Passage
by Denise Levertov
The spirit that walked upon the face of the waters
Walks the meadow of long grass:
Green shines to silver where the spirit passes.
Wind from the compass points, sun at meridian,
These are forms the spirit enters,
breath, ruach, light that is witness and by which we witness.
The grasses numberless, bowing and rising, silently
Cry hosanna as the spirit
moves them and moves burnishing
over and again upon mountain pastures
a day of spring, a needle’s eye
space and time are passing through like a swathe of silk.
穿越
莱维尔托芙 / 阿九译
那曾在水面上运行的灵
正走过没膝的草场：
那灵所到之处，绿草就发出银光。
那自四面到临的风，天顶的太阳，
是这灵所进入的形体，
气息。圣灵。光，它的见证亦使我们见证。
无以计数的草，绵延拜倒起身，
默念着和散那，当这灵
在闪亮的运行中将它们触动
一次，又一次，在山坡的草场，
在一个春日，一个针眼里，
时间和空间像一根丝带穿越。
Words
Sylvia Plath
Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes traveling
Off from the center like horses.
The sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock
That drops and turns,
A white skull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road——
Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While
From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars
Govern a life.
词语
普拉斯 / 阿九译
斧头
在它的劈砍中树木鸣响，
带着回声！
回声自中心散开，
像一群马。
树液
涌出如同泪水，如同
水挣扎着
重建它的镜面，
在石头上，
在下落并翻滚的石头上，
一颗白色的头颅，
被疯长的绿色吞噬。
多少年后，我
在路上遇到它们——
枯燥而无主的词语，
永不疲倦奶?恪?
而
恒星自池水的底部
主宰着一生。
Child
Sylvia Plath
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
孩子
普拉斯 / 阿九译
你清澈的眼睛极其美好。
我想在其中填满颜色和鸭子，
新生者的大观园，
你想着它们的名字——
四月的雪花莲，印第安长笛，
小小的
没有皱纹的茎秆，
有着华丽而典雅的
倒影的水池，
而不似这纷乱的
手的紧握，这黑暗
而没有星星的屋顶。
Walks
W. H. Auden
I choose the road from here to there,
When I""ve a scandalous tale to bear,
Tools to return or books to lend
To someone at the other road.
Return afterwards, although
I meet my footsteps toe to toe,
The road looks altogether new
Now that is done I meant to do.
But I avoid it when I take
A walker""s walk for walking sake;
The repetition it involves
Raise a doubt it never solves.
What good or evil angel bid
Me stop exactly when I did?
What would have happened had I gone
A kilometer further on?
No, When a fidget in the soul
Or cumulus clouds invite a stroll
The route I pick goes roundabout
To finish where it started out.
It gets me home, this curving track,
Without my having to turn back,
Nor does it leave it up to me
To say how long my walk shall be,
Yet satisfies a moral need
By turning behavior into deed,
For I have boxed the compass when
I enter my front door again.
The heart, afraid to leave her shell.
Demands a hundred yards as well
Between my personal abode
And either sort of public road,
Making, when it is added too
The straight a T, the round a Q.
Allowing me in rain or shine
To call both walks entirely mine.
A lane no traveler would use,
Where prints that do not fit my shoes
have looked for me and, like enough,
were made by someone whom I love.
1958
散步
奥登 / 阿九译
我选择一条路，到处走动，
当我有个谣言要去散布，
有几件工具要还，或者几本书要借给
有个另一条路上的人。
然后我折返回来，尽管
我撞见自己的足迹，
那条路却依然是新的。
我所想要做的，现在已经做好，
但我避开了它，当我
为了散步而像散步者一样行走的时候；
其中所包括的重复
惹出了一个无法自己解开的疑窦。
到底是哪一个天使或魔鬼令我
恰好在那一刻停下脚步？
假如我继续向前走一公里
又会发生什么？
不，当心中的一个躁动
或者积雨云约我出去散步，
我所选择的路线总是曲折迂回
并止于出发的起点。
它将我带回家，这弯曲的足迹
既不是我非返回不可，
也不是随我的便
来决定我散步的长短，
却通过将行为转化为契约
而满足了某种道德要求，
因为我的指南针已装入盒子，
当我重新踏入自家的前门。
这颗生怕离开自己蜗壳的心
也要求有一百码的距离
摆在我私人的居所
与随便一条公共道路之间，
从而在加上它之后，能使
直线变为丁字，使圆变成Q，
让我无论置身于雨中还是阳光之下，
都能说这两条路全然属于我。
一条无人会走的小巷，
那里，所有不合我的鞋底的脚印
都寻找过我，并且每每是
由我心爱的人留下。
Of Mere Being
Wallace Stevens
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird""s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
存在而已
华莱士·史蒂文斯 / 阿九译
心灵末端的那棵棕榈
在意想不到之处，升起
在青铜的布景中。
一只金色羽毛的鸟
在棕榈枝间唱一首异族的歌，
没有人的意义，也没有人的情感。
你于是明白，并不是理性
使人愉悦或者不快。
鸟儿轻歌，灿烂其羽。
棕榈长在空间的边线上。
风在枝间缓缓移动。
鸟儿火一样的羽毛款款飘落。
The Remains
Mark Strand
I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.
My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.
遗体
斯特兰德 / 阿九译（2005）
我从自己身上清空他人的名字。我清空口袋。
我清空鞋子并将他们丢在路边。
晚上，我反转时钟；
我打开家庭相册，看儿时的自己。
但这又有何益？时光已经做了工。
我念着自己的名字。我说再见。
词语相继随风飘逝。
我爱我的妻子，却要送她远去。
我的双亲从座上起身，
进入乳白的行云之居。我怎能唱得出来？
时间告诉我我是什么。我变化但还是依旧。
我从自己身上清空生命，而生命自存。
Morning, Noon and Night
Mark Strand
I
And the morning green, and the build-up of weather, and my brows
Have not been brushed, and never will be, by the breezes of divinity.
That much is clear, at least to me, but yesterday I noticed
Something floating in and out of clouds, something like a bird,
But also like a man, black-suited, with his arms outspread.
And I thought this could be a sign that I""ve been wrong. Then I woke,
And on my bed the shadow of the future fell, and on the liquid ruins
Of the sea outside, and on the shells of buildings at the water""s edge.
A rapid overcast blew in, bending trees and flattening fields. I stayed in bed,
Hoping it would pass. What might have been still waited for its chance.
II
Whatever the starcharts told us to watch for or the maps
Said we would find, nothing prepared us for what we discovered.
We toiled in the shadowless depths of noon,
While an alien wind slept in the branches, and dead leaves
Turned to dust in the streets. Cities of light, long summers
Of leisure were not to be ours; for to come as we had, long after
It mattered, to live among the tombs, as great as they are,
Was to be no nearer the end, no farther from where we began.
III
These nights of pinks and purples vanishing, of freakish heat
Stroking our skin until we fall asleep and stray to places
We hoped would always be beyond our reach - the deeps
Where nothing flourishes, where everything that happens seems
To be for keeps. We sweat, and plead to be released
Into the coming day on time, and panic at the thought
Of never getting there and being forced to drift forgotten
On a midnight sea where every thousand years a ship is sighted, or a swan,
Or a drowned swimmer whose imagination has outlived his fate, and who swims
To prove, to no one in particular, how false his life had been.
(1997)
早晨，中午和晚上
马可·斯特兰德 / 阿九译
1
那早晨的青冥，还有渐渐加重的水汽，而我的眉头
还没有，也从来不会，被天国的清风梳理。
至少对我而言，这一切都很明显，但昨天我注意到
一种在云雾里出没的东西，象一只鸟，
但也象一个人，身着黑衣，展开双臂。
而我以为这也许只是我出错的征兆。我于是醒来，
未来的阴影落在我的床上，在外面大海
那流动的废墟上，还有水边建筑的廓影上。
一阵疾风吹进，它弯曲了树干，夷平了田野。而我仍在床上，
盼着它走远。或许早已发生的事情还在等待时机。
2
星图上告诉我们要留意的，或者地图上说
我们会找到的，都没有让我们为自己的发现做好准备。
当我们在正午连影子都看不见的深处辛劳，
一阵异己的风却在枝间歇息，几张枯叶
已在街面化为尘土。光华的城市，悠闲的长夏
我们消受不起；因为象我们曾经的那样到来，远过了
要紧的时候，在坟墓间生活，象它们一样伟大，
就是不比终点更近，也不比我们开始之处更远。
3
这些夜晚，霓虹正在消逝，古怪的热气
划过皮肤直到我们入睡，并且漫游到
我们想来一直遥不可及的地方－－那些什么
也不能生长的深处，那些所有事物看来
都只配封存的场所。我们汗出如浆，恳求按时被释放
进下一个日子，而且一想起来就深恐
到不了那里，因为被遗忘，只能漂泊在
午夜的海上，那里一千年才能看见一条船，或一只天鹅
抑或一个溺水的泳者，他的想象比他的命数活得更久，而他漂游
只是要向随便什么人证明一下，他的一生多么乌有。
(1997)
Reading in Place
Mark Strand
Imagine a poem that starts with a couple
Looking into a valley, seeing their house, the lawn
Out back with its wooden chairs, its shady patches of green,
Its wooden fence, and beyond the fence the rippled silver sheen
Of the local pond, its far side a tangle of sumac, crimson
In the fading light. Now imagine somebody reading the poem
And thinking, “I never guessed it would be like this,”
Then slipping it into the back of a book while the oblivious
Couple, feeling nothing is lost, not even the white
Streak of a flicker’s tail that catches their eye, nor the slight
Toss of leaves in the wind, shift their gaze to the wooded dome
Of a nearby hill where the violet spread of dusk begins,
But the reader, out for a stroll in the autumn night, with all
The imprisoned sounds of nature dying around him, forges
Not only the poem, but where he is, and thinks instead
Of a bleak Venetian mirror that hangs in a hall
By a curving stair, and how the stars in the sky’s black glass
Sink down and the sea heaves them ashore like foam.
So much is adrift in the ever-opening rooms of elsewhere,
He cannot remember whose house it was, or when he was there.
Now imagine he sits years later under a lamp
And pulls a book from the shelf; the poem drops
To his lap. The couple are crossing a field
On their way home, still feeling that nothing is lost,
That they will continue to live harm-free, sealed
In the twilight’s amber weather. But how will the reader know,
Especially now that he puts the poem, without looking,
Back in the book, the book where a poet stares at the sky
And says to a blank page, “Where, where in Heaven am I?”
现场阅读
马可·斯特兰德 / 阿九译
设想有一首诗，开头处有对夫妇在
眺望山谷，看见他们的房子，后院草坪
还有几把木椅，几处墨绿的树荫，
木制的栅栏，以及栅栏之外纹银般的水波
自不远的池溏散开，对岸有一丛漆树，暗红地
长在渐逝的天光里。现在，设想有人在读这首诗
并且在想，“我从没想过会有这样的事，”
然后就把它夹到一本书的末尾，而那对健忘的
夫妇却并未感到失去什么，甚至连一只飞虫的尾巴
扇出的白晕也都还在眼中，风中轻轻
摇曳的叶子也在，于是，他们将目光移向附近
葱郁的山头，那里，黄昏的紫烟开始上升，
而那个在秋夜里出来散心的读者，以及
囚禁于天地间的将逝的万籁，不仅虚构了
这首诗，而且杜撰了他的地点，代之以遐想中的
一面黯淡的威尼斯铜镜，挂在旋转楼梯旁边的
大厅墙上，还有黛色的天空上的群星
落下，又泡沫一样让海浪打上岸边。
在别处，永远敞开的房间里，一切都在流逝，
他已记不清这是谁的屋子，或者他何时在此住过。
现在，设想几年之后，他端坐灯下，
从书架上抽出一本书；那首诗恰好落在
他的腿上。那对夫妇正在往回走，
穿过一片田野，对一切还是浑然不觉，
而他们仍将自在地生活，隔绝于
熹微的琥珀色天空下。但那个读者如何知道，
（尤其当他没看一眼，就将那首诗放回
夹在书里，）有个诗人正在仰望天空，
并对某个空页说：“天国之中，我在何处？”
Country Fair
Charles Simic (1991)
If you didn’t see the six-legged dog,
It doesn’t matter.
We did, and he mostly lay in the corner.
As for the extra legs,
One got used to them quickly
And thought of other things.
Like, what a cold, dark night
To be out at the fair.
Then the keeper threw a stick
And the dog went after it
On four legs, the other two flapping behind,
Which made one girl shriek with laughter.
She was drunk and so was the man
Who kept kissing her neck.
The dog got the stick and looked back at us.
And that was the whole show.
乡村集市
西密克 / 阿九 译
如果你们没见过六条腿的狗，
那没有关系。
我们见过，它平时就躺在那个角落。
至于它多出来的两条腿，
人们很快也就习以为常，
转而去想别的事情。
比方说吧，在这又冷又黑的夜里
要上一个集市。
这时主人扔出一根棍子什么的东西，
那狗就拔出四条腿
追过去，把另外两条腿拖在后面，
把一个女孩子乐得嗷嗷直叫。
她喝多了，那个搂着她的脖子
亲个没完的男人也是。
而那条狗叼了棍子，回头看着我们。
这才是今天的主角亮相。
1991
Sanskrit by First Snowfall
by Brooks Haxton
Under the dust a flake of consciousness,
a word, a condensation frozen on the breath,
is falling fallen windblown whirling:
Krishna on the white flake of the lotus
in the arms of Lakshmi, hands divine
inside each other""s shirt. And all around them
wheels of heaven crash into the silent
windows of Bird Library past midnight,
Bird of the Dead Tongues, mine, my logy
snowbird Ba in snow. I should be home.
My daughters my twin girls say Ba for bird
for book for bottle -- Ba: in Egypt,
bird with a human head, the soul.
They wake, and wake their mother. Ba!
They point into the dark. Ba, Ba! they say,
and back to nursing weary in her arms.
初雪梵音
布鲁克斯·哈克斯顿 / 阿九译
尘埃之下，一枚识的雪花，
一个词语，一滴冰结的生息之露
在飘零，在风中鼓舞，漫卷坠落：
那是奎施那在莲花的白色羽瓣上，
在乐斯米的怀中，圣洁的手
抚慰在彼此的衣下。他们的身边，
天上的车辇在午夜之后摔入
鸟类图书馆静谧的窗口，
那湮灭的语言之鸟，是我的，我愚钝的
雪鸟，我的巴，在雪中。我应该是在家里。
我的孪生小女把小鸟说成巴，
把书和瓶子都说成巴——巴：在埃及，
那是人首之鸟，是魂。
她们醒来，并叫醒母亲。巴！
她们对着黑暗。巴，巴！她们说着说着
又回到她的臂弯，在磕睡中接受哺乳。
Dance with My Father
Luther Vandross
Back when I was a child, before life removed all the innocence,
My father would lift me high and dance with my mother and me and then
Spin me around ""til I fell asleep.
Then up the stairs he would carry me
And I knew for sure I was loved.
If I could get another chance, another walk, another dance with him,
I""d play a song that would never, ever end.
How I""d love, love, love
To dance with my father again.
When I and my mother would disagree
To get my way, I would run from her to him.
He""d make me laugh just to comfort me,
Then finally make me do just what my mama said.
Later that night when I was asleep,
He left a dollar under my sheet,
Never dreamed that he would be gone from me.
If I could steal one final glance, one final step, one final dance with him,
I""d play a song that would never, ever end,
""Cause I""d love, love, love
To dance with my father again.
Sometimes I""d listen outside her door,
And I""d hear how my mother cried for him.
I pray for her even more than me.
I pray for her even more than me.
I know I""m praying for much too much,
But could you send back the only man she loved.
I know you don""t do it usually
But dear Lord she""s dying.
To dance with my father again,
Every night I fall asleep and this is all I ever dream.
和爸爸跳舞
路德·范德罗斯 / 阿九译
小时候，生活还没有带走所有的童真，
爸爸常把我高高举起，跟妈妈和我跳舞，然后
抱着我旋转直到我睡着。
然后他抱我上楼，
我敢肯定，他是爱我的。
如果再有一次机会，和他一起走路，一起跳舞，
我一定要唱一首永远永远不休止的歌。
我会多么多么多么欢喜
能和爸爸再跳一次舞。
每当妈妈不听我的话
不答应我的要求，我就从她那里跑开去找他。
他总能让我笑起来，给我安慰，
然后乖乖地照妈妈说的去做。
那一天深夜，我睡得很香，
他在我的床单下塞了一块钱，
我做梦也没想到他会从此离开我。
假如我能看他最后一眼，他最后的脚步，和他跳最后一次舞，
我一定要唱一首永远永远不休止的歌，
因为我多么多么多么欢喜
能和爸爸再跳一次舞。
有时我会在她的房门外偷听，
我知道她为他哭得多么伤心。
我为她祈祷超过为我自己。
我为她祈祷超过为我自己。
我知道我祈求的实在太多，
但你能不能把她爱的唯一的男人送回。
我知道你一般不这样做
可是亲爱的主啊，她快要死了。
和爸爸再跳一次舞：
每天晚上我都睡着，而这就是我所有的梦。
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