《月亮和紫杉树》 by 普拉斯

月亮和紫杉树   普拉斯   林木译

 

这是心智之光，冷的和行星的。

心灵的树是黑的。光是蓝的。

草在我脚下卸掉它们的悲伤，仿佛我是上帝，

刺痛我的脚踝并低语它们的卑微。

朦胧酒香的雾气栖居此处

与我的房子隔着一排墓碑。

我根本看不出该往哪里去。

 

月亮不是门。它本身就是一张脸，

白如指节且极其不安。

它身后拖拽着海，宛如一桩黑暗罪行；它是安静的

张着“Ｏ”形的口，完全绝望。我住在这里。

周日两次，钟声惊动天空——

八大舌头确认复活。

最后，它们庄严地回荡着自己的名字。

 

紫杉树指向苍穹。呈现哥特式形状。

目光随它上扬且找到月亮。

月亮是我母亲。她不像圣母那般可爱。

她的蓝袍松开，飞出小蝙蝠与猫头鹰。

我多愿意相信温柔——

雕像的脸在烛光中柔和，

特地倾向我，眼神温润。

 

我已坠得很远。云朵在星辰表面开花

湛蓝而神秘。

教堂内，圣徒们将全是蓝色的，

在踩着冰冷长椅的精美足尖上漂浮，

他们的双手与面容凝固着圣洁。

月亮对此浑然不觉。她光秃而狂野。

而紫杉树的讯息是黑暗——黑暗与寂静。

 

《The Moon and the Yew Tree》 

by Sylvia Plath

 

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

Fumy spiritous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

 

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

 

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness —

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

 

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness — blackness and silence.