能给你一个模糊的报告:
   已经是午饭后,那些男人们正回到水泥搅拌机周围的位置
   我试图分类发生在我身上的事情。杰拉德的一捆信,
   以及昨天埋藏在报纸封底上那一点可怕的新闻。
   今天早上你的消息,在雪地里。有时
   坏消息的间隔是如此敏锐以至于…人类的大脑,带着一盘图像
   似乎一个魔术师的神灯,在我手的远处投射着黑色
   和橙色的玻璃纸阴影…这种反应很微弱,
   当我们想四处走动,想知道我们现在的位置,那椅子的扶手是什么。

   一阵大风举起这些纸板
   到空中水平线。马上,马的透视图
   消失在一条弯弯曲曲的线条的巨大护身符中。里面有鳄鱼的图像变得不再明显。
   因此,一股狂风净化着,就像一位新的统治者
   编辑新的法律,把街道的气息扫进了
   后面的垃圾堆。电影已改变---
   扇形雨篷上的大潮已经变干,变成了枯萎的颜色。
   没有风不穿过一个人的房子,不进入炉子的内脏,
   不在镜子上的灰尘中刮伤一个名字---说,那么字母,
   干草,冬天的果实又如何---天哪!一切都是垃圾!
   风表明了腐朽的优势
   同时也使它们远离人类的视线。
   风的摄政王,风神,是所有尘世权贵的象征
   因为握着这个令人作呕的,溃烂的过程,通过这个过程,我们事后的
   想法被净化。


              一个女孩慢慢沿一排台阶下降。
   风和叛国是搭档,把秘密交给军警。

   延长拱门。次要行为的强度。当滑冰者详细描述他们的距离,
   把一条单独的线带到终点。回到大众,他们互相结合
   在一片令人难以置信的黑暗色彩的混乱中互相涂抹,再次出现,把主题带到
   一些小距离,就像渔船从陆地上发展出不同的抛物线,
   把精致的主题带到遥远,进入遥远,带到天涯海角,带到地球的尽头!

   但这一年的盛装,变化多端的空气
   使每一个都得到了满足。留下未完成的词组,
   在木烟的映衬下,半个勾勒出的手势。女孩们的喉咙里渗出了
   丰富的汁液,那些黏糊糊的词语,说出一半,不再指望,
   一种全然的不信,很快就被依次消失的闲置问题所取代。
   慢慢地,情绪转向把它自己看作
   被遗忘在路边的顽童。新计划出台了,新的税收,
   土方工程。时间又变亮了。
   女孩们在它里面醒来。

   最好呆在室内。因为在如此高的精度中
   存在误差。当火焰被煽起,一厢情愿的想法出现
   它承载着它自己的先知,它尖锐的忽视。正如一个欲望
   安顿在漫长的春日的末端,在石南花、浇过的嫩枝和干过的迅速移动的田野,
   于是误差也被编成了尚未诞生的欲望。

   因此,这邮件必须继续(是否被伪造成
   永远被卷入,可悲地,与人们自己的想象?)。
   工作室的灯光突然侵入了平开窗---价值是
   她现在所知道的。但地板正在慢慢地被拉开
   就像那些透明的脚下的稻草。
   而赫尔加,在泽西市的一间极小的公寓里
   紫罗兰正向同一种衣服做出反应,在反抗
   保守烈火的花丛中,又在画着死亡...搏动着
   而且对这座城市中华丽的摇曳距离
   一无所知。立方体的死亡是重复的吗。或者在音乐专辑里。

   现在是时候对这一切的意义
   有一个大致的了解。赫尔加的含义,设置的重要性,等等。
   对布鲁斯音乐的描述。瓶子
   和各种废弃物品上的标签应加以说明。
   但谁能确定是哪一个?
   这不是一个死亡陷阱,想放太多的东西进去
   于是地板凹陷,就像在一架钢琴的重压下,或是一个钢琴腿的女孩
   和一整栋纸牌屋来到一个人的耳朵周围絮絮不休!

   但这是问题的一个重要方面
   我还没有准备好讨论它,完全没有准备好,
   这遗漏的事情。它上面链上了新奇的
   或专制的,或密集的或愚蠢的重要性。还不如用夸张的方式来唤起
   对它的注意,或许。但是引起注意
   和解释是两码事,正如我所说的,我还没有准备好
   用昂贵的解释材料来给短语划线,不应该,
   暂时也不会这样做。除非说,这些线条的
   食肉方式是吞噬它们自己的本性,只留下
   一种苦涩的缺席印象,正如我们所知,这涉及存在,但至少。
   尽管如此,这些都是基本的缺席,挣扎着站起来离开它们自己。

   这,因此,是这首诗主题的一部分,以降雪的形式出现:
   也就是说,个体的麦片对于整体的重要性并不是必不可少的,这个问题变得如此的不言而喻
   以至于它们的重要性再次被质疑,被进一步否认,并且一次又一次如此。
   因此,无论是单个麦片的重要性
   还是风暴的整体印象,如果有的话,都不是它是什么,
   而是一系列重复跳跃的韵律,从抽象到积极,再后退到更稀薄的抽象。

   结果是温和的效果。

   我再也不想出去加入那一切,会和我
   安静的“苦痛”呆在这里。除此之外,这场风暴几乎结束了
   它把半身像的脸冻成了一种奇怪的样式,嘴唇
   和牙齿是整件事中最独特的部分。
   解释....就是这种疯狂

   简单的老式因果关系有什么问题?
   留下一个孤独的浪漫印象的树木,天空?
   实际上,谁会被这些虚假的解释瞬间忽悠,
   认为它们很重要?所以我们回到旧的,不精确的感情,共同的
   知识,适当的痛苦的重要性和一些温和的幸福的
   偶尔瞥见。舒伯特抒情曲的世界。不过,我还是
   被那种想摆脱这一切的冲动所吸引,凭借
   更深入地走进去并纠正整个管理不善的混乱。但我恐怕
   对你没有帮助。再见。

   就像气球之于诗人,所以之于大地来说
   它让树木的混合物多样化。它们的种类越多,他的经验
   就越广阔。有时
   你会看到它们和一栋房子的顶层在同一平面,
   为了宣传的目的在那儿吊起。或者像孩子们
   用一种戒指,而不是管子,做的那些泡泡,可能用一些清洁剂
   而不是日常普通的肥皂和水。我在哪里?那气球
   在陆地上沉思地飘荡着,对它的评论并不确切;
   这些是诗人体验的范围。他可以躲在树上
   像一个树神,但聪明地不愿意,让气球
   把他从存在中闲置,就像一辆汽车闲置。穿过未知的地平线
   以更快、更猛烈的速度旅行,飞驰入夜色
   渴望变得越来越不像某人,把整个事情
   (于是他相信)带出他的系统。发明着系统。
   我们是某个系统的一部分,他认为,就像太阳是
   太阳系的一部分一样。树木阻挡了他的接近。他似乎只穿着
   海法外套,从一边看。一副“半人”的样子激起了那些诚实人的厌恶
   回来,从牛奶被冷冻,水泵堆得很高,有一顶雪帽子,
   还有“禁止溜冰”的标志。但在这里,他是最好的,
   与他那令人伤脑筋的存在的不苟言笑的替代品面对面。
   正好安放在他的困境面前,四肢着地,在未知的悲惨景象之前。
   但是知道男人们从哪里来。就是这样,为专辑举起蜡烛。



The Skaters


   1.

   These decibels
   Are a kind of flagellation, an entity of sound
   Into which being enters, and is apart.
   Their colors on a warm February day
   Make for masses of inertia, and hips
   Prod out of the violet-seeming into a new kind
   Of demand that stumps the absolute because not new
   In the sense of the next one in an infinite series
   But, as it were, pre-existing or pre-seeming in
   Such a way as to contrast funnily with the unexpectedness
   And somehow push us all into perdition.

   Here a scarf flies, there an excited call is heard.

   The answer is that it is novelty
   That guides these swift blades o'er the ice
   Projects into a finer expression (but at the expense
   Of energy) the profile I cannot remember.
   Colors slip away from and chide us. The human mind
   Cannot retain anything except perhaps the dismal two-note theme
   Of some sodden “dump” or lament.

   But the water surface ripples, the whole light changes.

   We children are ashamed of our bodies
   But we laugh and, demanded, talk of sex again
   And all is well. The waves of morning harshness
   Float away like coal-gas into the sky.
   But how much survives? How much of any one of us survives?
   The articles we’d collect---stamps of the colonies
   With greasy cancellation marks, mauve, magenta and chocolate,
   Or funny-looking dogs we'd see in the street, or bright remarks.
   One collects bullets. An Indianapolis, Indiana man collects slingshots of all epochs, and so on.

   Subtracted from our collections, though, these go on a little while, collecting aimlessly. We still support them.
   But so little energy they have! And up the swollen sands
   Staggers the darkness fiend, with the storm fiend close behind him!
   True, melodious tolling does go on in that awful pandemonium,
   Certain resonances are not utterly displeasing to the terrified eardrum.
   Some paroxysms are dinning of tambourine, others suggest piano room or organ loft
   For the most dissonant night charms us, even after death. This, after all, may be happiness: tuba notes awash on the great flood, ruptures of xylophone, violins, limpets, grace-notes, the musical instrument called serpent, viola da gambas, aeolian harps, clavicles, pinball machines, electric drills, que sais-je encore!
   The performance has rapidly reached your ear; silent and tear-stained, in the post-mortem shock, you stand listening, awash
   With memories of hair in particular, part of the welling that is you,
   The gurgling of harp, cymbal, glockenspiel, triangle, temple block, English horn and metronome! And still no presentiment, no feeling of pain before or after.
   The passage sustains, does not give. And you have come far indeed.

   Yet to go from “not interesting” to “old and uninteresting,”
   To be surrounded by friends, though late in life,
   To hear the wings of the spirit, though far....
   Why do I hurriedly undrown myself to cut you down?
   “I am yesterday,” and my fault is eternal.
   I do not expect constant attendance, knowing myself insufficient for your present demands
   And I have a dim intuition that I am that other “I” with which we began.
   My cheeks as blank walls to your tears and eagerness
   Fondling that other, as though you had let him get away forever.

   The evidence of the visual henceforth replaced
   By the great shadow of trees falling over life.

   A child’s devotion
   To this normal, shapeless entity....

   Forgotten as the words fly briskly across, each time
   Bringing down meaning as snow from a low sky, or rabbits flushed from a wood.
   How strange that the narrow perspective lines
   Always seem to meet, although parallel, and that an insane ghost could do this,
   Could make the house seem so much farther in the distance, as
   It seemed to the horse, dragging the sledge of a perspective line.
   Dim banners in the distance, to die. ... And nothing put to rights. The pigs in their cages

   And so much snow, but it is to be littered with waste and ashes
   So that cathedrals may grow. Out of this spring builds a tolerable
   Affair of brushwood, the sea is felt behind oak wands, noiselessly pouring.
   Spring with its promise of winter, and the black ivy once again
   On the porch, its yellow perspective bands in place
   And the horse nears them and weeps.

   So much has passed through my mind this morning
   That I can give you but a dim account of it:
   It is already after lunch, the men are returning to their positions around the cement mixer
   And I try to sort out what has happened to me. The bundle of Gerard's letters,
   And that awful bit of news buried on the back page of yesterday’s paper.
   Then the news of you this morning, in the snow. Sometimes the interval
   Of bad news is so brisk that... And the human brain, with its tray of images
   Seems a sorcerer’s magic lantern, projecting black and orange cellophane shadows
   On the distance of my hand ... The very reaction's puny,
   And when we seek to move around, wondering what our position is now, what the arm of that chair.

   A great wind lifted these cardboard panels
   Horizontal in the air. At once the perspective with the horse
   Disappeared in a bigamure of squiggly lines. The image with the crocodile in it became no longer apparent.
   Thus a great wind cleanses, as a new ruler
   Edits new laws, sweeping the very breath of the streets
   Into posterior trash. The films have changed---
   The great tides on the scalloped awning have turned dry and blight-colored.
   No wind that does not penetrate a man's house, into the very bowels of the furnace,
   Scratching in dust a name on the mirror---say, and what about letters,
   The dried grasses, fruits of the winter---gosh! Everything is trash!
   The wind points to the advantages of decay
   At the same time as removing them far from the sight of men.
   The regent of the winds, Aeolus, is a symbol for all earthly potentates
   Since holding this sickening, festering process by which we are cleansed
   Of afterthought.


             A girl slowly descended the line of steps.
   The wind and treason are partners, turning secrets over to the military police.

   Lengthening arches. The intensity of minor acts. As skaters elaborate their distances,
   Taking a separate line to its end. Returning to the mass, they join each other
   Blotted in an incredible mess of dark colors, and again reappearing to take the theme
   Some little distance, like fishing boats developing from the land different parabolas,
   Taking the exquisite theme far, into farness, to Land's End, to the ends of the earth!

   But the livery of the year, the changing air
   Bring each to fulfillment. Leaving phrases unfinished,
   Gestures half-sketched against woodsmoke. The abundant sap
   Oozes in girls’ throats, the sticky words, half-uttered, unwished for,
   A blanket disbelief, quickly supplanted by idle questions that fade in turn.
   Slowly the mood turns to look at itself as some urchin
   Forgotten by the roadside. New schemes are got up, new taxes,
   Earthworks. And the hours become light again.
   Girls wake up in it.

   It is best to remain indoors. Because there is error
   In so much precision. As flames are fanned, wishful thinking arises
   Bearing its own prophets, its pointed ignoring. And just as a desire
   Settles down at the end of a long spring day, over heather and watered shoot and dried rush field,
   So error is plaited into desires not yet born.

   Therefore the post must be resumed (is being falsified
   To be forever involved, tragically, with one's own image?).
   The studio light suddenly invaded the long casement---values were what
   She knows now. But the floor is being slowly pulled apart
   Like straw under those limpid feet.
   And Helga, in the minuscule apartment in Jersey City
   Is reacting violet to the same kind of dress, is drawing death
   Again in blossoms against the reactionary fire ... pulsing
   And knowing nothing to superb lambent distances that intercalate
   This city. Is the death of the cube repeated. Or in the musical album.

   It is time now for a general understanding of
   The meaning of all this. The meaning of Helga, importance of the setting, etc.
   A description of the blues. Labels on bottles
   And all kinds of discarded objects that ought to be described.
   But can one ever be sure of which ones?
   Isn't this a death-trap, wanting to put too much in
   So the floor sags, as under the weight of a piano, or a piano-legged girl
   And the whole house of cards comes dinning down around one’s ears!

   But this is an important aspect of the question
   Which I am not ready to discuss, am not at all ready to,
   This leaving-out business. On it hinges the very importance of what's novel
   Or autocratic, or dense or silly. It is as well to call attention
   To it by exaggeration, perhaps. But calling attention
   Isn't the same thing as explaining, and as I said I am not ready
   To line phrases with the costly stuff of explanation, and shall not,
   Will not do so for the moment. Except to say that the carnivorous
   Way of these lines is to devour their own nature, leaving
   Nothing but a bitter impression of absence, which as we know involves presence, but still.
   Nevertheless these are fundamental absences, struggling to get up and be off themselves.

   This, thus is a portion of the subject of this poem Which is in the form of falling snow:
   That is, the individual flakes are not essential to the importance of the whole's becoming so much of a truism
   That their importance is again called in question, to be denied further out, and again and again like this.
   Hence, neither the importance of the individual flake,
   Nor the importance of the whole impression of the storm, if it has any, is what it is,
   But the rhythm of the series of repeated jumps, from abstract into positive and back to a slightly less diluted abstract.

   Mild effects are the result.

   I cannot think any more of going out into all that, will stay here
   With my quiet schmerzen. Besides the storm is almost over
   Having frozen the face of the bust into a strange style with the lips
   And the teeth the most distinct part of the whole business.
   It is this madness to explain....

   What is the matter with plain old-fashioned cause-and-effect?
   Leaving one alone with romantic impressions of the trees, the sky?
   Who, actually, is going to be fooled one instant by these phony explanations,
   Think them important? So back we go to the old, imprecise feelings, the
   Common knowledge, the importance of duly suffering and the occasional glimpses
   Of some balmy felicity. The world of Schubert’s lieder. I am fascinated
   Though by the urge to get out of it all, by going
   Further in and correcting the whole mismanaged mess. But am afraid I'll
   Be of no help to you. Good-bye.

   As balloons are to the poet, so to the ground
   Its varied assortment of trees. The more assorted they are, the
   Vaster his experience. Sometimes
   You catch sight of them on a level with the top story of a house,
   Strung up there for publicity purposes. Or like those bubbles
   Children make with a kind of ring, not a pipe, and probably using some detergent
   Rather than plain everyday soap and water. Where was I? The balloons
   Drift thoughtfully over the land, not exactly commenting on it;
   These are the range of the poet’s experience. He can hide in trees
   Like a hamadryad, but wisely prefers not to, letting the balloons
   Idle him out of existence, as a car idles. Traveling faster
   And more furiously across unknown horizons, belted into the night
   Wishing more and more to be unlike someone, getting the whole thing
   (So he believes) out of his system. Inventing systems.
   We are a part of some system, thinks he, just as the sun is part of
   The solar system. Trees brake his approach. And he seems to be wearing but
   Haifa coat, viewed from one side. A “half-man” look inspiring the disgust of honest folk
   Returning from, the milk frozen, the pump heaped high with a chapeau of snow,
   The “No Skating” sign as well. But it is here that he is best,
   Face to face with the unsmiling alternatives of his nerve-wracking existence.
   Placed squarely in front of his dilemma, on all fours before the lamentable spectacle of the unknown.
   Yet knowing where men are coming from. It is this, to hold the candle up to the album.







未完待续。。。。。。。。。。。。。

 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-14 23:12:08 | 显示全部楼层
2.
   
   在标有“存局候领”的窗口下...
   
   这应该是一封投给你
   一分钟就到一边的信,
   内容是,从远处看,这种抛掷多么和谐,
   就像大海或树梢,只有
   当你更近时,它的悲伤才是多么微弱和可感知。
   它可以握在手里。
   
   所有这些都必须进入一封信。
   还有被生活,找人的感觉,
   渐渐平静和放松。
   
   但没有个人的参与:
   这些冷热的突然爆发
   笼罩在无影无踪的强度中
   这一瞬间削弱了它们的所有特征。
   这样你马上就知道开始休息。
   
   从前,在这些岛屿上有一个点,
   来看岩石腐烂的地方,
   在远处变成了一个小斑点。
   
   但战争是野蛮的…即使是最有耐心的学者,现在
   也很难完全精确地重建旧堡垒到它从前所是。
   树木继续在它上面摇曳。里面某个地方还有一个小博物馆。
   服装史不比大迁徙史少了引人入胜。
   我想把你们都毁坏。
   故意捏造你那些关于骑士精神如何被居住的
   老舔屁股的观念。蜂房里发生的事。
   但整个肮脏的混乱,包括误解,
   关于束腰外衣纽扣的问题等等,任何一个人有多少在那里。
   
   平静地,在旧墙的阴影下的香蕉和勺子后面
   返回阵雨中的屋檐下很凉爽
   它可能是在我们进去的时候落下的,检查蝴蝶结,
   旧灯泡插座,放在粉刷开始剥落的地方
   这里那里一张旧地图或插图。这里就有一张,例如---
   看起来像是天气图...或一种用
   褪色的蜀葵,或抽象的水果和树胶串的设计盘绕成的壁纸。
   
   但你怎么总是呆在家里,用油腻的放大镜盯着被沉重盖销的邮票看?
   慢慢地,白天的不连贯融化在
   夜晚的普遍一厢情愿中
   细读海湾上空的某些星星。
   镇定的天空倾泻出平静的瀑布
   只有对蛇的恐惧才能阻止我们在户外过夜。
   这一天肯定结束了。
   
   老天爷,你曾经在我们头顶扭动,
   你如雨点般站立,每当一声齐射...老天爷,
   你躺在那个老人之上,却没有被毁掉,堡垒,
   你能听见,在那里,我在说什么吗?
   
   因为我模仿的正是你,
   你无形的拒绝。几乎正确的印象
   被新闻纸印证,它是如此好。
   我在那里呼唤你,但我不认为你会回答我。
   
   因为我被判处要在这架钢琴关闭的盖子上
   敲打我的手指,这颗乏味的星球,地球
   当它向你眨着眼睛,穿过那充满抱负的、不断增长的距离,
   黑夜前的最后一缕火花。
   
   赞成风暴有很多话要说
   但你似乎已经放弃了它们,赞成无尽的光。
   我不能说我认为这种变化是一种太多的改善。
   在这些永远持续的夏夜里,有一种可怕的东西。…
   
   我们已经接近摩尔人的海岸,我想,在一只平底船里。
   我不知道我会不会有朋友在那里
   未来对我是否会比过去更友善,比如说,
   我都开始心烦了,却发现不是这样。
   
   不过,我已经为这次航行做好了准备,也为你可能想提到的任何事情。
   不是说我不怕,而是时间所剩无几。
   你可能已经安排好了旅行,并且知道这种感觉。
   突然,一天早上,小火车到了车站,但是天哪,它
   
   这么大!比任何人告诉你的都要大,快得多。
   一个有胡子的学生穿着一件旧的宽松大衣等着上车。
   “你为什么要去‘那儿’,”他们都说。“在另一个方向更好。”
   所以就是这样。那里的人是自由的,无论如何。但你要去的地方没有人。
   
   仍然有公园和图书馆可以参观,“鲁昂市图书馆”,
   酒店预订和所有那些废话。被翻译成外语的美国老电影,
   咖啡、威士忌和雪茄掐灭。没人介意。雨水洒在你的大衣刚毛的羊毛上。
   我意识到我从不知道我为什么要来。
   
   然而,我将永远不会回到过去,那阁楼,
   它的帆船也许比这些更美丽,我靠在这些上面,
   闪烁着钻石、橘色和紫色的斑点,
   带着我再次探索未知。这些帆对我来说就是生命本身。
   
   有一次我听到一个女孩这么说,哭了,给她带来了新鲜的水果、鱼、
   橄榄和金黄的烤面包。她擦干眼泪向我道谢。
   现在我们俩都要启航进入紫色的夜晚。
   我喜欢它!这次航行对我来说永远都持续得不够长。
   
   但再一次,办公桌,暖气片---不!就在我身后。
   不再迟钝,只有电影,爱和欢笑,性和乐趣。
   售票员正在吹他的小喇叭---在窗户砰地一声关上之前仓促地。
   我们要上的火车是港口联运火车,这次船真的是船。
   
   但我听到天空说---对吗?这种持续不断的变化来来回回?
   欢笑和泪水等等?对他来说,仅仅单纯的悲伤就够了吗?
   不!我再也不会接受你,你是蓝色的长胡须老洞穴!
   这正好适合我。我安逸地坐在我脸上的阳台上
   
   眺望着整个该死的乡村,我是一个
   满足的灯塔。我不会和国王交换位置。那么我就在这里,继续但永远不会开始
   我的常年航行,进入新的记忆,新的希望和鲜花
   那道路即海岸滑过你。我永远不会忘记这一刻
   
   因为它包含着最纯粹的狂喜。我现在比我敢相信的任何人
   都要幸福。我们触摸着卷角的海岸....
   一切都过去了!过去了!不,我在这里,
   吼叫着海岸,甚至天空咆哮着同意
   
   当我们拾起一缕柠檬色的光水平地
   投射到夜晚,那是上天
   足够宽容恩赐的夜晚,我投入到最幸福的梦中,
   再次更幸福,因为明天已经在这里。
   
   然而,某些果仁留下。飘过棚子的云---
   在官方公报上读它。我们今天不应该指出。
   那旧炉子冒烟比以前更厉害了,因为雨水正从烟囱里流下。
   只有朦胧的雾眼透过修补过的窗玻璃勾引人们。
   
   外面,沼泽的水拍打着破木台阶。
   一艘划艇停泊在鳄鱼滋生的沼泽里。
   某个地方,在丛林深处的内部,听到了呻吟声。
   它可能是...?不管怎样,下雨天---潮湿的天气
   
   整个航程都得取消。
   它不可能建立不同的联系。
   另外,这个季节旅馆都客满了。船上挤满了
   从岛上返回的难民。泥泞的水中有大量的鲷鱼和比目鱼....
   
   事实上,它们代表了岛屿经济的支柱。
   还有雪茄卷。分发时请把你的文件放在桌子上,
   你知道。“婚礼进行曲。”啊是的,就是这样。这对夫妇走下
   那座古老的小教堂的台阶。彩带被抛下,云彩
   
   和太阳的彩带似乎要出现。但是有那么多的假警报....
   不,它已经发生了!暴风雨结束了。天气又晴朗了。
   航行呢?在进行!每个人听着,船开动了,
   我能听到它的汽笛声轰鸣!我们只有足够的时间到达码头!
   
   它们倾泻,在硫磺般的阳光下,
   到闪闪发光的白船所在的浅绿色和银色的水域
   到它们淹没的大船上,混杂的快乐的人群
   在海面上吟唱着倾泻着赞美诗....
   
   拉着,拖着我们,顺着它们,用彩带,
   金色和银色的五彩纸屑。微笑着,我们和狂欢者一起欢笑,一起唱歌
   但不太确定我们是否想去---码头如此阳光明媚,温暖。
   那艘雄伟的船会起锚谁知道在哪里?
   
   充满了欢笑和泪水,我们又一次和其他乘客侧身而行。
   地面在脚下起伏。它是船吗?它可能是码头....
   伴随着巨大的嗖嗖声,所有的帆都升起....丑恶的黑烟从烟囱里喷出
   伴随着乌黑煤烟的快乐,把金色的狂欢节服装和黑色的烟灰弄得一团糟
   
   而且,就像进入隧道一样,航程刚刚
   开始,就像我说的,在继续。留下站在码头上的那些人的眼睛是湿的
   而我们的眼睛是干的。和我们一起进入一个神秘的,充满蒸汽的夜晚!
   进入未知,爱我们的未知,伟大的未知!
   
   因此,男人每晚
   都会小心翼翼地下降到
   桦树和干草 #### 他的一切
   被精简,竖立,以备重要的接触。当白天分离的薄雾
   毫无怨言地飘进大气层。爱你?这个问题陷入了
   
   眼花缭乱的事务
   关于写作或者在某书中读过
   然后默默地离开。在甘诺斯福纳迪加,水泵
   运转,银白色的,在浓密的夕阳下,就像男孩的肩膀
   
   你一次又一次地回到11月日历的
   问题,考虑那巨大事务的表面
   我想不是爱你 ### 而是音乐
   爱抚着涂着瓷漆的### 慢想象的星星
   
   一场不满足的音乐会,通过 ### 阴沟和灰尘渗透着
   吸引镜像和风景:
   
   因为当我
   穿过黑暗和迷雾
   那提供杆子的人
   
   我确信这些事情很重要。
   
   首先,这是一个走出
   没有星球限制的运动
   享受的准备---臀部摆脱尴尬等等。
   
   图8是在这种活动中
   获得自由的完美象征。
   谷仓的透视线是另一种不同的例子
   (即“里格的农场,靠近温斯莱代尔的艾斯加斯,”或者“诺顿的素描”)
   在那里我们逃避了我们自己---腐败的推诿的人群等等。---
   保持对所施加的限制的接近。
   
   另一个例子是,这种分开的死亡
   仍然铭记着马车夫、女仆、公爵夫人等(比较杰里米•泰勒)
   抛弃着,太湿的雪的节奏,但与
   那种代替“意义”的节奏相平行。
   从这个角度略为看关注死亡
   和生存年龄的问题。因为这些解决方案是百万倍的,就像返回春天的野雁浪。
   我们几乎不知道该去哪里避免痛苦,我是说
   有那么多地方。
   
   所以,车夫的奴性,或是厨房帮手的堕落,但每个地方都在发生。
   
   那些一起拉得越来越接近的线被说成“消失。”
   他们相遇的地方就是它们消失的地方。
   
   空间,当它们退去,变得更小。
   
   但是另一个,更紧迫的问题强加于它本身---那就是贫穷。
   人们怎么为它找借口?潮湿和寒冷?肮脏和污秽?
   不舒服,不合适的住所,带着一个令人沮丧的风景?
   剥皮的天竺葵在生锈的西红柿罐里开花
   框在一道病态的阳光射线中,一种悲剧性的多彩石印版?
   
   一块破碎的镜子钉在一块有缺口的瓷质盆上,它浮肿的水
   反映出有苍蝇斑点的日历---欣喜若狂的荷兰女孩抱着郁金香---
   在远处的墙上。挂在一根钉子上,一顶旧丝绒帽子上面有一点破烂的面纱---从前的衣服剩下的最后一块。
   床做得很好。整个地方都一丝不苟地干净,但又冷又湿。
   
   所有这些,被楔入金字塔的光的射线,是我自己的发明。
   
   但是回到我们的番茄罐里---那些被山羊吃剩的
   能做成一部实用的电话,两个半部分用一段电线连接起来。
   你可以在隔壁房间,或角落周围和你的朋友交谈。
   一个美国发明家用这样的装置发财。
   分支在天空中撕裂---
   
   在有记录的历史中,太小的事情都记不起来了----1932年巴黎街上
   一辆公共汽车的逆火,所有笨拙的诱惑和业余绘画都
   攀登着加入觉醒
   在我的决心中扮演更进一步的角色。这些小丑形状
   填满了数英里的可用空间,就像几英亩红色和芥末的绒球
   上面撒着一种我们称之为“真理的空气”的花粉。聚集的冥府的土堆
   是真的。我提议对这些真实而毫无价值的形状
   进行综合的打扫,它们纠缠着我们,用它们存在的理由
   没人(这是它们的弱点)曾喜欢它们。
   
   有一些活动部件将被弄得不正常,
   然而,在火焰喷泉中。逐步添加一盎司,按量度,硫酸
   在陶器盆里有五六盎司的水。再加上它,也逐渐地,大约一盎司的四分之三的颗粒状锌。
   氢气的快速生产将立即发生。然后,不时地
   添加,几片豌豆大小的磷。
   会产生大量气泡,它们会在冒泡的液体表面燃烧。
   液体的整个表面将变得明亮,火球,伴随着火焰的喷射,
   将从底部飞奔,穿过流体,速度快,发出嘶嘶的噪音。
   
   确实,但是,一个简单的这或别的现象的避风所,很容易被精巧地设计出来。
   
   但喷泉多么明亮!它的火花似乎渴望能到达天空!
   在这些泡沫中有那么多能量。聪明人可以不受惩罚地沉思
   他的脸,但傻瓜们不接近得太近肯定更好
   因为任何像这样的剧烈的体力活动都意味着危险,对于不谨慎和未受教育的人。伟大的火球!
   在我的日子里,我们惯于做“防火设计,”用饱和的硝酸钾溶液。
   然后我们惯于拿一根光滑的棍子,把溶液当作墨水,用它在一张白纸巾上画画。
   一旦它完全干了,字就看不见了。
   通过阴燃火柴的火花点燃画上任何部分的硝酸钾,
   首先将纸张放在黑暗房间的盘子或托盘上。
   火会沿着看不见的画的线阴燃,直到设计完成。

   2.
   
   Under the window marked “General Delivery”...
   
   This should be a letter
   Throwing you a minute to one side,
   Of how this tossing looks harmonious from a distance,
   Like sea or the tops of trees, and how
   Only when one gets closer is its sadness small and appreciable.
   It can be held in the hand.
   
   All this must go into a letter.
   Also the feeling of being lived, looking for people,
   And gradual peace and relaxation.
   
   But there’s no personal involvement:
   These sudden bursts of hot and cold
   Are wreathed in shadowless intensity
   Whose moment saps them of all characteristics.
   Thus beginning to rest you at once know.
   
   Once there was a point in these islands,
   Coming to see where the rock had rotted away,
   And turning into a tiny speck in the distance.
   
   But war’s savagery…Even the most patient scholar, now
   Could hardly reconstruct the old fort exactly as it was.
   That trees continue to wave over it. That there is also a small museum somewhere inside.
   That the history of costume is no less fascinating than the history of great migrations.
   I'd like to bugger you all up.
   Deliberately falsify all your old suck-ass notions
   Of how chivalry is being lived. What goes on in beehives.
   But the whole filthy mess, misunderstandings included,
   Problems about the tunic button etc. How much of any one person is there.
   
   Still, after bananas and spoonbread in the shadow of the old walls
   It is cooling to return under the eaves in the shower
   That probably fell while we were inside, examining bowknots,
   Old light-bulb sockets, places where the whitewash had begun to flake
   With here and there an old map or illustration. Here’s one for instance---
   Looks like a weather map ... or a coiled bit of wallpaper with a design
   Of faded hollyhocks, or abstract fruit and gumdrops in chains.
   
   But how is it that you are always indoors, peering at too heavily canceled stamps through a greasy magnifying glass?
   And slowly the incoherences of day melt in
   A general wishful thinking of night
   To peruse certain stars over the bay.
   Cataracts of peace pour from the poised heavens
   And only fear of snakes prevents us from passing the night in the open air.
   The day is definitely at an end.
   
   Old heavens, you used to tweak above us,
   Standing like rain whenever a salvo ... Old heavens,
   You lying there above the old, but not ruined, fort,
   Can you hear, there, what I am saying?
   
   For it is you I am parodying,
   Your invisible denials. And the almost correct impressions
   Corroborated by newsprint, which is so fine.
   I call to you there, but I do not think that you will answer me.
   
   For I am condemned to drum my fingers
   On the closed lid of this piano, this tedious planet, earth
   As it winks to you through the aspiring, growing distances,
   A last spark before the night.
   
   There was much to be said in favor of storms
   But you seem to have abandoned them in favor of endless light.
   I cannot say that I think the change much of an improvement.
   There is something fearful in these summer nights that go on forever.…
   
   We are nearing the Moorish coast, I think, in a bateau.
   I wonder if I will have any friends there
   Whether the future will be kinder to me than the past, for example,
   And am all set to be put out, finding it to be not.
   
   Still, I am prepared for this voyage, and for anything else you may care to mention.
   Not that I am not afraid, but there is very little time left.
   You have probably made travel arrangements, and know the feeling.
   Suddenly, one morning, the little train arrives in the station, but oh, so big
   
   It is! Much bigger and faster than anyone told you.
   A bearded student in an old baggy overcoat is waiting to take it.
   “Why do you want to go there,” they all say. “It is better in the other direction.”
   And so it is. There people are free, at any rate. But where you are going no one is.
   
   Still there are parks and libraries to be visited, “la Bibliotheque Municipale,”
   Hotel reservations and all that rot. Old American films dubbed into the foreign language,
   Coffee and whiskey and cigar stubs. Nobody minds. And rain on the bristly wool of your topcoat.
   I realize that I never knew why I wanted to come.
   
   Yet I shall never return to the past, that attic,
   Its sailboats are perhaps more beautiful than these, these I am leaning against,
   Spangled with diamonds and orange and purple stains,
   Bearing me once again in quest of the unknown. These sails are life itself to me.
   
   I heard a girl say this once, and cried, and brought her fresh fruit and fishes,
   Olives and golden baked loaves. She dried her tears and thanked me.
   Now we are both setting sail into the purplish evening.
   I love it! This cruise can never last long enough for me.
   
   But once more, office desks, radiators---No! That is behind me.
   No more dullness, only movies and love and laughter, sex and fun.
   The ticket seller is blowing his little horn---hurry before the window slams down.
   The train we are getting onto is a boat train, and the boats are really boats this time.
   
   But I heard the heavens say ---Is it right? This continual changing back and forth?
   Laughter and tears and so on? Mightn’t just plain sadness be sufficient for him?
   No! I’ll not accept that any more, you bewhiskered old caverns of blue!
   This is just right for me. I am cozily ensconced in the balcony of my face
   
   Looking out over the whole darn countryside, a beacon of satisfaction
   I am. I’ll not trade places with a king. Here I am then, continuing but ever beginning
   My perennial voyage, into new memories, new hope and flowers
   The way the coasts glide past you. I shall never forget this moment
   
   Because it consists of purest ecstasy. I am happier now than I ever dared believe
   Anyone could be. And we finger down the dog-eared coasts....
   It is all passing! It is past! No, I am here,
   Bellow the coasts, and even the heavens roar their assent
   
   As we pick up a lemon-colored light horizontally
   Projected into the night, the night that heaven
   Was kind enough to send, and I launch into the happiest dreams,
   Happier once again, because tomorrow is already here.
   
   Yet certain kernels remain. Clouds that drift past sheds---
   Read it in the official bulletin. We shan't be putting out today.
   The old stove smoked worse than ever because rain was coming down its chimney.
   Only the bleary eye of fog accosted one through the mended pane.
   
   Outside, the swamp water lapped the broken wood step.
   A rowboat was moored in the alligator-infested swamp.
   Somewhere, from deep in the interior of the jungle, a groan was heard.
   Could it be ...? Anyway, a rainy day---wet weather
   
   The whole voyage will have to be canceled.
   It would be impossible to make different connections.
   Besides, the hotels are all full at this season. The junks packed with refugees
   Returning from the islands. Sea-bream and flounder abound in the muddied waters....
   
   They in fact represent the backbone of the island economy.
   That, and cigar rolling. Please leave your papers at the desk as you pass out,
   You know. “The Wedding March.” Ah yes, that’s the way. The couple descend
   The steps of the little old church. Ribbons are flung, ribbons of cloud
   
   And the sun seems to be coming out. But there have been so many false alarms....
   No, it's happened! The storm is over. Again the weather is fine and clear.
   And the voyage? It's on! Listen everybody, the ship is starting,
   I can hear its whistle's roar! We have just time enough to make it to the dock!
   
   And away they pour, in the sulfurous sunlight,
   To the aqua and silver waters where stands the glistening white ship
   And into the great vessel they flood, a motley and happy crowd
   Chanting and pouring down hymns on the surface of the ocean....
   
   Pulling, tugging us along with them, by means of streamers,
   Golden and silver confetti. Smiling, we laugh and sing with the revelers
   But are not quite certain that we want to go---the dock is so sunny and warm.
   That majestic ship will pull up anchor who knows where?
   
   And full of laughter and tears, we sidle once again with the other passengers.
   The ground is heaving underfoot. Is it the ship? It could be the dock....
   And with a great whoosh all the sails go up. ... Hideous black smoke belches forth from the funnels
   Smudging the gold carnival costumes with the gaiety of its jet-black soot
   
   And, as into a tunnel the voyage starts
   Only, as I said, to be continued. The eyes of those left standing on the dock are wet
   But ours are dry. Into the secretive, vaporous night with all of us!
   Into the unknown, the unknown that loves us, the great unknown!
   
   So man nightly
   Sparingly descends
   The birches and the hay #### all of him
   Pruned, erect for vital contact. As the separate mists of day slip
   Uncomplainingly into the atmosphere. Loving you? The question sinks into
   
   That mazy business
   About writing or to have read it in some book
   To silently move away. At Gannosfonadiga the pumps
   Working, argent in the thickening sunset, like boys' shoulders
   
   And you return to the question as to a calendar of November
   Again and again consulting the surface of that enormous affair
   I think not to have loved you ### but the music
   Petting the enameled ### slow-imagined stars
   
   A concert of dissatisfaction whereby ### gutter and dust seep
   To engross the mirrored image and its landscape:
   
   As when
   through darkness and mist
   the pole-bringer
   
   I am convinced these things are of some importance.
   
   Firstly, it is a preparing to go outward
   Of no planet limiting the enjoyment
   Of motion---hips free of embarrassment etc.
   
   The figure 8 is a perfect symbol
   Of the freedom to be gained in this kind of activity.
   The perspective lines of the barn are another and different kind of example
   (Viz. “Rigg’s Farm, near Aysgarth,Wensleydale,” or the “Sketch at Norton”)
   In which we escape ourselves---putrefying mass of prevarications etc.---
   In remaining close to the limitations imposed.
   
   Another example is this separate dying
   Still keeping in mind the coachmen, servant girls, duchesses, etc. (cf. Jeremy Taylor)
   Falling away, rhythm of too-wet snow, but parallel
   With the kind of rhythm substituting for “meaning. ”
   Looked at from this angle the problem of death and survival
   Ages slightly. For the solutions are millionfold, like waves of wild geese returning in spring.
   Scarcely we know where to turn to avoid suffering, I mean
   There are so many places.
   
   So, coachman-servile, or scullion-slatternly, but each place is taken.
   
   The lines that draw nearer together are said to “vanish.”
   The point where they meet is their vanishing point.
   
   Spaces, as they recede, become smaller.
   
   But another, more urgent question imposes itself---that of poverty.
   How to excuse it to oneself? The wetness and coldness? Dirt and grime?
   Uncomfortable, unsuitable lodgings, with a depressing view?
   The peeled geranium flowering in a rusted tomato can,
   Framed in a sickly ray of sunlight, a tragic chromo?
   
   A broken mirror nailed up over a chipped enamel basin, whose turgid waters
   Reflect the fly-specked calendar---with ecstatic Dutch girl clasping tulips---
   On the far wall. Hanging from one nail, an old velvet hat with a tattered bit of veiling---last remnant of former finery.
   The bed well made. The whole place scrupulously clean, but cold and damp.
   
   All this, wedged into a pyramidal ray of light, is my own invention.
   
   But to return to our tomato can~---those spared by the goats
   Can be made into a practical telephone, the two halves being connected by a length of wire.
   You can talk to your friend in the next room, or around corners.
   An American inventor made a fortune with just such a contraption.
   The branches tear at the sky---
   
   Things too tiny to be remembered in recorded history----the backfiring of a bus
   In a Paris street in 1932, and all the clumsy seductions and amateur paintings done
   Clamber to join in the awakening
   To take a further role in my determination. These clown-shapes
   Filling up the available space for miles, like acres of red and mustard pom-poms
   Dusted with a pollen we call “an air of truth.” Massed mounds
   Of Hades it is true. I propose a general housecleaning
   Of these true and valueless shapes which pester us with their raisons d’etre
   Whom no one (that is their weakness) can ever get to like.
   
   There are moving parts to be got out of order,
   However, in the flame fountain. Add gradually one ounce, by measure, of sulphuric acid
   To five or six ounces of water in an earthenware basin. Add to it, also gradually, about three quarters of an ounce of granulated zinc.
   A rapid production of hydrogen gas will instantly take place. Then add,
   From time to time, a few pieces of phosphorus the size of a pea.
   A multitude of gas bubbles will be produced, which will fire on the surface of the effervescing liquid.
   The whole surface of the liquid will become luminous, and fire balls, with jets of fire,
   Will dart from the bottom, through the fluid with great rapidity and a hissing noise.
   
   Sure, but a simple shelter from this or other phenomena is easily contrived.
   
   But how luminous the fountain! Its sparks seem to aspire to reach the sky!
   And so much energy in those bubbles. A wise man could contemplate his face in them
   With impunity, but fools would surely do better not to approach too close
   Because any intense physical activity like that implies danger for the unwary and the uneducated. Great balls of fire!
   In my day we used to make “fire designs,” using a saturated solution of nitrate of potash.
   Then we used to take a smooth stick, and using the solution as ink, draw with it on sheets of white tissue paper.
   Once it was thoroughly dry, the writing would be invisible.
   By means of a spark from a smoldering match ignite the potassium nitrate at any part of the drawing,
   First laying the paper on a plate or tray in a darkened room.
   The fire will smolder along the line of the invisible drawing until the design is complete.
    

  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-20 21:15:39 | 显示全部楼层



   与此同时,火喷泉仍在闷烧和井喷
   散发着地狱般的臭味,以及像嫉妒一样辛辣野蛮的
   沥青烟气。也许
   火焰的书写可以就在那里可见,在烟雾的缝隙里
   而不必熬过写解决方案的烦恼。
   到处是一个词---“承诺”或“小心”---你得走很远的路
   在你发现那一边的入口已经关闭之前。
   发磷光的液体仍在起伏和沸腾,然而。
   如果这种疯狂的活动本身就是四月人行道上的
   一种绘画,幼树挤进胆怯的树叶
   狗嗅着消防栓,春天的狂怒开始沿着它们的血管卷土重来又如何?
   那边站着一个年轻的男孩和女孩,靠在自行车上。
   他们旁边的铁灯柱消失在羽毛般的,未出世的顶部窒息的叶子里。
   
   一个邮递员在人行道上出现,他伸出的手里拿着一封信。
   这是他新工作的第一天,他小心翼翼地环顾四周
   唉,没有看到那只可怕的牛头犬飞快地向他扑来,它的地狱般的眼睛固定在他的裤脚,下颚淌着口水。
   附近一位年轻女子正在整理她的长袜。看着她,一个戴帽子的小伙子
   正要走进一辆疾驰的出租敞篷车的小径。一排排灯柱
   以严格的阵列在街上行进,但灯饰
   却在羽毛般的花朵中消失了,其中隐藏的面孔可以被发现,因为这是一个令人费解的场景。
   天空是白色的,但满是轮廓分明的星星---一定是夜晚,
   或是早春的傍晚,空气中只有一丝潮湿和寒冷---
   冬天的记忆,暗示着秋天的来临---
   然而,不管怎样,情人们聚集在一起,灯光慢慢地闪烁着。
   汽车沿街道平稳行驶。
   这是一个值得诗人下笔的场景,然而是火的恶魔
   创造了它,把它像诗人一样抛在了一个为全世界而设的
   磷光喷泉的可疑表面上。但是爱可以欣赏它,
   为了自己的结局使用或滥用它。爱比火更强壮。
   
   证明这一点的证据是已经在起伏,吸吮的喷泉正在变苍白
   但恋人的火线仍然固定,仿佛永远,在实验室的空气中。
   不过不会太久。现在它们也坍塌了,
   赠送,在它们逝去的时候,一种断崖的印象,
   其陡峭的岬角在火花中勾勒出轮廓,顶部冠上锯齿形的
   草地和灌木,底部是卵石滩,平坦的海面上
   握有几条水平线。然后,这一美景,也,慢慢消失。
   
   3.
   
   现在,你必须用你的身体来保护你的身体,如果必要的话(你
   让我想起了我曾经知道的一些傻大个儿)。
   是的,你是一个秘密,你“决不能”告诉它---星星的蒸汽
   会很快把你冻死,就像一块在液态空气中被举起的
   撕裂变僵硬的手帕。不,但这个秘密在某种程度上
   是你分开居住的燃料。在抛光的木制家具和相框的辉光中
   壁炉里的火被点燃,这是一种可以远离和搬回来的东西---
   明白吗?这都是你的一部分,你唯一的一部分。
   这里来了答案:是因为苹果
   长在树上,还是因为它是绿色的?平庸的一天,你可能永远不知道
   有多少东西被推到了深夜,也不知道有什么东西会回来
   安心地生气,半睡半醒
   被一把椅子的扶手指进
   壁炉的炉火画里,或者到达,昏迷中,
   离开外国学生的花园。
   可以肯定巨人将知道睡着了,但是冰冻的水滴揭示了
   一个复杂的情况,其中,阴茎
   通过固定的行进刻下了意图,进入了其所是。
   一个黑点被留下。
   
   如果我应该...如果我说你在那里
   那...我们周围的高耸的和平可能
   阻碍着它中断的方式---季风
   移动一块卵石,到水管合同,白内障上。
   唯一开始存在---将存在
   一种口音在便携式的一串葡萄上
   当霉变的海水把湿度计
   扔得太远的时刻。你读懂了它
   眼泪的含义,审视了我们的文明。
   
  
  

   Meanwhile the fire fountain is still smoldering and welling
   Casting off a hellish stink and wild fumes of pitch
   Acrid as jealousy. And it might be
   That flame writing might be visible right there, in the gaps in the smoke
   Without going through the bother of the solution-writing.
   A word here and there---“promise” or “beware”---you have to go the long way round
   Before you find the entrance to that side is closed.
   The phosphorescent liquid is still heaving and boiling, however.
   And what if this insane activity were itself a kind of drawing
   On April sidewalks, and young trees bursting into timid leaf
   And dogs sniffing hydrants, the fury of spring beginning to back up along their veins?
   Yonder stand a young boy and girl leaning against a bicycle.
   The iron lamppost next to them disappears into the feathery, unborn leaves that suffocate its top.
   
   A postman is coming up the walk, a letter held in his outstretched hand.
   This is his first day on the new job, and he looks warily around
   Alas not seeing the hideous bulldog bearing down on him like sixty, its hellish eyes fixed on the seat of his pants, jowls a-slaver.
   Nearby a young woman is fixing her stocking. Watching her, a chap with a hat
   Is about to walk into the path of a speeding hackney cabriolet. The line of lampposts
   Marches up the street in strict array, but the lamp-parts
   Are lost in feathery bloom, in which hidden faces can be spotted, for this is a puzzle scene.
   The sky is white, yet full of outlined stars---it must be night,
   Or an early springtime evening, with just a hint of dampness and chill in the air---
   Memory of winter, hint of the autumn to come---
   Yet the lovers congregate anyway, the lights twinkle slowly on.
   Cars move steadily along the street.
   It is a scene worthy of the poet’s pen, yet it is the fire demon
   Who has created it, throwing it up on the dubious surface of a phosphorescent fountain
   For all the world like a poet. But love can appreciate it,
   Use or misuse it for its own ends. Love is stronger than fire.
   
   The proof of this is that already the heaving, sucking fountain is paling away
   Yet the fire-lines of the lovers remain fixed, as if permanently, on the air of the lab.
   Not for long though. And now they too collapse,
   Giving, as they pass away, the impression of a bluff,
   Its craggy headlands outlined in sparks, its top crowned with a zigzag
   Of grass and shrubs, pebbled beach at the bottom, with flat sea
   Holding a few horizontal lines. Then this vision, too, fades slowly away.
   
   3.
   
   Now you must shield with your body if necessary (you
   Remind me of some lummox I used to know) the secret your body is.
   Yes, you are a secret and you must NEVER tell it---the vapor
   Of the stars would quickly freeze you to death, like a tear-stiffened handkerchief
   Held in liquid air. No, but this secret is in some way the fuel of
   Your living apart. A hearth fire picked up in the glow of polished
   Wooden furniture and picture frames, something to turn away from and move back to---
   Understand? This is all a part of you and the only part of you.
   
   Here comes the answer: is it because apples grow
   On the tree, or because it is green? One average day you may never know
   How much is pushed back into the night, nor what may return
   To sulk contentedly, half asleep and half awake
   By the arm of a chair pointed into
   The painting of the hearth fire, or reach, in a coma,
   Out of the garden for foreign students.
   Be sure the giant would know falling asleep, but the frozen droplets reveal
   A mixed situation in which the penis
   Scored the offer by fixed marches into what is.
   One black spot remained.
   
   If I should ... If I said you were there
   The ... towering peace around us might
   Hold up the way it breaks---the monsoon
   Move a pebble, to the plumbing contract, cataract.
   There has got to be only---there is going to be
   An accent on the portable bunch of grapes
   The time the mildewed sea cast the
   Hygrometer too far away. You read into it
   The meaning of tears, survey of our civilization.


 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-20 21:16:48 | 显示全部楼层


   只有一件事存在:对死亡的恐惧。就像寡妇是朝向独木舟的哈特拉斯角
   和放高利贷者的猎物,人们害怕死亡,一定要跌倒
   也是一样。正是这样,它才允许他不时地逃走
   在木板围住的海报场景中:“物体,当它们退去时,看起来越来越小
   所有水平后退的线条都有它们在视线上的消失点,”
   这毕竟是某种安慰,因为我们要看到的意志一定程度上需要这些现象的条件。
   但从最后一个位置中,几乎不足以保证的情况中获得太多信心是轻率的。
   我首先说的是:睡眠、死亡和蜀葵
   和一种新的暮色玷污了,也许,一种稍显离奇的长春花蓝色,
   但没有戏剧性的生存论据,也没有取悦结果的巫术证明。
   
   呃…愚蠢的歌…天气软帽
   现在都消失了。但是药剂师饼干却在减少。
   在有一点光谱的
   悬崖的地方,倾泻入奇异可笑之处
   默默地到达被承担的通道
   清晨破坏着,这女儿。
   
   然后它的椭圆形盔甲
   保护它,而悬挂下来的有毒丝状物
   也是盔甲,还是它们这生物本身,尖叫着
   保护自己?一个攻击性武器,也是防御计划?
   大自然仍然容易拉几个快速的,这就是为什么我不能太强调
   坚持我原来的程序的重要性。记住,
   除非在特殊情况下由我决定
   否则任何希望都不会得到授权。同时,回到梦中,
   你最重要的活动。
   
   一切中最困难的是山楂叶的排列
   但是欲望的锯切运动,瞬间把你扔到一边
   然后是另一个,会,我想,允许你暂时忘记你的梦想。
   实际上你太重视它们。“自由但孤独”
   应该是你的座右铭。如果你做梦,就在你的脸上铺一块布:
   对一些观众来说,满足欲望的表达可能太多了。
   
   西风轻擦我的脸颊,水滴拍打着;
   现在我醒来还是睡觉有什么关系?
   西风轻擦我的脸颊,水滴拍打着;
   草地上干枯的被践踏的草地上,一幅巨大的设计展示。
   其实,那里玩过一场“狐狸和鹅”的游戏,但真正的现实,
   超越了更真实的想象,是它是一个充满一定意义的神秘设计,
   燃烧着,将它的方法封在我的意识之中。
   抚平悲伤的花朵,收拾你离开的地方
   却让我沉浸在性的形象化的梦里:
   既然归来的鹅在西风的波浪中展开
   公鸡覆盖着母鸡,农舍狗在母狗身上流口水,马和母马在草地上拧紧!
   从这些不同的景象和气味中,一种事物纯粹的尖叫声来自于这些视野和气味
   就像来自潮湿面板的蒸汽,我很高兴再次
   在这些现象中行走,它们似乎是我从最早的童年就熟悉的。
   
   水灰色的浪费把我那小浅滩
   围了起来。有时暴风雨滚动着
   惊人的巨浪,远在灰色沙滩上,第二天
   早上,奇怪的獠牙怪物躺在阳光下发恶臭。
   它们是不能吃的。食物只有
   面包果,浆果储藏在丛林内部区域,
   从蝎子和毒蛇那里夺走。淡水是个问题。
   雨后你可能会发现一些雏鸟在树的空心树干里,或者在空心的石头里。
   
   人们唯一分散注意力的方式就是真正
   爬到一个高悬崖的顶部,扫描距离。
   不是为了船,当然---这个岛离所有的贸易航线都很远---
   但希望能看到一个不同寻常的景象,比如一群玩耍的海豚,
   一只鲸鱼喷射,或者是一只鸬鹚冲向猎物。
   这悬崖如此高,以至于下面远处的卵石滩看起来像是碎石做的。
   半路下来,乌鸦和山鸦看起来像蜜蜂。
   附近是秃鹰的巢穴。它们同情地朝我的方向咯咯叫,
   这不会阻止它们在我一旦决定性地翻倒后把我从四肢到四肢撕裂。
   再往下,到一侧结束的路,是鹰;
   总是大惊小怪,污染它们的大巢穴,它们似乎总是设法背对着你。
   气压计的水银柱下降;毫无疑问,我们必定遭遇暴风雨。
   
   确实:到左边的浅灰色和橙色的距离里,一阵
   龙卷风正变得清晰可见。
   美丽,但可怕;
   精致、透明,就像一幅十九世纪英国人的水彩画,我忘记了他的名字
   (我开始忘记这个岛上的一切,只要我被允许带上我最喜欢的十本书---
   但我唯一的阅读材料是一本饱经风霜的孩子的字母表。幸运的是,
   岛上的一些鸟类和动物都画在其中---信天翁,例如---这是一个我永远不会记得的名字。)
   
   看来风暴恶魔打算在今晚掀起
   一场骚动。我最好回到帐篷里
   确保一切井然有序,用额外的石头让帆布负重,
   堆积火,为我自己晚上的晚餐准备一点
   硬饼干和茶。尽管如此,看着即将到来的暴风雨,
   这里还是相当美丽的。现在,龙卷风前面的大云层
   似乎在向前倾斜,因此龙卷风,它后面,看起来更像一张三维照片。
   在我上方,天空是一片明亮的银灰色。然而雨,像银豪猪的羽毛,已经开始被扔下来。
   然而,所有的闪电仍然被包裹在大黑云中。现在雷声从里面拍打着嗝声,
   使受惊的秃鹫从巢里飞出来。
   真的,我最好退后,我想。
   
   在潮湿的地方逗留,让你的衣服湿透,
   仍然是相当有趣的。这有什么区别?没人会因此责骂我,
   或者怀疑地看着。猜想我感冒了?这几乎没问题,这里没有护士或医务室
   可以骗人。一个非常严重的肺炎病例对我很合适。
   啊嚏(打喷嚏)!好了,现在我正因为这么说而受到惩罚。啊,有什么用。
   我真的要开始了。再见,风暴恶魔。再见,秃鹫。
   
   当然事实上,我住的中产阶级公寓一点也不像荒岛。
   这里舒适温暖,有一个很好的图书馆和唱片收藏。
   然而,我感到与街头生活隔绝了。
   汽车和卡车犁过,把脏泥巴溅到我身上。
   街上的那汉子把脸转开。另一个岛上的居民,毫无疑问。
   在商店或拥挤的咖啡馆,你会得到一个短暂的温暖印象:
   蒸汽从浓缩咖啡机里倾吐出来,用一种只有大约一年时间有效的现代字体
   在窗玻璃上打雾。头条给你提供的
   新闻太新了,以至于你还没有意识到。阿根廷的革命!想起来了!子弹在空中飞过,人在移动;
   巨大的激情激起巨大的能量支出,改变许多个人的生活。
   然而,这一切都是作为“今日新闻”提供的,似乎我们不知何故有权这样做,似乎这是我们生活的一部分
   我们拒绝会是愚蠢的。这里,又有犯罪或革命吗?随你挑。
   
   所有这些都没有任何区别,对像我这样的职业流亡者来说,还包括这里的每个人。
   我们继续啜饮着咖啡,思考着黑暗或透明的想法...
   对不起,我可以要糖吗。哦,当然---请原谅我没有把它传给你。
   很多床位,它们都不真在乎你要没要糖。
   试着问一些更复杂的问题,看看它能让你走多远。
   并非我在乎,作为一个流亡者。不,杂色的奇观无论如何对我没有任何魅力---
   然而---然而,我觉得自己被它的线圈卷入---
   它的缺陷运动就是我的推理力量---
   主要的观点已经改变了,但是群众继续踩着
   落后意见的水,像什么都没有发生过一样实践他们的授权。
   我们走出去到街上,没有意识到街是不同的,
   这将是我们一生的全部;只是,从这一刻起,一切都将不再一样。幸运的是,我们的小乐趣和单调的日常存在
   是安全的。你会穿同样的衣服,你的朋友还会因为同样的原因想见你---因为你在他们的生活中占据了一定的位置,他们会为你的离去而遗憾。
   
   然而,已经有了这样的变化,如此完整以至于无形:
   你可以叫它……“激情”可能是一个好词
   我想我们会为容易参考而叫它。这个房间,现在,例如,全是黑白的,而不是蓝色的。
   风井里飘着几片雪花。对面的
   太阳正在下沉,在建筑物的前面
   投下灰色的阴影。
   
   
   Only one thing exists: the fear of death. As widows are a prey to loan sharks
   And Cape Hatteras to hurricanoes, so man to the fear of dying, to the
   Certainty of falling. And just so it permits him to escape from time to time
   Amid fields of boarded-up posters: “Objects, as they recede, appear to become smaller
   And all horizontal receding lines have their vanishing point upon the line of sight, ”
   Which is some comfort after all, for our volition to see must needs condition these phenomena to a certain degree.
   But it would be rash to derive too much confidence from a situation which, in the last analysis, scarcely warrants it.
   What I said first goes: sleep, death and hollyhocks
   And a new twilight stained, perhaps, a slightly unearthlier periwinkle blue,
   But no dramatic arguments for survival, and please no magic justification of results.
   
   Uh …stupid song …that weather bonnet
   Is all gone now. But the apothecary biscuits dwindled.
   Where a little spectral
   Cliffs, teeming over into ironys
   Gotten silently inflicted on the passages
   Morning undermines, the daughter is.
   
   Its oval armor
   Protects it then, and the poisonous filaments hanging down
   Are armor as well, or are they the creature itself, screaming
   To protect itself? An aggressive weapon, as well as a plan of defense?
   Nature is still liable to pull a few fast ones, which is why I can't emphasize enough
   The importance of adhering to my original program. Remember,
   No hope is to be authorized except in exceptional cases
   To be decided on by me. In the meantime, back to dreaming,
   Your most important activity.
   
   The most difficult of all is an arrangement of hawthorn leaves
   But the sawing motion of desire, throwing you a moment to one side
   And then the other, will, I think, permit you to forget your dreams for a little while.
   In reality you place too much importance on them. “Frei aber Einsam” (Free but Alone)
   Ought to be your motto. If you dream at all, place a cloth over your face:
   Its expression of satisfied desire might be too much for some spectators.
   
   The west wind grazes my cheek, the droplets come pattering down;
   What matter now whether I wake or sleep?
   The west wind grazes my cheek, the droplets come pattering down;
   A vast design shows in the meadow's parched and trampled grasses.
   Actually a game of “fox and geese” has been played there, but the real reality,
   Beyond truer imaginings, is that it is a mystical design full of a certain significance,
   Burning, sealing its way into my consciousness.
   Smooth out the sad flowers, pick up where you left off
   But leave me immersed in dreams of sexual imagery:
   Now that the homecoming geese unfurl in waves on the west wind
   And cock covers hen, the farmhouse dog slavers over his bitch, and horse and mare go screwing through the meadow!
   A pure scream of things arises from these various sights and smells
   As steam from a wet shingle, and I am happy once again
   Walking among these phenomena that seem familiar to me from my earliest childhood.
   
   The gray wastes of water surround
   My puny little shoal. Sometimes storms roll
   Tremendous billows far up on the gray sand beach, and the morning
   After, odd tusked monsters lie stinking in the sun.
   They are inedible. For food there is only
   Breadfruit, and berries garnered in the jungle's inner reaches,
   Wrested from scorpion and poisonous snake. Fresh water is a problem.
   After a rain you may find some nestling in the hollow trunk of a tree, or in hollow stones.
   
   One's only form of distraction is really
   To climb to the top of the one tall cliff to scan the distances.
   Not for a ship, of course---this island is far from all the trade routes---
   But in hopes of an unusual sight, such as a school of dolphins at play,
   A whale spouting, or a cormorant bearing down on its prey.
   So high this cliff is that the pebble beach far below seems made of gravel.
   Halfway down, the crows and choughs look like bees.
   Near by are the nests of vultures. They cluck sympathetically in my direction,
   Which will not prevent them from rending me limb from limb once I have keeled over definitively.
   Further down, and way over to one side, are eagles;
   Always fussing, fouling their big nests, they always seem to manage to turn their backs to you.
   The glass is low; no doubt we are in for a storm.
   
   Sure enough: in the pale gray and orange distances to the left, a
   Waterspout is becoming distinctly visible.
   Beautiful, but terrifying;
   Delicate, transparent, like a watercolor by that nineteenth-century Englishman whose name I forget
   (I am beginning to forget everything on this island, If only I had been allowed to bring my ten favorite books with me---
   But a weathered child's alphabet is my only reading material. Luckily,
   Some of the birds and animals on the island are pictured in it---the albatross, for instance---that’s a name I never would have remembered.)
   
   It looks as though the storm-fiend were planning to kick up quite a ruckus
   For this evening. I had better be getting back to the tent
   To make sure everything is shipshape, weight down the canvas with extra stones,
   Bank the fire, and prepare myself a little hardtack and tea
   For the evening's repast. Still, it is rather beautiful up here,
   Watching the oncoming storm. Now the big cloud that was in front of the waterspout
   Seems to be lurching forward, so that the waterspout, behind it, looks more like a three-dimensional photograph.
   Above me, the sky is a luminous silver-gray. Yet rain, like silver porcupine quills, has begun to be thrown down.
   All the lightning is still contained in the big black cloud however. Now thunder claps belch forth from it,
   Causing the startled vultures to fly forth from their nests.
   I really had better be getting back down, I suppose.
   
   Still it is rather fun to linger on in the wet,
   Letting your clothes get soaked. What difference does it make? No one will scold me for it,
   Or look askance. Supposing I catch cold? It hardly matters, there are no nurses or infirmaries here
   To make an ass of one. A really serious case of pneumonia would suit me fine.
   Ker-choo! There, now I'm being punished for saying so. Aw, what’s the use.
   I really am starting down now. Good-bye, Storm-fiend. Good-bye, vultures.
   
   In reality of course the middle-class apartment I live in is nothing like a desert island.
   Cozy and warm it is, with a good library and record collection.
   Yet I feel cut off from the life in the streets.
   Automobiles and trucks plow by, spattering me with filthy slush.
   The man in the street turns his face away. Another island-dweller, no doubt.
   In a store or crowded cafe, you get a momentary impression of warmth:
   Steam pours out of the espresso machine, fogging the panes with their modern lettering
   Of a kind that has only been available for about a year. The headlines offer you
   News that is so new you can't realize it yet. A revolution in Argentina! Think of it! Bullets flying through the air, men on the move;
   Great passions inciting to massive expenditures of energy, changing the lives of many individuals.
   Yet it is all offered as “todays news,” as if we somehow had a right to it,as though it were a part of our lives
   That we’d be silly to refuse. Here, have another—crime or revolution? Take your pick.
   
   None of this makes any difference to professional exiles like me, and that includes everybody in the place.
   We go on sipping our coffee, thinking dark or transparent thoughts ...
   Excuse me, may I have the sugar. Why certainly---pardon me for not having passed it to you.
   A lot of bunk, none of them really care whether you get any sugar or not.
   Just try asking for something more complicated and see how far it gets you.
   Not that I care anyway, being an exile. Nope, the motley spectacle offers no charms whatsoever for me---
   And yet---and yet I feel myself caught up in its coils---
   Its defectuous movement is that of my reasoning powers---
   The main point has already changed, but the masses continue to tread the water
   Of backward opinion, living out their mandate as though nothing had happened.
   We step out into the street, not realizing that the street is different,
   And so it shall be all our lives; only, from this moment on, nothing will ever be the same again. Fortunately our small pleasures and the monotony of daily existence
   Are safe. You will wear the same clothes, and your friends will still want to see you for the same reasons---you fill a definite place in their lives, and they would be sorry to see you go.
   
   There has, however, been this change, so complete as to be invisible:
   You might call it …“passion” might be a good word
   I think we will call it that for easy reference. This room, now, for instance, is all black and white instead of blue.
   A few snowflakes are floating in the airshaft. Across the way
   The sun was sinking, casting gray
   Shadows on the front of the buildings.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    



 楼主| 发表于 2021-6-23 20:36:45 | 显示全部楼层

   放低你的左肩。
   静静地站着,不要用身体做跷跷板。
   
   还有打高尔夫球的暗示吗,查理?
   
   把你双脚成直角安置。把你的棍子轻轻但稳固地握在手指的凹处。
   慢慢适当地向后摆动,完成你的划动,推到最后。
   
   “整个上上下下的创造”,就像投射在洞壁上的魔法灯笼幻灯片:城堡、施魔法的花园等等。
   
   月光的常见字谜---一个
   平静地平息进平淡的历史事实中的故事。
   你们已经选择了年轻、老年和死亡的惯常图像
   来继续在这个传统意象上喋喋不休。读者
   
   不会被骗。
   他会设法弄清楚这一切,方法像人们一样。
   然后那月光大会退出。他大叫一声
   把所有东西都扔进了火海:书,笔记,铅笔图表,一切。
   
   不,他唯一感兴趣的是白天
   和它的问题。弗雷海特!弗雷海特!从这些尘土飞扬的细胞中一劳永逸离开
   是人类自宇宙开始以来的梦想。
   
   “他的”白昼正在淹没东部山区,至少这他说它的方法。
   只有成为坑---一个封闭的意识---抵抗太阳的亵渎聚集。
   你不由自主地嘲笑出现的一切,除了你自己的工作之外,当然,
   现在感受到入侵的奇异力量;它的士兵,所有和一些,
   它们一出现就是你的一部分。就好像穿着蓝色工作服的工人
   不停地带来新的道具,带走其他的:这就是你如何感受到的穿过你的戏剧感觉,在其中无力地表演。
   结束这一切!突然醒来,在山坡上
   下面远处有山谷---白云---
   
   这就是你已经做过的忏悔:
   一月,三月,二月。你正朝着一个
   和平嗜好的定义生活,然后你看到
   他们像相邻的云朵一样软弱和饥饿地站在周围。
   
   很快就会有思想交流和
   多得多的美丽的握手,在天气此刻
   尚未决定的外衣下。
   推迟解释。
   选举将于明天举行,在树下。
   
   你感觉到了几个月一直在到来
   又到了十二月,
   外面的雪。或者是充满阳光的六月
   和阳光节俭的好处,但邮递员还是来了。
   他的一些信的真正的意义很少---
   
   另一次我想我能看到我自己。
   这也证明了幻觉,但我可以论述其方式
   我持续返回我自己,像一块木板
   像一艘小船在风中吹走。
   
   一切都在某个地方的微笑中结束,
   记录呈现所有这些,
   你可以在黑暗中看到,其中夜晚
   是你狂喜和恐惧的延续。
   
   4.
   
   风剧烈摇动枫籽荚,
   整个灿烂的团块飞溅下来。
   
   这是我担任C省地方长官的第十四年。
   我第一次来这里的时候还只是个孩子。
   现在我老了,但几乎没有更聪明。
   如此少,白发和皱巴巴的前额,智慧的象征!
   
   人们自己双手交替慢慢地
   站起来,举起人们的全部重量;
   忘记了有可能
   有更政治化的运动。这种自由、勇气
   和愉快的陪伴能存在。
   那一直在你身后。
   
   更早的诉讼:松软的桉树枝头
   猛刮的风。
   
   今天我写道:“今年春天晚了。
   一大早,水上草地上有白霜。
   在高速公路上,冰冻的凹槽被冰贴壁纸。”
   
   白昼是手套。
   
   这与通常关于时间的陈述
   多么远,冰---天气本身已经不见了,。
   
   我的意思是这个。这些年来
   你已经接近了一个清单
   而正是现在,明天
   将是你关于你自己的
   随意陈述的高潮,很久以前
   开始的谦逊和虚假的平静。
   
   沙漏里的沙子
   是疯狂的。但是,有时间
   去改变,彻底摧毁
   那副过于熟悉的形象
   每天早上
   藏在玻璃里,在镜子边上。
   
   火车仍停在车站里。
   你只梦到它在运动。
   
   Z高速公路上有几个旅行者。
   在快门后面,两只黑眼睛在看着他们。
   它们属于P,高中校长的妻子。
   
   纱门在风中砰砰作响,其中一个铰链松了。
   我们一起回顾房子。
   除了我穷得雇不起工人外
   它能用一层油漆。
   我有我能做的一切来保持身体和灵魂在一起
   很快,即使是相对简单的任务也许证明超出我的能力。
   
   你跟其他客人开的玩笑真不错。
   沉默的玩笑。
   
   一个人抓住这些时刻,因为他们来了,害怕
   相信太多,在幸福中,它可能会导致
   或倾诉人们太多的爱和恐惧,甚至
   在自己中。
   
   春天,虽然温和,却令人难以置信地潮湿。
   我花了一个下午吹肥皂泡
   带着一种喜悦的感觉,我意识到我
   独自一人在善变的黑暗中。
   白桦荚哗啦地落在杂草丛生的大理石路面上。
   三角形的木屋顶上站着一股卷曲的烟。
   
   在福永省省会十七年!
   当然,女人为某些事生下来
   除了不断通奸之外,只是被月经来潮阻碍。
   
   我本想在X月的第一个满月那天
   向你宣布我的订婚。
   
   风停了,但木兰花还是
   扑通一声落在干燥、松软的土地上。
   傍晚的空气因为蠓虫而有害。
   
   只有一种方法可以完成这个谜:
   通过找到猪形的一块浅绿色阴影,一面呈现浅黄色。
   
   现在是三月初,一些
   黄褐色和黄色的墙花在边境上盛开
   在苔藓丛生、残缺的砖石的保护下。
   
   一天早晨,你出现在早餐会上
   穿着,你最糟糕的衣服,就像去旅行一样。
   喝完一壶咖啡,或者,更准确地说,生锈的水
   
   宣布你打算把我一个人留在这个像水池一样的房子里。
   为了你的最大利益,我该决定不相信你。
   
   我想在旧木板路的另一边
   有一个有趣的沙洲
   你的阴谋让你明白。
   
   “三十二岁的时候,我参加了大学的考试。
   看起来,U蜡厂,似乎,想要一个新的总经理。
   我是唯一申请这份工作的人,但被拒绝了。
   因此,我宁愿在这座花丛的寓所中结束我的生命。”
   
   那个讨厌的老人正在给我们讲他的生平故事。
   
   鳟鱼在水下回旋---
   
   雄辩的大师
   在你的书页上闪闪发光
   像被水或天空蒙着面纱的群山。
   
   “第二个位置”
   出现在第十七年
   观看苍蝇在窗台上毫无意义的旋转。
   
   头在手中,朴素的瀑布。
   住进一切事物中的三角洲。
   
   泵爆裂了。我得把它修好。
   
   你肩膀上
   打结的头发
   一条披肩,光谱的颜色
   
   就像你还没学会的神奇的东西。
   
   拒绝方形蜂巢,
   
   推迟最高的...
   
   苹果在秋的凉光下
   都染上了颜色。
   
   星座正在以完美的顺序
   上升:金牛座,狮子座,双子座。
   

   
   Lower your left shoulder.
   Stand still and do not seesaw with your body.
   
   Any more golfing hints, Charlie?
   
   Plant your feet squarely. Grasp your club lightly but firmly in the hollow of your fingers.
   Slowly swing well back and complete your stroke well through, pushing to the very end.
   
   “All up and down de whole creation,” like magic-lantern slides projected on the wall of a cavern: castles,enchanted gardens, etc.
   
   The usual anagrams of moonlight---a story
   That subsides quietly into plain historical fact.
   You have chosen the customary images of youth, old age and death
   To keep harping on this traditional imagery. The reader
   
   Will not have been taken in.
   He will have managed to find out all about it, the way people do.
   The moonlight congress backs out then. And with a cry
   He throws the whole business into the flames: books, notes, pencil diagrams, everything.
   
   No, the only thing that interests him is day
   And its problems. Freiheit! Freiheit! To be out of these dusty cells once and for all
   Has been the dream of mankind since the beginning of the universe.
   
   His day is breaking over the eastern mountains, at least that's the way he tells it.
   Only the crater of becoming---a sealed consciousness---resists the profaning mass of the sun.
   You who automatically sneer at everything that comes along, except your own work, of course,
   Now feel the curious force of the invasion; its soldiers, all and some,
   A part of you the minute they appear. It is as though workmen in blue overalls
   Were constantly bringing on new props and taking others away: that is how you feel the drama going past you, powerless to act in it.
   To have it all be over! To wake suddenly on a hillside
   With a valley far below---the clouds---
   
   That is the penance you have already done:
   January, March, February. You are living toward a definition
   Of the peaceful appetite, then you see
   Them standing around limp and hungry like adjacent clouds.
   
   Soon there is to be exchange of ideas and
   Far more beautiful handshake, under the coat of
   Weather is undecided right now.
   Postpone the explanation.
   The election is to be held tomorrow, under the trees.
   
   You felt the months keep coming up
   And it is December again,
   The snow outside. Or is it June full of sun
   And the prudent benefits of sun, but still the postman comes.
   The true meaning of some of his letters is slight---
   
   Another time I thought I could see myself.
   This too proved illusion, but I could deal with the way
   I keep returning on myself like a plank
   Like a small boat blown away from the wind.
   
   It all ends in a smile somewhere,
   Notes to be taken on all this,
   And you can see in the dark, of which the night
   Is the continuation of your ecstasy and apprehension.
   
   4.
   
   The wind thrashes the maple seed-pods,
   The whole brilliant mass comes spattering down.
   
   This is my fourteenth year as governor of C province.
   I was little more than a lad when I first came here.
   Now I am old but scarcely any wiser.
   So little are white hair and a wrinkled forehead a sign of wisdom!
   
   To slowly raise oneself
   Hand over hand, lifting one’s entire weight;
   To forget there was a possibility
   Of some more politic movement. That freedom, courage
   And pleasant company could exist.
   That has always been behind you.
   
   An earlier litigation: wind hard in the tops
   Of the baggy eucalyptus branches.
   
   Today I wrote, “The spring is late this year.
   In the early mornings there is hoarfrost on the water meadows.
   And on the highway the frozen ruts are papered over with ice.”
   
   The day was gloves.
   
   How far from the usual statement
   About time, ice---the weather itself had gone.
   
   I mean this. Through the years
   You have approached an inventory
   And it is now that tomorrow
   Is going to be the climax of your casual
   Statement about yourself, begun
   So long ago in humility and false quietude.
   
   The sands are frantic
   In the hourglass. But there is time
   To change, to utterly destroy
   That too-familiar image
   Lurking in the glass
   Each morning, at the edge of the mirror.
   
   The train is still sitting in the station.
   You only dreamed it was in motion.
   
   There are a few travelers on Z high road.
   Behind a shutter, two black eyes are watching them.
   They belong to the wife of P, the high-school principal.
   
   The screen door bangs in the wind, one of the hinges is loose.
   And together we look back at the house.
   It could use a coat of paint
   Except that I am too poor to hire a workman.
   I have all I can do to keep body and soul together
   And soon, even that relatively simple task may prove to be beyond my powers.
   
   That was a good joke you played on the other guests.
   A joke of silence.
   
   One seizes these moments as they come along, afraid
   To believe too much in the happiness that might result
   Or confide too much of one’s love and fear, even in
   Oneself.
   
   The spring, though mild, is incredibly wet.
   I have spent the afternoon blowing soap bubbles
   And it is with a feeling of delight I realize I am
   All alone in the skittish darkness.
   The birch-pods come clattering down on the weed-grown marble pavement.
   And a curl of smoke stands above the triangular wooden roof.
   
   Seventeen years in the capital of Foo-Yung province Foo-Yung province!
   Surely woman was born for something
   Besides continual fornication, retarded only by menstrual cramps.
   
   I had thought of announcing my engagement to you
   On the day of the first full moon of X month.
   
   The wind has stopped, but the magnolia blossoms still
   Fall with a plop onto the dry, spongy earth.
   The evening air is pestiferous with midges.
   
   There is only one way of completing the puzzle:
   By finding a hog-shaped piece that is light green shading to buff at one side.
   
   It is the beginning of March, a few
   Russet and yellow wallflowers are blooming in the border
   Protected by moss-grown, fragmentary masonry.
   
   One morning you appear at breakfast
   Dressed, as for a journey, in your worst suit of clothes.
   And over a pot of coffee, or, more accurately, rusted water
   
   Announce your intention of leaving me alone in this cistern-like house.
   In your own best interests I shall decide not to believe you.
   
   I think there is a funny sand bar
   Beyond the old boardwalk
   Your intrigue makes you understand.
   
   “At thirty-two I came up to take my examination at the university.
   The U wax factory,it seemed,wanted a new general manager.
   I was the sole applicant for the job, but it was refused me.
   So I have preferred to finish my life
   In the quietude of this floral retreat. ”
   
   The tiresome old man is telling us his life story.
   
   Trout are circling underwater---
   
   Masters of eloquence
   Glisten on the pages of your book
   Like mountains veiled by water or the sky.
   
   The “second position”
   Comes in the seventeenth year
   Watching the meaningless gyrations of flies above a sill.
   
   Heads in hands, waterfall of simplicity.
   The delta of living into everything.
   
   The pump is busted. I shall have to get it fixed.
   
   Your knotted hair
   Around your shoulders
   A shawl the color of the spectrum
   
   Like that marvelous thing you haven’t learned yet.
   
   To refuse the square hive,
   
   postpone the highest...
   
   The apples are all getting tinted
   In the cool light of autumn.
   
   The constellations are rising
   In perfect order: Taurus, Leo, Gemini.
   
   
   
    

  -----全诗完-----------------

发表于 2021-6-28 23:08:03 | 显示全部楼层
mark一下,么有版权的随意享用
 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-3 14:21:56 | 显示全部楼层


  
   化装舞会的描述
   
   (选自 A Wave )
   作者:(美)约翰.阿什贝利(John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   柿子天鹅绒窗帘迅速升起,展现出一个不确定尺寸和视角的空间。在更低的左边是一个洞穴,马尼亚的洞穴,混乱的女神。落叶松、桤木和花旗松在入口处密密麻麻地栽种着,人们几乎分辨不出来。在院子里,一只被拴在柱子上的鬣狗,不停地来回,来回地,偷偷摸摸地走着,不停地量着它链子的长度,一直发出众所周知的笑声,此外偶尔会从它的肚子里发出似乎是言语片段的声音。很难听到这些话,更不用说听懂了,尽管有时会有一句话像“抬起你的屁股!”或者“把那些流氓赶出去!”在陷入混乱的喋喋不休之前,偶尔可以分辨出。在洞的入口附近有一只鬣狗形状的金属鞋刮刀,很像这只特别的鬣狗,它的皮毛是灰白色的,略带粉红色,到处散步着脏兮兮的,肝色斑点。在院子的另一边,鬣狗的杆子对面是一尊优雅的水星雕像,放在一个低矮的,镀金的基座上,面朝着观众,脸上露出欣喜若狂的惊讶表情。雕像似乎是用铅或其他一些钝金属制成的,涂成了灰白色,有些地方开始剥落,露出下面的金属几乎是同一种颜色。到目前为止,还没有一个无形的洞窟女主人的迹象。
   离这一幕稍偏右,高出约8英尺,另一幕似乎在半空中盘旋。它暗示了一个英国酒吧的内部,就像它可能在巴黎被模仿。吧台后面,场中观众对面,是一幅壁画,改编自一幅坦尼埃尔为《爱丽丝镜中奇遇记》的插画---著名的一幅是一条穿着男仆制服的鱼向一个青蛙男仆伸出一个大信封,他刚刚出现在一座小房子的台阶上,而背景是,爱丽丝半掩在树干下,潜伏着,脸上流露出一种娱乐的表情。时间和公共房间的烟雾使颜色变暗,几乎呈现出丰富的桃花心木光泽,如果人们不知道插图的话,就很难辨认出其中的一些细节。
   七名男女演员,代表七个童谣人物,构成现场人物。酒吧后面,秃顶的酒吧店主,乔治.波吉,一动不动地站着,凝视着外面的观众。在前面,在他左边一点,小杰克.霍纳懒洋洋地躺在一张高凳子上,事实上,他是一个穿着风衣和昂贵的蓝色牛仔裤、身材高大、看起来很淘气的年轻人;他把照相机放在他附近的吧台上。他也面向观众。在他面前,他背对着观众,小男孩布卢半跪在他面前,显然在对他表演口交的行为。男孩布卢完全穿着蓝色牛仔布,普通类型的。
   在他们的左边,简单西蒙和馅饼人从侧面看互相面对面地站着。馅饼人定向地盯着吧台中央的那对男的;与此同时,他不断地提供又收回一个西蒙梦寐以求的馅饼,西蒙的注意力分散在馅饼和他身后的场景上,他不停地扫视他的肩膀,当馅饼人把馅饼收回来的时候,他立刻向馅饼转过身来,西蒙一直假装在口袋里摸一便士。馅饼人穿得像个法国面包师的徒弟,穿着白衬衫和蓝白格子裤;他看起来大约二十八岁。西蒙和他差不多大,但他的穿着是“布朗小子”的行头,戴着一顶宽边帽,穿着深蓝色的外套和短裤,打着一条红色的大领结。
   酒吧的另一端坐着两个年轻女子,背对着观众,显然在忙于交谈。第一个,波莉.弗林德斯,她穿着一件灰白色雪纺绸无肩带连衣裙,上面系着一条窄银带。她坐在离杰克.霍纳和男孩布卢最近的地方,但没注意他们,频繁地转向她的同伴,同时用一个闪亮的黑色烟嘴吸着一支烟,用橄榄杯直接啜饮着一杯马提尼。另一个年轻的女人,达菲.唐.迪莉,有一头金色的长直发,显然是被拉得太过份了,当它捕捉到光线的时候,它就闪闪发光;那是几道金色阴影,很容易辨认的条纹。她穿着一件翡翠绿的天鹅绒长袍,后背剪得很低,用闪闪发光的莱茵石带子系着;她的黄色蕾丝边衬裙垂下约一英寸半低于她的礼服下摆。她不抽烟,但不时地用吸管吸一口酸威士忌,也直接吸。虽然当她转向波莉时,她经常面对其他角色的方向,但她对他们也毫不在意。
   过了一会儿,杰克似乎对男孩布卢的注意逐渐增长了厌倦,轻快地推了他一把,把他摔倒在地板上,在那里用四肢行走,像狗一样狂吠了几分钟,使左下角画面中的鬣狗停止了自己的徘徊,除了偶尔的呜咽声外,安静了下来,好像想知道那叫声是从哪里来的。很快,男孩布卢蜷缩在吧台前,假装睡着了,把头靠在铜扶手上,鬣狗像以前一样继续。杰克重新整理了一下衣服,转向酒吧店主,他又递给他一杯饮料。这时,水星雕像从基座上走了出来,似乎向上飘进了酒吧的场景,踮着脚尖落在杰克和简单西蒙之间。他向女士们,没有理睬他的,方向深深鞠了一躬,然后转身面对观众发表了下面的简短演讲。
   “我的囚犯同伴们,我们不知道我们每个人在这个镇上呆了多久,也不知道我们每个人打算呆多久,尽管我有理由相信那边那位穿绿衣服的女士一定是最近才来的。然而,我的观点,就是这样的。不是这样游荡,我们都应该成为一个集体运动的一部分,在尽可能多的层面上与我们的同时代人相互联系。没有人会不同意从彼此的接触中可以得到很多,而我,作为一个神,比你们更敏锐地感受到了这一点。我的理解,虽然是普遍的,但缺乏个人接触和地方色彩,这对我来说很有意义。”
   这些话似乎产生了酒吧其他顾客的不安。就连小男孩布卢也不再装睡,警惕地瞥了一眼新来的人。那两个女孩停止谈话。过了一会儿,达菲从酒吧的凳子上下来,走向水星。她打开一个绿色的锦缎钱包,掏出一把小左轮手枪,朝他的胸部开了一枪。子弹从他身上穿过,没有伤到他,并嵌入吧台后面壁画中的鱼体内,使它向前倾斜,回流出鲜血,落在信封上,信封发出一声巨响,像镁照明弹一样闪光,照亮了爱丽丝脸上愤怒和恐惧的表情,她急忙用手轻拍耳朵。然后整个舞台陷入了黑暗之中,最后一个看得见的东西是水星脸上那明显永久的微笑---仍然惊喜交集,没有带一丝恶意。   
   一点一点地,黑暗开始消散,一片与壁画中的森林景象相似的景象被揭露了。它向前移动,填补了酒吧和顾客以前占据的空间,比壁画中的森林整洁得多。这些树大小和形状或多或少都一样,彼此种植的间距一样远。地面上没有森林灌木丛,没有枯叶,也没有腐烂的树干;树下的草和草坪一样绿,保存得很好。这是因为这一幕代表了一场马尼亚的梦(在舞台左下角仍能看到其石窟),而且,因为她是迷茫女神,她的梦中没有显示任何迷茫的痕迹,或者至少呈现出一种缺乏混乱的混乱。在一条白色横幅上,穿过前景的一些树枝,“这是一件正在进行的事情”一句是用红色字母印刷的。左边,朝向镜头后面,爱丽丝似乎在树干的底部睡着了,一头穿着婴儿服的猪在她的大腿上睡着了。坑里一支看不见的乐团唱起了出自于格里格《西格德.乔萨法尔》“三月”的歌。他们是一伙以前躲在树后的流浪汉,他们搬到了舞台中央,开始演奏一首慢芭蕾舞音乐。每个人都穿着同样宽松的黑白格子裤,白色吊带系着,用红色纽扣固定,黑色燕尾大衣皱巴巴,红色法兰绒汗衫,棕色礼帽,白色手套,黑色条纹勾勒出手腕骨骼轮廓,每个人都右手拿着一个熄灭的雪茄烟头,烟头上贴着一层丰满的灰白的烟灰。这群人优美地移动着,在爱丽丝和睡猪周围形成了一个越来越窄的半圆形,这时,后者突然发出的鼾声吓了他们一跳,每个人都消失在树后。这一刻,马尼亚从她的洞窟里出来,她穿着蓝宝石蓝色薄纱的长袍,上面镶着蓝色亮片,一只胳膊的弯曲处抱着一捆白色的唐菖蒲,另一只手举着一根魔杖在空中,顶端有一颗镀金纸板星。只有她那奇怪的蓬乱的头发某种程度上损伤了她梳妆过时的优雅。她巧妙地将鬣狗的链子从柱子上拆下,让这畜生把她带到森林现场,那里的流浪汉们每个都开始从树干后面偷看。就像《吉塞尔》中的威尔斯一样,她们似乎被女神的幻影迷住了,她挥舞着它时,她摇动着她那颗嵌星的魔杖,描绘着她周围宽阔的弧线。然而,没有人敢靠得太近,因为如果他们这样做,咆哮,淌口水的鬣狗会向前猛跳,使劲地拉着它的链条。她终于让魔杖朝地上垂了下来,沉思地向下看了一会儿,她抬起头,把她那蒙着的卷发往后摇动,如此说:
   “赫卡特我的姐妹,有时陪我在午夜乘车前往无名的、难以形容的地方,警告我要注意这个小山谷,似乎是为公务员们星期天散步而布置的,但实际上却是流浪汉和弱智孩子的闹鬼。你,”她哭着,向流浪汉伴舞者挥舞魔杖,他们在疯狂地试图争先恐后摆脱她时绊倒在一起,“你们,甚至压迫我的梦想,在那里,一个反常的秩序应该统治,但我在那里发现的不是困扰我清醒时的疯狂的痕迹,在这里,都是共犯,滑稽而无效,尽管你假装是。至于那个生物”(她示意睡着的爱丽丝),“她只是对她在这里的存在和那个变化的暗示知道得很好,以及这些是如何组成我内在的性格的反思,如我外表所示,比如这件闪烁的礼服和这些纠结的树梢,这是我生活的一个源泉,意味着我生活混乱的一个缩影,但是在这些模糊的环境中,无论是真实的幻想,还是整洁的现实,都让我一直处于困境,直到我再也看不到我曾经所是的女人。我不会休息,直到我从我的思想中抹去所有这些,或者(更可能)将它合并入我周围为支持和荣耀而建立的混乱组合中。”
   
   
    

Description of a Masque  
   
   
   
   The persimmon velvet curtain rose swiftly to reveal a space of uncertain dimensions and perspective. At the lower left was a grotto, the cave of Mania, goddess of confusion. Larches, alders and Douglas fir were planted so thickly around the entrance that one could scarcely make it out. In the dooryard a hyena chained to a pole slunk back and forth, back and forth, continually measuring the length of its chain, emitting the well-known laughing sound all the while, except at intervals when what appeared to be fragments of speech would issue from its maw. It was difficult to hear the words, let alone understand them, though now and then a phrase like “Up your arse!” or “Turn the rascals out!” could be distinguished for a moment, before subsiding into a confused chatter. Close by the entrance to the grotto was a metal shoescraper in the form of a hyena, and very like this particular one, whose fur was a grayish-white faintly tinged with pink, and scattered over with foul, liver-colored spots. On the other side of the dooryard opposite the hyena’s pole was a graceful statue of Mercury on a low, gilded pedestal, facing out toward the audience with an expression of delighted surprise on his face. The statue seemed to be made of lead or some other dull metal, painted an off-white which had begun to flake in places, revealing the metal beneath which was of almost the same color. As yet there was no sign of the invisible proprietress of the grotto.
   A little to the right and about eight feet above this scene, another seemed to hover in mid-air. It suggested the interior of an English pub, as it might be imitated in Paris. Behind the bar, opposite the spectators in the audience, was a mural adapted from a Tenniel illustration for Through the Looking Glass---the famous one in which a fish in a footman’s livery holds out a large envelope to a frog footman who has just emerged onto the front stoop of a small house, while in the background, partially concealed by the trunk of a tree, Alice lurks, an expression of amusement on her face. Time and the fumes of a public house had darkened the colors almost to a rich mahogany glow, and if one had not known the illustration it would have been difficult to make out some of the details.
   Seven actors and actresses, representing seven nursery-rhyme characters, populated the scene. Behind the bar the bald barman, Georgie Porgie, stood motionless, gazing out at the audience. In front and a little to his left,lounging on a tall stool, was Little Jack Horner, in fact quite a tall and roguish-looking young man wearing a trench coat and expensive blue jeans; he had placed his camera on the bar near him. He too faced out toward the audience. In front of him, his back to the audience, Little Boy Blue partially knelt before him, apparently performing an act of fellatio on him. Boy Blue was entirely clothed in blue denim, of an ordinary kind.
   To their left, Simple Simon and the Pie Man stood facing each other in profile. The Pie Man’s gaze was directed toward the male couple at the center of the bar; at the same time he continually offered and withdrew a pie coveted by Simon, whose attention was divided between the pie and the scene behind him, at which he kept glancing over his shoulder, immediately turning back toward the pie as the Pie Man withdrew it, Simon all the time pretending to fumble in his pocket for a penny. The Pie Man was dressed like a French baker’s apprentice, in a white blouse and blue-and-white checked pants; he appeared to be about twenty-eight years of age. Simon was about the same age, but he was wearing a Buster Brown outfit, with a wide-brimmed hat, dark blue blazer and short pants, and a large red bow tie.
   At the opposite end of the bar sat two young women, their backs to the audience, apparently engaged in conversation. The first, Polly Flinders, was wearing a strapless dress of ash-colored chiffon with a narrow silver belt. She sat closest to Jack Horner and Boy Blue, but paid no attention to them and turned frequently toward her companion, at the same time puffing on a cigarette in a shiny black cigarette holder and sipping a martini straight up with an olive. Daffy Down Dilly, the other young woman, had long straight blond hair which had obviously been brushed excessively so that it gleamed when it caught the light; it was several shades of blond in easily distinguishable streaks. She wore a long emerald-green velvet gown cut very low in back, and held up by glittering rhinestone straps; her yellow lace-edged petticoat hung down about an inch and a half below the hem of her gown. She did not smoke but from time to time sipped through a straw on a whiskey sour, also straight up. Although she frequently faced in the direction of the other characters when she turned toward Polly, she too paid them no mind.
   After a few moments Jack seemed to grow weary of Boy Blue’s attentions and gave him a brisk shove which sent him sprawling on the floor, where he walked about on all fours barking like a dog for several minutes, causing the hyena in the bottom left tableau to stop its own prowling and fall silent except for an occasional whimper, as though wondering where the barking was coming from. Soon Boy Blue curled up in front of the bar and pretended to fall asleep, resting his head on the brass rail, and the hyena continued as before. Jack rearranged his clothing and turned toward the barman, who handed him another drink. At this point the statue of Mercury stepped from its pedestal and seemed to float upward into the bar scene, landing on tiptoe between Jack and Simple Simon. After a deep bow in the direction of the ladies, who ignored him, he turned to face the audience and delivered the following short speech.
   “My fellow prisoners, we have no idea how long each of us has been in this town and how long each of us intends to stay, although I have reason to believe that the lady in green over there is a fairly recent arrival. My point, however, is this. Instead of loitering this way, we should all become part of a collective movement, get involved with each other and with our contemporaries on as many levels as possible. No one will disagree that there is much to be gained from contact with one another, and I, as a god, feel it even more keenly than you do. My understanding, though universal, lacks the personal touch and the local color which would make it meaningful to me.”
   These words seemed to produce an uneasiness among the other patrons of the bar. Even Little Boy Blue stopped pretending to be asleep and glanced warily at the newcomer. The two girls had left off conversing. After a few moments Daffy got down off her bar stool and walked over to Mercury.Opening a green brocade pocketbook, she pulled out a small revolver and shot him in the chest. The bullet passed through him without harming him and imbedded itself in the fish in the mural behind the bar, causing it to lurch forward regurgitating blood and drop the envelope, which produced a loud report and a flash like a magnesium flare that illuminated an expression of anger and fear on Alice’s face, as she hastily clapped her hands over her ears. Then the whole stage was plunged in darkness, the last thing remaining visible being the apparently permanent smile on Mercury’s face---still astonished and delighted, and bearing no trace of malice.   
   Little by little the darkness began to dissipate, and a forest scene similar to that in the mural was revealed. It had moved forward to fill the space formerly occupied by the bar and its customers, and was much neater and tidier than the forest in the mural had been. The trees were more or less the same size and shape, and planted equidistant from each other. There was no forest undergrowth,no dead leaves or rotting tree trunks on the ground; the grass under the trees was as green and well kept as that of a lawn. This was because the scene represented a dream of Mania (whose grotto was still visible in the lower left-hand corner of the stage), and, since she was the goddess of confusion, her dream revealed no trace of confusion, or at any rate presented a confusing absence of confusion. On a white banner threaded through some of the branches of the trees in the foreground the sentence “It’s an Ongoing Thing” was printed in scarlet letters. To the left, toward the rear of the scene, Alice appeared to be asleep at the base of a tree trunk, with a pig dressed in baby clothes asleep in her lap. An invisible orchestra in the pit intoned the “March” from Grieg’s Sigurd Jorsalfar. A group of hobos who had previously been hidden behind the trees moved to the center of the stage and began to perform a slow-moving ballet to the music. Each was dressed identically in baggy black-and-white checked trousers held up by white suspenders fastened with red buttons, a crumpled black swallowtail coat, red flannel undershirt, brown derby hat and white gloves with black stripes outlining the contours of the wrist bones, and each held in his right hand an extinguished cigar butt with a fat gray puffy ash affixed to it. Moving delicately on point, the group formed an ever-narrowing semicircle around Alice and the sleeping pig, when a sudden snort from the latter startled them and each disappeared behind a tree. At this moment Mania emerged from her grotto dressed in a gown of sapphire-blue tulle studded with blue sequins, cradling a sheaf of white gladioli in the crook of one arm and with her other hand holding aloft a wand with a gilt cardboard star at its tip. Only her curiously unkempt hair marred the somewhat dated elegance of her toilette. Deftly detaching the hyena’s chain from its post, she allowed the beast to lead her upward to the forest scene where the hobos had each begun to peek out from behind his tree trunk. Like the Wilis in Giselle, they appeared mesmerized by the apparition of the goddess, swaying to the movement of her star-tipped wand as she waved it,describing wide arcs around herself. None dared draw too close, however, for if they did so the snarling, slavering hyena would lurch forward, straining at its chain. At length she let her wand droop toward the ground, and after gazing pensively downward for some moments she raised her head and, tossing back her matted curls, spoke thus:
   “My sister Hecat, who sometimes accompanies me on midnight rides to nameless and indescribable places, warned me of this dell, seemingly laid out for the Sunday strolls of civil servants, but in reality the haunt of drifters and retarded children. You,” she cried, shaking her wand at the corps de ballet of hobos, who stumbled and fell over each other in their frantic attempt to get away from her, “you who oppress even my dreams, where a perverse order should reign but where I find instead traces of the lunacy that besets my waking hours, are accomplices in all this, comical and ineffectual though you pretend to be. As for that creature”(here she gestured toward the sleeping Alice),“she knows only too well the implications of her presence here with that changeling, and how these constitute a reflection on my inward character as illustrated in my outward appearance, such as this spangled gown and these tangled tresses, meant to epitomize the confusion which is the one source of my living being, but which in these ambiguous surroundings, neither true fantasy nor clean-cut reality, keeps me at bay until I can no longer see the woman I once was. I shall not rest until I have erased all of this from my thoughts, or (which is more likely) incorporated it into the confusing scheme I have erected around me for my support and glorification.”
   
   
   

 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-4 20:32:45 | 显示全部楼层
听到这句话,在流浪汉们中,窃窃私语和不安重组着;与此同时,爱丽丝和小猪不在意地睡觉,后者的鼾声变得比以前更轻松更平静。马尼亚继续大步来回走,急躁地把魔杖刺进地里。突然,一匹黑马,骑着一匹包着黑斗篷的骑手,黑帽拉到面孔上,从舞台右侧穿过树林,沿着一条小路迅速靠近树林。没有下马,也没有露脸,陌生人就开始和那女士搭讪:
   陌生人:你为什么这样来回踱步,无视这一场景的关键现实,或者假装这是某个嫉妒的明白事理的神灵发出的一个怪诞的来迷惑和羞辱你的理由?你也许会被认为是美丽的,甚至在这样一个奇怪的环境中,你也是一个装饰品,如果你不执意破坏你那清晰而出人意料的性格轮廓,牵着这只丑陋的畸形畜生转来转去,仿佛要吓跑任何可能走近你来欣赏你的人。
   马尼亚:我是我自己,在其中我很快乐,不在乎别人的意见。别人可能对我抱有的恰当想法对我来说是一种毒药,把我着逃到更远的荒野中,甚至比这更不友好,更危险地结合了不规则的因素。至于我的宠物鬣狗,美在旁观者的眼中;至少,我认为他很漂亮,而且,不像其他畜生,他有能力嘲笑或讥笑我们周围的景象。
   陌生人:跟我来,我会带你出席一个美和非理性交替统治的宫廷,永远不要像你那些难看的追随者那样踩着对方的脚趾[在流浪汉中更多地低声说话和做手势],在那里你自己明显的轮廓可能会繁衍生息,并因其所有的价值而受到评判,而你碰巧所处的房间里的异常情况,或者阻碍你自由非正统发展的令人不安的信件和电话,将像离开冰川的水晶溪流一样融化,你可能永远居住在你性格的意外之中。
   马尼亚:你说得很好,如果一切都如你所说,我相信并乐意陪你。但在此之前,我必须问你两个问题。首先,你打算带我去的宫殿的主人她叫什么名字;第二,我可以带我的鬣狗吗?
   陌生人:关于第一个问题,我现在可能不回答,但你很快就会知道的。至于第二个,答案是肯定的,假如它表现出自己的行为。
   
   这位女士在他的帮助下骑上了陌生人的马,侧身坐着,链上的鬣狗在他们后面小跑。当他们骑马回到森林里,树林渐渐消失了,景色变成了一片巨大的金属天空,其中有一个巨大的铅色球体或圆盘---无法确定哪一个---似乎漂浮在舞台前部和地板之间的中间。在脚灯后面的左右两边,一些流浪汉,几乎缩小到了侏儒的尺寸,来回冲着挂在他们上面奇怪的圆球做手势;他们中间还夹杂着一些童谣里的人物,比如红桃杰克和馅饼人,他们似乎在不安地四处寻找西蒙。所有人都对这个奇怪的新幽灵感到困惑或恐惧,它似乎变得越来越暗,越来越密,而周围的天空却保持着同样的白色金属颜色。
   爱丽丝,从睡梦中醒来,站起身来,加入到舞台前面的队伍中,让那只穿着婴儿衣服的猪蹦蹦跳跳地飞到翅膀上。她擦去额头上掉下来的一绺头发,似乎意识到周围风景的变化,她转身问其他人:“现在发生了什么?”
   作为回答,杰克.霍纳,一直用一种讽刺的超然表情盯着手中的相机,就像哈姆雷特凝视着约里克的头骨,他猛地把头朝着那面旗帜抬起,其鲜红箴言仍然明亮地发光,尽管支撑着它的树木在天空的怒视中迅速褪色。爱丽丝也抬起头来,第一次注意到它。
   “我明白了,”她最后说。“一个持续的过程已经在我们周围开始运动,尽管我没有看出有迹象表明我们中的任何一个人参与其中。如果是这样,我们将得出什么结论?为什么我们会在这里,如果即使像“这里”这样一个模糊的概念是给予我们的?我们该怎么办?”
   听到这句话,红桃杰克走上前去,谦虚地把目光投向地面。“我看到了分离的,柔软的疼痛,女士,”他说。“像这些”---他用手臂一扫,指了指那群流浪汉和其他人,他们已经在背景中陷入了焦虑的倾斜姿势---“他们不知道自己是什么,也不知道自己的意思,我把他们与像我们这样的生物的严肃事务隔离开来,二者比普通的被麻醉的俗人更普通、更杰出。正是这样,我们才可以更加尖锐地质疑我们被插入的那个范围,它威胁着每一秒都要窒息我们,而在它之上,我们拉动的每一次呼吸都会升起胜利。“至少,我是这么看的。”“那你就是个傻瓜,也是无赖,”杰克生气地回答,“因为你似乎没有意识到这个球体正逃离我们身,而不是相反,而且过一会儿它就会变成一件携带得更少的东西。”
   当他说话的时候,舞台变得很暗,以至于相比较而言天空中的圆圈最后似乎显得很亮,而管弦乐池里的乐器升起了柔和的哀嚎。
   “我怀疑这一切都是水星的恶作剧,”杰克咕哝着说,用观天之眼盯着天空。“因为虽然有些人相信赫尔墨斯的血统是天上的,但也有人坚持认为他来自地狱,在普洛同和珀耳塞福涅在这里有生意往来的稀有场合,他会出现在地球上为他们做差事。”
   灯光又慢慢走近,从透视图上显示美国一座大城市里一条繁忙的主街。圆盘的黑暗轮廓仍然留在天空中,然而气候似乎温暖而阳光明媚,尽管街上和百货公司的门面上挂着圣诞装饰品,在附近的街角站着一位救世军圣诞老人,手里拿着铃和坩埚。从女人的时尚和在街上被无形之物拖着的汽车模型来看,这可能是30年代末或40年代初到40年代中期的洛杉矶市中心。
   一对三十出头的夫妇在人行道上恰当的地方行走,人行道实际上是一个跑步机,朝着舞台后面移动。马尼亚(因为那个女人不是别人,正是她)穿着《米尔德雷德.皮尔斯》中的琼.克劳福德的风格,穿着一套有垫肩的严肃西服,戴着一顶筒帽,向上梳的发髻上有一层薄纱加冕,她的头发也垂下她的肩膀,在更多的夹卷中结束。现在,她不再是一捆唐菖蒲,而是抓住一个挂在肩上的带子上的黑色手提包,代替了鬣狗,那些“白色的小狗”中的一只在皮带的末端,不停地嗅行人的腿,而这些行人实际上只是赛璐珞幻影,这是拍摄整个市中心背景的过程的一部分。她旁边的男人戴着宽边帽,穿着宽松的运动外套和宽松的华达呢长裤;他和演员布鲁斯•班尼特带着一定的相似之处,但更靠近的观察发现他就是墨丘利雕像,空眼窝周围的油漆还在从他脸上剥落。一开始,两人好像在享受节日的气氛,在城市的景色和声音中畅饮。但,渐渐地,妈妈的表情变暗了;最后她在人行道中间停了下来,拉了拉她的陪同的袖子。
   “听着,赫尔曼,”她说,也许是直呼布鲁斯.班尼特的真名,赫尔曼.布里克斯,“你说你要带我去这个极有趣的地方等等,在那里我应该会遇到很多有趣的人,他们可以在我的生涯中帮助我。我们所做的一切就是沿着这条迟钝的街道走,看看商店的橱窗,等待红绿灯的改变。这是你的好时光的主意吗?”
   “但这只是一部分,我答应你的一部分,亲爱的,”墨丘利回答说。“你还感觉不到气氛吗?那永恒的明信片的粉蓝色的天空,山峰的阴霾勉强可见;鲑鱼色的人行道上有绿色和蓝色的小轿车,看起来很安静,虽然它们应该是在运动?橱窗里的购物者,像你和我这样的人…?”
   
    At this there was some whispering and apprehensive regrouping among the hobos; meanwhile Alice and the pig slept on oblivious, the latter’s snores having become more relaxed and peaceful than before. Mania continued to stride back and forth, impetuously stabbing her wand into the ground. Suddenly a black horse with a rider swathed in a dark cloak and with a dark sombrero pulled down over his face approached quickly along a path leading through the trees from the right of the stage. Without dismounting or revealing his face the stranger accosted the lady:
   STRANGER: Why do you pace back and forth like this, ignoring the critical reality of this scene, or pretending that it is a monstrosity of reason sent by some envious commonsensical deity to confound and humiliate you? You might have been considered beautiful, and an ornament even to such a curious setting as this, had you not persisted in spoiling the clear and surprising outline of your character, and leading around this hideous misshapen beast as though to scare off any who might have approached you so as to admire you.
   MANIA: I am as I am, and in that I am happy, and care nothing for the opinion of others. The very idea of the idea others might entertain of me is as a poison to me, pushing me to flee farther into wastes even less hospitable and more treacherously combined of irregular elements than this one. As for my pet hyena, beauty is in the eye of the beholder; at least, I find him beautiful, and, unlike other beasts, he has the ability to laugh and sneer at the spectacle around us.
   STRANGER: Come with me, and I will take you into the presence of one at whose court beauty and irrationality reign alternately, and never tread on each other’s toes as do your unsightly followers [more whispering and gesturing among the hobos], where your own pronounced contours may flourish and be judged for what they are worth, while the anomalies of the room you happen to be in or the disturbing letters and phone calls that hamper your free unorthodox development will melt away like crystal rivulets leaving a glacier, and you may dwell in the accident of your character forever.
   MANIA: You speak well, and if all there is as you say, I am convinced and will accompany you gladly. But before doing so I must ask you two questions. First,what is the name of her to whose palace you purpose to lead me; and second, may I bring my hyena along?
   STRANGER: As to the first question, that I may not answer now, but you’ll find out soon enough. As to the second, the answer is yes, providing it behaves itself.
   
   The lady mounted the stranger’s steed with his help, and sat sideways, with the hyena on its chain trotting along behind them. As they rode back into the woods the forest faded away and the scene became an immense metallic sky in which a huge lead-colored sphere or disc---impossible to determine which--- seemed to float midway between the proscenium and the floor of the stage. At right and left behind the footlights some of the hobos, reduced almost to midget size, rushed back and forth gesticulating at the strange orb that hung above them; with them mingled a few nursery-rhyme characters such as the Knave of Hearts and the Pie Man, who seemed to be looking around uneasily for Simon. All were puzzled or terrified by the strange new apparition, which seemed to grow darker and denser while the sky surrounding it stayed the same white-metal color.
   Alice, awakening from her slumber, stood up and joined the group at the front of the stage, leaving the pig in its baby clothes to scamper off into the wings. Wiping away some stands of hair that had fallen across her forehead and seeming to become aware of the changed landscape around her, she turned to the others and asked, “What happens now?”
   In reply, Jack Horner, who had been gazing at the camera in his hand with an expression of ironic detachment, like Hamlet contemplating the skull of Yorick, jerked his head upward toward the banner, whose scarlet motto still blazed brightly though the trees that supported it were fast fading in the glare from the sky. Alice too looked up, noticing it for the first time.
   “I see,” she said at length. “A process of duration has been set in motion around us, though there is no indication I can see that any of us is involved in it. If that is the case, what conclusion are we to draw? Why are we here, if even such a nebulous concept as ‘here’ is to be allowed us? What are we to do?”
   At this the Knave of Hearts stepped forward and cast his eyes modestly toward the ground. “I see separate, soft pain, lady,” he said. “The likes of these”---he indicated with a sweep of his arm the group of hobos and others who had subsided into worried reclining poses in the background---“who know not what they are, or what they mean, I isolate from the serious business of creatures such as we, both more ordinary and more distinguished than the common herd of anesthetized earthlings. It is so that we may question more acutely the sphere into which we have been thrust, that threatens to smother us at every second and above which we rise triumphant with each breath we draw. At least, that is the way I see it_” “Then you are a fool as well as a knave,” Jack answered angrily, “since you don’t seem to realize that the sphere is escaping us, rather than the reverse,and that in a moment it will have become one less thing to carry.”
   As he spoke the stage grew very dark, so that the circle in the sky finally seemed light by contrast, while a soft wail arose from the instruments in the orchestra pit.
   “I suspect the mischief of Mercury in all this,” muttered Jack, keeping a weather eye on the heavens. “For though some believe Hermes’ lineage to be celestial, others maintain that he is of infernal origin, and emerges on earth to do the errands of Pluto and Proserpine on the rare occasions when they have business here.”
   The lights slowly came up again, revealing a perspective view of a busy main street in a large American city. The dark outline of the disc still persisted in the sky, yet the climate seemed warm and sunny, though there were Christmas decorations strung across the street and along the facades of department stores, and on a nearby street corner stood a Salvation Army Santa Claus with his bell and cauldron. It could have been downtown Los Angeles in the late 30s or early---to mid---40s, judging from the women’s fashions and the models of cars that crawled along the street as though pulled by invisible strings.
   Walking in place on a sidewalk which was actually a treadmill moving toward the back of the stage was a couple in their early thirties. Mania (for the woman was none other than she) was dressed in the style of Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce, in a severe suit with padded shoulders and a pillbox with a veil crowning the pincurls of her upswept hairdo, which also cascaded to her shoulders, ending in more pincurls. Instead of the sheaf of gladioli she now clutched a black handbag suspended on a strap over her shoulder, and in place of the hyena, one of those little white dogs on the end of a leash kept sniffing the legs of pedestrians who were in truth mere celluloid phantoms, part of the process shot which made up the whole downtown backdrop. The man at her side wore a broad-brimmed hat, loose-fitting sport coat and baggy gabardine slacks; he bore a certain resemblance to the actor Bruce Bennett but closer inspection revealed him to be the statue of Mercury, with the paint still peeling from his face around the empty eye sockets. At first it looked as though the two were enjoying the holiday atmosphere and drinking in the sights and sounds of the city. Gradually, however, Mama’s expression darkened; finally she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pulled at her escort’s sleeve.
   “listen, Herman,” she said, perhaps addressing Bruce Bennett by his real name, Herman Brix, “you said you were going to take me to this swell place and all, where I was supposed to meet a lot of interesting people who could help me in my career. All we do is walk down this dopey street looking in store windows and waiting for the stoplights to change. Is this your idea of a good time?”
   “But this is all part of it, hon, part of what I promised you,” Mercury rejoined. “Don’t you feel the atmosphere yet? That powder-blue sky of the eternal postcard, with the haze of mountain peaks barely visible; the salmon-colored pavement with its little green and blue cars that look so still though they are supposed to be in motion? The window shoppers, people like you and me …?”
   
    

  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-4 20:45:37 | 显示全部楼层

   
   “我就是这么想的,”马尼亚撅着嘴,在它的厚底鞋上跺一只脚,声音太大了,好几个临时演员都转过身来看。“气氛---就是自始至终的东西,不是吗?布景,诗歌,诸如此类的问题。我不妨呆在我的洞穴里,为它对我的所有好处。毕竟,我习惯了不融入环境---这是我不干的事。但我以为你会把我从这一切带走,带到一个风景不再有任何区别的地方,在那里我可以成为所有人都指责我,我想我必须成为的样子---我疲惫的,专横的自我,与局部颜色分离,就像几何结构与这些街道和建筑物的可怕的垂直线以及延伸到缩小的意识中的花彩是分离的一样。你忘了圣奥古斯丁的话了吗:‘在你的想象中,随意把太阳的光加倍,使它变得更大、更明亮,无论是一千倍还是无数倍。上帝都不会在那里’?”
   然后我们都意识到从一开始就应该显而易见的东西:环境将继续不断演变,像海洋一样,将其波浪像海洋一样穿过我们的视野滚动,每一个新的都可辨别是同一系列的一部分,这就是创造本身。电影、戏剧、歌剧、电视的场景;历史上决定性的或鲜为人知的插曲;产前和其他来自我们自己的孤独、分开的过去的早期记忆;尚未从生活或艺术中产生的事件;灾难或放松的时刻;普遍或个人悲剧;或者说,来自于你不得不停下来笑着,每天生活中的小插曲,它们都是那么有趣,就像狗在客厅的地毯上追逐它的尾巴。加利福尼亚阳光明媚的城市渐渐消失,另一个场景取代了它,另一个又另一个。所有这些推论是我们将继续目击这些画面,不是有任何事情阻止我们离开剧院,而是我们没有可选择的兴趣去发现接下来会发生什么。这是唯一对我们重要的事情,所以我们继续留下来,尽管我们可以站起来,在任何一个给予的时刻厌恶地走开。事件根据自身的内在逻辑跟随事件发生。我们看到了《波希米亚人》的第一幕,如画般的贫困,规模宏大足以填补世界上最伟大歌剧院的舞台,从列宁格勒到布宜诺斯艾利斯,只有天窗、一两个画架和一个带着烟的烟囱的炉子这些标点,但完全充满了罗多尔夫,马塞洛、柯林和他们的朋友的喧闹和真诚的情谊;成熟,慷慨,进入咪咪被介绍入的氛围,就像不可避免死亡的第一道碎片,场景不知不觉地融化到莫墨斯咖啡馆的露台上,在那里朋友们聚集在一起喝酒,讨论哲学,突然间,这位早前被视为像达菲.唐.迪利缪斯塔一样的金发女演员,又像缪斯塔一样回来了,嘲笑她那年老的保护者,在一个“女店员般的”生活的欢乐和好处的无死旋律的鸣响后倾泻出一个鸣响,同时紧握着一个小丝绒手袋,里面清晰可见一只小左轮手枪的轮廓,因为我们从以前的经验中就充分知道,她是死亡的丰富和意外的象征,我们一直期待着它再次苏醒,在演出过程中我们会多次见到它。电视上场景朦胧,其中占优势的是摘录自雅克.库斯托纪录片,浮潜的身影消失在如水的远景下,经过珊瑚静物的排列和白色的,扇形生物,由雪百叶制成,其尾部的藤蔓状触须可能使人终生瘫痪,看起来过量的银泡不断地从这里和那里被发射,向上扫到屏幕的顶部,在那里它们消失。有露西,拉西和华顿一家的旧片段,几年前沃尔特.克朗凯特问候我们一个迫切的晚安。大部分时间都只是瞬间:从上面看一个街角,光秃秃的树枝在天空中乱动,一个孩子在门口,一幅画着的宾夕法尼亚荷兰人的画,满月在黑云后面消失,伴随着日本长笛,一个身穿霜白色连衣裙的芭蕾舞演员升进了灯光。
   在它后面,天空中的圆圈始终固定得像电视屏幕上的幽灵。现在,背景是易卜生《咱们死人醒来的时候》的最后一幕,“荒凉的,破碎的山顶,后面有一个陡峭的悬崖。到了右边的塔上,雪峰,在飘渺的雾中迷失了自己。至左边,在一个碎石坡上,矗立着一座破旧的,摇摇欲坠的小屋。现在是清晨。黎明正在破晓,太阳还没有升起。”在这里,天空中的圆盘可以开始承担太阳的特性,而太阳被拒绝了这么久:就像是用湿羊毛做的,它开始一点一点地吸收和散发光。水星的形象变得更戏剧化,更人性化:不再是雕像,他被一件新洗过的斗篷包裹着,这使他结构良好,但体格很轻;宽边的帽子迷人地坐在他的卷发上。他坐着,在一张公园长铁凳上,两腿分开,不经意地和他的工作人员一起在地上挖,从那里长出叶子而不是蛇,偶尔弯腰划伤他那双带翅膀的凉鞋的带子后面的脚跟的一部分。早晨的雾正在蒸发;光正变成剧院的普通黄色日光。他双手放在工作人员身上,向前靠去向观众讲话,用一个威尔.罗杰斯精明的乡巴佬方式抬起头来。
   “毕竟,你认为我已经拥有它,还是我已经找到了它?你也许是对的。但我还是要说,重要的不是特定的环境,而是我们如何适应它们,你们都必须知道,现在,看着所有这些场景和风景的变化,直到你觉得它从你的耳朵里冒出来。我知道这是怎么回事;我已经在每个地方,给这一个和那一个承载着信息,经常用蒸汽把它们打开,看看里面有什么东西,也吃了那一剂好药,除了我当时可能飞过的塔尔塔罗斯峰。这就像睡得离床边太近---有时你会有从一边掉下来有时会从另一边掉下来的危险,但你很少掉下来,一般来说,你的梦几乎是按照梦程序具有的正常方式进行的。我仍然认为旧的朴素的方式更好:想法、演讲、论点---无论你想叫它什么---一方面,另一方面,是写得强有力的场景和穿着法兰绒套装、穿着羊腿肉袖的丰满人物。因为新月是最美丽的,透过烧焦的枝桠和依附在枝桠上的最后几片枯叶。”
   突然,他向上瞥了一眼碎石坡,看到一个穿着维多利亚式衬衫、头戴草船帽的女孩,正怯生生地沿着小路移动,穿过现在狂暴打旋的雾气。她尴尬而惊奇地咯咯地默默笑着,同时紧握着一台老式的柯达,她指着水星。
   “是萨布丽娜,”他说。“车轮终于转了一圈,这是一个简单的遭遇,一直意味着。这件事曾发生在很多年前,那时我们还是孩子,从那时起可能发生过很多次!但这不是我们的错,它选择了这一刻,这一刻只是,重复它自己!因为即使它直接威胁我们,它照样令人兴奋?”
   雪崩一次又一次地崩塌,直到今天还在继续崩塌。
   
   
“That’s what I thought, ”Mania pouted, stamping one of her feet in its platform shoe so loudly that several of the extras turned to look “Atmosphere--- that’s what it was all along, wasn’t it? A question of ambience, poetry, something like that. I might as well have stayed in my cave for all the good it’s going to do me. After all, I’m used to not blending in with the environment---it’s my business not to. But I thought you were going to take me away from all that, to some place where scenery made no difference any more, where I could be what everybody accuses me of being and what I suppose I must be---my tired, tyrannical self, as separate from local color as geometry is from the hideous verticals of these avenues and buildings and the festoons that extend them into the shrinking consciousness. Have you forgotten the words of St. Augustine: ‘Multiply in your imagination the light of the sun, make it greater and brighter as you will, a thousand times or out of number. God will not be there’?”
   Then we all realized what should have been obvious from the start: that the setting would go on evolving eternally, rolling its waves across our vision like an ocean, each one new yet recognizably a part of the same series, which was creation itself. Scenes from movies, plays, operas, television; decisive or little-known episodes from history; prenatal and other early memories from our own solitary, separate pasts; events yet to come from life or art; calamities or moments of relaxation; universal or personal tragedies; or little vignettes from daily life that you just had to stop and laugh at, they were so funny, like the dog chasing its tail on the living-room rug. The sunny city in California faded away and another scene took its place, and another and another. And the corollary of all this was that we would go on witnessing these tableaux, not that anything prevented us from leaving the theater, but there was no alternative to our interest in finding out what would happen next. This was the only thing that mattered for us, so we stayed on although we could have stood up and walked away in disgust at any given moment. And event followed event according to an inner logic of its own. We saw the set for the first act of La Bohème, picturesque poverty on a scale large enough to fill the stages of the world’s greatest opera houses, from Leningrad to Buenos Aires, punctuated only by a skylight, an easel or two and a stove with a smoking stovepipe, but entirely filled up with the boisterous and sincere camaraderie of Rodolfo,Marcello, Colline and their friends; a ripe, generous atmosphere into which Mimi is introduced like the first splinter of unavoidable death, and the scene melts imperceptibly into the terrace of the Cafe Momus, where the friends have gathered to drink and discuss philosophy, when suddenly the blond actress who had earlier been seen as Daffy Down Dilly returns as Musetta, mocking her elderly protector and pouring out peal after peal of deathless melody concerning the joys and advantages of life as a grisette,meanwhile clutching a small velvet handbag in which the contour of a small revolver was clearly visible, for as we well knew from previous experience, she was the symbol of the unexpectedness and exuberance of death, which we had waited to have come round again and which we would be meeting many times more during the course of the performance. There were murky scenes from television with a preponderance of excerpts from Jacques Cousteau documentaries with snorkeling figures disappearing down aqueous perspectives, past arrangements of coral still-lifes and white, fanlike creatures made of snowy tripe whose trailing vinelike tentacles could paralyze a man for life, and a seeming excess of silver bubbles constantly being emitted from here and there to sweep upward to the top of the screen, where they vanished. There were old clips from Lucy, Lassie and The Waltons, there was Walter Cronkite bidding us urgent good evening years ago. Mostly there were just moments: a street corner viewed from above, bare branches flailing the sky, a child in a doorway, a painted Pennsylvania Dutch chest, a full moon disappearing behind a dark cloud to the accompaniment of a Japanese flute, a ballerina in a frosted white dress lifted up into the light.
   Always behind it the circle in the sky remained fixed like a ghost on a television screen. The setting was now the last act of Ibsen’s When We Dead Awaken: “A wild, broken mountaintop, with a sheer precipice behind. To the right tower snowy peaks, losing themselves high up in drifting mist. To the left, on a scree, stands an old, tumbledown hut. It is early morning. Dawn is breaking, the sun has not yet risen.” Here the disc in the sky could begin to take on the properties of the sun that had been denied it for so long: as though made of wet wool, it began little by little to soak up and distribute light. The figure of Mercury had become both more theatrical and more human: no longer a statue, he was draped in a freshly laundered chlamys that set off his well-formed but slight physique; the broad-brimmed petasus sat charmingly on his curls. He sat, legs spread apart, on an iron park bench, digging absent-mindedly at the ground with his staff from which leaves rather than serpents sprouted, occasionally bending over to scratch the part of his heel behind the strap of his winged sandal. The morning mists were evaporating; the light was becoming the ordinary yellow daylight of the theater. Resting both hands on his staff, he leaned forward to address the audience, cocking his head in the shrewd bumpkin manner of a Will Rogers.
   “So you think I have it, after all, or that I’ve found it? And you may be right. But I still say that what counts isn’t the particular set of circumstances, but how we adapt ourselves to them, and you all must know that by now, watching all these changes of scene and scenery till you feel it’s coming out of your ears. I know how it is; I’ve been everywhere, bearing messages to this one and that one, often steaming them open to see what’s inside and getting a good dose of that too, in addition to the peaks of Tartarus which I might be flying over at the time. It’s like sleeping too close to the edge of the bed---sometimes you’re in danger of falling out on one side and sometimes on the other, but rarely do you fall out, and in general your dreams proceed pretty much in the normal way dreams have of proceeding. I still think the old plain way is better: the ideas, speeches, arguments---whatever you want to call ’em---on one hand, and strongly written scenes and fully fleshed-out characters in flannel suits and leg-o’-mutton sleeves on the other. For the new moon is most beautiful viewed through burnt twigs and the last few decrepit leaves still clinging to them.”
   Suddenly he glanced upward toward the scree and noticed a girl in a Victorian shirtwaist and a straw boater hat moving timidly down the path through the now wildly swirling mists. She was giggling silently with embarrassment and wonder, meanwhile clasping an old-fashioned kodak, which she had pointed at Mercury.
   “It is Sabrina,” he said. “The wheel has at last come full circle, and it is the simplicity of an encounter that was meant all along. It happened ever so many years ago, when we were children, and could have happened so many times since! But it isn’t our fault that it has chosen this moment and this moment only, to repeat itself! For even if it does menace us directly, it’s exciting all the same? ”
   And the avalanche fell and fell, and continues to fall even today.
   
   
   
  





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 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-11 20:14:42 | 显示全部楼层


   
   
   “栗壳色少女”幻想曲
   
   (选自 Houseboat Days )
   作者: (美)约翰.阿什贝利( John Ashberry)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   他
   
   不管是对是错,这些人在
   公园里的其他人中间,所有在寒冷中的那些年,
   都是一种普通的东西:蕨类
   和无花果啄木鸟的乐队。下午
   结束的时候,你走出了
   拥挤在墙壁上的梦,走出了
   生活,或是那些充满了
   那些日子,似乎是生活的一切。
   你借用了它的颜色,那些现在很流行的
   单调的颜色,虽然只有
   一分钟,却提取了一种
   不真在那儿存在的时尚。你
   要走了,我从你的思想迅速
   走向绿林,独自一人,一个被驱逐的人。
   
   她
   
   但现在总是从你的感叹中,我
   再生,复活,涌现出来粗心的,
   在城市里心不在焉的尘土的喷泉,
   整日都在写着说着:
   我们圆形的女人喜欢角落。他们是
   我们经常说再见然后
   第二天又撞见的朋友。少数学校
   关闭了大门。悲伤地,她站起来
   解开了那空白、盛开的日子的齿轮。
   “为巴黎,和这个世界的生活就这么多。”
   但我要说
   这是不同的,关于时间
   如何把我们所有人分类的方式,让你和她
   在一起却又分开,在一个给予和拿走,推拉式的
   环境类型中。然后,像沙丁鱼一样被包装,
   我们的机智出现,自动生存下来。我们吸收它。
   
   他
   
   它们之间
   是怎么回事,让我们来讨论,夜晚的海绵
   把我们和其他许多东西联系在一起,带着
   一些距离,所以所有的痛苦和恐惧
   永远不会被任何人听到。在你的
   门廊上喘息,但我期待着新的
   恰好失去的季节。“我是骑士,
   我是晚上来的。”我们要对别人
   说这些话,依次地。现在迫不及待地
   要睡觉,就要迷失在流过的时间的前沿,可能
   还不如,把婴儿的气息弄干,塞在一个
   旧瓶子里,没有人从这些海湾里
   出海,不管安全与否,住在信念中。
   
   她
   
   正如我所想:那里没有什么
   是可靠的,没有什么是人们可以建立在其上的。这股
   力量可能已经在绿林中退去了。
   这里什么都没有,甚至没有
   懒散地溜走,被遗弃的感觉,远处
   汽车墓地上空的一缕
   盘绕的烟。取而代之的是,阴影率直地
   矗立着。未被邀请,光攫取了它预期的;
   被吃掉的东西变成了可变性的
   雕刻的印象,但没有任何东西在后面支持它。
   我们不妨在这里开始长篇大论:
   被忘记的过去一切如何给我们调味,如何为彼此
   准备了我们,现在冬天的数学
   开始指出这一点。
   
   他
   
   这是真的,一个更真实的故事。
   自我认识结霜于每一个行动,自由地被带走的
   每一步。生活是一幅活生生的图画。
   独自一人,我可以像一条褶皱的围巾一样把你绑起来
   但除此之外,还有很多东西可以
   出于检查的目的而被检查。
   结局流回风中,天太黑了
   看不见它们,但我能感觉到它们。
   作为关怀的命名,你反对每一个
   以前,这意味着一个安乐乡之地的
   并发症。你避开这个就好像
   永远修正意味着
   超越它自己兴奋感的春天的地理,
   而爱是自我祝贺的理由。
   
   她
   
   我可能躲在什么地方。我想飞,但遵守
   我的道德,如它一样混杂,只是通过
   鼓励这些分支围绕轴线转向。
   所以当中午前整个白天一片乌云
   突然变黑,这仅仅在
   测定时间。因此,即使黑暗进一步
   摇摆回,它也表明,必须表明,一种秩序,
   尽管是一种限制性的秩序,它倾向于证明,停顿的
   文明曾经存在于一个松散的导引下,如
   “活着的和死去的人”。了解更多
   不是我的方式,不管怎么说,围绕着盆地的
   深绿色圆环所假设的
   不仅仅是这个有趣的未完成的最后一章的
   最后一章。它在公共领域中。
   
   
   他
   
   但你会再次从中得到安慰。
   另一些人,耐心的杀人犯,有教养的,
   有同情心的,会及时巧妙地
   把背景从平行的雨线转换成
   “深度的”模糊,在
   这样做的时候会把一尊马术雕像滚到
   天空的正面,上帝的眼睛上,慢跑着
   这样既不会后退,也不会践踏阳光
   冷酷的泼洒。你的脸上会
   照出这种表情。巨大的壁球穹顶似乎
   证明我们所有人正确,但却不属于任何人。
   与此同时,其他人会长大,做爱,
   变老,像野草一样敲打着门,
   但这是出乎意料的。你让他们失去了保护。
   
   
   她
   
   我听到门边刮擦着的
   是许多决定回来的人的废话,
   他们出发得太快,必须对他们
   做些什么,名字必须写下来,
   或者仅仅是因为声音嘶哑,整个世界的一方
   不再会被计入,
   有我们生活和亲属
   故事的一方?上面,记忆着
   你骑车经过的那一天。
   但是为什么甚至,当早晨
   转过来的时候,均匀的茶色的水流是
   要从那些很难升起来的小山上
   骑下来的想法,爬上那些你以前
   滑行过的小山,就像镜子的书写。
   
   他
   
   当签名下的繁茂景象,
   一个微型蜂巢,上面有一只大蜜蜂,已
   完成,你选择远处的工厂的视角,
   高大的烟囱,任何东西。这不要紧
   只要它全是空的,只是落到
   底部像被扔掉的药瓶。
   然后那声音里的捕捉过时了,
   文明的时代早已过去。
   奇怪的是,我们应该不断地醒来
   到一种野蛮的平静,它可能
   一直支持着我们,同时仍然
   向我们多年前看到的灰白色墙壁道歉,多年前
   我们就看破。但它停留在这种方式。
   
   她
   
   发生的事情是,在大爆炸之前
   你已经完成了十分之九的工作,
   陨石或是其他什么东西
   撕开了直径八英里的大坑。
   然后你莫名其妙地拼接流血的电线,
   让它可见,足够长
   以便检查,然后收缩,睡觉,直到
   她坐公共汽车那儿的部分。所有这些
   都是因为百货公司里的某个人做了一些
   隐晦的暗示,或者说当那个人
   经过时你是这么想的,把生活的结构减少到了
   一个负数。因为这不是
   一次离别,所以没有退路。
   他
   
   我曾经偷过一支铅笔,但现在写着我名字的单子
   让我恶心。它是地平线,像船的甲板一样
   倾斜。更远处,真正地平线的东西
   凝结成一只蓝色的雄狍,它的影子
   使它拖曳过的每一张向上的脸都变硬
   并在那里留下一个水泡。如果还有时间
   回头,你就不要跟着我,而要
   留在你的生活中,在你的时间里,
   像老照片里的女人一样准确地
   测量着未来,然后,像她一样,转身离开,
   你的手几乎没有擦过多立克小圆柱的顶端
   此刻在这束光线描绘之外的
   任何东西都是痛苦,至少是幻觉,
   一片不太好的消息。
   
   她
   
   那么,我们必须像彼此一样,因为今天下午的
   压舱物几乎抑制不了不断上升的预感
   景观,与现在遥远的(但一切又是
   同一时期的)镁照明弹相比,其中
   那一刻的习惯,就像一块彩画幕布上的皱纹,
   垂直落入到舞台下的空间
   通过一扇不小心开着的活板门,
   加入人类坚持活跃性的其他表现形式
   在“半退休”中,它有它自己的奖赏
   除非解决方案出现得太晚,然后
   不会完全符合所有的氛围线索
   (书籍、盘子和浴室),但它是
   空的和警惕的,但也来不及得到训练,
   在夜里像高楼大厦一样站着,虚无缥缈,
   飘忽不定,狂热,不停地讲述
   过去发生的事情,在最近的
   过去结束,更黑暗的过去开始。
   
   他
   
   但既然“我们知道自己是什么,却不知道
   自己可能是什么,”现在更晚,温和的
   浪漫又接手了。有些东西必须是
   活的,不是每个人都能负担得起
   仅仅存在的奢侈,不是活着而是存在,在中心,
   芳香的,有图案的中心。也许这一切都很有趣
   但我们在看到它之前是不会知道的,因为在无风的日子里
   突然间,田野明显变得多么美好
   在它全部枯萎和褪色成半真半假的
   大杂烩之前,这灰色的垃圾堆。然后双重麻烦
   到来,贝波和泽波面对一阵
   彩色点飓风,双
   挡风玻璃雨刮器处理空调附件:
   悲哀,沉船,潮湿---可能是另一个王国。
   
   
    

Houseboat Days_ Poems - John Ashbery323// // P2452
   
   
   
   Fantasia on “The Nut-Brown Maid”//
   
   
   
   
   HE
   
   Be it right or wrong, these men among
   Others in the park, all those years in the cold,
   Are a plain kind of thing: bands
   Of acanthus and figpeckers. At
   The afternoon closing you walk out
   Of the dream crowding the walls and out
   Of life or whatever filled up
   Those days and seemed to be life.
   You borrowed its colors, the drab ones
   That are so popular now, though only
   For a minute, and extracted a fashion
   That wasn’t really there. You are
   Going, I from your thought rapidly
   To the green wood go, alone, a banished man.
   
   SHE
   
   But now always from your plaint I
   Relive, revive, springing up careless,
   Dust geyser in city absentmindedness,
   And all day it is writ and said:
   We round women like corners. They are the friends
   We are always saying goodbye to and then
   Bumping into the next day. School has closed
   Its doors on a few. Saddened, she rose up
   And untwined the gears of that blank, blossoming day.
   “So much for Paris, and the living in this world.”
   But I was going to say
   It differently, about the way
   Time is sorting us all out, keeping you and her
   Together yet apart, in a give-and-take, push-pull
   Kind of environment. And then, packed like sardines,
   Our wit arises, survives automatically. We imbibe it.
   
   HE
   
   What was all the manner
   Between them, let us discuss, the sponge
   Of night pick us up with much else, carry
   Some distance, so all the pain and fear
   Will never be heard by anybody.Gasping
   On your porch, but I look to new season
   Which is exactly lost. “I am the knight,
   I come by night.” We will say all these
   To the other, in turn. And now impatient for
   Sleep will have strayed over the
   Frontier to pass the time, and it might
   As well, dried baby’s breath stuck in an old
   Bottle, and no man puts out to sea from these
   Coves, secure or not, dwelling in persuasion.
   
   SHE
   
   It's as I thought: there there is
   Nothing solid, nothing one can build on. The
   Force may have ebbed in the green wood.
   Here is nothing, not even
   Lazy slipping away, feeling of being abandoned, a
   Distant curl of smoke above a car
   Graveyard. Instead, the shadows stand
   Straight out. Uninvited, light grabs its due;
   What is eaten away becomes etched impression
   Of mutability, but nothing backs it up.
   We may as well begin the litany here:
   How all that forgotten past seasons us, prepares
   Us for each other, now that the mathematics
   Of winter is starting to point it out.
   
   
   HE
   
   It is true, a truer story.
   Self-knowledge frosts each action, each step taken
   Freely. Life is a living picture.
   Alone, I can bind you like a pleated scarf
   But beyond that is much that might be
   Examined for the purpose of examining it.
   The ends stream back in the wind, it is too dark
   To see them but I can feel them.
   As Naming-of-Cares you precede the objection
   To each, implying a Land of Cockaigne
   Syndrome. You get around this as though
   The eternally revised geography of spring meant
   Something beyond its own sense of exaltation,
   And love were cause for self-congratulation.
   
   SHE
   
   I might hide somewhere. I want to fly but keep
   My morality, motley as it is, just by
   Encouraging these branching diversions around an axis.
   So when suddenly a cloud blackens the whole
   Day just before noon, this is merely
   Timing. So even when darkness swings further
   Back, it indicates, must indicate, an order,
   Albeit a restricted one, which tends to prove that idle
   Civilizations once existed under a loose heading like
   “The living and the dead.” To learn more
   Isn’t my way, and anyway the dark green
   Ring around the basin postulates
   More than the final chapter of this intriguing
   Unfinished last chapter. It’s in the public domain.
   
   HE
   
   But you will take comfort in it again.
   Others, patient murderers, cultivated,
   Sympathetic, in time will have subtly
   Switched the background from parallel rain-lines
   To the ambiguities of “the deep,” and in
   Doing so will have wheeled an equestrian statue up
   Against the sky’s facade, the eye of God, cantering
   So as not to fall back nor yet trample the cold
   Pourings of sunlight. You will have the look
   Reflected on your face. The great squash domes seem
   To vindicate us all, yet belong to no one.
   Meanwhile others will grow up and fuck and
   Get older, beating like weeds against the door,
   But this wasn’t anticipated. You caught them off guard.
   
   
   
   SHE
   
   What I hear scraping at the door
   Is palaver of multitudes who decided to come back,
   Having set out too soon, and something must be
   Done about them, names must be written down,
   Or simply by being hoarse one whole side
   Of the world won’t count any more,
   The side with the story of our lives
   And our relatives? on it, the memory
   Of the day you bicycled over.
   But the reason for the even, tawny flow
   Of the morning as it turned was the thought of riding
   Back down all those hills that were so hard
   To get up, and climbing the ones you had
   Coasted down before, like mirror-writing.
   
   HE
   
   And when the flourish under the signature,
   A miniature beehive with a large bee on it, was
   Finished, you chose a view of distant factories,
   Tall smokestacks, anything. It didn’t matter
   So long as it was emptied of all but a drop
   At the bottom like the medicine bottle that is thrown away.
   The catch in the voice goes out of style then,
   The period of civilities is long past.
   Strange we should be continually waking up
   To a barbaric calm that has probably
   Always supported us, while still
   Apologizing to the off-white walls we saw through
   Years ago. But it stays this way.
   
   SHE
   
   What happened was you had finished
   Nine-tenths of it before the great explosion,
   The meteorite or whatever it was that tore out the
   Huge crater eight miles in diameter.
   Then somehow you spliced the bleeding wires,
   Made it presentable long enough for
   Inspection, then collapsed and slept until
   The part where she takes the bus. And all
   Because someone in a department store made some
   Cryptic allusion, or so you thought as that person
   Passed by, reducing the architecture of a life
   To a minus quantity. There was no way
   Back out of this because it wasn’t a departure.
   
   
   HE
   
   I once stole a pencil, but now the list with my name in it
   Disgusts me. It is the horizon, tilted like the deck
   Of a ship. And beyond, what must be the real
   Horizon congeals into a blue roebuck whose shadow
   Hardens every upturned face it trails across
   And sets a blister there. If there was still time
   To turn back, you must not follow me, but rather
   Stay in your living, in your time,
   Sizing up the future as accurately as the woman
   In the old photograph, and, like her, turn away,
   Your hand barely grazing the top of the little doric column.
   Anything outside what the sheaf of rays delineates
   For the moment is pain and at least illusion,
   A piece of not very good news.
   
   SHE
   
   Then we must be like each other,because this afternoon’s
   Ballast barely holds back the rising landscape
   Of premonitions against that now distant (yet all too
   Contemporaneous) magnesium flare in which
   The habits of a moment, like wrinkles in a piece of backcloth,
   Plummeted into the space under the stage
   Through a trapdoor carelessly left open,
   Joining other manifestations of human stick-to-itiveness
   In a “semi-retirement” which has its own rewards
   Except the solution only comes about much later, and then
   Won’t entirely fit all the clues of the atmosphere
   (Books, dishes and bathrooms), but is
   Empty and vigilant, but too late to make the train,
   And at night stands like tall buildings, disembodied,
   Vaporous, rhapsodic, going on and on about something
   That happened in the past, at the point where the recent
   Past ends and the darker one begins.
   
   HE
   
   But since “we know what we are, but know not
   What we may be,” and it’s later now, the romance
   Of moderation takes over again. Something has to be
   Living, not everyone can afford the luxury of
   Just being, not alive but being, at the center,
   The perfumed, patterned center. Perhaps it’s all fun
   But we won’t know till we see it, as on a windless day
   It suddenly becomes obvious how wonderful the fields are
   Before it all sickens and fades to a mélange
   Of half-truths, this gray dump. Then double trouble
   Arrives, Beppo and Zeppo confront one
   Out of a hurricane of colored dots, twin
   Windshield wipers dealing the accessories:
   Woe, wrack, wet---probably another kingdom
   

  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-11 20:21:25 | 显示全部楼层



   
   
   她
   
   我想说的是,天空
   永远不可能变成那种完全自我吸收的、学士般的
   纽扣蓝色,然而它已经变成了,没有什么比它更安全,
   尽管我们所做的事情的轮廓在森林的蚀刻上
   只停留了一秒钟多一点,我们知道得足够多
   不去那里。如果硫磺和真理一样
   那么一扇深深地埋在地下的大门就会
   对某把钥匙的摸索而打开,参加赛狗比赛的狗
   会在每个指定的凹槽中绕行
   投射出一个夸张的长长的阴影,而别的不满的、捣乱的、精神造反派则会向前移动
   消失在脚灯的光亮中。我会
   顶住,弯手,让他们伤心。因此,是时候
   醒悟了,与那些小小的行走的存在融合在一起,所有这些
   都以某种方式相互关联,并通过彼此与我们,
   歌剧《洪水》中的人物,出自伟大的匿名作曲家。
   
   他
   
   它们大多是
   浅滩,甚至是光的诡计,溃败的
   军队,惊慌失措的,融合的羊皮纸,
   逃离我们,有时我们寻找的人,
   没有地方,没有什么
   可躲在里面,如果它花了几个星期和几个月
   伴随时间流逝。什么也做不了。
   那些壁垒,颗粒状像土星光环,
   似乎是某个快乐的坟墓,无忧宫,
   是缺席的云彩。地上真正的娱乐
   是灌木和荨麻,它们
   为请求我降落而规划道路,而雪、霜、雨、
   冷、热,无论干或湿
   我们都必须寄住在平原上....后来,死于
   “并发症”,只是肯定是很久以后,她的头发
   看起来已经白了。现在更黑了。
   
   她
   
   一个入侵者出现了。
   但它总是像这样
   向黑夜的凹槽平静下来。船只不再
   在世界的这一部分沿着码头两侧
   胶合。我们是孤独的。只有爬上
   一个低矮的悬崖,意图才会沿着边缘
   被填满,然后只是微妙地。
   夜晚沿着这些开阔的地面编织,几乎
   直到庄严的钟声敲响
   启动痛苦和朦胧的时刻,比任何网
   能捕捉到的都更宽,或是星星的预兆。进一步说
   所有丢失的部分都必须
   用煤灯或冰屋灯来追踪,因为
   在这样做的过程中,我们在这些我们的通道中航行,
   在某些问题上采取立场,都
   断然赞成或反对,对涉及到我们的东西,
   例如我们建筑的陌生性,
   我们文学的传播质量。
   
   他
   
   或者是每一种紧张的痉挛,每一种欲望
   都淹死在一个模糊的、没有特征
   和不确定的欲望的湖中?这就是为什么一个人自身的愿望
   总是被别人满足?森林里没有干净的床单,除了树叶和树枝没有别的房子。一个人还能想要多少别的东西?漂亮的头发和眼睛,雨天穿胶鞋?对于那些在绿盔下的人来说,它让自己在不同的时刻、不同的方面被人所知。
   
   
   她
   
   除非某部电影第一次这么做,或者
   一个陌生人来到门前,然后改变
   是真实的,直到它消失。或者它
   就像一幅风景画,在它的内部褶皱里,放松着
   伴随一种即将有更多的感觉
   直到第一部分被消化,然后它扭曲着
   仅仅因为这是我们看待事物的方式吗?
   这是修正主义,因为你
   总是试图把过去的一些部分放回去,
   虽然它适合它不属于
   已又被记住的深蓝色玻璃海洋。
   从最早的时候起,我们就被告诫不要对事物
   感到兴奋,所以到目前为止这种品质只在
   稍微深一点的树影中显现出来,这种树影先于“在地板上踱步”
   它吸收了墙壁、窗户和树林。
   
   他
   
   然后,仿佛是一种尴尬,
   一种谨慎的产物,借住回遥远的过去,
   把它们涂抹在阴霾的墙上。
   这样追求时间,就像狗轻推一根骨头,
   你发现它又折回来了,黑夜的凸缘
   现在已经取代了灰蒙蒙的疯狂的大云。
   啊,现在不再说话,但更像
   在花园的道路上很久以前就被拒之门外了,
   现在再也没有人会相信任何
   他或她不想相信的事情了,因为金色的光线完全
   浸透了一道木栅栏,用一种听起来
   新奇而陌生的本地口音为每个人说话。
   但迟疑一直持续着,而且永久存在
   因为它们一直在想着对方。
   
   她
   
   这是不寻常的...仿佛一枚新月
   伸出手来,接二连三地拍打着连续的人群,
   现在已经消散了,但依然活泼而真实,
   它似乎在说:里面有很多差异。
   只有你知道它们的时候才有差异。
   现在它们是一种元素,不是它们自己,
   手是闲着的,或者像一个特大柚子一样
   掂量着脑袋,或者陶笛
   今天以滑稽的哭声关闭。
   走进他们中,看看
   这次会议是关于什么的,他们破坏了多少
   保存了什么东西,这些东西意味着
   要沿着它的时代拖着脚走:猎人们缩着的
   红肩膀,他们在那里的草地上
   做什么,时间的丝带
   从一座方形砖石塔的四角飘扬。
   
   他
   
   多年来,我们在别墅里,穿过走廊
   遮蔽我们自己,品尝过
   玫瑰花瓣和报纸,我们知道风暴眼,
   当它庄严地移动吞噬着我们,生气勃勃
   带着混乱的精神,和也被
   同样得意洋洋走向终点的梦想所深深烙印的
   这些鸟儿。说的是老,快速的
   热,快速的冷。现在还有其他类型的隐私
   进来了,很快,
   在三四个月内,就有足够的空闲时间
   来检查每个人的要求
   并奖励每个人,根据他的要求
   以一个滑动的比例,这与冲进
   后来蓝色太阳划分的天气相吻合。
   
   她
   
   不,但我从办公桌抽屉里给你挖了这些,
   告诉你哪些对我来说意味着很多,
   哪些我老实说很怀疑,哪些
   注定要被吹走。
   我们在这之后要遭受谁?
   芳香的女性阴部,顽固的阴茎,绝望
   和记忆的蜿蜒小路,楼梯间的
   责备,新的信心:“我们会
   对那些做点什么,”直到后来的日期
   松树僵硬地直冲水边前进。
   在这一切之后,发现
   有人在家里,仿佛记忆
   把椅子放在周围
   以至于现在这些似乎在来来去去
   并将逃脱一个固定命运的
   愤怒,使它们一路倾斜到一边
   像风堆积的泡沫。
   
   
   他
   
   够了,它们被赋予的,
   被允许自由地奔跑。
   当我独自一人走着,
   关于一个细节领域的想法---其细节
   每个都是被塑造的,可以解释的,对我们
   而不对任何人负责---过滤进弥漫的
   灰蓝色的感觉中,那就是搬到某个地方去,带着同时代的人
   帕尔默斯和宽恕者,一个沙哑但可以抹去的
   溃败,它压抑在美国酒吧的
   微光中。因此,巴里
   沙利文类型对
   布鲁斯贝内特类型断言,惰性湿黑优于
   闺房的光,其中
   迟钝的分离燃烧,被赦免而且
   知道这不对。
   
   她
   
   而且会,像织锦上的一条
   莫比乌斯带,发挥并抚慰我们的缺席,
   无论是在偏僻的热带地区,还是
   在闺房的洞里,发现只要
   把兴趣铺在富矿带就是漂亮雅致的。
   “唉,还有其他的”,他想,我们又是
   孩子了,我们的父母是孩子,践踏
   在微妙边界下的脚底,前天晚上的
   最后一件事,在这里复活和安慰我们。我们之间
   结合的耐心仍然是它的本来面目,
   不多也不少,但夜班的这时间
   将不得不被打扰,用梦想的海绵
   抹去昨天的品质,正在被淘汰。
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    

   
   SHE
   
   I was going to say that the sky
   Could never become that totally self-absorbed, bachelor’s-
   Button blue, yet it has, and nothing is any safer for it,
   Though the outlines of what we did stay just a second longer
   On the etching of the forest, and we know enough not
   To go there. If brimstone were the same as the truth
   A gate deep in the ground would unlock to the fumbling
   Of a certain key and the dogs at the dog races
   Would circumambulate each in his allotted groove
   Casting an exaggeratedly long shadow, while other
   Malcontents, troublemakers, esprits frondeurs moved up
   To dissolve in the brightness of the footlights. I would
   Withstand, bow in hand, to grieve them. So it is time
   To wake up, to commingle with the little walking presences, all
   Somehow related, to each other and through each other to us,
   Characters in the opera The Flood, by the great anonymous composer.
   
   HE
   、
   Mostly they are
   Shoals, even tricks of the light, armies
   In debacle, helter skelter, pell mell,
   Fleeing us who sometime did us seek,
   And there is no place, nothing
   To hide in, if it took weeks and months
   With time running out. Nothing could be done.
   Those ramparts, granular as Saturn’s rings,
   That seem some tomb of pleasures, a Sans Souci,
   Are absent clouds. The real diversions on the ground
   Are shrub and nettle, planing the way
   For asking me to come down, and the snow, the frost, the rain,
   The cold, the heat, for dry or wet
   We must lodge on the plain.... Later, dying
   “Of complications,” only it must really have been much later, her hair
   Had that whited look. Now it’s darker.
   
   SHE
   
   And an intruder is present.
   But it always winds down like this
   To the rut of night. Boats no longer come
   Plying along the sides of docks in this part
   Of the world. We are alone. Only by climbing
   A low bluff does the intent get filled in
   Along the edge, and then only subtly.
   Evening weaves along these open tracts almost
   Until the solemn tolling of a bell
   Launches its moment of pain and obscurity, wider
   Than any net can seize, or star presage. Further on it says
   That all the missing parts must be tracked down
   By coal-light or igloo-light because
   In so doing we navigate these our passages,
   And take sides on certain issues, are
   Emphatically pro or con about what concerns us,
   Such as the strangeness of our architecture,
   The diffuse quality of our literature.
   
   HE
   
   Or does each tense fit, and each desire
   Drown in the lake of one vague one, featureless
   And indeterminate? Which is why one’s own wish
   Keeps getting granted for someone else? In the forest
   Are no clean sheets, no other house But leaves and boughs. How many
   Other things can one want? Nice hair
   And eyes, galoshes on a rainy day? For those who go
   Under the green helm know it lets itself
   Become known, at different moments, under different aspects.
   
   SHE
   
   Unless some movie did it first, or
   A stranger came to the door and then the change
   Was real until it went away. Or is it
   Like a landscape in its inner folds, relaxed
   And with the sense of there being about to be some more
   Until the first part is digested and then it twists
   Only because this is the way we can see things?
   It is revisionism in that you are
   Always trying to put some part of the past back in,
   And although it fits it doesn’t belong in the
   Dark blue glass ocean of having been remembered again.
   From earliest times we were cautioned not to get excited
   About things, so this quality shows up so far only in
   Slightly deeper tree-shadows that anticipate this PACING THE FLOOR
   That takes in the walls, the window and the woods.
   
   HE
   
   Then it was as if a kind of embarrassment,
   The product of a discretion lodged far back in the past,
   Blotted them against a wall of haze.
   Pursuing time this way, as a dog nudges a bone,
   You find it has doubled back, the flanges
   Of night having now replaced the big daffy gray clouds.
   O now no longer speak, but rather seem
   In the way of gardens long ago turned away from,
   And now no one any more will have to believe anything
   He or she doesn’t want to as golden light wholly
   Saturates a wooden fence and speaks for everybody
   In a native accent that sounds new and foreign.
   But the hesitation stayed on, and came to be permanent
   Because they were thinking about each other.
   
   SHE
   
   That’s an unusual ... As though a new crescent
   Reached out and lapped at a succession of multitudes,
   Diminished now, but still lively and true.
   It seems to say: there are lots of differences inside.
   There were differences when only you knew them.
   Now they are an element, not themselves,
   And hands are idle, or weigh the head
   Like an outsize grapefruit, or an ocarina
   Closes today with a comical wail.
   Go in to them, see
   What the session was about, how much they destroyed
   And what preserved of what was meant to shuffle
   Along in its time: hunched red shoulders
   Of huntsmen, what they were doing
   There in the grass, ribbons of time fluttering
   From the four corners of a square masonry tower.
   
   HE
   
   Having draped ourselves in villas, across verandas
   For so many years, having sampled
   Rose petals and newspapers, we know that the eye of the storm,
   As it moves majestically to engulf us, is alive
   With the spirit of confusion, and that these birds
   Are stamped with the same dream of exaltation moving
   Toward the end. ’Tis said of old, soon
   Hot, soon cold. There are other kinds of privacy
   Coming in now, and soon,
   In three or four months, enough leisure
   To examine the claim of each
   And to reward each according to his claim
   On a sliding scale coinciding with the rush
   Into later blue sun-divided weather.
   
   SHE
   
   No, but I dug these out of bureau drawers for you,
   Told you which ones meant a lot to me,
   Which ones I was frankly dubious about, and
   Which were destined to blow away.
   Who are we to suffer after this?
   The fragrant cunt, the stubborn penis, winding
   Paths of despair and memory, reproach in
   The stairwell, and new confidence: “We’ll
   Do something about that,” until a later date
   When pines march stiffly right down to the edge of the water.
   And after all this, finding
   Someone at home, as though memory
   Had placed chairs around
   So that these seem to come and go in the present
   And will escape the anger of a fixed
   Destiny causing them to lean all the way over to one side
   Like wind-heaped foam.
   
   HE
   
   It’s enough that they are had,
   Allowed to run loose.
   As I was walking all alone,
   The idea of a field of particulars---that
   Each is shaped, illustratable, accountable
   To us and to no man---leached into the pervading
   Gray-blue sense of moving somewhere with coevals,
   Palmers and pardoners, a raucous yet erasable
   Rout pent in the glimmer of
   An American Bar. Whereupon Barry
   Sullivan-type avers
   To Bruce Bennett-type that inert wet blackness is
   Superior to boudoir light in which
   Dull separateness blazes and is shriven and
   Knows it isn’t right.
   
   SHE
   
   And shall, like a Moebius strip
   Of a tapestry, play to our absences and soothe them,
   Whether in some deprived tropic or some
   Boudoir-cave where it finds that just
   Paving the interest on the bonanza is dressier.
   Alas, but there are others, he thought, and we are children
   Again, the children our parents were, trampling
   Under foot the delicate boundary, last thing of day
   Before night, that resurrects and comforts us here. Patience
   Of articulation between us is still what it is,
   No more and no less, but this time the night shift
   Will have to be disturbed, and wiping out the quality
   Of yesterday with the sponge of dreams is being phased out.
   
   
    

  

 楼主| 发表于 2021-7-19 09:37:06 | 显示全部楼层





   他

   

   你犯了个大错。仅仅因为谷弗斯管对你来说很幸运,你就会想象其他人会对你大惊小怪,所有其他人,都会被录取。你会和一把铲子和许多空花盆一起被留下,想象着太阳进入这扇窗户是某种方式的祝福,它将弥补别的一切---那些寒冷岁月里的。运转的水龙头是一条神圣的溪流。远处旗杆上的银球发出的光芒,相当于一份致力于生活、改善他人心灵和福利的事业,而实际上,像这些东西是一件很平常的事情,比任何业余爱好或副业获益都少,它们是退休收入,比如说古董摊位,山核桃收获或沙士站立着。简言之,虽然你的意图的辽阔轮廓是你的功劳,但填满它们的却不是。你就像一个人的脸在人群的场面中被拍了一次,然后逐渐从人们的记忆中消失,也从生活中消失。

   

   她

   

   但真实的“世界”

   把它的伪装延伸到

   我等待的侧边院子,平静地与我的感情在一起,尽管现在,

   我看到,从一开始就对改变像丁香花一样的发生

   感到愤慨。我们一直

   朝着一扇门走去,它似乎在远处

   退去,现在不知怎么地在我们身后,关上了,

   尽管它显然没有自动锁上。田野多美啊。田野

   多么奇妙。它们

   就像爱情诗,所有的自动呼吸

   都在四处继续,还有许多施魔法的、五颜六色的东西

   像房子一样需要探索,如果有时间的话,

   但是房子是建在瀑布下的。倾斜的

   屋顶和墙壁是由不透明的玻璃制成的,翡翠

   绿色覆盖的地毯吸干苔藓。

   

   他

   

   最后,也许,当黑暗

   开始弥漫在草坪和寂静的街道

   和偏僻的河口,在这里变厚时,你提到了

   我本不该知道的砰砰关上的门,

   那花了好几年。我们每个人都围绕着

   一些简单而重要的信息碎片的错过,

   而且,最后,像现在一样,找不到替代品,

   用一根雪中的枝条,怪诞地写下自己的印记,

   这是许多连贯的犹豫不决的时刻的签名。

   我写的这些东西是要说,时机,而不是

   内容,是重要的。所有这一切都可能发生

   在很久以前,或者至少是在其他某一天,

   意味得不多,除了在眼睛范围内

   从差不多任何事物中提取出一种进展之外。但另一方面

   它不会变成玩具。

   所有的神话,

   传说和误解,都会在一声手枪射击中

   散落。它不再知道我知道的东西。

   

   她

   

   它现在到了,眼睛里

   被它们黑色的音乐充满,木头被错误引用的一面

   向前挺进。说说她的那些绯闻,她

   和班纳特.帕尔默,明尼苏达州的拦路强盗在一起,

   当她逗留在怀斯的日内瓦湖时他回去了,

   在40年代初。那异教徒

   会无所不用其极让她闭嘴,现在,

   既然从高塔上说真相的时候

   到了。只有老托马斯,一个塔塔默斯和他的两只公羊

   似乎真的关心。就连埃伦她自己

   也只能收集几句关于爱的柔弱的格言---它如何让我们

   赤身裸体,在我们宁愿穿衣服的时候,而且

   她环顾了带着满足空气的房间四周。

   一切都井然有序,甚至直至裸露,等待着接受

   不管是什么标志或印章。外面的菜园里

   从羽衣甘蓝上射进来的光,就像欢快的、贪婪的

   光,在暴风雨过后的早晨海面上。

   它没有背叛她,也永远不会背叛她。

   

   

   

   他

   

   对他来说,度假的人群是

   平行灾难的引擎,是从现在到审判日

   所有预言的实现。像鱼一样原地打转,

   朝着一个遥远的、未被察觉的表面,这就是那里

   所有的反射。在某个地方它有它不透明的

   短暂的存在。

   但如果每一个行为

   都是反身的,在另一个层面上关心它自己

   也关心我们,生活在这里的陌生人,

   一个人能更前进一步而不同样地沉入

   过去很远吗?总有一些东西可以看,

   一些正在发生的事情,因为历史的过去归功于

   它自己,我们历史的现在。另一个月,草坪上

   一场旧车大甩卖切碎了大部分阳光

   透过电线照进来的感觉,或者一个海角

   被一面在特定的设计中几乎看不见的

   纤细的白色帆围成一个圆形,或者孩子们沿着消防梯

   咔嗒咔嗒地跑来,直到边缘

   炸成一片天空的穗儿。今天的医院是

   光明、通风的地方,帐篷状的云层,走廊里的

   哭泣像秋天的阵雨。开始了。

   

   *

   

   除非这是发生什么事的架子?寒冷的日出袭击了巨大的大写字母的一边,在陆地下沉时振作了一点,宜人但沉睡。你也是一个来自另一个世纪的字谜,你的虚构像花边一样堆积如山,因为一种新的欣赏方式已经发明,明天将在数量和质量上有所不同---年轻的爱,欢快的,虚幻的东西---那些观念以前已经被炫耀过,尽管从未随着闪烁的密度和你一起在豆茎上爬得更高,直到镶嵌着宝石的群山组合体、犁过的地和河流同意被如此研究并永远消失,一道笑的裂痕,一个金色灰尘的喷嚏进入哭泣的棱镜,并保持坚实。

   

   她很好地向他冷漠的细看陈述了病人的历史。总是有东西要看,有东西在发生,“因为历史的过去归功于它自己,我们历史的现在”。有消防队员来访,财产的谣言在狂欢,老汉们打扮得像夜色多边形中的年轻女子,有时光线会中断,被吸回,一大群相互不理解的外国军队,看台倒塌前令人作呕的寂静,不可避免的不速之客和唯一的客人在墙上写字:我选择不相信。它成为口述历史的一部分。在咖啡馆里偶尔听到的东西在以前被认为是从前方留下的重要文字。过去是医生和药物的梦想。这不是浪费时间。哦,有时候好像在一遍又一遍地做同样的事情,直到我超越了过去曾有的感觉。再说,这一切不是很久以前就结束了吗,在某个晴朗的、筋疲力尽的下午,一阵刺骨的微风似乎在呼喊:回去!对于那些被壕沟围绕的过去的生活,困扰在这些礼仪的梦想中,重视以他们的利益为代价的俏皮话。这不叫活在过去。如果历史只关心一个人的事情,但是,一旦在拉向我们的灰色薄雾的阴影下…我又是谁能这样说话,进入一只鞋子?我知道那天晚上灯火,汽车够忙…如果我必须站在这里,曲线会包括我。我温暖的问候是冰冷的,像喷泉一样又回到花瓶里。对谁负责?我选择了这样一个环境,它很英俊:一个光秃秃的树枝在天空映衬下的节日小生境,我总是在下面唱歌的

   

   阳台的

   

   面具

   

   HE
   
   You’re making a big mistake. Just because Goofus has been lucky for you, you imagine others will make a fuss over you, all the others, who will matriculate. You’ll be left with a trowel and a lot of empty flowerpots, imagining that the sun as it enters this window is somehow a blessing that will make up for everything else---those very years in the cold. That the running faucet is a sacred stream. That the glint of light from a silver ball on that far-off flagpole is the equivalent of a career devoted to life, to improving the minds and the welfare of others, when in reality it is a common thing like these, and less profitable than any hobby or sideline that is a source of retirement income, such as an antique stall, pecan harvest or root-beer stand. In short ,although the broad outlines of your intentions are a credit to you, what fills them up isn’t. You are like someone whose face was photographed in a crowd scene once and then gradually retreated from people’s memories, and from life as well.
   
   SHE
   
   But the real “world”
   Stretches its pretending into the side yard
   Where I was waiting, at peace with my feelings, though now,
   I see, resentful from the beginning for the change to happen
   Like lilacs. We were walking
   All along toward a door that seemed to recede
   In the distance and now is somehow behind us, shut,
   Though apparently it didn’t lock automatically. How
   Wonderful the fields are. They are
   Like love poetry, all the automatic breathing going on
   All around, and there are enchanted,many-colored
   Things like houses to explore, if there were time,
   But the house is built under a waterfall. The slanting
   Roof and the walls are made of opaque glass, and
   The emerald-green wall-to-wall carpeting is sopping moss.
   
   HE
   
   And last, perhaps, as darkness
   Begins to infuse the lawns and silent streets
   And the remote estuary, and thickens here, you mention
   The slamming of a door I wasn’t supposed to know about,
   That took years. Each of us circles
   Around some simple but vital missing piece of information,
   And, at the end, as now, finding no substitute,
   Writes his own mark grotesquely with a stick in snow,
   The signature of many connected seconds of indecision.
   What I am writing to say is, the timing, not
   The contents, is what matters. All this could have happened
   Long ago, or at least on some other day,
   And not meant much except insofar as the eye
   Extracts a progress from almost anything. But then
   It wouldn’t have become a toy.
   And all the myths,
   Legends and misinterpretations, would have scattered
   At a single pistol shot. And it would no longer know what I know.
   
   SHE
   
   It was arriving now, the eyes thick
   With their black music, the wooden misquotable side
   Thrust forward. Tell about the affair she’d had
   With Bennett Palmer, the Minnesota highwayman,
   Back when she was staying at Lake Geneva, Wise.,
   In the early forties. That paynim’d
   Go to any lengths to shut her up, now,
   Now that the time of truth telling from tall towers
   Had come. Only old Thomas a Tattamus with his two tups
   Seemed really to care. Even Ellen herself
   Could muster but a few weak saws about loving---how it leaves us
   Naked at a time when we would rather be clothed, and
   She looked all around the room with a satisfied air.
   Everything was in order, even unto bareness, waiting to receive
   Whatever stamp or seal. The light coming in off the kale
   In the kaleyard outside was like the joyous, ravening
   Light over the ocean the morning after a storm.
   It hadn’t betrayed her and it never would.
   
   
   HE
   
   To him, the holiday-making crowds were
   Engines of a parallel disaster, the fulfilling
   Of all prophecies between now and the day of
   Judgment. Spiralling like fish,
   Toward a distant, unperceived surface, was all
   The reflection there was. Somewhere it had its opaque
   Momentary existence.
   But if each act
   Is reflexive, concerned with itself on another level
   As well as with us, the strangers who live here,
   Can one advance one step further without sinking equally
   Far back into the past? There was always something to see,
   Something going on, for the historical past owed it
   To itself, our historical present. Another month a huge
   Used-car sale on the lawn shredded the sense of much
   Of the sun coming through the wires, or a cape
   Would be rounded by a slim white sail almost
   Invisible in the specific design, or children would come
   Clattering down fire escapes until the margin
   Exploded into an ear of sky. Today the hospitals
   Are light, airy places, tented clouds, and the weeping
   In corridors is like autumn showers. It’s beginning.
   
   *
   
   Unless this is the shelf of whatever happens? The cold sunrise attacks one side of the giant capital letters, bestirs a little the landmass as it sinks, grateful but asleep. And you too are a rebus from another century, your fiction in piles like lace, in that a new way of appreciating has been invented, that tomorrow will be quantitatively and qualitatively different ---young love, cheerful, insubstantial things---and that these notions have been paraded before, though never with the flashing density climbing higher with you on the beanstalk until the jewelled mosaic of hills, ploughed fields and rivers agreed to be so studied and fell away forever, a gash of laughter, a sneeze of gold dust into the prism that weeps and remains solid.
   
   Well had she represented the patient’s history to his apathetic scrutiny. Always there was something to see, something going on, for the historical past owed it to itself, our historical present. There were visiting firemen, rumors of chattels on a spree, old men made up to look like young women in the polygon of night from which light sometimes breaks, to be sucked back, armies of foreigners who could not understand each other, the sickening hush just before the bleachers collapse, the inevitable uninvited and only guest who writes on the wall: I choose not to believe. It became a part of oral history. Things overheard in cafes assumed an importance previously reserved for letters from the front. The past was a dream of doctors and drugs. This wasn’t misspent time. Oh, sometimes it’d seem like doing the same thing over and over, until I had passed beyond whatever the sense of it had been. Besides, hadn’t it all ended a long time back, on some clear, washed-out afternoon, with a stiff breeze that seemed to shout: go back! For the moated past lives by these dreams of decorum that take into account any wisecracks made at their expense. It is not called living in a past. If history were only minding one’s business, but, once under the gray shade of mist drawn across us ... And who am I to speak this way, into a shoe? I know that evening is busy with lights, cars ... That the curve will include me if I must stand here. My warm regards are cold, falling back to the vase again like a fountain. Responsible to whom? I have chosen this environment and it is handsome: a festive niching of bare twigs against the sky, masks under the balconies
   
   that
   
   I sing alway
   
   


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