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马克·斯特兰德诗选

2012-09-29 18:50 来源:中国南方艺术 作者:画皮 译 阅读

                          

                        

 ■新诗歌手册

1   如果一个男人读懂了一首诗,
   他会有麻烦。

2   如果一个男人和一首诗生活,
   他会孤独的死去。

3   如果一个男人和两首诗生活,
   他会对其中的一首不忠。

4   如果一个男人怀上一首诗,
   他膝下的儿女会小于一。

5   如果一个男人怀上两首诗,
   他膝下的儿女会小于二。

6   如果一个人写作时头上戴着王冠,
   他会被发现。

7   如果一个男人写作时头上没有戴王冠,
   他会一个也骗不了除了他自己。

8   如果一个男人对一首诗怒气冲冲,
   他会被男人们耻笑。

9   如果一个男人不断的对一首诗发火,
   他会被妇人们耻笑。

10  如果一个男人公开谴责诗歌,
   他的鞋子会灌进尿液。

11  如果一个男人为权力放弃诗歌,
   他会拥有许多权力。

12  如果一个男人吹嘘他的诗歌,
   他会被傻瓜们爱上。

13  如果一个男人吹嘘他的诗歌并且爱上傻瓜,
   他会写不下去。

14  如果一个男人因为自己的诗歌而渴望关注,
   他会像月光下的一头蠢驴。

15  如果一个男人写了一首诗且在诗中赞美了一个人,
   他会得到一个漂亮的情妇。

16  如果一个男人写了一首诗且在诗中将一个人夸得过火,
   他会赶走他的情妇。

17  如果一个男人宣称别人的诗是他的,
   他的心脏会大上一倍。

18  如果一个男人让他的诗歌光着身子的走开,
   他会变得怕死。

19  如果一个男人害怕死亡,
   他会被他的诗歌救下。

20  如果一个男人不怕死亡,
   他或许会或许不会被他的诗歌救下。

21  如果一个男人完成了一首诗,
   他会沉浸在他激情空茫的苏醒中
   还会被白纸头亲个不停。


The New Poetry Handbook

1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.

■光的到来

纵然这一切姗姗来迟:
爱的到来,光的到来。
你醒了,蜡烛也仿佛不点自明,
星星集聚,美梦涌入你的枕头,
升起一束束温馨的花香。
纵然迟到,周身的骨骼照样光彩熠熠
而明日的尘埃闪耀着进入呼吸。

The Coming of Light
Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrows dust flares into breath.

■冬日诗行

告诉你自己吧
当天气转冷,灰暗从天而降
你将继续
前行,听着
同样的曲子,不必理会
在哪里找到你自己——
黑暗的穹隆里,
或是雪谷中,月亮凝望的
咯兹作响的白色下。
今夜,当天气转冷
告诉你自己吧
你所知的全属虚无
只是当你继续赶路时
骨骼奏响的曲子。有朝一日
你终会躺下,在冬日之星
小小的火焰下。
如若那样——你不能
前进或是回头,在即临的终点
你找到你自己,
告诉你自己吧
在穿过你四肢的最后的寒流中,
你爱你所是的一切。

Lines For Winter

Mark Strand

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself --
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moons gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

■一首有关暴风雪的诗

[选自《一个人的暴风雪》]

来自圆顶城市的圆顶阴影,
一片雪花,某人的一场暴风雪,轻轻的,潜入你的房间
向你坐着的椅子的扶手飘来,就在你
从书本中抬眼那一刻,它刚好停落。这便是
整个的经过。无非是个肃穆的醒悟
面对瞬间,面对注意力的起落,短促的,
时刻间的一刻,一场无花的葬礼。无非是
除了心头的闪念——这首有关暴风雪的
在你的眼前化为乌有的诗篇,将会归来,
还有多年以后,有人会像此刻的你那样坐着,口中念叨:
“是时候了。空气已准备好。天空已敞开了一个口子。”

A Piece of the Storm
from BLIZZARD OF ONE

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed. Thats all
There was to it. No more than a solemn waking
To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly,
A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that
Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back,
That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:
"Its time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."

■我们生活的故事

1

我们正读着我们生活的故事,
发生在一个房间里。
房间望出去是一条街道。
那儿空无一人,
一点声息也没有。
树木因树叶显得沉重,
停着的汽车从不移动。
我们不停的翻着页面,企望着什么,
比如怜悯或是转机什么的,
一条黑线也许就能装订我们
或把我们阻隔。
如此一来,就仿佛
我们生活的书本全是空的。
房间里的家具一尘不变,
而每当我们的影子掠过
那些地毯就暗淡一些。
这房间几乎就是这个世界。
我们并排在沙发上坐下,
读着关于沙发的一切。
我们说那是理想。
那是个理想。

2

我们正读着我们生活的故事,
好像我们就在其中,
好像是我们写下了它。
这幻觉一次又一次的闪现。
在其中的某个章节
我后仰身子,将书本推至一边
因为书中说了
这就是我正在做的事情。
我后仰身子,开始写些关于这本书的。
我写道:我希望走出这本书。
走出我的生活进入另一种生活。
我搁下钢笔。
书说道:“他搁下了钢笔
转身去看她在读什么
——有关她坠入爱河的那部分。”
这书远比我们想象的正确得多。
我后仰身子去看你读些什么
——有关穿过街道的那个男人。
他们在那儿造起房子,
有一天一个男人从那里出来。
你一下爱上了他
因为你知道他永远不会造访你,
永远不会知道你正等待着。
一夜又一夜后你会说
他很像我。
我后仰身子,看见你兀自老去。
阳光照在你银白的头发上。
这地毯,这家具,
如今看上去仿佛是虚构的。
“她还在阅读。
她似乎意识到了他那
无关紧要的缺席,
如同某人在完美的一天会感觉
天气是个失败者
因为它没有改变他的意识。”
你眯起了你的眼。
你有种合上书本的冲动
它描述着我的反抗:
当我后仰身子时我是如何想象着
没有你的生活,如何想象着
移进另一种生活,另一本书。
它描述着你对欲望的迁就,
动机的瞬间败露
如何叫你担惊受怕。
书本描绘的远不止它的本意。
它想要将我们隔开。


3

这个早晨我醒来并且相信
比较我们生活的故事
我们的生活也不过如此。
你如果不同意,我会指出
你不同意的那部分在书中的位置。
你倒头睡去,而我开始阅读
当它们正被书写时
你曾东猜西想,
一旦它们成为故事的一部分后
你就兴致索然的那些神秘章节。
其中的一节,在一个男人的房间里
月光阴冷的衣衫罩在椅子上。
他梦着那个丢了衣衫的女人,
她坐在一个花园里,等待着。
她相信爱是一种牺牲。
这一节描述了她的死
她始终没有姓氏,
这可是那些
你无法面对她的事情中的一件。
不久以后我们发现
那个做梦的男人住在
街道对面的新房子里。
这个早晨,当你倒头睡去后
我开始翻阅书本开头的页面:
这就仿佛梦回童年,
这么多仿佛在消逝,
这么多仿佛重又回到生活。
我不知所措。
书说道:“就在那会儿,那是他的书。
一顶阴冷的王冠颤微微的停在头上。
他是里外不合的暂时统治者,
为他自己的王国忧心忡忡。”

4

你醒来前
我读了描述你的缺席的另一章
说你如何睡去
以此扭转你生活的进程。
当我阅读时,我为我自身的孤独感动,
领悟到我的感受常常是粗砺的
常常是某个故事失败的表达
而这可能始终不被告知。
“他想要看她赤裸、脆弱的样子,
看拒绝中的她,那旧梦中
被删去的情节,那来自遥远国度的
服装与面具。
似乎他身不由己的
被拖向了失败。”
再也读不下去了。
我累了我想放弃。
书本好像觉察到了。


5

只要书中完美的瞬间有那么一刻;
只要我们能在这一刻存活,
我们就会重归这本书
好像我们从未写过它,
好像我们没在其中呆过。
可是黑暗迫近书页
总是那么浩浩荡荡
而逃开的就那么一点儿。
我们读了一整天。
每个页面的翻转恰似一支蜡烛
在意识中游动。
每个瞬间犹如一个无望的因由。
只要我们能停止阅读啊。
“他从来不愿读另一本书
而她始终凝望着街道。
车辆还在原地,
树木的浓荫遮盖着它们。
阴影被拖进了新房子。
兴许那个住在里面的男人,
那个她爱着的男人,正在阅读
另一个生活的故事。
一个阴冷的壁炉,一个男人坐着
给一个女人写一封信
她已将她的生活献给了爱。”
倘若书中有那么一个完美的瞬间,
那会是最后的瞬间。
那本书从不讨论爱的起因。
它宣称混乱是个必需的优点。
它从不解释。它一味的暴露。

6

日子继续着。
我们学习我们的所忆。
我们望着房间深处的镜子。
我们无法忍受寂寞。
书本继续着。
“他们沉静下来,不知从何开始
那必需的对话。
是词语在第一个地方规划了区域,
它们创造了孤独。
他们等待着
他们想要翻动页面,巴望着
发生点什么。
他们想偷偷的拼贴起他们的生活:
每个失败都可以原谅,因为它不可检验,
每阵疼痛都有所补偿,因为它并不真实。
他们无所事事。”

7

那书本也不会幸免。
我们就是活生生的证明。
外面一片漆黑,房间里更加阴暗。
我听到你的呼吸。
你在问我我是不是累了,
如果我还想继续读下去。
是的,我累了。
是的,我还想继续读下去。
我对所有一切说:是的。
你听不到我。
“他们并排坐在沙发上。
他们是些复印件,是他们先前
经历过的事物的疲倦的幻影。
他们摆出的姿态是厌倦的。
他们盯着书看
为自己的清白,以及
勉强的放弃感到恐惧。
他们并排坐在沙发上。
他们决心接受事实。
不管那是什么他们全都接受。
书必须要写
书必须要读。
他们就是这书,除了书,他们什么都不是。

The Story Of Our Lives

Mark Strand

1
We are reading the story of our lives
which takes place in a room.
The room looks out on a street.
There is no one there,
no sound of anything.
The tress are heavy with leaves,
the parked cars never move.
We keep turning the pages, hoping for something,
something like mercy or change,
a black line that would bind us
or keep us apart.
The way it is, it would seem
the book of our lives is empty.
The furniture in the room is never shifted,
and the rugs become darker each time
our shadows pass over them.
It is almost as if the room were the world.
We sit beside each other on the couch,
reading about the couch.
We say it is ideal.
It is ideal.

2
We are reading the story of our lives,
as though we were in it,
as though we had written it.
This comes up again and again.
In one of the chapters
I lean back and push the book aside
because the book says
it is what I am doing.
I lean back and begin to write about the book.
I write that I wish to move beyond the book.
Beyond my life into another life.
I put the pen down.
The book says: "He put the pen down
and turned and watched her reading
the part about herself falling in love."
The book is more accurate than we can imagine.
I lean back and watch you read
about the man across the street.
They built a house there,
and one day a man walked out of it.
You fell in love with him
because you knew that he would never visit you,
would never know you were waiting.
Night after night you would say
that he was like me.
I lean back and watch you grow older without me.
Sunlight falls on your silver hair.
The rugs, the furniture,
seem almost imaginary now.
"She continued to read.
She seemed to consider his absence
of no special importance,
as someone on a perfect day will consider
the weather a failure
because it did not change his mind."
You narrow your eyes.
You have the impulse to close the book
which describes my resistance:
how when I lean back I imagine
my life without you, imagine moving
into another life, another book.
It describes your dependence on desire,
how the momentary disclosures
of purpose make you afraid.
The book describes much more than it should.
It wants to divide us.

3
This morning I woke and believed
there was no more to to our lives
than the story of our lives.
When you disagreed, I pointed
to the place in the book where you disagreed.
You fell back to sleep and I began to read
those mysterious parts you used to guess at
while they were being written
and lose interest in after they became
part of the story.
In one of them cold dresses of moonlight
are draped over the chairs in a mans room.
He dreams of a woman whose dresses are lost,
who sits in a garden and waits.
She believes that love is a sacrifice.
The part describes her death
and she is never named,
which is one of the things
you could not stand about her.
A little later we learn
that the dreaming man lives
in the new house across the street.
This morning after you fell back to sleep
I began to turn the pages early in the book:
it was like dreaming of childhood,
so much seemed to vanish,
so much seemed to come to life again.
I did not know what to do.
The book said: "In those moments it was his book.
A bleak crown rested uneasily on his head.
He was the brief ruler of inner and outer discord,
anxious in his own kingdom."

4
Before you woke
I read another part that described your absence
and told how you sleep to reverse
the progress of your life.
I was touched by my own loneliness as I read,
knowing that what I feel is often the crude
and unsuccessful form of a story
that may never be told.
"He wanted to see her naked and vulnerable,
to see her in the refuse, the discarded
plots of old dreams, the costumes and masks
of unattainable states.
It was as if he were drawn
irresistably to failure."
It was hard to keep reading.
I was tired and wanted to give up.
The book seemed aware of this.
It hinted at changing the subject.
I waited for you to wake not knowing
how long I waited,
and it seemed that I was no longer reading.
I heard the wind passing
like a stream of sighs
and I heard the shiver of leaves
in the trees outside the window.
It would be in the book.
Everything would be there.
I looked at your face
and I read the eyes, the nose, the mouth . . .

5
If only there were a perfect moment in the book;
if only we could live in that moment,
we could being the book again
as if we had not written it,
as if we were not in it.
But the dark approaches
to any page are too numerous
and the escapes are too narrow.
We read through the day.
Each page turning is like a candle
moving through the mind.
Each moment is like a hopeless cause.
If only we could stop reading.
"He never wanted to read another book
and she kept staring into the street.
The cars were still there,
the deep shade of trees covered them.
The shades were drawn in the new house.
Maybe the man who lived there,
the man she loved, was reading
the story of another life.
She imagine a bare parlor,
a cold fireplace, a man sitting
writing a letter to a woman
who has sacrificed her life for love."
If there were a perfect moment in the book,
it would be the last.
The book never discusses the causes of love.
It claims confusion is a necessary good.
It never explains. It only reveals.

6
The day goes on.
We study what we remember.
We look into the mirror across the room.
We cannot bear to be alone.
The book goes on.
"They became silent and did not know how to begin
the dialogue which was necessary.
It was words that created divisions in the first place,
that created loneliness.
They waited
they would turn the pages, hoping
something would happen.
They would patch up their lives in secret:
each defeat forgiven because it could not be tested,
each pain rewarded because it was unreal.
They did nothing."

7
The book will not survive.
We are the living proof of that.
It is dark outside, in the room it is darker.
I hear your breathing.
You are asking me if I am tired,
if I want to keep reading.
Yes, I am tired.
Yes, I want to keep reading.
I say yes to everything.
You cannot hear me.
"They sat beside each other on the couch.
They were the copies, the tired phantoms
of something they had been before.
The attitudes they took were jaded.
They stared into the book
and were horrified by their innocence,
their reluctance to give up.
They sat beside each other on the couch.
They were determined to accept the truth.
Whatever it was they would accept it.
The book would have to be written
and would have to be read.
They are the book and they are
nothing else.

■保持完整··

我是旷野的
缺席者。
常常
就是这样子。
无论我在哪里
我就是那缺失的部分。

当我行走
我分开了空气
而常常
空气紧随着
将我身后的空间
重新填补。

对于移动
我们各有各的理由。
我移动
让事物保持完整。

Keeping Things Whole

Mark Strand

I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my bodys been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.


■啃咬诗歌··

墨水在我的嘴里流溢。
我的快乐无可比拟。
我正吃着诗歌。

图书馆员没法相信她看见的。
她的眼睛忧郁
她走路时双手插在口袋里。

诗歌跑了。
光线暗了。
地下室楼梯上的狗儿们上来了。

它们的眼珠滚动着,
它们的金毛腿像干柴一般焦灼。
可怜的图书馆员开始跺着脚哭泣。

她不明白啊。
当我屈膝去舔她的手,
她尖叫起来。

我是个新人。
我对她咆哮,汪汪汪。
我欢蹦乱跳,在书生气的黑暗里。

Eating Poetry

Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.


■来自漫长而忧伤的聚会··

有人在说
关于笼罩在旷野上的阴影,关于
事物如何隐遁,某人如何朝着黎明睡去
以及清晨如何展开。

有人在说
风儿如何逝去,却又重来,
贝壳如何成了风的棺材
而天气却依然如故。

那是一个长夜
有人说着某事,关于月亮在寒冷的旷野
散落了它的白色,前面一无所有
只是更多的白色。

有人提起
战前她住过的一个城市,有两支蜡烛的房间
蜡光映在墙上,有人跳舞,有人旁观。
我们开始相信

这夜晚将无穷无尽。
有人说音乐完了,却没人理会。
然后有人说起了行星,还有恒星,
它们如何的渺小,又如何的遥远。


From The Long Sad Party

Someone was saying
something about shadows covering the field, about
how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning
and the morning goes.

Someone was saying
how the wind dies down but comes back,
how shells are the coffins of wind
but the weather continues.

It was a long night
and someone said something about the moon shedding its white
on the cold field, that there was nothing ahead
but more of the same.

Someone mentioned
a city she had been in before the war, a room with two candles
against a wall, someone dancing, someone watching.
We begin to believe

the night would not end.
Someone was saying the music was over and no one had noticed.
Then someone said something about the planets, about the stars,
how small they were, how far away.


■回答··

你为什么旅行?
因为房子冷。
你为什么旅行?
因为在日落和日出之间我常这样做。
你穿什么?
我穿一套蓝衣服,一件白衬衫,黄领带,还有黄袜子。
你穿什么?
我什么也没穿。一条痛苦的围巾使我温暖。
你和谁一块睡?
我每天晚上和不同的的女人睡。
你和谁一块睡?
我一个人睡。我一直一个人睡。
你为什么要对我撒谎?
我老以为我说的是真话。
你为什么要对我撒谎?
因为真理说谎非同一般而我爱着真理。
为什么你要走?
因为我什么都已无所谓。
为什么你要走?
我不知道。我从来就不知道。
我要等你多久?
不要等我。我累了我正想躺下。
你累了你想躺下?
是的,我累了我想躺下。


Answers

Mark Strand

Why did you travel?
Because the house was cold.
Why did you travel?
Because it is what I have always done between sunset and sunrise.
What did you wear?
I wore a blue suit, a white shirt, yellow tie, and yellow socks.
What did you wear?
I wore nothing. A scarf of pain kept me warm.
Who did you sleep with?
I slept with a different woman each night.
Who did you sleep with?
I slept alone. I have always slept alone.
Why did you lie to me?
I always thought I told the truth.
Why did you lie to me?
Because the truth lies like nothing else and I love the truth.
Why are you going?
Because nothing means much to me anymore.
Why are you going?
I dont know. I have never known.
How long shall I wait for you?
Do not wait for me. I am tired and I want to lie down.
Are you tired and do you want to lie down?
Yes, I am tired and I want to lie down.

■求爱··

有个你喜欢的女孩你告诉她
你的阴茎很大,可是你不能够
拿给自己用。它的需求很可笑,你说,
还自打退堂鼓,但却受人尊重,不知为何,
有那么一会儿,隐隐约约的在黑暗中。

当她闭上她惊恐的双眼,
你将它全部抽回。你告诉她你几乎
也是个女孩,能懂得她为什么感到震惊。
当她正要走开时,你告诉她
你没有阴茎,你不知道

是什么东西进入了你。你跪了下来。
她突然弯腰吻你的肩膀,而你知道
你恰到好处。你告诉她你想要
生儿育女,而这正是你看上去烦恼的原因。
你皱起了眉头,诅咒你出生的那一天。

她试图安慰你,可你却越发放纵。
你一边摸索着她的短裤,一边恳求她宽恕。
她蠕动着,而你像狼一样嚎叫。你的渴望
仿佛纪念碑似的。你知道你将拥有她。
狂风暴雨中,她就是你将会娶下的女孩。


Courtship

Mark Strand

There is a girl you like so you tell her
your penis is big, but that you cannot get yourself
to use it. Its demands are ridiculous, you say,
even self-defeating, but to be honored, somehow,
briefly, inconspicuously in the dark.

When she closes her eyes in horror,
you take it all back. You tell her youre almost
a girl yourself and can understand why she is shocked.
When she is about to walk away, you tell her
you have no penis, that you dont

know what got into you. You get on your knees.
She suddenly bends down to kiss your shoulder and you know
youre on the right track. You tell her you want
to bear children and that is why you seem confused.
You wrinkle your brow and curse the day you were born.

She tries to calm you, but you lose control.
You reach for her panties and beg forgiveness as you do.
She squirms and you howl like a wolf. Your craving
seems monumental. You know you will have her.
Taken by storm, she is the girl you will marry.

[吸取蓝兄及江兄的意见,修改如下:]
··到了这地步··

我们想做的已经做了。
我们已经抛开梦想——喜欢上了彼此的
重工业,我们已对不幸表示欢迎
还称毁灭是难以打破的习惯。   (第一段好像有错,请各位指点)

而现在我们在这里。
晚餐已备好我们却不能吃。
肉块在它盘碟的白色湖泊中就坐。
酒在等待。

到了这地步
自有它的好处:什么都不被允诺,什么都不被带走。
我们心无牵挂,也不必故作姿态,
没地方可去,也没个逗留的理由。

·就这样子(修改前)·

我们想做的已经做了。
我们已经抛开梦想,喜欢上了彼此的
重工业,我们已对不幸表示欢迎
还称毁灭是难以打破的习惯。   (第一段好像有错,请各位指点)

而现在我们在这里。
晚餐已备好我们却不能吃。
肉块在它盘碟的白色湖泊中就坐。
酒在等待。

就这样子
自有它的好处:什么都不被允诺,什么都不被带走。
我们冷酷无情或者保持优雅,
没地方可去,也没个逗留的理由。


Coming To This

Mark Strand

We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.

And now we are here.
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish.
The wine waits.

Coming to this
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart or saving grace,
no place to go, no reason to remain.

■自暴自弃··

我放弃我的双眼,那是两个玻璃鸡蛋。
我放弃我的嘴巴,那是我舌头不变的梦。
我放弃我的喉咙,那是我声音的袖口。
我放弃我的心脏,那是一个燃烧的苹果。
我放弃我的肺脏,那是从未见过月亮的树木。
我放弃我的嗅觉,那是一块石头在雨中穿行。
我放弃我的双手,那是十个愿望。
我放弃我的臂膀,那是曾经无论如何也要离开我的臂膀。
我放弃我的双腿,那是只在夜晚才成情人的双腿。
我放弃我的屁股,那是童年的月球。
我放弃我的阴茎,它低声鼓励着我的大腿。
我放弃我的衣服,那是风中吹起的墙。
我还放弃生活在它们中间的幽灵。
我放弃,我放弃。
而这些你什么也得不到,因为我一无所有的重头再来了。

Giving Myself Up

Mark Strand

I give up my eyes which are glass eggs.
I give up my tongue.
I give up my mouth which is the constant dream of my tongue.
I give up my throat which is the sleeve of my voice.
I give up my heart which is a burning apple.
I give up my lungs which are trees that have never seen the moon.
I give up my smell which is that of a stone traveling through rain.
I give up my hands which are ten wishes.
I give up my arms which have wanted to leave me anyway.
I give up my legs which are lovers only at night.
I give up my buttocks which are the moons of childhood.
I give up my penis which whispers encouragement to my thighs.
I give up my clothes which are walls that blow in the wind
and I give up the ghost that lives in them.
I give up. I give up.
And you will have none of it because already I am beginning again without anything.

■你这样说··

那全在头脑里,你说,而且
没什么幸福可言。寒意袭来,
热浪扑来,这头脑拥有世上所有的时光。
你拉着我的手臂说有些事就要发生
——我们时刻准备着的异常之事,
就像在亚洲一天后太阳的到来,
就像和我们相伴一夜后月亮的离去。

So You Say

Mark Strand

It is all in the mind, you say, and has
nothing to do with happiness. The coming of cold,
the coming of heat, the mind has all the time in the world.
You take my arm and say something will happen,
something unusual for which we were always prepared,
like the sun arriving after a day in Asia,
like the moon departing after a night with us.


■残留(修改稿)··

我从自我清空别人的名字。我清空我的口袋。
我清空我的鞋子,把它们丢在路边。
在夜里我倒拨时钟;
我打开家庭相册,看着孩子模样的自己。

那有什么好?“钟点”做完了它们的工作。
我念叨我自己的名字。我说再见。
词与词相互跟从着随风而去。
我爱我的妻子,却又将她送走。

我的父母从他们的王座中升起
进入云朵的乳状屋宇。我怎么能歌唱?
时间告诉我我是什么。我改变而我还是同一个。
我从自我清空我的生活,而我的生活残留着。

■房  间··

这是个老故事,有时候
它发生在冬天,有时候不。
听故事的人倒头睡了,
通往他那烦忧之室的门开了

不幸走进了他的房间——
清晨的死亡,黄昏的死亡,
它们的木翅膀殴打着空气,
它们的阴影,那世界哀泣的流溢的牛奶。

为那令人惊异的结局有一样必需;
一片绿野,那儿母牛晒得像新闻纸,
那儿农夫坐下来凝望,
那儿空空如也,当它发生时,绝对不会太恐怖。

The Room

Mark Strand

It is an old story, the way it happens
sometimes in winter, sometimes not.
The listener falls to sleep,
the doors to the closets of his unhappiness open

and into his room the misfortunes come --
death by daybreak, death by nightfall,
their wooden wings bruising the air,
their shadows the spilled milk the world cries over.

There is a need for surprise endings;
the green field where cows burn like newsprint,
where the farmer sits and stares,
where nothing, when it happens, is never terrible enough.

■已然发生的恐怖··

亲威们弯下了身子,热切的凝视着。
他们用舌头润了润嘴唇。我感觉得到
他们的殷切。我在空中举起小孩。
碎玻璃瓶堆在阳光下闪闪发亮。

一支小乐队正演奏着老式进行曲。
我母亲跺脚合着拍子。
我父亲吻着一个不停向别的人
挥手的女人。那儿长着棕榈树。

山岗上点缀着绚丽的桔红色,而翻滚的
高大的云朵在它们边上移动。“继续,孩子,”
我听见有人在说,“继续。”
我还在担心天会下雨。

天空暗了。响起的雷声。
“让他停步,”我的一个舅妈说,
“现在吻他一下。”我言听计从。
树木在凉爽的热带风里弯腰。

那小孩没有哭叫,可我记得那声叹息
当我深入他幼小的肺腑,为了那些飞虫  
将它们抖开在空气里。亲威们欢呼着。
差不多就在这一刻,我绝望了。     

如今,当我接着电话,他的双唇
就在听筒里;当我睡去,他的头发聚拢来
围向枕头上一张熟悉的脸;我随处都能寻见
他的双脚。他是我生命的残余。


"The Dreadful Has Already Happened"

Mark Strand

The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.

A small band is playing old fashioned marches.
My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot.
My father is kissing a woman who keeps waving
to somebody else. There are palm trees.

The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tall
billowy clouds move beyond them. "Go on, Boy,"
I hear somebody say, "Go on."
I keep wondering if it will rain.

The sky darkens. There is thunder.
"Break his legs," says one of my aunts,
"Now give him a kiss." I do what Im told.
The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.

The baby did not scream, but I remember that sigh
when I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook them
out in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered.
It was about that time I gave up.

Now, when I answer the phone, his lips
are in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gathered
around a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I search
I find his feet. He is what is left of my life.

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