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玛丽的诗:闪思

(2020-06-03 14:29:06) 下一个

玛丽的诗:闪思

 郭逸萍 闲情逸致下午茶 今天
来自专辑
玛丽·奥利佛的诗
 

 

玛丽的诗有时候更像散文,我这样觉得。但是现代诗,本来就是游走于诗与散文之间吧?坦率地说,这也算是众多难译的诗中最难翻译的诗作之一了。常常为一句话苦思冥想半天,拿不准字里行间的真正含义。英文仍然是附在后面,希望是抛砖引玉,有兴趣的高手前来讨论与切磋。读了几十遍仍然不确定是不是完全理解诗人想表达的意思,但是,我却盲目的地喜欢,确实地感受到了这首诗的温度。

 

 

 

 

闪思

 

1

 

欢迎你来读读这首傻气却暖心的诗。

 

这不是日出,这是一抹红云,

是整片东方燃烧的天空;

 

它不是上帝钱包里洒落的雨,

也不是蓝色头盔般的雨后晴天,

它也不是树,

不是忙着钻进地洞的甲虫;

甚至不是那只知更鸟,

以自己的节奏

在那开满花的楸树枝上,

吱吱歌唱;

它拍翅自娱,

满树的花儿都为之欢腾,

闪耀,随风摇曳。

 

2

 

有时候你还会想起,

曾祖父家的老谷仓,

你去过那里一次,

独自一人走进去,

看见大人们坐在房子里聊天。

 

那里几乎空空荡荡,

地上铺着几束干草

一些黄蜂在窗口嗡嗡作响,

房顶上好像有一只奇怪的小鸟,

受了惊吓,扇动着翅膀

在那凌乱的壁架上,

用它一双野性的眼睛朝下凝望。

 

不过,大多数情况下,

这里可以闻到一股奶香,

还有那些耐心的牲口,

它们排泄物的气味,

还飘在空气里

微弱的氨气,

还不算太难闻。

 

不过,大体上,

这里宁静而隐秘,

房顶高高地拱起,

房板都未曾漆过,

保持着原样。

你好像一直都在那儿,

一个待在角落里的小孩儿,

在那最后一堆干草上,

被这偌大的,

貌似空荡荡的屋子

弄得眼花缭乱。

 

后来,你还记得,

你突然感到饥肠辘辘,

已经到了中午,

从那朦胧的梦境醒来,

急急忙忙赶回家,

家里已经摆好了桌子,

一个叔叔还拍了拍

你的肩膀表示欢迎,

餐桌旁有你的位子。

 

3

 

没有什么是一成不变。

 

我现在所说的一切,

都发生在这,

在这个陵园里。

 

我曾经在这站过,

那时,这里还是一片绿草,

满地鲜花点缀。

 

4

 

面对灯笼和灯笼的热度,

没有什么能比

青蛾翅膀更纤弱,

更娇嫩的吧?

尤其还要在清晨时

面对乌鸦坚硬的喙。

 

然而,

青蛾会自我调整,

会顽强应对,

就是没有一丝自怜,

至少在这个世界上,

不会。

 

5

 

我母亲曾经是紫藤,

是房后长满青苔的小溪。

唉,唉,不幸的是,

她并不怎么喜欢她的生活,

那比铁熨斗还沉重的日子,

可她还是不得不提着它

从一间屋子走到另一间。

 

哦,那真是让人难忘!

 

我把她放进一个小盒子,

掩埋了她,然后转身离去。

 

我父亲是个梦想破灭的恶魔,

是个背信弃义的人,

是个贫穷瘦弱的倒霉男孩儿。

 

因为没有人会和他交谈,

他追随上帝,

因为没有人听他吹牛,

他在上帝面前趾高气昂。

 

听听,这就是他的生活。

 

我也掩埋了他,

把壁橱打扫了一下,

离开了这座房子。

 

6

 

我现在提到他们,

以后不会了。

不是没有爱,不是不悲伤,

而是他们背负的生活之重,

我不会再继续了。

 

我愿意给他们一个,

两个,三个,四个

礼节性的吻,

感谢的吻,生气的吻

和祝愿他们入土为安的吻,

愿他们安息,

愿他们从此变得柔和。

 

但是我不会和他们同流合污,

不会再让他们影响我的生活。

 

7

 

你可知道,蚂蚁的舌头,

可以找到所有带甜味的东西,

你了解这个吗?

 

8

 

诗歌不是你全部的世界,

甚至更不会是你世界的首页。

 

但是诗歌想像花一样绽放,

对这一点它非常了解。

 

它是想敞开自己,

就像一座小小庙宇的门,

你可以走进去,

凉快一下,喘一口气,

让自己减负,

在琐碎中放下自己。

 

9

 

听一个成熟女人的嗓子里

喊出孩子的声音,

这很令人悲哀和失望;

听一个高大,满脸胡须,

肌肉男的嗓子里

吼出孩子的声音,

那就真是令人悲哀和恐怖了。

 

10

 

那么,请告诉我,

什么会吸引你?

什么东西

才能打开你黯淡心灵的田野?

就像爱人第一次的触碰?

 

11

 

其实,

根本没有什么谷仓,

也没有什么小孩儿,

没有叔叔,没有餐桌,

没有厨房,

只有那片的,

满地跑着食米鸟的

可爱田野!

 

12

 

当孤独感朝你悄悄走来,

你就走进田野吧,

想想这自然世界的规律。

看看那些

你以前不曾注意的事情,

比如那些

叫声像铃鼓般好听的蝈蝈,

它们淡绿色的身体

还不如你的拇指大。

仔细看看蜂鸟,

在夏日的雨中

如何抖掉翅膀上的水花。

 

把忧伤当成你的姐妹吧,

无论怎样她都会愿意的。

从悲哀的残桩上站起来吧,

就像那些勤勉的树叶,

时时保持郁郁葱葱。

 

对这个世界的美丽

和责任来说

一生的时间太短了,

把鲜花洒在墓地上,

然后离开吧。

 

在你春风得意时

要和善,随和。

在你头脑发热时,

要谦逊,

有感触和灵感时,

要心存感激。

 

与甲虫,

与风一起生活吧!

 

这是诗的黑面包,

这是诗的又黑又有营养的面包!

 

 

 

Flare
1
Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,
or the trees,
or the beetle burrowing into the earth;
it is not the mockingbird who,
in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa
that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

2.

You still recall, sometimes,
the old barn on your 
great-grandfather’s farm,
a place you visited once, 
and went into, all alone,
while the grownups sat and 
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost.
Wisps of hay covered the floor, 
and some wasps sang at the windows,
and maybe there was 
a strange fluttering bird high above,
disturbed, hoo-ing a little and
staring down from a messy ledge
with wild, binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk,
and the patience of animals;
the give-offs of the body were still in the air, 
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret,
the roof high up and arched,
the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever,
a small child in a corner, 
on the last raft of hay,
dazzled by so much space
that seemed empty, but wasn’t.
Then--you still remember--
you felt the rap of hunger--
it was noon--
and you turned from that twilight dream
and hurried back to the house,
where the table was set,
where an uncle patted you 
on the shoulder for welcome,
and there was your place at the table.

3.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard
where everything I am talking about is,
now.
I stood there once,
on the green grass, scattering flowers.

4.

Nothing is so delicate
or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness,
and not a drop of self-pity.

Not in this world.

5.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms,
from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God,
there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God,
there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

6.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried,
I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three,
four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks, of anger,
of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn’t even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower,
like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and
be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

9.

The voice of the child
crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child
howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

10.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?

11.

Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

12.

When loneliness comes stalking,
go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world.
Notice something
you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body
is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird,
in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister,
she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow,

and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn’t long enough
for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves,
and walk away.
Be good-natured and
untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind,
be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile,
and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and
nourishing bread of the poem.

 

 

 

 

 

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