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露斯.斯通 译诗12首

Date:2009-3-24


露斯.斯通为美国当代著名女诗人。1915年6月8日出生于弗吉尼亚州。2002年，她的第九卷诗集[邻近的星系]荣获第53届被誉为文学奥斯卡奖的美国国家图书奖。最近她又获华莱士.史蒂文思奖，获奖金15万美元。


邻近的星系


在邻近的星系
情况不会一样。
没有人会丧失
视觉，听力，胆囊。
所有的凯茨科尔斯山峰
都用崭新的游廊环绕装璜。
希特勒的主意不会产生振荡。
当返回到这里时，
他们还在清理着
匿藏于阿根廷的那些
满身皱折老纳粹的衣袋钱囊。
而在邻近的星系，
某些行星会有真正的
蓝天和饮用水。

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.


那又怎样

对我而言伟大的真理是被点缀了歇斯底里。
有多少爱因斯坦我们能够忍受？
我跃入不确定原理。
在众多玷污诽谤后，你仅仅用一笑清洗。
你说：哈哈。如果是一次熔毁又怎样 ？
我将立刻写下最后一段诗句 。

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

言词构成思想。
严厉的暴君,象你监房的
清洗和监护。
他们放牧你的想象
走下叙述关系的弯道
等待用大锻锤
敲打没有认知的
认知要素进入知识。
是,紧固文法,句法的袋子,
聪明从胡言乱语横跨一步,
就是一所舒适的
监狱。镜子的镜子。
而所有在囚禁中说出的
都被锁在了秘密之外。

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.


言词

威廉斯.斯蒂文斯说，
“一个诗人看世界
如同一个男人看一个女人。”

我从不知道当一个男人
看一个女人时看见什么。

那是个密封的宇宙。

在这泡泡的外表
所有东西都给延展至无限。
沿着覆黑的操场，树似老汉般长着胡子，
象一排瞌睡的灰白胡子的清朝高官。
他们的旧胡子被舞毒蛾作了茧。
所有清朝高官都被捕获于他们的形象中。

一个诗人看世界
如同一个女人看一个男人。


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.


阅读

这是当鹳返回的春天。
它们自楼顶腾起。
在性急的冬日下午
你躺在床上
一本图书馆的书贴近你的脸，
你的身体在单人床上，
而鹳腾起
伴一阵床扉抬起的声响。
不看你也知道
一个雇工女孩
正倾身探出在柔柔的户外空气里。
从绿色的木柴
慢慢盘旋起一缕烟，
反射在她的双眼。
她移步走下门外台阶
驱赶家禽心不在焉。
鹳正站着楼顶上。
女孩把手裹在围裙里面。
小小的黄花
已丛生于杂乱的
草丛之间。
她张嘴倾听什么
你听不见。
你的身体熟睡。
她微笑着。
她不知正有一对骑兵在一条
泥泞有车辙的路上行进而来，
而有头脑的人就象搜索者
正沿着书页跺着他们的
长筒皮靴。


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

给你这封冗长的信，
一个生命对另一个生命意味什么？
我们在我们的袋子里环绕行走，
将它吸进，把它呕出。
然后昆虫们，蜂拥云集
重过世界上所有的动物。
然后在晒衣绳上的食虫鸟，
象撒网者自佛兰芒人的船上倾斜，
当大海被鲱鱼惹怒。
这封长信在我的脑海里，
书法，羽毛似的芦笋。

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

这里不是确切的这里
因为两秒钟之前
它被那里经过；
此处它不会再来。
尽管你对此调整适应—
这没有什么，你说，
只是习惯。
我们多么可怜，
因一切都流经过
我们的指间。
“这里”，恶魔之王说，
“吃。这是天堂。”


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."

总在火车上

写关于写诗的诗
就象在德克萨斯碾压大包干草。
没什么能停止你除了地平线。

但考虑金属垃圾的铁路边缘；
鸟儿栖息处，几英里的电话线。
什么无辜 象吃草的牛一般？
如你想着它，它就变成片语只言。

垃圾多么快乐；飞起
象蝗虫在收割机前。
尘土魔鬼将它向上旋转；古铜色的糖果封皮，
清洁的塑料方形窗子在一个空气房子上面。

在杂草丛生的去年的席子边缘下
红色和银色的啤酒罐。
一片片被吹过每个地方，
飘飞的纸狂欢
而群鸟构成黑色高抛的图案。


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

被摈弃的校园，
空空的砖瓦房当六月初
你来看望我；
穿行于州际途中，
束带般的小路伸延，
提着你的便携打字机搭车。
校园，一个树林的学院，
在树下有些，我想是风的手，
已经消散了千百
春之美神的苍白光线，
花瓣染上桃红色的血管；
秘密的，为它们自己开放。
我们坐在它们中间。
你那修长的手指，清瘦的身材，
和未必会是天才的长骨；
一些象卡夫卡肯定有的分散的基因。
你深沉的嗓音，通行奇妙尘间。
单纯如我，神志半醒，
似乎每一瞬间都是词语出现之页；
弯型字锤撞击移动的色带。
清淡的空气，烦躁的树叶；
我们的渴望翘曲起时间的微澜。
在那里，好象我们被
几个无名印象派画家绘入了画面。


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.


我生活中的这陌生

如此之难去看它在哪里，
可即使在清晨它也在那里
当那些奇妙的形状
聚集而变得熟悉，
但不彻底；那一声音
的回声，现在变了，
完全离析，好象
一切温馨和共享的甜蜜
从未有过。正是这个相异的
空间，不象月亮那般贫瘠，
而是繁茂富裕几乎同
那过去的空间一样。但它不是。
它是另一个空间而你不是
过去的你反倒似浮现
自空气，你慢慢地展示自己
是别的人，非我曾经铭记。

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.


言词与天气的重复

一筐脏衣服
散落山下
一整天
拍打着岩石
以一种可怕的洗衣妇的叫喊。
现在两个马背上的骑手
在土路上经过。
年轻女人们谈论着古色古香的门闩，
无视肮脏的亚麻布，
尿臊味，褥疮，
老年妇女身后
遗留下的粪便，
油脂和硷液，
行医人的谎言。
仲夏怪天气
是夏已度过。
我翻开一本诗书。
诗篇上尽是谎话，我说，
而死者沉默无言。
骑手折回
象鸟一样聊天。
我怎不会返回那方式。
他们的马儿小跑在
洒有阳光的路段。
而我想，发生的都已发生。
不会因语言改变。

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.


诗

当你回到我身旁
将是乌鸦和
食虫鸟的季节，
小昆虫盘旋向上
在苹果树间。
每堆野草会四倍
粗糙，受欢迎
并顶刺针尖。
乌鸦，它们黑色振翅的
身体，它们长长的鸣叫
朝着山岗；
象我的 亲戚，
矛盾心理，蒙着眼罩；
嚎叫令人难忍。
而你将带我进
入你的多数维无意义的
胡言乱语；我的嘴越敏锐，
我的舌头越疯狂。

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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