罗伯特·勃莱（Robert Bly，1926—），美国诗人。生于明尼苏达州马迪森市。美国六、七十年代“新超现实主义”的主要推动者和代表性诗人。五十年代以前，诗风深受新批评派影响。从五十年代后期起，开始倡导反学院派诗风。著有诗集《雪地里的寂静》、《身体周围的光》、《在耕耘中找到的苹果》等。
在芍药盛开时
当我走近那株红色的芍药时
我颤抖着，像雷声旁的雨水，
又如地球板块移动时的井，
又似五十只鸟飞离时的树。
芍药说，我们获得了一份赠礼，
并非来自这个世界。
在芍药的叶后
有个更黑暗的世界，滋养着万物。
（冯默谌译）
At the Time of Peony Blossoming
When I come near the red peony flower
I tremble as water does near thunder,
as the well does when the plates of earth move,
or the tree when fifty birds leave at once.
The peony says that we have been given a gift,
and it is not the gift of this world.
Behind the leaves of the peony
there is a world still darker, that feed many.
凝视一张脸
交谈使我们如此接近！打开
体内的浪花
把鱼托举到太阳旁
让海的脊骨变硬！
在一张脸上我已漫游了数小时
穿过黑暗之火
我升至一个尚未出生的
身体
存在如它四周的一束光
像一枚滑行的月亮在其中移动
（冯默谌译）
Looking into a Face
Conversation brings us so close！Opening
The surfs of the body
Bringing fish up near the sun
And stiffening the backbones of the sea！
I have wandered in a face for hours
Passing through dark fires.
I have risen to a body
Not yet born
Existing like a light around the body
Through which the body moves like a sliding moon.
从梦中醒来
静脉中许多军舰启航
水管内发出轻微的爆炸声
海鸥在盐血的风中穿梭。
早晨。乡村已沉睡了一冬。
窗边的椅子上铺有皮褥，院子里是冻僵
的狗，双手笨拙地捧着厚厚的书。
现在我们醒来，起床，吃早餐！
从血管的海港里发出呼喊，
雾和桅杆升起，木钩在阳光中撞响。
此时我们歌唱，在厨房的地板上轻舞
我们的身体如黎明时的一座海港。
我们知道，我们的主人因为白天已离开我们。
（冯默谌译）
Waking from Sleep
Inside the veins there are navies setting forth
Tiny explosions at the water lines
And seagulls weaving in the wind of the salty blood.
It is the morning. The country has slept the whole winter.
Window seats were covered with fur skins the yard was full
Of stiff dogs and hands that clumsily held heavy books.
Now we wake and rise from bed and eat breakfast！——
Shouts rise from the harbor of the blood
Mist and masts rising the knock of wooden tackle in the sunlight.
Now we sing and do tiny dances on the kitchen floor.
Our whole body is like a harbor at dawn;
We know that our master has left us for the day.
生活在岁月的尽头
——给露丝
孩子们的声音中有那么多甜蜜，
在一天结束时，有诸多不满，
当一列火车经过时，我感到十分满足。
我不知道公鸡为什么总是啼鸣，
也不知道大象们为什么总是举起它们的鼻子，
也不知道为什么在霍桑的晚上总会听到火车声。
一位英俊的孩子是上帝赐予的礼物，
一个朋友是手背上的一条静脉，
一道伤口是风的一份遗产。
有人说我们生活在岁月的尽头，
但我相信有一千名异教徒的牧师
明天就到，与风施洗。
关于约翰，我们不需要为他做什么。
施洗者已把他的手放在地上很长时间，
甜甜的井水，长达一百英里。
那都无关紧要。我们是不是知道公鸡
在半夜里说些什么，也不知道我们
为什么会感到非常满足，当一列火车经过时。
（冯默谌 译）
Living at the End of Time
For Ruth
There is so much sweetness in children’s voices,
And so much discontent at the end of day,
And so much satisfaction when a train goes by.
I don’t know why the rooster keeps crying,
Nor why elephants keep raising their trunks,
Nor why Hawthorne kept hearing trains at night.
A handsome child is a gift from God,
And a friend is a vein in the back of the hand,
And a wound is an inheritance from the wind.
Some say we are living at the end of time,
But I believe a thousand pagan ministers
Will arrive tomorrow to baptize the wind.
There’s nothing we need to do about John. The Baptist
Has been laying his hands on earth for so long
That the well water is sweet for a hundred miles.
It’s all right if we don’t know what the rooster
Is saying in the middle of the night, nor why we feel
So much satisfaction when a train goes by.
February 2010
躲入鞋里的乌鸦
住在房子里的男女有些事
不明白。老炼金师们
站在炉火旁，已暗示了一千次。
乌鸦在夜里躲入一名老妇的鞋里。
四岁的儿童在说些古老的语言。
我们自己已死过了一千次。
和朋友讲的每句话也都有相反的用意，
每当我们说，“我相信上帝，”那意味着
上帝已把我们抛弃了一千次。
母亲们一次次地跪在教堂，
祈求上帝保佑她们战争中的儿子。
可是她们的祷告被拒绝了一千次。
幼小的潜鸟跟在母亲光滑的身体
数月。在夏天快结束时，她已经
把头在雷尼湖里潜了一千次。
罗伯特，你坐在屋里为了写诗
已浪费了无数的光阴。你还会
再写吗？是的，我还会写一千次。
（冯默谌译）
Ravens Hiding in a Shoe
There is something men and women living in houses
Don’t understand. The old alchemists standing
Near their stoves hinted at it a thousand times.
Ravens at night hide in an old woman’s shoe.
A four-year-old speaks some ancient language.
We have lived our own death a thousand times.
Each sentence we speak to friends means the opposite
As well. Each time we say, “I trust in God,” it means
God has already abandoned us a thousand times.
Mothers again and again have knelt in church
In wartime asking God to protect their sons,
And their prayers were refused a thousand times.
The baby loon follows the mother’s sleek
Body for months. By the end of summer, she
Has dipped her head into Rainy Lake a thousand times.
Robert, you’ve wasted so much of your life
Sitting indoors to write poems. Would you
Do that again？I would, a thousand times.
最后向内移动
垂死的公牛在山上流血！
但是山的内部，血未
流到的地方，
有鹿角，一些橡树皮，
火，香草被扔了下来。
当烟气升至洞顶，
绿叶开始燃烧，
夜的空气化作了黑水，
群山变成了海洋。
（冯默谌译）
Moving Inward at Last
The dying bull is bleeding on the mountain！
But inside the mountain, untouched
By the blood,
There are antlers, bits of oak bark,
Fire, herbs are thrown down.
When the smoke touches the roof of the cave,
The green leaves burst into flame,
The air of night changes to dark water,
The mountains alter and become the sea.
开始写一首诗
你正孤单时。然后响起了
敲门声。它是一个字。你
把它带进来。有段时间
相安无事。可这个字
有亲戚。很快
他们就现了身。他们都无工作。
他们睡在地板上，还偷走了
你的网球鞋。
你开始意识到，你
不能置之不理。
现在小屋杂乱不堪，而且
遥控器也消失不见。
结婚就是
如此。你不单要
接受你的妻子，还要忍受
她家人的疯狂。
现在知道发生什么了吧？
你的汽车在哪里？一周之内
你无法找到
那些钥匙。
（冯默谌译）
Starting a Poem
You are alone. Then there's a knock
On the door. It's a word. You
Bring it in. Things go
OK for a while. But this word
Has relatives. Soon
They turn up. None of them work.
They sleep on the floor, and they steal
Your tennis shoes.
You started it; you weren't
Content to leave things alone.
Now the den is a mess, and the
Remote is gone.
That's what being married
Is like. You never receive your
Wife only, but the
Madness of her family.
Now see what's happened？
Where is your car？You won't
Be able to find
The keys for a week.
水
鸟儿低头用喙饮水。
你知道我们仅用双手无法饮水。
我们的所得，别人难以给予。
我们渴望着苍鹭和湖，
轻触后的波纹。
（冯默谌译）
Water
The bird dips to take some water in its bill.
You know we do not drink only with our hands.
We receive what nothing else can give.
We are thirsty for the heron
and the lake, the touch of bill on the water.
你房间的早晨
早晨。棕色的咖啡勺，黄蜂般的
咖啡研磨机，邻居们还在入睡。
当你倒着闪闪发亮的水时，灰光－－
为了到达这儿，似乎你已旅行了多年。
最后，你理应得到一座房子。如果未得到
就拥有它；没有人能把你赶出来。苦难
自有它的方式，贫困，分文不名；
也许只是困惑。但都过去了。
现在你有一间房屋。那些轻松愉悦的书：
《忧郁的剖析》，《卡夫卡致父亲的信》，
都在这儿。你只用一条腿
就能跳舞，只用一只眼睛
就能看到雪花飘落。甚至盲人也能
看到。那就是他们要说的话。如果你有
一个悲伤的童年，那又如何？当罗伯特·伯顿
说他忧郁时，那意味着他在家中。
（冯默谌译）
EARLY MORNING IN YOUR ROOM
It’s morning. The brown scoops of coffee, the wasplike
Coffee grinder, the neighbors still asleep.
The gray light as you pour gleaming water—
It seems you’ve travelled years to get here.
Finally you deserve a house. If not deserve
It, have it; no one can get you out. Misery
Had its way, poverty, no money at least;
Or maybe it was confusion. But that’s over.
Now you have a room. Those light-hearted books：
The Anatomy of Melancholy, Kafka’s Letter
To His Father, are all here. You can dance
With only one leg, and see the snowflake falling
With only one eye. Even the blind man
Can see. That’s what they say. If you had
A sad childhood, so what？ When Robert Burton
Said he was melancholy, he meant he was home.
我们用干草叉叉起的禾束堆
禾束堆说，冬天
来了。每捆都站在那儿
说：“我已把我放下。
带我走吧。一切都已过去。”
我们所做的。就是用我们的耙
闪亮的耙尖，（它们的
把柄如此健壮，优雅，）
把每一捆都拔下，
然后装上车。
每捆都像
一个灵魂，塞到
灵魂的云中。
那就是它死亡之后
的情形，如此多的
灵魂，一起挤
在沉重的马车，不知疲倦。
（冯默谌 译）
THE SHOCKS WE PUT OURPITCHFORKS INTO
The shocks said that winter
Was coming. Each stood there,
Said, “I’ve given myself away.
Take me. It’s over.”
And we did. With the shiny tips
Of our forks, their handles so
Healthy and elegant,
We slipped each bundle free,
Gave it to the load.
Each bundle was like
A soul, tucked back
Into the cloud of souls.
That’s how it will be
After death——such an abundance
Of souls, all together——
None tired, in the heavy wagon.
风的嬉戏
有时有风。有时风
吹着几片碎纸，把
它吹到圣经里。然后你的族谱
变得完整，你的高祖父母
躺在棺材里伸了伸手，休息。这是
风可以做到的事情。有时风
把裙子吹起一两英寸，身体与
它的小说签约；然后小宝贝们
来了，人们坐在早餐桌旁，说着
陈旧的话。或者风把灰尘
吹到无政府主义的眼中，他
过早地扣动扳机，杀死了国王而非那个
肥胖的工厂主，然后
很多男人骑上摩托车。他们
挖战壕，接着风把气吹向
四处，你我在风中什么也未看到
除了盲人叔叔们和桌旁
一个不能说“请”的男孩。
（冯默谌译）
THE PLAYFUL DEEDS OF THE WIND
Sometimes there’s the wind. Sometimes the wind
Takes a certain scrap of paper, and blows
It back into the Bible. Then your family line
Is whole, and your great-great-grandparents
Stretch out in the coffin, and rest. That’s something
Wind can do. Sometimes wind blows
A skirt up an inch or two, and the body
Signs a contract for its novel; then babies
Come, and people sit at breakfast, and the old
Words get spoken. Or the wind blows an ash
Into the anarchist’s eye, and he pulls
The trigger too soon, and kills the King instead of
The fat factory owner, and then
A lot of men get on motorcycles. They
Dig trenches, and the wind blows the gas
Here and there, and you and I get nothing
Out of that wind except blind uncles
And a boy at the table who can’t say “Please.”
华莱士·史蒂文斯和莫扎特
哦，华莱士·史蒂文斯，亲爱的朋友，
你这讨厌的家伙。你就那么肯定。
每个人都在你家里。
你，你的父亲，还有莫扎特，
和女士们饮着冷雨，在佛罗伦萨，
思索铭文，研究金片。
生命好像是对佛罗伦萨的一次拜访，
一个肉体没有蛆虫的地方，
无人尖叫，无人害怕。
你的工作，你的快乐，你的晨间散步，
你好像在思想的钢丝上行走，
高过大象；你的眼角湿润了，但泪水没有滑落。
仿佛我们可以在世界的高处行走，
没有熊，没有女巫，没有麦克白，
无人尖叫，无人痛苦，也无人害怕。
（冯默谌 译）
WALLACE STEVENS AND MOZART
Oh Wallace Stevens, dear friend,
You are such a pest. You are so sure.
You think everyone is in your family.
It is you and your father and Mozart,
And ladies tasting cold rain in Florence,
Puzzling out inscriptions, studying the gold flake.
It is as if life were a visit to Florence,
A place where there are no maggots in the flesh,
No one screaming, no one afraid.
Your job, your joy, your morning walk,
As if you walked on the wire of the mind,
High above the elephants; you cry out a little but never fall.
As if we could walk always high above the world,
No bears, no witches, no Macbeth,
No one screaming, no one in pain, no one afraid.
华尔兹
我认识的一个人一直说，我们并不需要
天堂。他认为有绣花的俄罗斯
婚纱能取代天使之位；
当乌鸦从你的车前起飞时，
有风的夜晚将会取代所有的诗人。
他想让我们轻松地跳舞，如酒神那般，
即便它是华尔兹。有点尴尬；
但如果你长练习，他说，你就可做到。
最难的事情是努力去说
“再见”，哪怕只是去杂货店。
（冯默谌译）
THE WALTZ
One man I know keeps saying that we don’t need
Heaven. He thinks embroidered Russian
Wedding blouses will take the place of angels;
And windy nights when the crows fly up in front
Of your car will replace all the Psalmists.
He wants us to dance high-hearted, like the bacchae,
Even if it’s a waltz. It’s a little awkward;
But if you practice, he says, you can do it.
The hard thing is to try to figure out how
To say goodbye—even just going to the grocery.
一个朋友死后
——写给奥林
一定是在夏天。从码头推出，
把独木舟放下，发现了你的
旧书——关于鸟的书籍，霍桑。驶向
醋栗林。即使在瑞典群岛上，
夏天也已到来。他们从椅子上扯下亚麻布，
拿出蓝色的碟子，写些诗。
再说一遍：“一定是在夏天。”
即使人们死了，它也一定是在夏天。
（冯默谌 译）
AFTER A FRIEND’S DEATH
It must be summer. Push the dock out,
Bring the canoe down, find your old
Books—bird books, Hawthorne. Drive
To Gooseberry. Even in the Swedish islands,
Summer comes. They pull the linen off chairs,
Bring out the blue dishes, write some poems.
Say again： “It must be summer.”
Even though people die, it must be summer.
For Orrin
艾萨克·巴什维斯和帕斯捷尔纳克
古老的文学隐秘处于危险之中。
尤多拉·韦尔蒂八十岁了，汉娜·阿伦特
也已离去。腔刺鱼发现得更少了
在马达加斯加的珊瑚中。我们许多人都
想念他们。坐在波兰的卡巴拉主义者，
吃着干饼干，那个害羞的画家
睡在他的画室之中，看着阳光，迷于
绿橙双色，谁取代了它们？
是一种香味，曾经在水中，是件礼物来自
飘落的橡树叶，消失了吗？这水沾染了
古老的隐秘，曾经站在从西西里
到挪威的酒桶里——告诉我，在哪里可以找到它。
（冯默谌 译）
ISAAC BASHEVIS AND PASTERNAK
Old literary privacies are in danger.
Eudora Welty is eighty, and Hannah Arendt
Is gone. The coelacanth is found more rarely
In the coral off Madagascar. Many of us long
For them. The Kabbalist who sat in Poland,
Eating dry biscuits, the shy painter
Sleeping in his studio, watching the light, in love
With green and orange, who has replaced them？
Is a flavor, once in the water, a gift from fallen
Oak leaves, gone？ This water stained with old
Privacies that once stood in barrels from Sicily
To Norway—tell me where I can find it.
给露丝
有一种优雅的行为方式。白桦树枝
向上微微弯曲，或者风吹来一些
落雪，然后没入黑夜；
或者你留给我一小枝细叶芹，没有更多。
每天早上我们都有这样崭新的机会。我们
可以小走几步到山后的某些地方；
我们可以深谈，就仿佛我们是幸福的，
不要那些获得怜悯的陈套。
有一种方式你可能知道，
别人会需要什么，在聚会
开始前，就像烟有时会向下消失
在树枝间。我从你身上学到了
让一首诗出现的新方法。
（冯默谌 译）
FOR RUTH
There’s a graceful way of doing things. Birch branches
Curve slightly upward; or the wind brings a few
Snowflakes down, and then joins the night;
Or you leave me a sprig of chervil and no more.
Each morning we have this new chance. We can walk
A few steps behind the others down the mountain;
We can enter a conversation as if we were blessed,
Not insisting on our old way of gaining pity.
There’s a way you have of knowing what another
May need ahead of time, before the party
Begins, as smoke sometimes disappears
Downward among branches. And I’ve learned
From you this new way of letting a poem be.
蕨类植物
我从蕨类植物身上学到了永恒。
在你腹下有纹理的地方。
通过你，我爱上了岸边的蕨类植物，
以及鹿儿在沙上留下的弧形蹄迹。
（冯默谌译）
Ferns
It was among ferns I learned about eternity.
Below your belly there is a curly place.
Through you I learned to love the ferns on that bank,
and the curve the deer’s hoof leaves in sand.
驼鹿
北极驼鹿在苔原边饮水，
用嘴搅拌着水田芥。
水多么清新，真正的北方之凉。
一阵微风吹着穿过了深深的杉林。
（冯默谌译）
The Moose
The arctic moose drinks at the tundra’s edge,
swirling the watercress with his mouth.
How fresh the water is, the coolness of the far North.
A light wind moves through the deep firs.
薄荷草
公羊从薄荷草上走过。
老鹰竖起肩边的羽毛。
两只小鸡坐在叠合的羽毛上。
刚刚黄昏前，大片的雪花飞落。
（冯默谌译）
The Minty Grass
The ram walks over the minty grass.
The hawk ruffles his shoulder feathers.
Two chooks sit with feathers overlapping.
Just before dark big snowflake fall.
向老教师致谢
当我们跨过，或漫步经过冰冻的湖面，
我们把脚放在从未去过的地方。
我们走在不能行走的地方。但我们感到不安。
谁在那里，除了我们的老教师？
水，曾经不能承受没有人类的体重——
我们当时是学生——抬起我们的脚，
向前走了一英里。
在我们之下是老师们，我们的四周一片寂静。
（冯默谌 译）
Gratitude To Old Teachers
When we stride or stroll across the frozen lake,
We place our feet where they have never been.
We walk upon the unwalked. But we are uneasy.
Who is down there but our old teachers？
Water that once could take no human weight-
We were students then- holds up our feet,
And goes on ahead of us for a mile.
Beneath us the teachers, and around us the stillness
希腊船
当水从洞中流去时，鱼儿在淤泥里
跳跃，它们依然能够微弱地滋润彼此，
但最好是，如果它们迷失在河里。
你知道有多少艘希腊船
连同酒货一起沉没。如果没有抵达
港口，它们也许，最好是沉入海底。
我听闻哀伤的鸽子从不表露
它的心思。我们这些写诗的人
默认不说痛苦是什么。
艾略特多年来站在光秃秃的灯泡下
写诗多年。他知道自己是个杀人犯，
因此他在出生时就接受了惩罚。
弹西塔尔琴的琴者仍在寻觅：在后院，
桌子上放置的旧碟子里，
一片叶下的苦难。
来吧，把你的美好的名誉丢入水中。
那些所有因为爱情而放弃生命的人儿
正在一百艘沉船里呼唤我们。
（冯默谌译）
The Greek Ship
When the water holes go, and the fish flop about
In the mud, they can moisten each other faintly,
But it's best if they lose themselves in the river.
You know how many Greek ships went down
With their cargoes of wine. If we can't get
To port, perhaps it's best to head for the bottom.
I've heard that the mourning dove never says
What she means. Those of us who make up poems
Have agreed not to say what the pain is.
Eliot wrote his poems for years standing under
A bare light-bulb. He knew he was a murderer,
And he accepted his punishment at birth.
The sitar player is searching： now in the back yard,
Now in the old dishes left behind on the table,
Now for the suffering on the underside of a leaf.
Go ahead, throw your good name into the water.
All those who have ruined their lives for love
Are calling to us from a hundred sunken ships.
注意旋律
不错。 我知道我们每个人都会独自死去。
无论西塔尔琴弹得响亮或着柔和，都不重要。
迟早旋律会说出一切。
序幕太长！最后主题终于出现。
它说灵魂将超越所有这些音符。
它说灰尘将从地板上被一扫而过。
我们是否做祈祷，并不重要。
我们知道轻舟直奔瀑布而去。
这次没有人在水上迎接我们。
有一天老鼠会带着我们狂热的冲动
去往埃及，而牛儿在家里
一千亩思想的土地上吃草。
每个人都希望体面地离去。
旧绳索从刽子手的钉子垂下。
四十九个强盗正爬进他们的靴子。
罗伯特，你不要期望太高，你
已领先别人许多年，一百年。
它需要你花费很长时间才能听到那段旋律。
（冯默谌译）
Paying Attention to the Melody
All right. I know that each of us will die alone.
It doesn't matter how loud or soft the sitar plays.
Sooner or later the melody will say it all.
The prologue is so long！ At last the theme comes.
It says the soul will rise above all these notes.
It says the dust will be swept up from the floor.
It doesn't matter if we say our prayers or not.
We know the canoe is heading straight for the falls,
And no one will pick us up from the water this time.
One day the mice will carry our ragged impulses
All the way to Egypt, and at home the cows
Will graze on a thousand acres of thought.
Everyone goes on hoping for a good death.
The old rope hangs down from the hangman's nail.
The forty-nine robbers are climbing into their boots.
Robert, don't expect too much. You've put yourself
Ahead of others for years, a hundred years.
It will take a long time for you to hear the melody.
什么使我们恐惧
雨水落向幽暗的田野。
公路上，树叶还停
在原地，抵抗着风。
一种我们都不知道的力量对我们说。
整夜都在下雨。昨天我们下到
山洞内部，或洞穴的最深处，
今早醒来，脸面湿着
整夜之雨——我们有点害怕。
雨气从石路上升起。
雨水在谷仓下汇聚。
其他的缓缓地流入树林。
寂静在月光下，无始无终。
（冯默谌译）
What Frightened Us
Drops of rain fall into black fields.
Leaves fallen on the highway remain
Where they fall, and resist the wind.
A power neither of us knows has spoken to us.
All night rain came in. we had descended
Yesterday to some inner, or innermost cave,
And this-as we woke today with faces wet
From overnight rain-frightens us a little.
Smoke of rain lifts from gravel roads.
Rain water gathers below the barns.
Other waters slowly join in woods.
Silent in the moonlight, no beginning or end.
俄罗斯
“俄罗斯在前线几乎没有医生。
我父亲的工作是：在战斗结束后，
走到那些被击中的人中间，
坐下来问：‘你愿意在几小时内
独自死去，还是让我来完成它？’
大多数人会说，‘不要离开我。’两个人同抽
一支香烟。他会拿出他的小笔记本——
‘你知道，我们没有身份牌’——接着
写下这个人的名字，他的妻子，他的孩子，他的住址，
和他想说的话。当香烟抽尽时，
士兵把脸扭向一边。我的父亲
在战争期间，以这样的方式完成了四百个人的工作。
他没有变疯。他们是他的人。
他来到多伦多。我的父亲在夏天
会站在草坪上用水管给草地
浇水。这会花费很长时间。他会和月亮，
和风说话。“我能听到你在生长’
他会对草地说。‘我们来来去去。
彼此没有什么不同。我们都是世界
的一部分。我们有一个家。’当我十三岁时，
我说，‘爸爸，你不知道他们现在已发明了
洒水器吗？’他继续给草地浇水。
‘这是我的生活。如果你不了解，就给我闭嘴。’”
（冯默谌 译）
THE RUSSIAN
“The Russians had few doctors on the front line.
My father’s job was this： after the battle
Was over, he’d walk among the men hit,
Sit down and ask： ‘Would you like to die on your
Own in a few hours, or should I finish it？’
Most said, ‘Don’t leave me.’ The two would have
A cigarette. He’d take out his small notebook—
We had no dogtags, you know—and write the man’s
Name down, his wife’s, his children, his address, and what
He wanted to say. When the cigarette was done,
The soldier would turn his head to the side. My father
Finished off four hundred men that way during the war.
He never went crazy. They were his people.
He came to Toronto. My father in the summers
Would stand on the lawn with a hose, watering
The grass that way. It took a long time. He’d talk
To the moon, to the wind. ‘I can hear you growing’—
He’d say to the grass. ‘We come and go.
We’re no different from each other. We are all
Part of something. We have a home.’ When I was thirteen,
I said, ‘Dad, do you know they’ve invented sprinklers
Now？’ He went on watering the grass.
‘This is my life. Just shut up if you don’t understand it.’”
拜访八十五岁的老诗人
给挪威诗人奥拉夫·H·豪格
这个八十五岁的男人站起来，
走到书柜前，去取一本书，
他的头发蓬乱，腿很轻，然后把它
抽下来，说，“想必你已读过这本书？”
他读过。他在这些浮冰之间划着，
那些巨大的书籍，如一个伟大的爱斯基摩
猎手，海面下有海豹，
给他们提供兽皮，脂肪，还有他们伟大的孤独之眼。
“哦,是的。”他说，“哦，是的。”有些真理
已被说过。中国或哈当厄尔很多人写下了伟大的
诗篇。“哦，是的。”他又站起来，走到墙跟。
”爱默生是一个敏锐的读者。哦，是的！”
他的一生都在三英亩的果园
度过，砍柴，参观
疯人院，把碟子扔在墙上，
翻译，包装苹果，写诗。
我很荣幸认识他，这个老人在他生命的晚年
站起来说，想必你已过着这样的生活”
（冯默谌译）
VISITING THE EIGHTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD POET
The eighty-five-year-old man stands up,
And walks to the bookcase, his hair tousled,
His legs thin, to fetch a book, then pulls
It down and says, “No doubt you’ve already read this？”
He has. He paddles among these ice floes,
These enormous fat books, like a great Eskimo
Hunter, for there are seals below in the sea,
Offering their hides, their fat, their great lonesome eyes.
“Oh yes！” he says, “Oh yes.” Some truths have been
Said. Someone in China or Hardanger has written great
Poems. “Oh yes.” He stands again, goes to the wall.
“Emerson was a keen reader. Oh yes！”
He has lived his whole life on three acres
Of apple trees, chopping wood, visiting
The madhouse, throwing plates against the wall,
Translating, packing apples, writing poems.
I am proud to know him, this old man late in life
Who stands up and says, “No doubt you’ve already lived
this？”
For the Norwegian poet Olav H. Hauge
所有的这些故事
有如此多的故事。其中一个是，一头熊
与一艘帆船结婚，他们的孩子
是岛屿(生长着低矮的灌木)。
在另一个地方，一个偏执的女人逆流而上。
孩子在一块岩石上痛哭，被她的
海豹妈妈放(她的亲生母亲)在岸上，等待
哀伤，一张张脸浮现在窗前，直到
夏洛特·勃朗特同意开始写她的小说。
你知道这样的故事。可恶的护士
把女儿丢入海里。一头鲸鱼
将她吞掉，因而从丈夫那里获得解脱，
而这个孩子有足够的时间成为自己。
我们所希望的事情在我们身上发生。
我们扭伤脚踝，最后结束于阅读吉本。
在些梦里，一头狼追逐着我们，直到我们
变成燕子，同意生活在渴望之中。
（冯默谌 译）
ALL THESE STORIES
There are so many stories. In one, a bear
Marries a sailing ship, and they have children
Who are islands (covered with low brush).
In another an obstinate woman floats upstream.
Or the child wailing on a rock, set ashore
By her seal mother (her real mother), waits
And wails, and faces appear at windows until
Charlotte Brontë agrees to begin her novel.
You know stories like that. The Terrible Nurse
Throws the Daughter into the sea. A whale
Swallows her, and she is free from husband
And children long enough to be herself.
Something in us wants things to happen.
We twist our ankle and end up reading Gibbon.
In some dreams a wolf pursues us until we
Turn into swallows, and agree to live in longing.
当打谷时节结束
有段时间。诸事完毕。
田野干净。
缰绳解去。
马儿归家。
什么东西
会在男孩心中永存
想要愉悦
永远不会终结
手的泼溅，
笑话和燕麦：
一首音乐
触碰和狂热。
《圣经》是对的。
存在来来去去。
用冷水冲洗。
火就熄灭。
（冯默谌 译）
WHEN THRESHING TIME ENDS
There is a time. Things end.
The fields are clean.
Belts are put away.
And the horses go home.
What is left endures
In the minds of boys
Who wanted this joy
Never to end.
The splashing of hands,
Jokes and oats：
It was a music
Touching and fervent.
The Bible was right.
Presences come and go.
Wash in cold water.
The fire has moved.
山区的草地
雨水落在山区的草地；一整天我们都很亲密。
倒掛金钟高高举起它的卷须。
我需要你，想拥抱你，如山区草地渴望拥抱雨水。
湿气落在湿气上；雨水落在湿土上。
我是高山上的游客，不停地
大喊。
（冯默谌 译）
Mountain Grass
Rain falls on mountain grass; we remain close all day.
The fuchsia lifts its tendrils high.
I need you, to hold you, as mountain grass holds rain.
Dampness falls on dampness; rain on wet earth.
I am the traveler on the mountain who keeps
repeating his cry.
驶向拉基帕莱河
I
黄昏时分，我开着车；明尼苏达州。
留茬地抓住最后生长的太阳。
大豆在四处呼吸。
老人坐在他们的房子前的车椅上
在小镇。我很开心，
月亮在火鸡的棚屋上方升起。
II
汽车的小世界
在从威尔玛到米兰的路上
颠簸着驶过夜下深深的田野。
这被铁覆盖的孤寂
驶过夜色的田野
被蟋蟀的叫声穿透。
III
快到米兰了，突然一座小桥，
和河水跪在月光中。
小镇的房子建在地上的右面；
灯光落在草地上。
当我到达河边，月满了。
几人在船上，低声，说话。
（冯默谌 译）
Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River
I
I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.
The stubble field catches the last growth of sun.
The soybeans are breathing on all sides.
Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats
In the small towns. I am happy,
The moon rising above the turkey sheds.
II
The small world of the car
Plunges through the deep fields of the night,
On the road from Willmar to Milan.
This solitude covered with iron
Moves through the fields of night
Penetrated by the noise of crickets.
III
Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,
And water kneeling in the moonlight.
In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;
The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass.
When I reach the river, the full moon covers it.
A few people are talking, low, in a boat.
湖边的冬日下午
——给欧文
黑树干，黑树枝，白雪。
附近没有人，五点钟，零下，
一月下旬。无鸟。无风。
你看，你的生活好像停止了。也许
你会在今天早上突然死去。但那轻盈的
月亮说，“不”。树木说，“以前也是
这样，经常。虽然寒冷，但很平静。”
我们之前也经历过，从混乱的冷撒克逊人中
把兽皮放回原处。一个声音说：“它老了。你不会
再次看到，正如现在这样，因为
就在今天，你感到有人给了你
生命并说，“你想呆多久，就呆多久。”
雪和黑树停了下来，为了看我们是否
已准备好重新走入那寂静。“还没有。”
（冯默谌 译）
WINTER AFTERNOON BY THE LAKE
Black trunks, black branches, and white snow.
No one nearby, five o’clock below zero,
Late January. No birds. No wind.
You look, and your life seems stopped. Perhaps
You died suddenly earlier today. But the thin
Moon says no. The trees say, “It’s been this way
Before, often. It’s cold, but it’s quiet.” We’ve experienced
This before, among the messy Saxons putting back
The hide flap. A voice says： “It’s old. You’ll never
See this again, the way it is now, because
Just today you sensed that someone gave you
Life and said, ‘Stay as long as you like.’”
The snow and the black trees, pause, to see if we’re
Ready to re-enter that stillness. “Not yet.”
For Owen
一首圣诞诗
圣诞节是一个地方，像杰克逊洞，大家每年相约
在这儿共聚一次。这儿有马的饮用水和草料；
所有的皮毛商都可参与，它是我们儿时
参观过这个地方，但我们从未听说那些美好故事。
那些故事只在大帐篷被讲述，
到了晚上，当一个猎人落入
自己挖的陷阱，在冰冷的水中，谈话；接着一个
扎马尾辫的男人，瘸拐地走到柴火边。
作为孩子，我们知道这其中还有更多的含义——
为什么有些男人总在圣诞夜里喝得烂醉
无法解释，为什么我们经常
会泪流满面，为什么星星降落时会距离很近，
为什么有如此多的遗失。许多男女
死在别人发起在战争里，
那晚他们来了吗？这就是为什么圣诞树
在我们打开礼物时抖颤的原因？
有些关于天使的事情。我们
听到天使在平原的高处甜美地歌唱。
天使可以确定。但我们不知道
我们家今晚是否值得。
（冯默谌译）
A CHRISTMAS POEM
Christmas is a place, like Jackson Hole, where we all agree
To meet once a year. It has water, and grass for horses;
All the fur traders can come in. We visited the place
As children, but we never heard the good stories.
Those stories only get told in the big tents, late
At night, when a trapper who has been caught
In his own trap, held down in icy water, talks; and a man
With a ponytail and a limp comes in from the edge of the fire.
As children, we knew there was more to it—
Why some men got drunk on Christmas Eve
Wasn’t explained, nor why we were so often
Near tears nor why the stars came down so close,
Why so much was lost. Those men and women
Who had died in wars started by others,
Did they come that night？ Is that why the Christmas tree
Trembled just before we opened the presents？
There was something about angels. Angels we
Have beard on high Sweetly singing o’er
The plain. The angels were certain. But we could not
Be certain whether our family was worthy tonight.
深草里的家
深秋，身体醒来，
我们在海边发现了狮子——
没什么可怕。
风生，水起，
一块岩石边铺有白色墓服，
我们从地床上
被吸引至此。
我们来这里并非为了保持完整。
我们像树木一样，失去我们的叶子，
被折断的树木
重新开始，又从巨根之上拔起；
就像那些被摩尔人俘获的疯狂诗人，
他们过着
第二人生。
我们应习于贫穷和褴褛，
应尝于迪林格之草，
学着在海里游泳，
不要总走在干燥的地上，
还要跳舞，在树林里寻找一个救世主，
一座在深草里的房子，
寻找死亡中的滋养。
（冯默谌译）
A Home in the dark grass
In the deep fall, the body awakes,
And we find lions on the seashore—
Nothing to fear.
The wind rises, the water is born,
Spreading white tomb-clothes on a rocky shore,
Drawing us up
From the bed of the land.
We did not come to remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves like the trees,
The trees that are broken
And start again, drawing up on great roots;
Like mad poets captured by the Moors,
Men who live out
A second life.
That we should learn of poverty and rags,
That we should taste the weed of Dillinger,
And swim in the sea,
Not always walking on dry land,
And, dancing, find in the trees a saviour,
A home in the dark grass,
And nourishment in death.
秘密
我从弯曲的白桦树下走过，
白桦树的枝条在空中弯成拱形。
那是一扇敞开的有寓意之门，
风中再找不到一丝恐惧。
仅仅能在地上看到这些联合吗？
白桦树生活在人迹罕至的地方，
在无忧虑的树林深处……
这些沙粒被鹿腹凝视。
（冯默谌译）
Secrets
I walk below the over-bending birches,
Birches that arch together in the air.
It is an omen of an open door,
A fear no longer found in the wind.
Are there unions only the earth sees？
The birches live where no one else comes,
Deep in the unworried woods…
These sand grains looked at by deer bellies.
给我十岁的儿子诺亚
日夜交替，时光一天天地流逝，
年老的依旧年老，年轻的依旧年轻，并将老去。
那小小的柴堆没有变年轻，也没有失去它们的颜色，
那棵老树仍将继续生长，谷仓已独立多年。
黑暗与夜色的拥护者并未迷失。
马儿踏步摇晃着尾巴，转过身来，抬起一条腿，
小鸡轻拍着爪子回到鸡窝，它的翅膀稚嫩，美丽，
而那原始的事物没有射向夜晚和黑暗。
那个和蔼的男人慢慢地走近了，怒火平息，他在桌边坐下。
所以我只为那些在真心的温柔中度过的日子而骄傲，
那时你坐下画画，或者写书，并将传递给这个世界的信息装订起来，
或者为一个头发里燃烧着火焰的男人涂色。
或者我们坐在桌旁，细斟一小杯茶。
我们就这样一起度过我们的时光，平静而快乐。
（冯默谌译）
For My Son Noah Ten Years Old
Nigh and day arrive and day after day goes by
And what is old remains old and what is young remains young and grows old.
The lumber pile does not grow younger nor the two-by-fours lose their darkness
but the old tree goes on the barn stands without help so many years;
the advocate of darkness and night is not lost.
The horse steps up swings on one leg turns its body
the chicken flapping claws onto the roost its wings whelping and walloping
but what is primitive is not to be shot out into the night and the dark.
And slowly the kind man comes closer loses his rage sits down at table.
So I am proud only of those days that pass in undivided tenderness
when you sit drawing or making books stapled with messages to the world
or coloring a man with fire coming out of his hair.
Or we sit at a table with small tea carefully poured.
So we pass our time together calm and delighted.
理应如此
我们很难如想象的那般受欢迎。
过分自我或内在评判已然改变了它的要求
对于一个没有成功，不受深爱的人来说，
惩罚迅速又彻底。
自尊受到内心的重创，
每个人都觉得自己微小未被看重，直到无奈中，
我们最终同意去参加一档脱口秀节目，并说出这一切。
一旦那刻过去，
节目播出之后
普世之爱非但没有浇在我们的头上
我们反而跌得更远。
（冯默谌译）
supposed to be
It is hard to be as popular as we are supposed to be.
The superego or interior judge has altered its requirements ...
For one who fails to become successful and well-loved,
punishment is swift and thorough.
Self-esteem receives a battering from the inside,
everyone feels insignificant and unseen until, in desperation,
we finally agree to go on a talk show and tell it all.
Once that moment is over,
and universal love has not poured over our heads
following the program, we fall still farther.
一个初雪之夜的梦
初雪之夜，我从梦中醒来。
在阁楼上，我遇到一个女孩，
她欢快地谈论着歌剧。
在雪的积压下，白杨几乎垂至地面；
新雪使耕地显得更加辽阔。
屋外，枫叶浮在雨水中，
金黄，暗淡，发亮。
我看见一只蜥蜴……我拿起了它……
它凉凉的。当我把它放回地面，
它大步流星地跨过一根木头，
如一位象棋大师般，充满信心，
先是前腿，后是后腿，
他像一辆拖拉机一样直起身来，
在田野中的陡坡上爬着，一辆篷车深入群山，消失在去往冬日的路上，狗拖着橇，傲慢的男人们手持长矛，
长矛上的羽毛飞扬。
（冯默谌译）
A Dream on the Night of First Snow
I woke from a first-day-of-snow dream.
I met a girl in the attic,
who talked of operas, intensely.Snow has bent the poplar over nearly to the ground;New snowfall widens the plowing.Outside, maple leaves float on rainwater,
yellow, matted, luminous.I saw a salamander… I took him up…He was cold. When I put him down again,
he strode over a logWith such confidence, like a chessmaster,
the front leg first, then the hind
leg, he rose up like a tractor climbing
over a hump in the fieldAnd disappeared toward winter, a caravan going deeper into mountains,Dogs pulling travois,Feathers fluttering on the lances of the arrogant men.
树根
最后在熊屋，我回到地面。
有许多限制。在这所有限制之中
我们知道的极少。我是如何了解
一条河流——它的转弯——以及一个女人？
女人的爱情是对悲伤的体会。
悲伤没永无终止。恋爱中的男子
用文火炖着他的豪猪。树木
在大地上生长，悲伤寻到了根源。
（冯默谌译）
The Roots
Finally in the bear’s cabin I come to earth.
There are limits. Among all the limits
we know so few things. How is it that I know
only one river- its turns- and one woman？
The love of woman is the knowing of grief.
There are no limits to grief. The loving man
simmers his porcupine stew. Among the timber
growing on earth grief finds roots.
伟大社会
即使在雨中，牙医们也继续浇灌他们的草坪：
由类人猿通过大量劳动而进化了的手
悬在福音传教士的衣袖里；
在露天影院外有被谋杀的国王；
穷人的棺材在一堆新轮胎里冬眠。
守卫不安地坐在锅炉旁，
旅店管理员洗乱了精神病卡。
总统梦想着入侵古巴。
灌木在户外的烤架上生长，
藤蔓漫过游艇和皮椅。
城市沮丧灰罐和昏暗的砂浆中。
在远处的海岸，科尼岛，黑人孩子们
在寒冷的海滩上玩耍：一团黑色海藻，
贝壳，满天的鸟儿，
而市长此刻正抱头而坐。
（冯默谌译）
The Great Society
Dentists continue to water their lawns even in the rain：
Hands developed with terrible labor by apes
Hang from the sleeves of evangelists;
There are murdered kings in the light-bulbs outside movie theaters：
The coffins of the poor are hibernating in piles of new tires.
The janitor sits troubled by the boiler,
And the hotel keeper shuffles the cards of insanity.
The President dreams of invading Cuba.
Bushes are growing over the outdoor grills,
Vines over the yachts and the leather seats.
The city broods over ash cans and darkening mortar.
On the far shore, at Coney Island, dark children
Playing on the chilling beach：a sprig of black seaweed,
Shells, a skyful of birds,
While the mayor sits with his head in his hands.
黎明
有人喜欢看黎明时分浮现的海边灌木丛，
喜欢看夜色从鹅的翅膀下飘落，喜欢
听海边，黑夜与黎明的对话。
如果我们找不到天堂，但总会有蓝松鸦。
现在你明知道我为什么二十几岁时一直在呐喊。
对于那些在黎明时被吵醒的人来说，这很必须。
亚当被唤来为红翼的画眉，
菱形斑的响尾蛇和尾有环纹的
浣熊命名，它们在黎明时的溪流中为上帝沐浴。
几个世纪之后，美索不达米亚的诸神
所有的的鬈发和耳朵，出现，身后是将军们
和在黎明时他们将要死去的穿蓝大衣的儿子们。
那些吃蚱蜢的隐士们多么美好
整日待在洞里；然而，看着篱笆桩
在黎明中逐渐出现，这也美好。
喜欢看坠落的星辰的人们
爱慕身上带着马厩味的婴儿，这很正常，但我们知道，
即使是坠落的星辰，也会在黎明时消失。
（冯默谌译）
Dawn
Some love to watch the sea bushes appearing at dawn,
To see night fall from the goose wings, and to hear
The conversations the night sea has with the dawn.
If we can't find Heaven, there are always bluejays.
Now you know why I spent my twenties crying.
Cries are required from those who wake disturbed at dawn.
Adam was called in to name the Red-Winged
Blackbirds, the Diamond Rattlers, and the Ring-Tailed
Raccoons washing God in the streams at dawn.
Centuries later, the Mesopotamian gods,
All curls and ears, showed up; behind them the Generals
With their blue-coated sons who will die at dawn.
Those grasshopper-eating hermits were so good
To stay all day in the cave; but it is also sweet
To see the fenceposts gradually appear at dawn.
People in love with the setting stars are right
To adore the baby who smells of the stable, but we know
That even the setting stars will disappear at dawn.
一个窒息之梦
会计师如直升机在地上盘旋，
把一张刻有黑格尔名字的纸片抛下。
獾用爪子把纸片带到
它们的巢穴里，整个家族在夜里死去。
一位合唱团少女望着窗外的街道
在窗帘后站了数小时。
在卡车运输服务的一扇窗户里
有一根涂白的树枝。
一条幼鳄标本紧紧地抓住树枝
为了让自己离开地板上那些干燥的树叶。
夜里蜂巢做着奇异的梦：
黑色的小火车一圈圈地开着──
老军舰在雨水中沉没。
（冯默谌 译）
A Dream of Suffocation
Accountants hover over the earth like helicopters,
Dropping bits of paper engraved with Hegel's name.
Badgers carry the papers on their fur
To their den, where the entire family dies in the night.
A chorus girl stands for hours behind her curtains
Looking out at the street.
In a window of a trucking service
There is a branch painted white.
A stuffed baby alligator grips that branch tightly
To keep away from the dry leaves on the floor.
The honeycomb at night has strange dreams：
Small black trains going round and round——
Old warships drowning in the raindrop.
和一只老鼠的交谈
一天，一只老鼠从他曲折的巢穴里和我说：
“你如何入睡？我喜欢蜷缩着。”
“哦，我喜欢伸展。我喜欢我的骨头
都排成一列。我喜欢看到我的脚趾头在那儿。”
“我想那是一种方式，”老鼠说，“但我不
喜欢它。”行星不是这样，银河系也非如此。”
我还能说什么？当一只昏昏欲睡的老鼠谈到银河时
你知道你已处于这个世纪的尾声了。
（冯默谌 译）
A CONVERSATION WITH A MOUSE
One day a mouse called to me from his curly nest：
“How do you sleep？ I love curliness.”
“Well, I like to be stretched out. I like my bones to be
All lined up. I like to see my toes way off over there.”
“I suppose that’s one way,” the mouse said, “but I don’t
like it.The planets don’t act that way, nor the Milky Way.”
What could I say？ You know you’re near the end
Of the century when a sleepy mouse brings in the Milky Way.
听科隆音乐会
真心相爱后，
我们听到音符一起翻滚，
在冬末，我们听到冰棱
从细枝的末梢跌落。
音符流动，沉浸其中。
它们是未进食的美味，未获得的
安慰，没有说出的谎言。
音乐就是我对你的痴心。
当音乐再次响起，
在这日的晚些时候，我看到你
眼含泪水。并把脸转过去
为了不让别人看见。
当男女们走到一起，
他们不得不放弃太多！鹪鹩
用奇特的线和绳结
来筑造它们的巢穴，动物们
年年都舍弃它们所有的财富。
男女们又留下了什么？
比鹪鹩的行为更艰难，他们必须
放弃对完美的渴望。
如果不是出于本能建造
爱巢永远不会完美，
而且，每只鸟都必须飞入
另一只不完美的鸟所建造的巢穴。
（冯默谌译）
Listening to the Koln Concert
After we had loved each other intently,
we heard notes tumbling together,
in late winter, and we heard ice
falling from the ends of twigs.
The notes abandon so much as they move.
They are the food not eaten, the comfort
not taken, the lies not spoken.
The music is my attention to you.
And when the music came again,
later in the day, I saw tears in your eyes.
I saw you turn your face away
so that the others would not see.
When men and women come together,
how much they have to abandon！Wrens
make their nests of fancy threads
and string ends, animals
abandon all their money each year.
What is it that men and women leave？
Harder than wrens’ doing, they have
to abandon their longing for the perfect.
The inner nest not made by instinct
will never be quite round,
and each has to enter the nest
made by the other imperfect bird.
与朋友通宵饮酒后
在黎明时，我们乘一只小舟出去
看谁能写出最好的诗来。
这些松树，这些秋日的橡树，这些岩石，
这被微风拂过的黑水——
我就像你，你这黑色的小舟，
在被凉泉滋养的水面上漂流。
当我还是个孩子时，我就梦到
这水下奇异而幽暗的珠宝，
不是黄金，也不是奇石，而是真实的
礼物，在这明尼苏达苍白的湖下。
这个清晨亦然，我在黎明的风中飘荡，
我感到我的双手，我的鞋，还有这墨水——
就像整个漂流的身体一样，漂流在，
这肉体与石头的云上。
几次友谊，几个黎明，几次对草的瞥视，
几支饱经风吹日晒的船桨，
于是划向岸边我们，从冰凉的水面上，
不再关心我们是漂流，还是前行。
（冯默谌译）
After Drinking All Night with a Friend,
We Go Out in a Boat at Dawn to See
Who Can Write the Best Poem
These pines, these fall oaks, these rocks,
This water dark and touched by wind –
I'm like you, you dark boat,
Drifting over water fed by cool springs.
Beneath the waters, since I was a boy,
I have dreamt of strange and dark treasures,
Not of gold, or strange stones, but the true
Gift, beneath the pale lakes of Minnesota.
This morning also, drifting in the dawn wind,
I sense my hands, and my shoes, and this ink –
Drifting, as all of this body drifts,
Above the clouds of the flesh and the stone.
A few friendships, a few dawns, a few glimpses of grass,
A few oars weathered by the snow and the heat,
So we drift toward shore, over cold waters,
No longer caring if we drift or go straight.
迷路的狩猎者
每当那俩男高音女高音
跪下对唱时，
在台上的某处，有个男中音
将要死去。
阿拉斯加的狩猎者发现了
他手臂上的血液，他的收音机
坏了，新雪
正在枝头飘落。
我不知道为什么
蚱蜢不尝试扭动
从鸟爪中逃脱。
但是它一动不动。
忘记这个念想，
会有人来救你。
每当雪松开始
发出低微的声响时。
（冯默谌译）
The Lost Trapper
Each time the soprano and the tenor
Kneel and sing to each other,
Somewhere else on stage the baritone
Is about to die.
The Alaskan trapper finds
Blood on his arm, his radio
Dead, and new snow
Falling on the branches.
I don't know why the grasshopper
Doesn't try to wiggle
Out from the bird's claw,
But he doesn't move.
Just forget the idea that
Someone will come and save
You whenever cedars begin
Making that low sound.
肥胖的老夫妇在四周旋转
鼓说我们死去的夜晚会很漫长。
它说孩子们有时间玩耍。告诉大人
他们今晚可以把窗帘拉到床上。
这位老人想知道战争是如何结束。
这个年轻的女孩想让她的乳房如太阳般隆起。
思想家想要误解继续存在。
如果尘世的和尚被埋在圣坛附近，多么美好。
如果这位歌手未能出席她的音乐会，多么美好。
如果这对肥胖的夫妇继续在四周旋转，多么美好。
让父母每晚在摇篮旁边唱歌。
让鹈鹕继续生活在它们那黏糊糊的巢里。
让鸭子继续爱它脚四周的泥土。
如果蚂蚁总是记得回家的路，多么美好。
如果巴赫继续保持同样的音符，多么美好。
如果我们把梯子从房子里挪开，多么美好。
即便你是清教徒，也没关系
如果今晚你在他们被毁的房子里加入这对恋人。
如果你成为一个灵魂，然后消失，多么美好。
（冯默谌译）
The Fat Old Couple Whirling Around
The drum says that the night we die will be a long night.
It says the children have time to play. Tell the grownups
They can pull the curtains around the bed tonight.
The old man wants to know how the war ended.
The young girl wants her breasts to cause the sun to rise.
The thinker wants to keep misunderstanding alive.
It's all right if the earthly monk is buried near the altar.
It's all right if the singer fails to turn up for her concert.
It's good if the fat old couple keeps whirling around.
Let the parents sing over the cradle every night.
Let the pelicans go on living in their stickly nests.
Let the duck go on loving the mud around her feet.
It's all right if the ant always remembers his way home.
It's all right if Bach keeps reaching for the same note.
It's all right if we knock the ladder away from the house.
Even if you are a puritan it would be all right
If you join the lovers in their ruined house tonight.
It's good if you become a soul and then disappear.
绿色炉灶
一个孤独的人曾坐在一块巨大的平石上。
当他举起它时，他看到一间厨房：一个很常见的
带把的绿色搪瓷。
有人住在那个房间里，做饭和大笑。
“我曾经见过她，”维吉尔说。“她是海伦的
妹妹。“海伦的背叛丈夫
坐在窗边，剥蒜瓣，
并把皮屑扔到普利茅斯的岩石上。
我们永远不会明白这。下面的某处
头骨的平石，一对肉食夫妇
生活和计划着未来的战争。我们是无辜的吗？
这些战争不会偶然发生——它们
太过平常。我们多久拿起盘子
在我们的头下扔些大蒜
把谷物放到厨房去？“继续烹饪，
我亲爱的，”我们说。“一些好事即将到来。”
（冯默谌译）
THE GREEN COOKSTOVE
A lonely man once sat on a large flat stone.
When he lifted it, he saw a kitchen： a green
Enamel range with big claw feet, familiar.
Someone lives in that room, cooking and cackling.
“I saw her once,” Virgil said. “She was Helen’s
Younger sister.” Helen’s betrayed husband
Sits by the window, peeling garlic cloves,
And throwing crusts to Plymouth Rocks.
We’ll never understand this. Somewhere below
The flat stone of the skull, a carnivorous couple
Lives and plans future wars. Are we innocent？
These wars don’t happen by accident—they occur
Too regularly. How often do we lift the plate
At the bottom of our brain and throw some garlic
And grain down to the kitchen？ “Keep cooking,
My dears,” we say. “Something good will come of this.”
老鼠
有诗很好
开始于茶,
结束于上帝。
一个男人正在喝茶，
比如说，一只老鼠
在地板上跑。
这让他想到
所有隐藏的事物。
老鼠是毛茸茸的一种
爪子很残忍。
耳朵听闻秘密，
一种羞耻产生，那个人
他想起他没有人
可以告诉没有人，一种羞耻
静静地搜索
小麦的颗粒
下面有只可怕的
奥古斯汀的猫。
（冯默谌译）
THE MOUSE
It’s good to have poems
That begin with tea,
And end with God.
A man is drinking tea,
Let’s say, and a mouse
Runs across the floor.
It makes him think
Of all hidden things.
A mouse is a furry
Cruelty with paws.
It’s a secret with ears,
A shame the man
Thought he could tell
No one of, a shame
That searches quietly
For kernels of grain
Below that awful
Cat of Augustine.
想法
与善谈者在一起
有些危险之事。
苍蝇他祖先的故事
对青蛙来说没有意义。
我不是一个吵闹的人
如果你不停止交谈。
有些人说话如此才华横溢
显得我们很渺小，甚至消失。
那个荷兰女人身旁的影子
告诉你伦勃朗是一个很好的聆听者。
（冯默谌译）
THOUGHTS
There’s something dangerous
In being with good talkers.
The fly’s stories of his ancestors
Don’t mean much to the frog.
I can’t be the noisy person I am
If you don’t stop talking.
Some people talk so brilliantly
That we get small and vanish.
The shadows near that Dutch woman
Tell you that Rembrandt is a good listener.
海水起落
每年秋天，在北方森林里，都会下很多雨。
我们大脑的大部分都会听到雨；
其中一部分说，“哦，好。让我们入睡吧。”
另一部分说：“一个客人来了。它是
一个信号！年纪最大的大脑说：“如果那个人
看起来不像我们，我们就用石头砸它。我想
它是家人。雪松低语道，
“关于时间。“一些森林的溪流
惊异于被察觉。大河，确信
它们值得它。只有大海不
在意，如同过往。大海只是
上下翻滚着说：“我不需要。”
（冯默谌 译）
THE OCEAN RISING AND FALLING
Each fall it rains a lot in the northern woods.
Many parts of our brain hear the rain;
And one part says, “Oh good. Let’s sleep.”
Another says, “A visitor is coming. It’s
A sign！” The oldest brain says： “If that person
Doesn’t look like us, we’ll stone him.” I guess
It’s family. The cedar trees mutter,
“About time.” Some forest streams
Are amazed to be noticed. Rivers, the big ones, are sure
They deserve it. Only the ocean pays no
Attention, being past all that. The ocean just
Goes up and down saying, “I need no more.”
在雪野里阅读寂静
我喜欢的一个词的来临——“雪”；接着栅栏
尘土，草，夜和谷仓，
还有灯杆和杨木，但是很少喜欢你。
这就是我三十岁时所说的话语，
甚至四十岁。就像一些诡秘的人说：
“这个词，你说得不对。它会引导你
想象亲密。我们知道
这不会发生。我们知道你心里最感兴趣的事。”
痛苦的、年老的人——生活
在蓝玻璃的秀兰·邓波尔奶瓶里
它们就立在我们的餐桌上；他们祝福我们，
我们和州推广代理在一起，
电影和菲利普·莫里斯神秘剧院。
有些早晨，我把这些声音——
我把世界上所有的蓝色玻璃都抛弃了——
然后我也会说“你”——这个美丽的词。
（冯默谌 译）
READING SILENCE IN THE SNOWY FIELDS
A word I love comes—snow; then fencepost
And dust and grass and night and barndoor,
Also light pole and cottonwood, but seldom you.
That’s how the words flowed when I was thirty,
Or even forty. It’s as if some furtive men said,
“This word you is not right. It would lead you
To imagine closeness. We know that
Won’t happen. We have your best interests in mind.”
The bitter ones—the old ones—lived
Inside the Shirley Temple creamers of blue glass
That stood on our kitchen table; they blessed us,
We thought, along with the County Extension Agent,
The movies, and the Philip Morris Mystery Theater.
Some mornings I close my ears to these voices—
I abandon all the blue glass in the world to them—
Then I too speak this beautiful word you.
初雪之夜
初雪之夜。
我站着，背倚木栅栏。
黑色的冷杉树干，边缘白茫茫一片。
大地平衡着我脚下的四周。
树干将雪地和地上的一切连成一体。
冷杉的树枝平衡着雪。
我是垂于地面上的一道阴影。
空中各处弥漫着，使雪妈妈愉悦的灰色。
在栅栏的缝隙里，我看见一只兔子
从栅栏下蹿过去后留下的三根毛。
一个女人向那个柳篮走去，
它在那渐黑的芦苇丛里摇荡。
新娘就在摩西入睡的那个篮子里。
人类是什么，在于那篮子是如何摇荡。
（冯默谌译）
Night of First Snow
Night of first snow.
I stand, my back against a board fence.
The fir tree is black at the trunk, white out at the edges.
The earth balances all around my feet.
The trunk joins the white ground with what is above.
Fir branches balance the snow.
I too am a dark shape vertical to the earth.
All over the sky, the gray color that pleases the snow mother.
Between boards I see three hairs a rabbit left behind
As he scooted under the fence.
A woman walks out toward the wicker basket
Rocking in darkening reeds.
The Bride is inside the basket where Moses sleeps.
What is human lies in the way the basket is rocking.
