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露斯.斯通 譯詩12首
Date:2009-3-24
露斯.斯通為美國當代著名女詩人。1915年6月8日出生于弗吉尼亞州。2002年，她的第九卷詩集[鄰近的星系]榮獲第53屆被譽為文學奧斯卡獎的美國國家圖書獎。最近她又獲華萊士.史蒂文思獎，獲獎金15萬美元。
鄰近的星系
在鄰近的星系
情況不會一樣。
沒有人會喪失
視覺，聽力，膽囊。
所有的凱茨科爾斯山峰
都用嶄新的游廊環繞裝璜。
希特勒的主意不會產生振蕩。
當返回到這里時，
他們還在清理著
匿藏于阿根廷的那些
滿身皺折老納粹的衣袋錢囊。
而在鄰近的星系，
某些行星會有真正的
藍天和飲用水。
In the Next Galaxy
In the Next Galaxy
Things will be different.
No one will lose their sight,
their hearing, their gallbladder.
It will be all Catskills with brand
new wrap-around verandas.
The idea of Hitler will not have vibrated yet.
While back here,
they are still cleaning out
pockets of wrinkled
Nazis hiding in Argentina.
But in the next galaxy,
certain planets will have true
blue skies and drinking water.
那又怎樣
對我而言偉大的真理是被點綴了歇斯底里。
有多少愛因斯坦我們能夠忍受？
我躍入不確定原理。
在眾多玷污誹謗后，你僅僅用一笑清洗。
你說：哈哈。如果是一次熔毀又怎樣 ？
我將立刻寫下最后一段詩句 。
So What
For me the great truths are laced with hysteria.
How many Einsteins can we tolerate?
I leap into the uncertainty principle.
After so many smears, you want to wash it off with a laugh.
Ha ha, you say. So what if it's a meltdown?
Last lines to poems I will write immediately
交易
言詞構成思想。
嚴厲的暴君,象你監房的
清洗和監護。
他們放牧你的想象
走下敘述關系的彎道
等待用大鍛錘
敲打沒有認知的
認知要素進入知識。
是,緊固文法,句法的袋子,
聰明從胡言亂語橫跨一步,
就是一所舒適的
監獄。鏡子的鏡子。
而所有在囚禁中說出的
都被鎖在了秘密之外。
THE TRADE-OFF
Words make the thoughts.
Severe tyrants, like the scrubbers
and guardians of your cells.
They herd your visions
down the ramp to nexus
waiting with sledge hammer
to knock what is the knowing
without knowing into knowledge.
Yes, the tight bag of grammar,
syntax, the clever sidestep
from babble, is a comfortable
prison. A mirror of the mirror.
And all that is uttered in its chains
is locked out from the secret.
言詞
威廉斯.斯蒂文斯說，
“一個詩人看世界
如同一個男人看一個女人。”
我從不知道當一個男人
看一個女人時看見什么。
那是個密封的宇宙。
在這泡泡的外表
所有東西都給延展至無限。
沿著覆黑的操場，樹似老漢般長著胡子，
象一排瞌睡的灰白胡子的清朝高官。
他們的舊胡子被舞毒蛾作了繭。
所有清朝高官都被捕獲于他們的形象中。
一個詩人看世界
如同一個女人看一個男人。
Words
Wallace Stevens says,
"A poet looks at the world
as a man looks at a woman."
I can never know what a man sees
when he looks at a woman.
That is a sealed universe.
On the outside of the bubble
everything is stretched to infinity.
Along the blacktop, trees are bearded as old men,
like rows of nodding gray-bearded mandarins.
Their secondhand beards were spun by female gypsy moths.
All mandarins are trapped in their images.
A poet looks at the world
as a woman looks at a man.
閱讀
這是當鸛返回的春天。
它們自樓頂騰起。
在性急的冬日下午
你躺在床上
一本圖書館的書貼近你的臉，
你的身體在單人床上，
而鸛騰起
伴一陣床扉抬起的聲響。
不看你也知道
一個雇工女孩
正傾身探出在柔柔的戶外空氣里。
從綠色的木柴
慢慢盤旋起一縷煙，
反射在她的雙眼。
她移步走下門外臺階
驅趕家禽心不在焉。
鸛正站著樓頂上。
女孩把手裹在圍裙里面。
小小的黃花
已叢生于雜亂的
草叢之間。
她張嘴傾聽什么
你聽不見。
你的身體熟睡。
她微笑著。
她不知正有一對騎兵在一條
泥濘有車轍的路上行進而來，
而有頭腦的人就象搜索者
正沿著書頁跺著他們的
長筒皮靴。
READING
It is spring when the storks return.
They rise from storied roofs.
In the quick winter afternoon
you lie on your bed
with a library book close to your face,
your body on a single bed,
and the storks rise
with the sound of a lifted sash.
You know without looking
that a servant girl
is leaning out in the soft foreign air.
A slow spiral of smoke
from green firewood
is reflected in her eyes.
She moves down an outside stair
absently driving the poultry.
The storks are standing on the roof.
The girl wraps her hands in her apron.
Small yellow flowers
have clumped among the tussocks
of coarse grass.
She listens with her mouth open
to something you cannot hear.
Your body is asleep.
She smiles.
She does not know a cavalry is coming
on a mud-rutted road,
and men with minds like ferrets
are stamping their heavy boots
along the pages.
不期望答案
給你這封冗長的信，
一個生命對另一個生命意味什么？
我們在我們的袋子里環繞行走，
將它吸進，把它嘔出。
然后昆蟲們，蜂擁云集
重過世界上所有的動物。
然后在曬衣繩上的食蟲鳥，
象撒網者自佛蘭芒人的船上傾斜，
當大海被鯡魚惹怒。
這封長信在我的腦海里，
書法，羽毛似的蘆筍。
NOT EXPECTING AN ANSWER
This tedious letter to you,
what is one Life to another?
We walk around inside our bags,
sucking it in, spewing it out.
Then the insects, swarms heavier
than all the animals of the world.
Then the flycatchers on the clothesline,
like seiners leaning from Flemish boats
when the seas were roiled with herring.
This long letter in my mind,
calligraphy, feathery asparagus.
好意忠告
這里不是確切的這里
因為兩秒鐘之前
它被那里經過；
此處它不會再來。
盡管你對此調整適應—
這沒有什么，你說，
只是習慣。
我們多么可憐，
因一切都流經過
我們的指間。
“這里”，惡魔之王說，
“吃。這是天堂。”
Good Advice
Here is not exactly here
because it passed by there
two seconds ago;
where it will not come back.
Although you adjust to this—
it's nothing, you say,
just the way it is.
How poor we are,
with all this running
through our fingers.
"Here," says the Devil,
"Eat. It's Paradise."
總在火車上
寫關于寫詩的詩
就象在德克薩斯碾壓大包干草。
沒什么能停止你除了地平線。
但考慮金屬垃圾的鐵路邊緣；
鳥兒棲息處，幾英里的電話線。
什么無辜 象吃草的牛一般？
如你想著它，它就變成片語只言。
垃圾多么快樂；飛起
象蝗蟲在收割機前。
塵土魔鬼將它向上旋轉；古銅色的糖果封皮，
清潔的塑料方形窗子在一個空氣房子上面。
在雜草叢生的去年的席子邊緣下
紅色和銀色的啤酒罐。
一片片被吹過每個地方，
飄飛的紙狂歡
而群鳥構成黑色高拋的圖案。
Always on the Train
Writing poems about writing poems
is like rolling bales of hay in Texas.
Nothing but the horizon to stop you.
But consider the railroad's edge of metal trash;
bird perches, miles of telephone wires.
What is so innocent as grazing cattle?
If you think about it, it turns into words.
Trash is so cheerful; flying up
like grasshoppers in front of the reaper.
The dust devil whirls it aloft; bronze candy wrappers,
squares of clear plastic--windows on a house of air.
Below the weedy edge in last year's mat,
red and silver beer cans.
In bits blown equally everywhere,
the gaiety of flying paper
and the black high flung patterns of flocking birds.
春之美神
被擯棄的校園，
空空的磚瓦房當六月初
你來看望我；
穿行于州際途中，
束帶般的小路伸延，
提著你的便攜打字機搭車。
校園，一個樹林的學院，
在樹下有些，我想是風的手，
已經消散了千百
春之美神的蒼白光線，
花瓣染上桃紅色的血管；
秘密的，為它們自己開放。
我們坐在它們中間。
你那修長的手指，清瘦的身材，
和未必會是天才的長骨；
一些象卡夫卡肯定有的分散的基因。
你深沉的嗓音，通行奇妙塵間。
單純如我，神志半醒，
似乎每一瞬間都是詞語出現之頁；
彎型字錘撞擊移動的色帶。
清淡的空氣，煩躁的樹葉；
我們的渴望翹曲起時間的微瀾。
在那里，好象我們被
幾個無名印象派畫家繪入了畫面。
Spring Beauties
The abandoned campus,
empty brick buildings and early June
when you came to visit me;
crossing the states midway,
the straggled belts of little roads;
hitchhiking with your portable typewriter.
The campus, an academy of trees,
under which some hand, the wind's I guess,
had scattered the pale light
of thousands of spring beauties,
petals stained with pink veins;
secret, blooming for themselves.
We sat among them.
Your long fingers, thin body,
and long bones of improbable genius;
some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.
Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
That simple that was myself, half conscious,
as though each moment was a page
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
struck against the moving ribbon.
The light air, the restless leaves;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
There, as if we were painted
by some unknown impressionist.
我生活中的這陌生
如此之難去看它在哪里，
可即使在清晨它也在那里
當那些奇妙的形狀
聚集而變得熟悉，
但不徹底；那一聲音
的回聲，現在變了，
完全離析，好象
一切溫馨和共享的甜蜜
從未有過。正是這個相異的
空間，不象月亮那般貧瘠，
而是繁茂富裕幾乎同
那過去的空間一樣。但它不是。
它是另一個空間而你不是
過去的你反倒似浮現
自空氣，你慢慢地展示自己
是別的人，非我曾經銘記。
This Strangeness in My Life
It is so hard to see where it is,
but it is there even in the morning
when the miracle of shapes
assemble and become familiar,
but not quite; and the echo
of a voice, now changed,
utterly dissociated, as though
all warmth and shared sweetness
had never been. It is this alien
space, not stark as the moon,
but lush and almost identical
to the space that was. But it is not.
It is another place and you are not
what you were but as though emerging
from the air, you slowly show yourself
as someone else, not ever remembered.
言詞與天氣的重復
一筐臟衣服
散落山下
一整天
拍打著巖石
以一種可怕的洗衣婦的叫喊。
現在兩個馬背上的騎手
在土路上經過。
年輕女人們談論著古色古香的門閂，
無視骯臟的亞麻布，
尿臊味，褥瘡，
老年婦女身后
遺留下的糞便，
油脂和鹼液，
行醫人的謊言。
仲夏怪天氣
是夏已度過。
我翻開一本詩書。
詩篇上盡是謊話，我說，
而死者沉默無言。
騎手折回
象鳥一樣聊天。
我怎不會返回那方式。
他們的馬兒小跑在
灑有陽光的路段。
而我想，發生的都已發生。
不會因語言改變。
Repetition of Words and Weather
A basket of dirty clothes
spills all day long
down the mountain
beating the rocks
with a horrible washer-woman's cry.
Now two riders go by
horseback on the dirt road.
Young women talking of antique latches,
blind to the dirty linen,
smells of urine, bedsores,
bowels of old women
left on their backs,
fat and lye,
lies of doctoring men.
Strange weather mid-summer
is summer spent.
I open a book of poems.
All lies on the psalter, I say,
the dead are silent.
The riders come back
chatting like birds.
What would I not give
to return that way.
Their horses trot in a break
of sunlight over the road.
And I think, what's done is done.
It won't be changed with words.
詩
當你回到我身旁
將是烏鴉和
食蟲鳥的季節，
小昆蟲盤旋向上
在蘋果樹間。
每堆野草會四倍
粗糙，受歡迎
并頂刺針尖。
烏鴉，它們黑色振翅的
身體，它們長長的鳴叫
朝著山崗；
象我的 親戚，
矛盾心理，蒙著眼罩；
嚎叫令人難忍。
而你將帶我進
入你的多數維無意義的
胡言亂語；我的嘴越敏銳，
我的舌頭越瘋狂。
Poems
When you come back to me
it will be crow time
and flycatcher time,
with rising spirals of gnats
between the apple trees.
Every weed will be quadrupled,
coarse, welcoming
and spine-tipped.
The crows, their black flapping
bodies, their long calling
toward the mountain;
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relatives, like mine,
ambivalent, eye-hooded;
hooting and tearing.
And you will take me in
to your fractal meaningless
babble; the quick of my mouth,
the madness of my tongue.
---by Ruth Stone
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