颂中西文化的诗

《中西诗歌》刊乔诗十二首

乔治·欧康奈尔诗十二首（《中西诗歌》总第26期刊翻译专栏）

父亲的皮夹

那是八月，一个漫长

垂死的夏季的尽头。

我们告别了枫树荫蔽的灵台上

一个杨木盒子里他的骨灰，

回到家中，开始拣选：

这个带走，

这个留下。

抽屉里三个黑色的皮夹

扁扁的压在白衬衫之下，

皮子旧得几乎

牛皮纸那么薄，

边缘磨成了蕾丝。

我打开的第一个释放出一簇线头，

它盘旋着落下

像一张精致的翅膀

来自某个曾经的生命。

其他什么也没留下

除了一叠模糊的名字

和面孔，而我们曾是票根。

多少次，灼人的阳光

从城西一路射入车窗，

艰难挪动的堵车路上，煎熬

在那辆陈旧的大众汽车里，兜里的这个肿块

是否使他烦恼？一切

终将溃散，这无休止的收入

与支出，这日复一日的摩擦

使生命耗尽。

有时你身边最后携带的东西

最难割舍，那一刻

在拉开的抽屉前

握着掏空的皮夹，

往事忽然全部回到了你的手中，

只是更轻了，它飘浮着如同一个愿望，

世界最终履行的承诺中

饥饿的承诺。

鹪鹩

致芭蕾舞女演员L.N.

有一次，一只鹪鹩

被困在车库里

从一扇玻璃窗撞向另一扇

最后，它蹲伏在窗台上，精疲力竭，

我缓慢的话语抚慰着。谁知道

这甜美的歌者听到了什么？

它深色的眼睛

圆瞪，绝望，

我竟被允许

握住如此的颤抖，

这庞大且微小的心脏

这无法丈量的脆弱

强烈地敲打着我的手指。

来到外面，我释放双手，

决心来自

所有监禁者

***享的渴望：

天空足够

人或鸟，

灵魂细小的脊骨

舞开各自的门闩。

瞄准

当然你要把子弹放在

你眼睛的方向。

可心脏是个喧闹的器官：

正当你的瞄准器游移到

靶心，它稍微一跳

你措手不及。

你学习屏住呼吸

足够远地扣压扳机

才不会伤到自己。

我是说，如此缓慢，如此轻声细语

你的脉搏得到暗示

闭上了嘴。相信我，

当枪管末端

黑色的准星

开始固定，

光停止思考是不够的。

你的血液需要

无比安静。

你必须像死了一样。

日出

那时我一定二十出头

无知得绝望。

我彻夜不眠地驱赶

冒烟的文字，单独或者结合

它们总不合适。

夜晚如此寒冷的

四月，我窗下的屋顶

在破晓之时

正变得苍白。

我跨出窗台，等待

万物渐显的轮廓

分离，完美的独立

而后光线

柔和的黄金触碰树枝，

脸颊和手指，还有屋顶上

每粒鹅卵石的一边。

光的献礼，无需语言，

这世界的每个瞬间

已起身与它会面。

信号

今晚的那些飞蛾，你说

是倚窗的旗语，

什么也没传递。它们看见

自己银色的肩角平衡着

真实的月亮，而实际的路线

只是在盘旋。

有时候我们***享的光

似乎很遥远，我们把自己

更紧地拧进相互的瞪视

直到我们盖着阴影的脸

穿梭于灯前，灯

是让我看清你的唯一。

于是我们中一人摸到开关

把光熄灭。

此刻，翅翼张开

无声地从窗上剥离

像思想，或者最后的羽毛，

枕头上抖落的白色谎言。

书法

长长的装满黑夜

这些橡木劈开了

仿佛只被光

它们沿着斧子跃起

闪亮如纸面。

木纹的走向似河流

迂回穿越艰难的国土，

或者烟依仗冰封的天空

神秘地卷曲。

我几乎想象

于天将亮时

在多石岸边的一座木屋里

破译一个故事。

一个女人醒来，拨了拨余火，

然后站在窗边

梳理头发。

她歪着脑袋像个孩子

在苦思一个问题。

夜色渐薄，她的一只手

撩起睡意缠结的波浪，

另一只梳开它们的火焰。

麦子的六种黄

“没有黄则不成蓝”

——梵高，给Emile Bernard的信，一八八八年六月于阿尔

一种用阳光给风涂黄油，

一种锈得像散落的骨头，

还有一种再次暗示抹了蜜的绿，

忆起来了。一排排

负重的丰饶仍旧

练习弯腰，它们的嗓音纤细

干燥如滴答的耳语。

几片云彩默默

擦青田野的一角，

翻转的泥土

映照深深的紫罗兰。

一些被雨水漂白的胡须

怀着种子欠身

闪烁亚麻的光芒，昏暗

跳耀的青铜，这些茎秆

交错的线条

在心中如此摇荡

于是你会看见一切

只不过一个蔚蓝天空般简单的愿望

头顶上

六个伪装的乌鸦的影子掠过。

后来镰刀扫出一条路

阳光将麦秆削成

黑眼睛的小树林，黄金的茬，

天空在此

落下了它蓝色的膝盖。

复制品

我曾在日落时骑着一头驴

告别咕咕叫的牲棚

一个***和国的鸽子从那里

旋转升起，如一张明亮的翅膀，

沿着布满碎石的路，

去年的玉米残株插在两手边，

来到山谷之上的小丘

等待傍晚

已迈着小偷的步伐

从溪边的白杨林走来。

驴儿抖了两下毛糙的耳朵

忽然神色安详，当头顶

消失的喷气机凝固的行道

在东西之间

粉刷出新的阵矩，

它们发动机的声音

一颗硕大的铁球

滚入远处的走廊。

高高的公路背后

一千枚枫树的种子

竖立在沙砾中

燃烧着橘红色的光

像众人举起的手。

地图

父亲不是绘图师，

可我十岁就学会了

如何用蜡笔和软布

把一张葱皮纸涂抹成

一块大陆，或蓝色渐浅的海洋

伸向绿色隐现的海岸。

半透明的纸上

他曾指引我的手，

很快，我不再临摹，

任钢笔自由地跑成

条条大河，国界

漆黑不可逾越，

虚构的海岸线颤抖着，热气升腾。

比例尺是关键，他常说。

我剥落手指上的干墨

并不懂他的意思。

如今我读的地图

都是地方的。小方格

标志着房屋

道路在此转向南方。

红色的虚线

揭示地产的

边界。

看得见的水域

依旧是蓝色，

而比例尺取自生活：

一万步为一英寸。

积云

致托马斯?霍尔

透过浴室的窗口

夏日的气温不断攀登，落日

被西边半英里处

卫理工会老人院的楼顶刺破，

十根天线从那里钉入天际，

第二十五层直接导入天堂。

这些天，我常起夜，呼应

我的身体，瞥见对面玻璃窗

狭窄的缎带，黑黑的

除了一个，右边下数第三排

一个白色的连字符仍在燃烧。

它旁边的那个

时而一阵光忽现

好像手电筒横扫了整个房间

搜寻一张脸，一个名字，

或被单下伸出的一只手腕。

那一刻我感到我的气息

在胸膛内潮湿起来，暴风雨的细胞

渐次向东漂移，它们的顶部

在夜幕中神秘地攀爬，

之后是雨，一滴，又一滴

迷失在倾泻之中，

朝着城市的灯光跌落，

闪耀着，数不清的，闪耀着。

储蓄白日

又一次，我穿梭于各个房间

拎起这个钟，还有那个，

拧动它们精致的转轮，

一半思考着日光

在一端被挽救，

在另一端丢失。

我可以继续轻松地谈论

缓刑与不公正，

得到的与退却的，

可那又将把我们带往何处？

我宁可去想母亲家里的

壁钟，它悬挂的年头，

在她父母脊背湾的门厅里已经陈旧，

它那木头般的发条走动的滴答

模糊地沾染着大衣和雪茄的味道。

昨夜，独自一人在床前，

她把黑色的指针

拨过十二，

听见棘轮轻快地谈吐，

没收的时辰当当地敲响。

在它的脸上我第一次

看到数字，看到罗马

和有力的击打。很久以后

我想象古罗马军团

强行穿越一个干燥的省份，

刺眼的阳光，

全世界的灰尘在他们的凉鞋上。

在阁楼上

当时的夏天炎热，我们洁白的单层小楼

立在新鲜的地面上，没有树，

那些熊熊的日子里我常顺着楼梯

攀向阁楼的热，椽上的松液

烤焙成芬芳的珠子。

两个鼓形纸板桶内

父亲战时的卡其布军装，

扁平的羔羊毛里的飞行靴，

我们的羊毛帽子和围巾，迷失在

雪和蒸汽的下午。

我愿用它们钢制的顶盖当锣，叩响

我五音调的挽歌，朝向神圣胡言乱语，

然后痴迷、眩晕地下楼，汗淋淋地

走进忽然奇迹般凉爽的房间，

我们每天趟过的热

只是用来呼吸的空气。

不管在那燃烧的屋顶之下

我唱了些什么，

伪造的颂歌或者盲目的祈祷，

幽暗的飞蛾在那些夜里

哼唱着开在我窗下的

八月的花朵

和那撕开纱窗的月亮。

《中西诗歌》 /subject/3177466

● 英文原诗

MY FATHER’S WALLETS

It was August, and the end

of a long-dying summer.

We left his ashes in a poplar box

on a catafalque shaded by maples,

and back at the house turned to sorting:

this to take with us,

this to leave behind.

In a drawer three black wallets

flat beneath white shirts,

the leather worn to little more

than membrane,

the edges frayed to lace.

The first I opened freed a tuft of lint

that spiralled down

like a tiny wing

from something once living.

Nothing else left

of the smudged deck of names,

faces, the stubs of what we were.

How many times, the sun squinting in the glass

the whole way west from the city,

bumper to bumper, sweating it out

in the old Volks, was this lump in the pocket

a pain in the ass? Anything

would fall to pieces, these endless takings in

and payings out, this daily rub

that wears away a life.

Sometimes the last of what you’ve carried close

can be hard to part with, that moment

before the open drawer

holding a gutted wallet,

when suddenly it’s all back in your hand,

but lighter, floating like a wish,

the famished promise of a promise

the world has come to keep.

WREN

for L. N., ballerina

In the garage once, a trapped wren

flung itself from glass to glass

before crouching on a sill, exhausted,

my slow words soothing. Who knows

what it heard, sweet singer, its dark eye

wide and desperate,

but it suffered me

to hold such trembling,

this huge yet tiny heart,

this frail immensity

knocking hard against my fingers.

Outside, my hand flew open,

willed only by that wish

anything imprisoned shares:

sky enough

for man or bird,

for soul's small bone

to dance its own unlatching.

GETTING THE RANGE

Sure you want to put your bullet

where you look.

But the heart is a noisy organ:

just when you’ve got the sight hovering

on target, one little beat

will shout you off.

You learn not to breathe,

to start the trigger squeeze

far enough out it can’t hurt you.

I mean, so slow, so whispery

your pulse takes the hint

and shuts up. Believe me,

when that black bead

at the end of the barrel

starts to settle,

it’s not enough to quit thinking.

Your blood needs to go

real quiet.

You've got to be good as dead.

SUNRISE

I must have been twenty

and desperate with ignorance.

I'd kept myself up

through a long night of wrangling

smoky words that neither fit

nor fit together.

Cold as the nights were

it was April, the roof

beneath my window

just gone pale with dawn.

I slipped over the sill and waited

as forms emerged

separate, perfectly alone

and then the rays'

soft gold touched branches,

face and fingers, one side

of every granule on the shingled roof.

An offering of light, wordless,

each moment in the world

already turning to meet it.

SIGNALS

Those moths tonight, you said

semaphores against the window,

are sending nothing. They see

their silver shoulders balancing

a real moon, and turn

true course to spiral.

Sometimes the light we share

seems distant, and we twist

ever tighter into glare

until the lamp our shadowed faces cross

is all I have to see you.

Then one of us feels for the switch

and puts the light out.

Now the unfolding wings

soundlessly detaching from the glass

resemble thought, or last feathers,

lies shaken white from a pillow.

CALLIGRAPHY

So long so full of night

these oak logs split

as if by light alone

and spring like shining pages

from the axe.

Grain reads like a river

twists through hard country,

or curls inscrutably as smoke

against a frozen sky.

I almost imagine

uncoding a story

beginning near dawn

in a cabin on a stony shore.

A woman wakes, stirs embers,

then stands by a window

brushing out her hair.

She tilts her head like a child

puzzling out a question.

In thinning dark, her one hand

lifts sleep-tangled waves,

and the other brushes loose their fire.

THE SIX YELLOWS OF WHEAT

There's no blue without yellow.

Van Gogh, letter to Emile Bernard, Arles, June '88

One butters wind with sunlight,

one rusts like fallen bone,

another hints again at honeyed green,

remembering. A plenitude

of burdened rows still learning

how to bend, their voice the fine

dry tick of susurration.

Those clouds that bruise

a corner of the field

say nothing, though turned earth

returns deep violet.

Some rainbleached beards

bowed down with seed

glint blonde, some dusky

fireshot bronze, these stalks

mixed lineations

so swaying in the heart

one might see all of it

only the azure of an easy wish

and overhead

six shadows in the guise of crows.

But then the scythe sweeps passage

and sunlight blades the rows

to dark eyed groves, stubbled gold

where even the sky

falls to its blue knees.

REPLICA

I have ridden a donkey at sunset

from the cooing barn

where a commonwealth of pigeons

whirls up as one bright wing,

down the road of broken stones,

last year’s corn stubbed out

on either hand, to the knoll above the valley

and waited there for evening

already stepping like a thief

from the little grove of poplars by the creek.

The donkey flicks his rough ears twice

and is serene, as overhead

the frozen paths of unseen jets

track east and west,

chalking new lattice,

the sound of their engines

an immense iron ball

set loose in a distant corridor.

A thousand maple seeds

erect in gravel

on the high road back

flame with orange light

like the upraised hands of a multitude.

MAPS

My father was no cartographer,

but I learned at ten

how crayon and soft cloth

could blush a sheet of onionskin

into a whole continent, or shoal blue oceans

toward the green quiver of a shore.

Over the membrane

he’d guide my hand,

but soon I no longer traced,

the pen freely coursing

great rivers, borders

black and impenetrable,

the trembled fiction of a steaming coast.

It’s all about scale, he’d say,

as I flaked India from my fingers,

not really knowing what he meant.

The maps I read these days

are local. Here the road turns

south near the small square

which marks a house.

This dotted line in red

reveals the confines

of the property.

Whatever water could be shown

might still be blue,

but the scale is drawn from life:

ten thousand steps to every inch.

CUMULUS

for Thomas Hall

Through the bath window

summer weather climbs, sunset

impaling itself half a mile west

on the Methodist Home,

where ten antennas spike the skyline

and the twenty-fifth floor conducts

straight to heaven. I rise late

these nights, answering

the body, and glimpse the narrow bands

of windowglass all black,

save one, three down on the right,

a white hyphen still burning.

Sometimes from the next

a brightness flares

as if a flashlight swept the room,

searching out a face, a name,

a wrist extended from a sheet.

It's then I feel the breath

go humid in my chest, the drift

of storm cells ever eastward, their tops

in the night towering invisibly,

and then the drops, one and another

lost in the downpour,

falling toward the city lights,

shining, uncountable, shining.

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS

Once more I wander through the rooms

lifting this clock and that,

twisting their tiny wheels,

half-mindful of light

saved at one end,

lost at the other.

I could easily go on

about reprieve and injustice,

what’s gained and what falls back,

but where would that get us?

I’d rather consider the wall clock

at my mother’s, the years it hung,

old even then, in her parents’ Bay Ridge hall,

its wooden, wind-up tock

vaguely scented with overcoats and cigars.

Last night, alone before bed,

she’d have turned the black hand

through twelve,

heard the brisk tattle of the ratchet,

the gong of the forfeit hour.

Its face was my first look

at the numbers, Roman

and hard struck. Much later

I imagined the legions,

a forced march through a dry province,

the glare of the sun,

the dust of the world on their sandals.

IN THE ATTIC

Hot summers then, our white one-story

treeless on new ground,

those blazing days I’d climb the stairs

to attic heat, the rafters’ pinesap

baked to fragrant beads.

Inside two cardboard drums

my father’s wartime khakis,

his flattened, fleece-lined flying boots,

our woolen hats and scarves, lost

afternoons of snows and steam.

On their steel lids I’d tap and gong

my five note dirge, babbling to the sacred,

then come down rapt and woozed, adrip

to the miracle of rooms gone cool,

heat we waded every day

merely air to breathe.

Whatever I might have sung

beneath that burning roof,

false chant or blind invocation,

dark moths those nights

hummed the August blooms

opening beneath my window

and the moon tore back the screen.