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海舟译的扬尼斯的诗

管理提醒: 本帖被 风月大地 从 姜海舟作品讨论会 移动到本区(2014-02-28)
DOXOLOGY

He was standing at the far end of the street
like a bare and dusty tree
like a tree burned by the sun
glorifying the sun that cannot be burned.

1938—1941



颂歌

他远远地站在街的尽头
像一棵光秃秃、满是尘土的树
像一棵被太阳烫伤的树
赞扬着不会被烧毁的太阳。

1938—1941



HOUR OF SONG

Beside the jug of wine
beside the baskets of fruit
we forgot to sing.

On the evening of our separation
under the approbation of the evening star
we sang by ourselves.

1938—1941



歌唱的时间

围着酒壶
傍着果篓
我们忘却了歌唱。

在我们分离的黄昏
有了晚星的许可
我们各自引吭。

1938—1941



A SMALL INVITATION

Come to the luminous beaches—he murmured to himself
here where the colors are celebrating—look—
here where the royal family never once passed
with its closed carriages and its official envoys.

Come, it won’t do for you to be seen—he used to say—
I am the deserter from the night
I am the deserter of darkness
and my shirt and pockets are crammed with sun.

Come—it’s burning my hands and my chest.
Come, let me give it to you.

And I have something to tell you
Which not even I must hear.

Athens, 1938



小小的邀请

来到发亮的海滩──他自言自语
这里,色彩缤纷──瞧──
高贵的家族和他们紧闭的马车
以及他们的公使从未经过这里。

来,被看见不要紧──他常说──
我是夜晚的叛逆者
我是黑暗的叛逆者
我的衬衣和口袋塞满阳光。

来──我的双手和胸膛正在燃烧。
来,让我把它给你。

我要告诉你
甚至不是我必听的话。

1938,于雅典



SUCCESSION

The sun does not consider any of your hesitations—
naked it wants you and naked it takes you,
until night comes to dress you.

After the sun, there is repentance.
After repentance, the sun again.

Athens, September, 1938



轮替继续

太阳不顾你有怎么样的犹豫──
赤裸裸地要你,赤裸裸地占有你,
直到夜晚给你穿上衣服。

阳光过后,剩下懊悔。
懊悔之后,太阳又一次升起。

1938年9月,于雅典



ETESIAN WINDS

Ship after ship after ship . . .
The pushcart peddler gazes down the slope,
The pine trees fling themselves into the sea.
The sea ascends the mountain
and the pushcart peddler mounts
the sun, splattered with white foam.

Poros, July, 1939



季风

船跟着船跟着船 . . .
推着小车的贩子紧盯着下坡,
松树猛烈地把自己投入大海。
海攀上山脉,
现在,他骑上阳光的
马匹,白沫飞溅。

1939年7月,于波罗斯



SUMMER IN THE CITY

In this place the light makes us despair. This pitiless month
will not allow you not to become two. You are not enough.
The monotonous clang, the street cars turning round corners,
the marble cutters hewing stones in the blazing noon.

Above the wall can be seen the same old memorial columns,
marble flowers, marble ribbons,
the bust of a banker,
the face of a child shadowed by an angel’s wing.

On these professional sculptures the Attic sun stamps its seal,
the shadows add their unbelievable extensions—
and so it was not strange at all that yesterday afternoon
as you were returning home from the office
holding a shopping net of bread and tomatoes—
it was not strange at all that yesterday as the sun was setting
in the copse you met the marble youth
strolling languidly as he smiled.

You sat on a park bench, by the pond, casting your bread to the goldfish,
and all that night, even though you had not eaten,
you were not at all hungry.

Athens, August, 1939



城中的夏天

在这个地方光明使我们绝望。无情的月份
不允许你成为一,或变成两个。你不够格。
单调的“咣咣”声,拐角处转弯的街车,
在炽烈的正午劈着石头的大理石匠。

在墙的上方,可以看见同样古老的纪念馆廊柱,
大理石花,大理石缎带,
银行家的半身雕像,
投有天使翅膀阴影的孩子的脸。

在专业的雕塑上面,雅典的太阳盖上它的图章,
它们的阴影不可思议地扩充──
因此昨天下午并没有什么特别
当你拎着装有面包和番茄的购物袋
从办公室回家──
这根本没什么特别:昨天的太阳
落在灌木林,那里你认识了冷酷的
有气无力地徘徊着的青春,在他微笑时。

你坐在公园池塘边的长椅上,把你的面包撒给金鱼,
整个晚上,尽管你没有吃饭,
你一点也不饿。

1939年8月,于雅典



ASSISTANCE

The wind converses before the windows
like those who are about to separate.
The furniture becomes like the impoverished girls who gather
fallen olives. Beneath the olive trees, the evening walks
all alone, and the field with the harvested wheat
is a denial. The cicada’s shed husk
seems like a small, fallen bell-tower in the dry grass.

The drizzle comes later—it pursues the sparrows,
slowly the moon lies down beneath the cypresses
like the abandoned plow. The ploughman
sleeps beneath the soil—
his wife alone with the dog and the thin ox.

The hands of silence are frozen
as she ties her black kerchief beneath her chin.
But the trace of his hand stays more strongly than his hand on the wood of the plow
and the back of the chair keeps the warmth of his broad shoulder blades.

About these insignificant things—I don’t know—
I want to write a small song that will show I don’t know
anything about any of them—only that they are as they are,
alone, completely alone, and neither do they ask for any mediation
between themselves and someone else.

1938-1941



协助

风在窗前交谈
像那些快要分手的人。
家具变得像穷困的姑娘,她们搜拣
掉落的橄榄。橄榄树覆盖的下面,傍晚
孤零零地行走,而且,收获了小麦的田野
是一种否定。蜕下的蝉壳
看上去像干巴巴的草地里小小的、倒下的钟塔。

细雨随后到来──它纠缠着麻雀,
月亮慢慢地躺到柏树底下
像是被丢弃的犁。那耕田者
睡在土地之下──
他的妻子孤独地与狗和牛在一起。

她用静默冰冷的手
把她的黑头巾系在她的下巴上。
但是犁把上留下的他手的痕迹比他的手更有力,
另外,椅背上保持了他宽大的肩胛骨的温暖。

牵扯到这些无关紧要的小事──我不知道──
我要写一首小小的歌,它会让你知道,所有那些
我什么也不知道──只是它们依旧是它们,
仅此而已,绝对地仅此而已,双方没人要求我在他们
和其他任何人之间调停。

1938-1941




THE CONQUEROR

He unlocked his dark room with hesitation
to try out once more what sound his footsteps would make
on the pure-white stone pavements of day.

All were waiting for him to exit from the sun’s door.

He put on a golden denture of light
and tried to learn a few green leaves by heart
but felt his mouth looked even more empty
and so he neither spoke nor smiled.

The others kept listening to their cheers.
They never noticed that he remained silent.
Then he stooped down, picked up a stone and chased
the last faithful dog that had followed him.

Men hoisted him on their shoulders in the sun.
And thus, raised high above their heads,
no one saw him weeping.

Athens, July, 1941



胜利者

他犹豫地打开他黑暗的房间
再一次提炼他白天在洁白的人行道上
发出的脚步声。

所有的一切等待着他步出太阳之门。

他戴上一副光的假牙
努力默记下几片绿叶
可是他的嘴巴更加空洞
以至于他不说也不笑。

其他人听着他们的欢呼。
他们从未注意到他一直沉默。
于是他弯下身子,捡起一块石头追击
最后一条跟随他的,忠实的狗。

人们把他推上阳光下他们的肩上。
如此,高举过他们的头顶,
没人看见他哭泣。

1941年7月,于雅典




MOONLIGHT SONATA


(A spring evening. A large room in an old house. A middle-aged woman, dressed in
black, is speaking to a young man. They have not turned on the lights. Through both
windows the moonlight shines relentlessly. I forgot to mention that the Woman in
Black has published two or three interesting volume of poetry with a religious flavor.
So, the Woman in Black is speaking to the Young Man):


Let me come with you. What a moon there is tonight!
The moon is kind – it won’t show
that my hair turned white. The moon
will turn my hair to gold again. You wouldn’t understand.
Let me come with you.

When there’s a moon the shadows in the house grow larger,
invisible hands draw the curtains,
a ghostly finger writes forgotten words in the dust
on the piano – I don’t want to hear them. Hush.

Let me come with you
a little farther down, as far as the brick factory’s low wall,
to the point where the road turns and the city appears
concrete and airy, whitewashed with moonlight,
so indifferent and insubstantial
so positive, like metaphysics,
that finally you can believe you exist and do not exist,
that you never existed, that time with its destruction never existed.
Let me come with you.

We’ll sit for a little on the low wall, up on the hill,
and as the spring breeze blows around us
perhaps we’ll even imagine that we are flying,
because, often, and now especially, I hear the sound of my own dress
like the sound of two powerful wings opening and closing,
and when you enclose yourself within the sound of that flight
you feel the tight mesh of your throat, your ribs, your flesh,
and thus constricted amid the muscles of the azure air,
amid the strong nerves of the heavens,
it makes no difference whether you go or return
and it makes no difference that my hair has turned white
(that is not my sorrow – my sorrow is
that my heart too does not turn white).
Let me come with you.

I know that each one of us travels to love alone,
alone to faith and to death.
I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help.
Let me come with you.

This house is haunted, it preys on me –
what I mean is, it has aged a great deal, the nails are working loose,
the portraits drop as though plunging into the void,
the plaster falls without a sound
as the dead man’s hat falls from the peg in the dark hallway
as the worn woolen glove falls from the knee of silence
or as moonbeam falls on the old, gutted armchair.

Once it too was new – no, not the photographs that you are staring at so dubiously –
I mean the armchair, very comfortable, you could sit in it for hours
with your eyes closed and dream whatever came into your head
– a sandy beach, smooth, wet, shining in the moonlight,
shining more than my old patent leather shoes that I send each month to the shoeshine shop on the corner,
or a fishing boat’s sail that sinks to the bottom rocked by its own breathing,
a three-cornered sail like a handkerchief folded slantwise in half only
as though it had nothing to shut up or hold fast,
or to flutter open in farewell. I have always has a passion for handkerchiefs,
not to keep anything tied in them,
no flower seeds or camomile gathered in the fields at sunset,
nor to tie them with four knots like the caps the workers wear on the construction site across the street,
nor to dab my eyes – I’ve kept my eyesight good;
I’ve never worn glasses. A harmless whim, handkerchiefs.

Now I fold them in quarters, in eighths, in sixteenths
to keep my fingers occupied. And now I remember
that this is how I counted the music when I went to the Odeion
with a blue pinafore and a white collar, with two blond braids
  – 8,16,32,64 –
hand in hand with a small friend of mine, peachy, all light and picked flowers,
(forgive me such digressions – a bad habit) – 32, 64 – and my family rested
great hopes on my musical talent. But I was telling you about the armchair –
gutted – the rusted springs are showing, the stuffing –      
I thought of sending it next door to the furniture shop,
but where’s the time and the money and the inclination – what to fix first?
I thought of throwing a sheet over it – I was afraid      
of a white sheet in so much moonlight. People sat here
who dreamed great dreams, as you do and I too.
and now they rest under earth untroubled by rain or the moon.
Let me come with you.

We’ll pause for a little at the top of St. Nicholas’ marble steps,
and afterward you’ll descend and I will turn back,
having on my left side the warmth from a casual touch of your jacket
and some squares of light, too, from small neighborhood windows
and this pure white mist from the moon, like a great procession of silver swans –
and I do not fear this manifestation, for at another time
on many spring evenings I talked with God who appeared to me
clothed in the haze and glory of such a moonlight –
and many young men, more handsome even than you, I sacrificed to him –
I dissolved, so white, so unapproachable, amid my white flame, in the whiteness of moonlight,
burnt up by men’s voracious eyes and the tentative rapture of youths,
besieged by splendid bronzed bodies,
strong limbs exercising at the pool, with oars, on the track, at soccer (I pretended not to see them),
foreheads, lips and throats, knees, fingers and eyes,
chests and arms and things (and truly I did not see them)
-you know, at times, in admiring, you forget what you’re admiring, your admiration is enough-
my God, what star-bright eyes, and I was lifted up to an apotheosis of disavowed stars
because, besieged thus from without and from within,
no other road was left me save only the way up or the way down. – No, it is not enough.
Let me come with you.

I know it’s very late. Let me come,
because for so many years – days, nights, and crimson noons – I’ve stayed alone,
unyielding, alone and immaculate,
even in my marriage bed immaculate and alone,
writing glorious verses to lay on the knees of God,
verses that, I assure you, will endure as if chiselled in flawless marble
beyond my life and your life, well beyond. It is not enough.
Let me come with you.

I can’t bear this house anymore.
I cannot endure to bear it on my back.
You must always be careful, be careful,
to hold up the wall with the large buffet
to support the buffet with the carved antique table
to hold up the table with the chairs
to hold up the chairs with your hands
to place your shoulder under the dangling beams.
And the piano, like a closed black coffin. You do not dare to open it.
You have to be so careful, so careful, lest they fall, lest you fall. I cannot bear it.
Let me come with you.

This house, despite all its dead, has no intention of dying.
It insists on living with its dead
on living off its dead
on living off the certainty of its death
and on still keeping house for its dead, the rotting beds and shelves.
Let me come with you.

Here, however quietly I walk through the mist of evening,
whether in slippers or barefoot,
there will be some sound: a pane of glass cracks or a mirror,
some steps are heard – not my own.
Outside, in the street, perhaps these steps are not heard –
repentance, they say, wears wooden shoes –
and if you look into this or that other mirror,
behind the dust and the cracks,
you discern – darkened and more fragmented – your face,
your face, which all your life you sought only to keep clean and whole.

The rim of the glass gleams in the moonlight
like a round razor – how can I lift it to my lips?
however much I thirst – how can I lift it – Do you see?
I am already in a mood for similes – this at least is left me,
reassuring me still that my wits are not failing.
Let me come with you.

At times, when evening descends, I have the feeling
that outside the window the bear-keeper is going by with his old heavy she-bear,
her fur full of thistless and thorns,
stirring dust in the neighborhood street
a desolate cloud of dust that censes the dusk;
and the children have gone home for supper and aren’t allowed outdoors again,
even though behind the walls they divine the old bear’s passing,
and the tired bear passes in the wisdom of her solitude, not knowing wherefore and why –
she’s grown heavy, can no longer dance on her hind legs,
can’t wear her lace cap to amuse the children, the idlers, the importunate,
and all she wants is to lie down on the ground
letting them trample on her belly, playing thus her final game,
showing her dreadful power for resignation,
her indifference to the interest of others, to the rings in her snout, the compulsion of her teeth,
her indifference to pain and to life
with the sure complicity of death – even a slow death –
her final indifference to death with the continuity and knowledge of life
which transcends her enslavement with knowledge and with action.

But who can play this game to the end?
And the bear gets up again and moves on
obedient to her leash, her rings, her teeth,
smiling with torn lips at the pennies the beautiful and unsuspecting children toss
(beautiful precisely because unsuspecting)
and saying thank you. Because bears that have grown old
can say only one thing: thank you; thank you.
Let me come with you.

This house stifles me. The kitchen especially
is like the depths of the sea. The hanging coffeepots gleam
like round, huge eyes of improbable fish,
the plates undulate slowly like medusas,
seaweed and shells catch in my hair – later I can’t pull them loose,
I can’t get back to the surface again,
the tray falls silently from my hands – I sink down
and I see the bubbles from my breath rising, rising
and I try to divert myself by watching them
and I wonder what someone would say who happened to be above and saw these bubbles–
perhaps that someone was drowning or a diver exploring the depths?

And in fact more than a few times I’ve discovered there, in the depths of drowning,
coral and pearls and treasures of shipwrecked vessels,
unexpected encounters, past, present, and yet to come,
a confirmation almost of eternity,
a certain respite, a certain smile of immortality, as they say,
a happiness, an intoxication, inspiration even,
coral and pearls and sapphires;
only I don’t know how to give them – no, I do give them;
only I don’t know if they can take them – but still, I give them.
Let me come with you.

One moment while I get my jacket.
The way this weather’s so changeable, I must be careful.
It’s damp in the evening, and doesn’t the moon
seem to you, honestly, as if it intensifies the cold?
Let me button your shirt – how strong your chest is!
– how strong the moon … the armchair, I mean …and whenever I lift the cup from the table
a hole of silence is left underneath. I place my palm over it at once
so as not to see through it – I put the cup back in its place;
and the moon is a hole in the skull of the world – don’t look through it,
it’s a magnetic force that draws you – don’t look, don’t any of you look,
listen to what I’m telling you – you’ll fall in. This giddiness,
beautiful, ethereal – you will fall in –
the moon’s marble well,
shadows stir and mute wings, mysterious voices – don’t you hear them?

Deep, deep the fall,
deep, deep the ascent,
the airy statue enmeshed in its open wings,
deep, deep is the inexorable benevolence of the silence –
trembling illuminations on the opposite shore as you sway in your own wave,
the breathing of the ocean. Beautiful, ethereal
this giddiness – be careful, you’ll fall. Don’t look at me,
for me my place is this wavering – this splendid vertigo. And so every evening
I have little headache, some dizzy spells.

Often I slip out to the pharmacy across the street for a few aspirin,
but at times I’m too tired and I stay here with my headache
and listen to the hollow sound the pipes make in the walls,
or drink some coffee, and, absentminded as usual,
I forget and make two – who’ll drink the other?
It’s really funny; I leave it on the window-sill to cool
or sometimes drink them both, looking out the window at the bright green globe of the pharmacy
that’s like the green light of a silent train coming to take me away
with my handkerchiefs, my run-down shoes, my black purse, my verses,
but no suitcases – what would one do with them?
Let me come with you.

Oh, are you going? Goodnight. No, I won’t come. Goodnight.
I’ll be going myself in a little. Thank you. Because, in the end, I must
get out of this exhausted house.
I must see a bit of the city – no, no, not the moon –
the city with its calloused hands, the city of daily work,
the city that swears by bread and by its fist,
the city that bears all of us on its back
with our pettiness, sins, and hatreds,
our ambitions, our ignorance and our senility.
I need to hear the great footsteps of the city,
and no longer to hear your own footsteps
or God’s, or my own. Goodnight.


(The room grows dark. It looks as though a cloud may have covered the moon. All at
once, as if someone had turned up the radio in the nearby bar, a very familiar musical
phrase can be heard. Then I realize that this entire scene has been accompanied softly
by “The Moonlight Sonata,” by the first part only. The Young Man now must go down
the slope with an ironic and perhaps sympathetic smile on his finely chiselled lips and
with a feeling of release. Just as he reaches St. Nicolas–before he goes down the marble
steps– he will laugh, a loud, uncontrollable laugh. His laughter will not sound at all
unseemly beneath the moon. Perhaps the only unseemly thing will be that nothing is
unseemly. Soon the Young Man will fall silent, become serious, and say: “The decline
of an era.” So, thoroughly calm once more, he will unbutton his shirt again and go on
his way. As for the woman in black, I don’t know whether she finally did get out of the
house. The moon is shining again. And in the corners of the room the shadows intensify
with an intolerable regret,almost fury, not so much for the life, as for the useless confession.
Can you hear? The radio plays on):

                       Athens, June,1956




月光奏鸣曲
                            


(春天的黄昏。老宅的大屋。一位身着黑衣的中年女子在和一位
年轻男子讲话。他们没有开灯。月光通过双方的窗户残酷地照着。
我差一点忘了告诉你这位黑衣女曾经发表过两三本有趣的带有神性
意味的诗集。这样,黑衣女正在对这位年轻男人说道):



让我和你一起走。啊,今晚的月亮!
月亮真仁慈──你看不出
我的头发已经变白。月亮
将我的头发又变成金子。你分不清有何不同。
让我和你一起走。

有月亮时,屋内的阴影渐渐增长,
无形的双手拖拽窗帘,
鬼魂般的手指把被遗忘的话语写入钢琴上的
尘土中──别说这些。嘘,别出声。

让我和你一起走
再往前一点点,直到那砖瓦场的院墙,
直到道路的转折处,而城市显得
有形且虚幻,被月光清洗,
如此漠然且不实在
如此肯定,像是空谈,
最终你可以认为你存在,同时你并不存在,
你从未存在,时间与毁灭一起从未存在。
让我和你一起走。

我们将在这矮墙上坐一会儿,然后登上山岗,
微微的春风在我们周围吹拂
也许我们还会想象我们在飞翔,
因为,经常,尤其现在,我听到自己裙子的响声
像是强有力的双翼扇动,
当你把自己关进飞行的声音
你感到你的喉咙,肋骨,你的肉体紧压的陷阱,
收缩在碧蓝天空的威力当中,
天堂的胆量当中,
这使得你来去无异
使得我的头发变得苍白但无关紧要
(这不是我的忧愁──我的忧愁是
我的心没有变得苍白)。
让我和你一起走。

我知道我们各自孤独地为爱旅行,
孤独地为欢乐和荣光,为死亡。
我知道的。我努力了。但是没用。
让我和你一起走。

这所房子闹鬼,它折磨我──
我是说,它非常老了,钉子也松了,
悬挂的肖像落下如撞入空虚之中,
灰泥垮下没有声息
如死人的帽子从黑暗走廊的挂帽栓上掉落
如旧的毛手套从膝盖静默地滑下
又如一束月光落在陈旧的,裂开的扶椅上。

甚至连它也曾经是新的──不,不是那些你如此怀疑地盯着的照片──
我说的是扶椅,非常舒服,你可以长时间坐在上面
闭上眼梦见任何来到你头脑中的
── 平滑,湿润,在月光中闪烁的海滨沙滩,
比我每月到街角擦鞋铺上光的黑漆旧皮鞋还亮,
要么一次在自己呼吸中摇晃着沉入海底的渔船的航行,
三角帆恰似斜角对折的手帕
仿佛无从合拢也无从紧握,
或为道别而鼓起。我总为手帕如痴如醉,
不把任何东西包在里面系起来,
比如花种,或日落的旷野簇拥的柑菊,
也不是打上四个结像街对面建筑工地上工人们戴的帽子,
或者用它轻拭我的双眼──我把自己的视力保持得很好;
我从不戴眼镜。一种奇怪念头,那些手帕。

现在我把它们叠成四分之一,八分之一,十六分之一
让我的手指有事做。现在我回忆起当我去音乐厅
和一条蓝围裙,白衣领,两条金发辫子一起
──八分之一,十六分之一,32,64, ──
和我的一个小朋友手牵手,桃色,通亮,如采摘的花朵,
(请原谅,我离题太远了──是坏习惯)──32,64──我的家人
对我的音乐才能寄予厚望。但是我在告诉你有关这把扶椅的事──
裂开的──露出生锈的弹簧,还有填塞物──
我考虑着送到隔壁的家具店,
但是何时,花多少钱,还有做这事的感觉──先修哪里?
我想扔一条被单盖在上面──我担心
一条在如此充沛的月光里的白被单。人们坐在这里
做着美梦,如同你也如同我。
现在他们修生养息于土地之下,那里雨和月光都不能打扰他们。
让我和你一起走。

我们会在圣尼古拉斯教堂的大理石台阶上稍作停留,
然后你应该走下来我也应该往回走,
像是不经意的触碰,你的温情在我的左边存留,
甚至是一些方形晃动的光,来自穷邻居们的小窗,
从月亮而来的纯白薄雾像一大队银色的天鹅──
我并不担心用这种表现方式,因为
好几次在春天傍晚,我曾经与现身的神交谈
他披着雾霾和这样的月光之荣耀;
很多个年轻男人英俊甚至胜过你,使我为神做出了牺牲──
我溶化了,如此洁白,在如此无法企及的白色火焰之中,在月光的洁白中,
被男人们贪婪的目光燃烧,被青春踌躇的痴迷,
被非常棒的晒黑的身体围绕,被游泳、划船、田径和足球
(还有我假装不注意之事)中锻炼的旺盛的四肢,
前额嘴唇还有喉咙,双膝手指以及眼睛,胸,臂膀和大腿(我的确没看它们)
──如你所知,有时赞美时,你忘了你在赞美什么,你的赞美已足够──
我的神,星光闪烁的眼睛啊,我已上升为被迫远离星辰的神尊
因为,围绕,由内也由外,
除了向上走或向下,已无路可供我走。──不,这还不够。
让我和你一起走。

我知道现在已经很晚了。让我来,
因为这么多年,这么多日日夜夜和绯红的正午,我都独自一人,
固执,孤独,保持纯洁,
甚至我的婚床完美如初,孤寂,
书写着显赫的诗篇呈到神的膝下,
我向你保证诗篇将永存犹如凿入这无暇的大理石
超越你我的生命,完全超越,这还不够。
让我和你一起走。

我再也不能忍受这所房子了。
我不能忍受总是背负着它。
你必须始终小心,很小心,
用巨大的冲击支撑墙
用雕花的古董桌子支撑冲击
用椅子支撑桌子
用你的手支撑这些椅子
把你的肩膀放在悬着的房梁下。
还有钢琴,像盖着的棺木。你不敢打开它。
你得如此小心,非常小心,不然它们会倒下,不然你会倒下。我不能忍受。
让我和你一起走。

这所房子,除了它死去的部分,已没有去死的意图。
它坚持和它死去的一起活着
离开它死去的部分活着
离开它死去的部分的必然活着
坚持留着它为它的死,为腐烂的床以及架子。
让我和你一起走。

此时无论我多么轻柔地走在傍晚的薄雾中,
不管是赤脚还是穿着拖鞋,
总会有些声音:一块窗玻璃咔咔作响要么一面镜子,
还可以听见一些脚步声──不是我自己的。
外面,在街上,这些脚步声也许听不见──
据说,悔改是穿木鞋的──
如果你照这面镜子或那面镜子,
在灰尘和咔咔的响声后面,
你会洞悉你的脸更加黑暗和破碎,
你的脸,虽然你认为你生活的全部是去保持它的干净和完整。

水杯的边缘在月光下发着微光
像环形的剃刀──我怎能将它放到我的嘴唇?
无论我多么渴,我怎么放它?你明白吗?
我还沉浸在比喻的情绪中──至少它仍然留在我这里,
使我安心地认为我的才智还没用丧失。
让我和你一起走。

有时,傍晚降临,我有这样的感觉,
驯熊人带着他笨重的老雌熊经过窗外,
牠的皮毛盖满荆棘,
拖起邻街的尘土
一种焚香似的黄昏尘埃,如荒凉的烟云;
回家晚餐的孩童们不被允许再次出门,
尽管在墙后面他们仍然惦记着这头老熊沉重的步伐,
疲惫的熊在牠独居的智慧中穿行,不知去哪,不知为何──
牠长得沉重,再也不能用牠的后腿跳舞了,
不能戴着花边帽子去逗乐孩子们,懒汉和胡搅蛮缠的人,
牠能做的一切就是躺在地上
让人们踩踏牠的肚子,如此进行牠最后的游戏,
显示牠可怕的放弃的力量,
和牠对别人的兴趣、 对箍住她拱嘴的环套、对牠牙齿控制的漠不关心,
牠的对痛苦和生活的漠不关心
带着与死亡确信的共谋──甚至是缓慢的死亡──
牠最终的对死亡的漠然因为继续生活和认知生活
那些行动和认知超越了牠的奴役。

但是怎样能把这场游戏做到最后?
熊再次爬了起来继续进行
顺服于牠的拴脖带、牠的箍嘴环套、牠的牙齿,
用撕裂的嘴唇向美丽天真的孩童扔来分币微笑
(美丽正是因为天真)
并说谢谢你。因为熊到老
唯一学到的只是:谢谢你;谢谢你。
让我和你一起走。

这所房子让我窒息。尤其厨房
像海底。悬吊的咖啡杯隐约闪现
像不可能之鱼圆而大的眼睛,
餐具缓慢起伏如水母,
海藻和贝壳附着在我的头发里──之后我可以把它们拽下,
我不能再次回到水面,
盘子从我的手上默默地滑落──我沉下
看见我呼出的泡沫上升,上升,
看着它们我试图变换自己方向,
我在想,要是有人碰巧在上面看见这些泡沫会说什么──
也许有人溺水,或潜水员在探测海底?

事实上我已经不止一次地在那里,在溺水的深处发现
海难沉船的珊瑚、珍珠和财宝,
始料未及的遭遇,过去、现在、以及将来,
几乎永恒的确认,
呼吸的轮换,不朽的微笑,如人们所说,
一种幸福,陶醉,灵感甚至,
珊瑚、珍珠和蓝宝石;
只有我不知道如何去给予他们──不,我确实给了他们,
只有我不知道他们是否收到──可是仍然,我给了他们。
让我和你一起走。

等一会儿,让我带上我的外套。
在这种多变的天气下,我必须小心。
傍晚潮湿,是不是月亮
对你而言好像加重了寒冷?
让我把你的衬衣扣好──你的胸膛多么强壮!
──月亮多么强壮...我是说扶椅...当我把杯子从桌上拿开
一个寂静的洞被剩在下面。我马上用手掌盖住
免得看穿它。我把杯子放回它的原位;
月亮就是世界头盖骨上的一个洞──别往里看,
它的磁场会把你吸进去──别看,千万别看,
听我的──你会掉进去的。这种轻佻、
美丽、虚空──你会掉进去的──
月亮是大理石的井,
阴影和无声的翅膀搅动,神秘的表述──你听见了吗?

向深处,深处是跌落,
深处,深处是攀升,
空气的雕像绊在它向外伸展的翅膀中,
深处,深处是不为所动的沉默之仁──
战栗的光照在海滨对岸如同你晃动在自己的波浪中,
海洋的呼吸,晕眩是美丽
和轻飘──小心,你会倒下。别看着我,
对于我,我的职责就是摇晃──这壮丽的晕眩。因此每个傍晚
我都有些微的头疼,有些昏昏欲睡。

我经常溜出去到街对面的药店买几片阿司匹林,
但有时我太累了就呆在这里忍受着头疼
听墙内的水管发出空洞的声音,
要么喝点咖啡而且,总是心不在焉,
忘了,我倒了两杯──谁会喝这另一杯?
真有趣;我把它放到窗前让它冷掉
要么经常把两杯都喝了,盯着窗外药店的绿灯罩,
像一盏放行无声列车的绿色信号灯,将我带走
和我的手帕一起,我侧歪的鞋子、我的黑色钱包、我的诗篇,
根本没有行李──那会有何用?
让我和你一起走。

哦,你要动身走吗?晚安。不,我不去。晚安。
我要自己出去一会儿。谢谢你。因为最终我必须
走出这所破败的房子。
我必须看看这座城市──不,不,不是月亮──
这座带着它无情僵硬之手的城市,为了挣钱工作的城市,
以生计和它的武力发誓的城市,
把我们大家扛在它的背上的城市
带着我们的琐碎、卑微,罪过,和憎恨,
我们的野心,我们的无知和我们的老迈。
我需要听到城市伟大的步伐,
而不再听你的脚步
也不是神的脚步,甚至不是我自己的脚步。晚安。


(月亮慢慢变暗。看上去像是云藏起了月亮。突然,临近的
酒吧好像有人把收音机调响,一段极为熟悉的音乐响起。我
这时意识到整个场景非常轻柔地伴着刚刚开始的“月光奏鸣
曲”。带着一种释放的感觉,年轻男子现在必须走下坡去,他
精细雕琢的嘴唇挂着一丝讽刺的,也许是同情的微笑。正因为
他抵达了圣尼古拉斯教堂——在他走下大理石台阶之前——他会笑,
大声地,无法控制地笑。月光下他的笑声听上去绝不会不和谐。
也许不和谐根本就不是不和谐。很快男子会陷入沉思,变得严
肃,说:“时代的衰败”。这样,再一次彻底冷静下来,他会再次
解开衬衣继续他自己的方式。作为黑衣女,我不知道她是否最终
走出这所房子。月亮又一次闪闪发光。屋子的角落里阴影带着悔
恨越来越重,接近发狂,并非因为生活,更多是因为琐碎无用的
忏悔。你听到了吗?收音机还在播放):

                                 1956年6月,雅典



THE STATUES

He turned the key in the door
to enter his house, to lie down.
Suddenly he remembered that he’d forgotten something.
It was late, he couldn’t go back.

So, alone in the night,
with his hand on the key,
away from the street, away from his door,
the whole man, facing his fate,
turned into marble like the statues.

Yes the statues smile indifferently.

1953-1954



雕像

他在门中转动钥匙
进入宅子,躺下。
突然他想起忘了什么东西。
已经晚了,他不能回去。

如此独处黑夜,
他的手在钥匙上,
远离这条街道,远离他的门,
面对命运,纯粹的人
转变成大理石,如同雕像。

没错,雕像冷淡地微笑着。

1953-1954



DEADLY VICTORY

Alone at night, she rose noiselessly,
fearing her own footsteps.
She descended to the cellar to check on those noises
—from rats, from a spider, from time, from her brain—
so that at last she could get some sleep.

As she descended, the wind blew out the lamp
and on both her cheeks she felt the upraised hairs of silence.
Next morning they found her in a heap under the stairs. She was smiling.
She had not confirmed anything. She had conquered.

1955-1956



致命的胜利

孤独的夜晚,她悄悄起床,
受到了自己脚步声的惊吓。
她下到地窖去查找那些响声
──从一群耗子,一只蜘蛛,从时间,从她的头脑──
最终,她无法入眠。

正当她下去,风吹灭了灯
而且在她的两颊,她感到了寂静的毛竖起。
第二天早上,他们发现她堆起在楼梯下。她在微笑。
她没有发现任何可以证实的事情。她胜利了。

1955-1956
[ 此帖被姜海舟在2013-07-02 23:05重新编辑 ]
级别: 管理员
1楼  发表于: 2013-07-02   
AFTER THE FIRE

When it dawned, the silence was heavy amidst the smoking ruins.
Those who had wrestled with the fire all night
were now sleeping, weary and tranquil within their sweet submission,
others with the smile of a vague and aimless triumph.
Only he was awake. He was, in fact, avoiding sleep,
without knowing if he was the victor or the defeated,
guessing only vaguely that perhaps─perhaps
the only victory was this: his decision to learn which.

1955─1956



火灾之后

黎明时分,冒着烟的废墟深沉、寂静。
与火搏斗了一整夜的人们
正在熟睡,疲倦而平静,他们的放弃可以被接受,
别人带着暧昧的微笑,盲目地凯旋。
只有他醒着。事实上他不愿意去睡,
除非弄清他是胜利者还是失败者,
只能茫然地推测,也许──也许
唯一的胜利者正是他要探个究竟的决定。

1955─1956



BEAUTY

Naked─she took her red handkerchief
and covered her eyes so as not to been seen,
in case fear would force them not to look. Silent and overbearing─maybe even afraid.
Within the darkness of her bound eyes
she may have even touched or even mixed the light; then she did not wake.
Under the garden wicker chair, her shoes remained
with the bare form of her feet. On the tree branch,
her white dress streamed, unfastening all her nudity.

She had hoped for this after death. The light of the garden
fluttered─I don’t know how─like mockery, like applause.  

1955─1956





裸体的──她拿起红手帕
遮住她的眼睛免得被看见,
万一恐惧会迫使他们不去看。寂静,傲慢──也许甚至害怕。
被遮住眼睛的黑暗里
她也许触到了或融入了灯光;所以她没有醒来。
花园的柳条椅下,她的鞋子保持着
她双脚的形状。树枝上
她的白裙飘荡,松开她的整个裸体。

她希望死后能这样。花园的灯光
悸动──我不知道为何──像是嘲笑,像是鼓掌。

1955─1956



A MYOPIC CHIKD

The other kids romped around the playground; their ball
rose up to the roofs of the quarter, also the “splock” of the ball
like a globular world, all joy and impertinence.

But he was reading the whole time, there in the spring window,
within a rectangle of bitter silence,
until he finally fell asleep on the window sill in the afternoon,
oblivious to the voice of those his own age
and to premature fears of his own superiority.

The glasses on his nose looked like
a little bike left leaning against a tree,
off in a far-flung, light-flooded countryside,
a bike of some child who had died.

1956─1957



近视的小孩

别的小孩在操场到处嬉戏玩耍;他们的球
上升到宿舍的屋顶,而且球的斑记(被发成“燔祭”)
像完整的世界,充满欢乐和鲁莽。

但是他在读数整个时代,在那春天的窗户里,
在长方形痛苦的沉寂中,
直到下午他最终他在窗台上睡着,
忘却了他自己年龄的声音,
和他自己高傲的早熟的担心。

他鼻子上的眼镜看上去像
靠在树上的小小的自行车,
遗落在被远远抛弃的,些微被淹的乡下,
一辆某个死去的孩子的自行车。

1956─1957



A LIFE

Rigid, uncompromising throughout his entire life.
Towards the end he grew to fear this rigidity,
seeing it not as a virtue but a pose,
a punishing of others and, of course, himself.

Then he lay down in silence, slack and rigid
like a repentant line. A long coffin
lying across two common chairs
became a narrow bridge over his fears and suspicions.

1956─1957



生活

僵化与不妥协充斥着他的整个生活。
最终他对这种僵化产生了恐惧,
看清了它不是美德,只是姿态,
是对他人,当然也是对自己的惩罚。

于是他在静默中躺下,呆滞、僵硬,
像一行忏悔的句子。像一口长棺材
躺在那里,贯穿着两把公共椅子,
成了一座狭窄的桥连接起他的恐惧和怀疑。

1956─1957



ALWAYS SO

Every night, all things are shattered in the dark,
but the clamor from their collapse survives. This clamor
seems to reconstruct all things anew.
                               And, in fact,
the nest day, with the freshness of sunrise, amidst
the newly-built houses, within the lights
that reflect the large white and yellow public squares, life stands
before unshaven time as a woman stands before a man,
waiting silently to be kissed and to be sung
and then to give birth and to sing alone.

January-February, 1958



总是这样

每天晚上,万物在黑暗里被摔成碎片,
可是被摔碎时的喧响幸存下来。这种喧响
似乎将一切重建一新。
                   事实上,
第二天,太阳初升,在新建的
房子里,在反射巨大白色和黄色公共广场的光中,生活站在
还没刮胡子的时间前面,如同女人站在男人面前,
默默地等着被亲吻和赞美
然后生育,然后孤独地歌唱。

1958年,1月—2月



CONTRADICTIONS

One night when he seemed a little drunk he said in a funny tone of voice:
“I often hold the stars in my palm by the end of their rays
like the strings of thousands of kites,
feeling in all my nerves the counter-thrust of their every motion,
their inclinations, the tension of their distance
and that cold calm found on the highest plane of night,
and sharp tan of oxygen and the throbs of their fringed tails.”

With that he stopped, as though holding back the most important point.
Then, honestly, we examined on his naked upper arm, the stigmata of stars,
strange marks made by the mad vibrations of a burning needle,
things like triremes, numbers, mermaids,
and we understood that he’d been imprisoned for years
and perhaps still was.
                  But oh no,
you can’t say we were the metal bars of his prison,
nor that we foresaw the nature of his freedom.

January-February, 1958



矛盾

有一天晚上,他醉醺醺,怪里怪气地说:
“我经常通过光线的这一端把星星握在手里
像连着成千上万的一串串的风筝,
我的每一条神经感受着它们运动时的冲撞,
它们的倾斜,距离之间产生的拉力,
冷漠的平静位于黑夜最高层,
以强烈的氧化黑斑和它们拖着流苏的悸动。”

随即他停了下来,仿佛在紧要关头止住。
说实话,当时我们查看到他裸露的手臂,星星的斑记,
一枚燃烧的针的疯狂震动造成的奇怪痕迹,
像三层桨战船,像数字,又像美人鱼,
我们明白他被关了好几年
也许现在仍然被关。
                 但,不是啊,
你不能说我们是他监狱的铁栅栏,
也不能说我们已经预见他自由的本质。

1958,1月─2月



HARVEST OF THE VOID

Tall plane trees, muscular torsos of coolness.
The shade is not intended to hide anything. Daring light, daring shade─
useless daring─to confront what?─
simplicity breathes in the air.

People sit under the trees,
they dine on small wooden tables, they talk,
they do not suspect the magnitude covering them, the magnitude
that regulates their innocent gestures. Toward evening
someone sang (drunk perhaps). The plane trees
moved in a silent procession toward the horizon.
The area emptied. And the waiter, with his white apron,
appeared for a moment at a distance, in the crimson sunset,
holding in a priestly fashion the tray with empty glasses.

August-September, 1958



空获

高大的悬铃树,冷静的强壮躯干。
荫影不想隐藏什么。大胆的光,大胆的阴暗──
无用的大胆──抗争什么?──
只求在空中呼吸。

人们坐在树下,
他们在小桌子就餐,他们谈话,
他们没有察觉那巨大之物覆盖着他们,巨大之物
控制他们的无辜举动。接近黄昏
有人唱了起来(多半是醉了)。那悬铃树
静悄悄地列队向地平线移动。
那地方空了,服务员穿着白围裙
远远地出现了一会儿,落日猩红处,
以僧侣的方式托着空杯的盘子。

1958年8—9月



NOON

A white horse dissected in two by the blue shadow of a cypress tree.
Someone shouted further up. (Who was it?)
I don’t know—he was shouting—I don’t know, life is powerful like a fist in the stomach.

A naked man with a golden knife between his teeth passed by.

Behind the horns of the bulls, a fire, like a rosebush, smoked.

August—September, 1958



中午

一匹被柏树的蓝影一分为二的白马。
有人拉开嗓门喊叫。(那是谁?)
我不知道──他喊道──我不知道,生活的力量如腹绞痛。

一裸男叼金刀而过。

在公牛赛犄角后面,似蔷薇丛的火冒着烟。

1958年,8—9月



WONDER

Before going to bed, he placed his watch under his pillow.
Then he went to sleep. The wind outside was blowing. You
who know the wondrous succession of the slightest movements,
you will understand. A man, his watch, the wind. Nothing more.

Samos, August—September, 1958



好奇

睡前,他把手表放到枕头下。
然后他去睡。外面刮着风。你
那熟悉这奇妙的一连串动作的人,
你会懂的。男人,他的表,风。就这些。

1958年,8—9月于萨摩斯岛



ABSTRACTED PAINTER

A painter one afternoon drew a train.
The last carriage cut away from the paper
and returned to the carbarn all by itself.

Precisely in that carriage sat the artist.

June, 1959



走神的画家

画家一天下午画了一列火车。
最后一节车厢从纸上脱了下来
完全靠自己返回了车库。

正好画家坐在那车厢里。

1959年6月



HANDS

Often hands are like faces
or like whole bodies. These hands
remain listless in the premature spring,
they sneeze, cough, complain, grow silent,
with their genitals withered in the sun.

Opposite, a woman suckles her infant.
Her hands, though motionless, are
two naked runners in a large marble arena.





通常手像脸
要么像完整的身体。这些手
在早春依然无精打采,
阳光下用他们疲软的生殖器,
打喷嚏,咳嗽,抱怨,然后沉默。

对面,一女人在给她的婴儿喂奶。
她的双手(尽管不动)是
巨大的大理石竞技场上的两个裸奔者。




NOCTURNAL

Night undresses you. Her hands tremble.
All naked, your body shines in the shadows.

That wise zero that squeezed our necks
is suddenly cut in two
like a boiled egg sliced by a knife.



夜的

夜脱光你的衣服。她双手颤抖。
裸露一起,你的躯体在阴影里闪烁。

那曾按压我们脖子的狡猾的零
突然被切成两半
如同一枚被刀切开的煮鸡蛋。



HONEST CONFRONTATION

All night long they talked, raged, wrangled,
strove with passion and sincerity to find a compromise
or some separation; humbled and were humbled; regretted
the time lost—the fools; at last they cast off their clothes
and stood there, beautiful, naked, humiliated, defenseless. Dawn was breaking.
From the roof opposite, a flock of birds took wing
as though some gambler had finally cast into the air a marked pack of cards.
Thus, without arguments, justifications, or assurances,
day ascended from the hills with the cruel pride of action.

Athens, May 1960



真正的对质

他们谈了一整夜,愤怒,辩驳,
激动而真诚地力求和解
要么达成某种协定;贱啊,实在是贱;懊恼
时间的丧失──傻瓜们;最终他们脱掉衣服
站在那里,美,裸,耻,不设防。破晓出现
于对面屋顶,一群鸟飞起
好像赌徒最后扔到空中的,一副做了手脚的牌。
就这样,没了争论,辩解,或信誓旦旦,
白天带着行动的无情傲慢从山坡上升。

1960年5月于雅典



A TREE

This tree had taken root in the far side of the garden,
tall, slender, solitary—perhaps its height
betrayed a secret idea of intrusion. It never produced
either fruit or flower, only a long shadow that split the garden in two,
and a measurement not applicable to the stooped, laden trees.
Every evening, when the glorious sunset was fading,
a strange, orange bird roosted silently in its foliage
like its only fruit—a small golden bell
in a green, enormous belfry. When the tree was cut down,
this bird flew above it with small, savage cries,
describing circles in the air, describing in the sunset
the inexhaustible shape of the tree, and this small bell
rang invisibly on high, and even higher than the tree’s original height.

Samos, June, 1963



一棵树

此树扎根花园的远侧,
高高地,修长而孤单──或许它的高度
泄露了侵入的暗念。它从未
开花或结果,只有劈开花园的长影,
那于弯腰背负苦痛之树不适用的度量。
每天傍晚,辉煌的落日褪去,
一只奇怪的,橙色的鸟悄悄栖息在树叶里
如同唯一的果实──小小金色钟
在绿的庞大的钟楼里。就在那时树被砍倒,
这只鸟带着微弱而原始的叫声在上面飞翔,
悬空中画出圆圈,日落中描写着
树的无穷形状,这口小钟
于高空隐秘地敲响,甚至高过原先的树。

1963年6月于萨摩斯岛



THE CENTER

The see, the sun, the tree. And again:
the tree, the sun, the see.
Notice
that in this inverted repetition
the sun is once again found in the middle
like sensual delight in the center of the body.

Athens, Dhiminió, Karlóvasi
Platanákia, St. Constantine, 1953—1964



中心

海,太阳,树。再来一次:
树,太阳,海。
注意到
反向的重复中
太阳还是在中间
像身体中心的快感。

1953—1964于雅典,季米尼,卡尔洛韦茨,
普拉特內启亚,圣君士坦丁



ACCENTED COLORS

The mountain is red. The sea is green.
The sky is yellow. The earth blue.

Between a bird and a leaf sits death.

Athens, Dhiminió, Karlóvasi
Platanákia, St. Constantine,
1953—1964



着重色

山是红的。海是绿的。
天空是黄的。大地蓝色。

在一只鸟和一片叶子之间,死亡坐着。

1953—1964于
雅典,季米尼,卡尔洛韦茨,
普拉特內启亚,圣君士坦丁



MODERATION

Words are much like stones. You can build
peaceful houses with white furniture, with white beds,
provided only that somebody is found to inhabit them or at least
to stand and look through the garden railings at the moment
when the windowpanes are in inflamed maroon, and up on the hills
the evening bells are ringing, and after a while
the slack bell rope beats on the wall by itself.

November, 1967-January, 1968



缓和

词语更像是石头。你可以建造
安宁的住宅,配有白色的家具,几张白色的床,
倘若只是发现某人住在那里,要么起码
站着查看花园围栏,此刻
正值玻璃窗被燃烧成茶色,山岗上
晚钟声声响起,一会儿
松开的钟绳自己拍打着墙。

1967年11月—1968年1月



THE YARD

A peaceful yard, silent. The sickly trees, sad,
far away in time. The smell of mould,
the lizard, the dry well, the pulleys. There
the lame boy comes out in the evening. At the other door,
across the way, the one-handed boy stands, looking afar.
They do not greet each other. They clench their teeth. They want to forget
the killed bird they had buried together one evening when
the one still had his leg and the other hand,
and the straw chair near the rosebush
was warm with the sun, with nobody sitting there,
and everything was pointless, sad, immobile,
and therefore immoral, in a city
of long ago, naively nailed to the future.

March-October, 1971



院子

安宁的院子没有声息。树木忧郁,萎靡,
最终远去。泥土的气味,
蜥蜴,枯井,轱辘车。从那里
瘸小子傍晚出来。另一扇门前,
一只手的少年站在路对面遥望。
他们彼此不打招呼。他们咬牙切齿。他们想忘掉
他俩那天傍晚一起埋葬的那只被杀的鸟,那时
一个仍然有腿,另一个有手,
靠近蔷薇丛的麦秸椅
被晒得暖暖的,空在那里,
什么都是空洞,哀愁,和静止的,
以致邪恶在从前的城市
天真地锲入未来。

1971年3—10月



PRESENCE

Tall mountains, taller clouds, meeting
among trees and myths, on precipitous slopes,
there where the healthy omnipotent logos
echoed without fear of emphasis, while further down,
in the yellow clouds of blossoming crops,
in two facing rows, the statues had fallen silent,
stark naked above death, with nipples erect.

March-October, 1971



存在

高高的山脉,更高的云,会合
于树和神话之中,陡峭的坡上,
强健的全能圣子在那里
无畏地回复着重点,再往下时,
在庄稼黄色的云雾中,
两种面对面的行列中,偶像已悄然倒下,
全裸于死亡之上,竖着双乳。

1971年3—10月



THE LAUGH

He saw the clouds from the park bench.
He tore out his coat lining,
removed his hat band,
wrapped the kidnapped infant
and pitched it in the well. Standing with his feet apart,
he pissed, smiling before you did.
I’m speaking about this smile, about night’s spectacles
about the moon’s spectacles. The infant,
no, it wasn’t kidnapped. Nor did there exist
a well or an infant. Only the clouds.

Samos, December 19, 1971





他看见公园长椅上飘来的云。
他扯下衣服里子,
拆了帽沿,
裹好拐来的婴儿
扔到井里。他站着双脚分开,
嬉皮笑脸地先于你撒尿。
我是说微笑,说夜的景观,
月的景观。婴儿,
不,没有被拐。井还是婴儿
也都不存在。只有云。

1971年12月19日于萨摩斯岛



ETHOGRAPHY

Large shark roam our shore─he said.
At night they’re red like fire. Our children’s
teeth show even through closed mouths. Then
the old woman took the oar; she pitched it underneath the ikons;
she didn’t cross herself; she remained standing. Outside,
the men could be heard sharpening their knives.
The four women could not keep awake.
They stayed at the window; they yawned. Ah─they said─
seeing the mailman in the galaxy.

Athens, January 3, 1972



行为符号

大鲨鱼到我们的海滩闲逛──他说。
夜晚它们红得像火。甚至闭着嘴
也能看见我们孩子的牙。这时
老太太拿起桨,放到圣像底下;
她不祈祷,直溜溜站着。可以听见
男人们正在外面磨刀。
四个女人呆在窗下昏昏欲睡;
她们打着哈欠。望着银河里的邮差,
她们说了一声“啊”。

1972年1月3日于雅典



WITHOUT A MIRROR NOW

Her hair fallen over her eyes, her mouth,
she chews at her hair; her saliva whitens.
A great shadow on the curtain. The water glasses on the floor.
Shout it until the end; turn it about, hide it.
Hide what? Hide yourself where? “Death!” she shouted.
“Old age, death!” she shouted, I’ll run away. Hold me back.
A hill strewn with shell fragments. And there,
amid bones, a comb, a red piece of string,
to comb yourself without a mirror now, to bind your hair
that it might not fall over your eyes, that it might not hide from you the white worm
that slimily, serenely, sluggishly crawls up the table.

Athens, September 29, 1972



现在没有镜子

她的头发披到眼睛,嘴巴,
她嚼着头发,口水泛白。
帘子上巨大的影子。地板上的水杯。
为此一直惊呼,把它挪走,藏起来。
藏什么?你自己藏在哪?“死!”她喊道。
“老年,死!”她喊道,我会逃走。拦住我。
一座撒满贝壳的山丘。那里,
于尸骨中,一把梳子,一段红色的线,
正为你自己做无镜之梳妆,挽起你的头发
或许不落到你眼睛上,也不对你隐瞒那白色蠕虫
粘糊地,沉着地,迟缓地爬上桌子。

1972年9月29日于雅典



NAKED FACE

Cut the lemon and let two drops fall into glass;
look there, the knives beside the fish on the table─
the fish are red, the knives are black.
All with a knife between their teeth or up their sleeves, thrust in their boots or their breeches.
The two women have gone crazy, they want to eat the men,
they have large black fingernails, they comb their unwashed hair
high up. High up like towers, from which the five boys
plunge down one by one. Afterward they come down the stairs,
draw water from the well, wash themselves, spread out their thighs,
thrust in pine cones, thrust in stones. And we
nod our heads with a “yes” and a “yes” ─we look down
at an ant, a locust, or on the statue of Victory─
Pine tree caterpillars saunter on her wings.
The lack of holiness─someone said─is the final, the worst kind of knowledge;
it’s exactly such knowledge that now remains to be called holy.

Athens, September 30, 1972



裸脸

切开柠檬让两股落下的液体注入杯子;
看那里,桌子上,刀子在的鱼旁边──
红色的鱼,黑色的刀。
都咬着一把刀或把刀插进靴子和裤子,卷起袖子。
两女人发疯了,她们要吃男人,
她们长着大大的黑指甲,把她们的脏头发
高高梳起。高高挽起像塔一样,五个男孩就从那里
一个个陷落。然后他们下楼,
从井里打水,清洗他们自己,岔开大腿,
插进松果里,插进石头里。而我们
摇着头说“是的”又一声“是的”──我们朝下
看一只蚂蚁,一只蚂蚱,或看做胜利雕像──
松毛虫漫不经心地在她的翅膀上爬行。
缺乏神圣──有人说──就是结局,最糟糕认知;
这样确切的认知现在仍被称作神圣。

1972年9月30日,于雅典



WISDOM

What was a mountain and afterward air and later a star;
and he who said “Thank you”─said it softly so that
neither the two nor the third might hear it, because they were very angry;
they were throwing their shoes out of the window, their flower pots,
their gramophone records, their water glasses and their napkins
that we might get angry too, that we might shout at them “Don’t!”
and thus give them an excuse for what they’d already done.
In the room next door, with its large iron bed,
we can hear the old man coughing; on his blanket
he has placed a small frog, and for days and nights now,
calm, fasting, ecstatic, he stares at and studies
the soft mechanisms of the frog’s leaping.
Afterward he stops coughing. We hear him jumping on the bed.
On the third day we encased him completely in plaster,
leaving only his toothless grin showing.

Athens, October 2, 1972



智慧

其实是山,然后空气,最后是星星;
说“谢谢”的他──说得轻柔
以致那俩和第三个都听不见,由于他们非常生气;
他们把鞋扔出窗外,把花盆,
把唱片,水杯和餐巾,
这样我们也会生气,我们也会对他们喊道“别!”
因此他们认为自己的行为起到了效果。
隔壁房间,配有它的大铁床,
我们听到老人在咳嗽,在床单上
他放了一只小青蛙,这样整天整夜,
平和,忘寝废食,狂喜,他瞪大眼睛研究
青蛙跳跃的柔软机制。
然后他止住咳嗽。我们听到他跳上床。
第三天我们用石膏把他完全封住,
只是露出他咧着嘴没有牙齿的笑。

1972年10月2日,于雅典



LACK OF WILL POWER

Just as he was falling asleep, standing upright in the garden with his back against a tree,
(within himself he could already hear the distant roar of the sunlight)
at the moment he was about to touch serenity with one of his fingers,
they drenched him through and through with a long rubber hose.
   He felt
he should smile or become angry. But he couldn’t. He closed his eyes again.
They picked him up by his armpits and his feet. They flung him into the wall. And he
heard the thump on the water below, and from above cast down a stone.

Athens, October 4, 1972



缺乏毅力

就好像睡着了一样,他笔直地站在花园里背靠在一棵树上,
(在自己内心,他已经能够听见远方阳光的吼叫)
此刻他手指几乎触到了平静,
他们用一根长长橡皮管把它浇透湿。
  他觉得
他应该微笑,要么生气。但他不能。他再次闭上眼睛。
他们抓住他的腋窝和脚把他抬起。他们重重地把他甩到墙内。他
听到了下面撞击在水上的声音,同时从上面扔下来一块石头。

1972年10月4日,于雅典



COMMON MIRACLES

They took out the candelabra into the open air under the trees
and scrubbed the church. From the large door
a dark humidity spread out over the steps
and over the white sunwashed tiles. The beadle
kicked a limping dog that had drawn near
to drink water from the bucket. Then, from the beautiful altar door,
the Archangel with his large red wings came out,
stooped to the dog, and gave it to drink out of his cupped hands.
And so the next day the five paralytics walked.

Athens, October 23, 1972



通常的奇迹

他们把枝状大烛台搬到树丛下的空地上
然后擦洗教堂。从大门
昏暗的潮气蔓延到台阶上,
到太阳洗礼的瓦片上。教区助理
踢一条牵到附近
从桶里喝水的瘸狗。当时,从漂亮的祭坛通道,
长着巨大红翅膀的天使出来了,
向那只狗弯下身,双手捧起水给狗喝。
因此第二天,五个瘫痪的人能走路了。

1972年10月23日,于雅典



BLOODLETTING        

His behavior was all one gesture to drive away the big fly
that doggedly kept returning to the same spot, to his temple,
to his cheek, to his nose. At last he stood still. The fly
also stood still on his cheek, where it sucked his blood and grew larger.
In his place only the fly remained, it too wrapped around
by the spider’s cobweb, where droplets of moisture glittered.

Athens, November 1, 1972



放血

他的举止整体是赶苍蝇的动作,
大苍蝇固执地回到原地,回到他的太阳穴,
回到他的脸颊,鼻子。最后他站着不动。苍蝇
也一动不动停在他脸颊上。它在那里吸血,长大。
他的地方只有苍蝇残存,它也被
蜘蛛网裹住,那里一滴滴潮湿的闪光。

1972, 12月,于雅典



SMALL DIALOGUE

The sky burned desolately behind the house.
Why are you crying?─he asked, buckling his belt.
The world is beautiful─she replied─
so beautiful and such a headache; and the bed
is a silent, savage beast preparing to flee.



微不足道的对话

天空荒凉地在屋后燃烧。
你为何哭泣?──他系着皮带问。
人间真好──她回答道──
好得令人头痛,这张床
是正准备悄悄逃跑的野兽。



EXHIBITS

The woman was still lying in bed. He
took out his glass eye, set it on the table,
took one step, stopped. Do you believe me now? ─he asked her.
She picked up the glass eye, raised it to her eye and looked at him.



陈列品

女子仍然躺在床上。他
取出玻璃假眼,放在桌上,
走了一步,停下。你现在相信我了吧?──他问她。
她拾起玻璃假眼,升到她的眼睛并看着他。



THE DISTANT

O distant, distant; deep unapproachable; receive always
the silent ones in their absence, in the absence of the others
when the danger from the near ones, from the near itself, burdens
during nights of promise with many-colored lights in the gardens,
when the half-closed eyes of lions and tigers scintillate
with flashing green omissions in their cages
and the old jester in front of the dark mirror
washes off his painted tears so that he can weep-
O quiet ungrantable, you with the long, damp hand,
quiet invisible, without borrowing and lending, without obligations,
nailing nails on the air, shoring up the world
in that deep inaction where music reigns.

January-February, 1975



距离

哦 距离,距离;多么难以接近;遭遇的总是
一个个沉默的缺席者,以及当危险来自附近的人
和附近本身时,别的缺席者,是负担
在花园里斑斓灯光的许诺之夜,
当狮子和老虎半闭着的眼睛迸发出
笼子里闪烁的稚嫩的不经意,
年老的小丑角在昏暗的镜子前
洗去化妆的眼泪因为要哭泣──
哦 不被承认的安静,你用长长的受潮的手掌,
静谧无形的,没有租也没有借,没有义务,
于空中钉着钉子,支撑起世界
在深深的音乐四起的无为之中。

1975年1-2月



INERTIA

In the bedroom, the woman with the black dog.
The old manservant passed by the corridor with a lantern.
Without a stir of air, the curtain moved.
We no longer waited for their return. Their clothes
hanging in the wardrobes grew old. During the night
we heard the messenger stop before the door.
He didn’t ring the doorbell. He didn’t speak. The next day
we found his gold stamped cigarette butts in the garden.

Kálamos, January 6, 1988



惰性

卧房里,女人和黑狗在一起。
老仆人提灯经过走廊。
没带起一丝的风,窗帘却移动。
我们不再等他们回来。他们的衣服
挂在衣柜里慢慢变旧。夜间
我们听见信使在门前停留。
他没按门铃。他没说话。第二天
我们在花园发现了他贴着金邮票的烟蒂。

1988年1月6日,于卡拉玛



UNJUSTLY

Weary faces, weary hands.
A weary memory. And this
vacuous silence. Evening.
The children have grown. They’ve left.
You no longer wait for an answer. And besides
you have no requests. Unjustly,
for so many years you strove to place
an approving smile
on this paper mask. Close your eyes.

Athens, January 16, 1988



不公平地

厌倦的面孔,疲倦的手。
一段厌倦的记忆。这
空洞的沉默。傍晚。
孩子已经长大。他们离开了。
你不再等待回答。除此之外
你没有要求。不公平地,
那么多年你为之奋斗的地方
是这个纸面具上
满意的微笑。闭上你的眼睛。

1988年1月16日,于雅典



ALTERATIONS

The ones who left were ours. We felt their loss.
The ones who returned are total strangers.
Before, they didn’t wear glasses. Now they do.
One can’t tell whether there are eyes behind their glasses.
We’ll have to look at them asleep,
when their open suitcases in the hallway
inhale the alien air of new underwear,
during that hour when the big street lamp outside is lit,
illuminating the closed doors of stores,
and the impenetrable becomes accessible, because you no longer
have anything to buy or sell.

Athens, January 23, 1988



变更

一个个离去的是我们的成员。我们深感损失。
一个个归来的全然是陌生人。
之前,他们不戴眼镜。现在他们戴了。
没有哪个人能断定他们的镜片后面是不是眼睛。
我们将只能看着熟睡的他们,
那时他们开着的手提箱在过道上
吸入异域新内裤的空气,
在这期间,外面街道的大灯被点亮,
照明着所有紧闭的店门,
这种不能进入和不可理喻变得可以接受,因为你不再
有任何东西要买或卖。

1988年1月23日,于雅典



THE BLACK BOAT

The old man sits on the doorsill. Evening. Alone.
He holds an apple in his hand. Others
left their lives under the auspices of stars.
What can you say to them? Night is night.
Nor do we know what is to follow. The moon
seems a little playful,
endlessly shimmering on the sea. Nevertheless,
within this radiance can be clearly seen
the black double-oared boat with its dark boatman drawing near.

Athens, May 4, 1988



黑船

老人坐在门槛上。黄昏。孤零零。
他握着一只苹果。其他的人
在星星的赞助下生活。
你能对他们说什么?夜晚就是夜晚。
我们也不知道接下来会是怎样。看上去
月亮有点玩世不恭。
没完没了地在海面微微闪亮。这还不够,
在这闪烁的光线里,可以清楚地看见
黑色双桨船带着昏暗船夫,正在慢慢靠近。

1988年5月4
[ 此帖被姜海舟在2013-07-02 23:10重新编辑 ]
级别: 总版主
2楼  发表于: 2013-07-03   
海舟兄精心译作,一定认真拜读。也祝贺讨论会成功!
级别: 总版主
3楼  发表于: 2013-07-03   
谢谢边围兄支持!
遥祝夏安!
我的博客:  http://blog.sina.com.cn/u/1147554082
级别: 总版主
4楼  发表于: 2013-07-03   
这些诗歌我一直在细心品味
我的微博:
http://t.163.com/0772383818?f=blogme
级别: 总版主
5楼  发表于: 2013-07-03   
回 4楼(三缘) 的帖子
三缘兄的支持也是我的动力。
我的博客:  http://blog.sina.com.cn/u/1147554082
级别: 总版主
6楼  发表于: 2013-07-03   
云先卷走。感谢海舟兄!
云之巢http://blog.sina.com.cn/yunchuitian
级别: 总版主
7楼  发表于: 2013-07-04   
回 6楼(云垂天) 的帖子
哈哈。。
握手。
我的博客:  http://blog.sina.com.cn/u/1147554082
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