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Winter 2013-14Issue 4

Born in Norfolk, Virginia, USA, John Haines was the son of a naval officer, and during World War 2 served three years on a destroyer in the South Pacific. After studying painting in Washington, DC and New York City, he moved to Alaska where he homesteaded as a trapper and hunter for many years southeast of Fairbanks. He’d intended to continue painting, but during the long Alaskan winters, his paints froze, and he began writing poems. Deeply influenced by classical Chinese poetry, he honored its spare and stoic economies in his own art. He published more than two dozen collections of poems and essays, including Winter News; The Stone Harp; Fables and Distances; The Owl in the Mask of the Dreamer; For the Century’s End; and a distinguished memoir The Stars, The Snow, The Fire, later translated into Chinese. Copper Canyon Press released a retrospective of his early poems in At the End of This Summer: Poems 1948-54, and The Univ. of Michigan Press reprinted his celebrated autobiography Living Off the Country.

An Alaska Poet Laureate, Haines won many awards, including a U.S. National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, two Guggenheim Fellowships for Poetry, the Annual Fellowship of the Academy of American Poets, and the Lenore Marshall/The Nation Award. He also taught at various U.S. universities. In his later years, though living in Helena, Montana, he often returned to Alaska, where he died in 2011.

In 1953, the great American poet William Carlos Williams declared that Haines, then still in his twenties, possessed “the most authentic talent for verse that I have encountered in your generation”. While a gifted artist’s exchanging New York for Alaska seems unusual, wilderness afforded essential space and silence, in which the poet might hear the voice of the primal, both within and without. Often darkly visionary, attuned to the sublime arc of time and history, his poems and essays can be chillingly prophetic. Yet his faith in the clarifying strength and imagery of the natural world remained inextinguishable.

約翰·海恩斯(1924-2011)出生在美國弗吉尼亞州諾福克郡,是一名海軍軍官的兒子,二戰期間曾在南太平洋的驅逐艦上服役三年。後來在華府和紐約學習繪畫,1947年移居阿拉斯加,在費爾班克斯東南外80英里的山間建有一個牧場,以設陷阱捕獵為生。他原本想繼續繪畫生涯,但阿拉斯加漫長的冬季經常使顏料結凍,於是他開始寫詩。受中國古詩影響,他的寫作經濟、克制,曾出版詩歌、散文著作20餘本,包括《冬天的消息》(Winter News)、《石豎琴》(The Stone Harp)、《寓言和距離》(Fables and Distances)、《貓頭鷹在做夢人的面具裏》(The Owl in the Mask of the Dreamer)、《寫給世紀末》(For the Century’s End),以及他廣為人知的自然隨筆《星星、雪、火》(The Stars, The Snow, The Fire)。為了紀念海恩斯,Copper Canyon出版社出版了他的早期詩歌集《今年夏末:19481954詩選》(At the End of This Summer: Poems1948-54),密歇根大學出版社重印了他著名的自傳《鄉野生活》(Living Off the Country)。

海恩斯曾為阿拉斯加州桂冠詩人,獲得過多項獎勵,包括美國國家藝術基金會文學獎、兩次古根漢詩歌獎、美國詩人學會年獎和勒諾·馬歇爾詩歌獎。他曾在美國多所高校教書,生命後期居住於蒙大拿州赫勒拿,但常常返回阿拉斯加,最終在那裏去世。

1953年,美國大詩人威廉·卡洛斯·威廉斯評價當時二十多歲的海恩斯,說他具有「你們這代人中最令人信服的詩歌才華」。這樣一位天才藝術家對阿拉斯加的熱愛遠遠高於紐約,這似乎不合常理,但荒野為他提供了不可替代的空間和寂靜。詩人置身其中,聽見了原始的呼喚。這聲音既來自自然,也發自內心。海恩斯的詩歌和散文充滿了黑暗的景象,彷彿為時間和歷史的崇高紀元而作,有一種令人顫慄的預言性質。他對清晰寫作的力量和自然意象的信仰永不熄滅。

FOREBODING

Something immense and lonely
divides the earth at evening.

For nine years I have watched
from an inner doorway:
as in a confused vision,
manlike figures approach, cover
their faces, and pass on,
heavy with iron and distance.

There is no sound but the wind
crossing the road, filling
the ruts with a dust as fine as chalk.

Like the closing of an inner door,
the day begins its dark
journey, across nine bridges
wrecked one by one.

 

預言

一種孤獨而浩大的力量
在黃昏時分割大地。

九年來我一直在觀看
從內部的一道門:
像一幅混沌圖景,
似人的形體在逼近,遮住
他們的臉,不停走著,
鐵和距離使他們沉重。

沒有聲音,除了風
橫吹路面,用白堊般細微的塵土
填充車轍。

彷彿內部的門在關閉,
一天迎來它黑暗的
旅程,身後的九座橋
一一摧折。

翻譯 © 史春波

THE SOUND OF ANIMALS IN THE NIGHT

Dark wings that brush the foliage
above us; the crunch of hoofs
in frost, a river flowing
in the lonely voice of the coyote.

As they walk through the moonlight,
we come and go by the flare
of campfires, full of ghosts
with huge, wounded hearts.

 

夜間動物的聲響

看不見的翅膀掃過
頭頂的葉簇;霜
在獸蹄下碎裂,河水流動著
匯入郊狼的孤鳴。

牠們踩著月光行走,
我們借著跳耀的營火
來去,身體裏的鬼
懷揣巨大、受傷的心。

翻譯 © 史春波

POEM

The immense sadness
of approaching winter
hangs in the air
this cloudy September.

Today a muddy road
filled with leaves, tomorrow
the stiffening earth and
a footprint
glazed with ice.

The sun breaking through
still warm, but the road
deep in shadow;
your hand in mine is cold.

Our berries picked,
the mushrooms gathered,
each of us hides
in his heart a small piece
of this summer,
as mice store their roots
in a place
known only to them.

We believe in the life to come,
when the stark tree
stands in silence above
the blackened leaf;
but now at a bend in the road
to stop and listen:
strange song
of a southbound bird
overflows
in the quiet dusk
from the top
                   of that tree.

 

那即將襲來的
嚴冬的巨大悲傷
懸掛在空氣裏
這陰沉的九月。

今天一條泥濘的路
粘滿落葉,明日
凍硬的土地
和一隻足印
將發出冰的釉光。

透過來的太陽
依舊暖和,而路
陷在影子裏;
你的手在我的手中發冷。

我們的漿果已摘下,
蘑菇也採好,
我們各自在心裏
藏起一小塊
夏天,
就像老鼠把根莖
儲存在
惟有牠們知道的地方。

我們相信還未降臨的生命,
當一棵光禿的樹
默默站立在
變黑的樹葉上;
但此時在那條路的轉彎處
停下腳步聆聽:
一隻南飛的鳥
牠奇異的歌聲
漲滿
靜寂的黃昏
正從那棵樹梢
                    流淌。

翻譯 © 史春波

AFTER TAO YUAN-MING

It will not be the first time
I have slept in the wilderness.

Tall grasses heavy with seed
will shadow the headstone,
the wind will question the aspen
and pass on without me.

September will come, driving the seeds
to earth—small birds
of passage rustle the fallen leaves.

Those who have brought me here
will have gone, each to his house,
to his own occupation.

Alone in the sandy darkness
I shall lie for a thousand years,
a thousand years without warmth
or touch, a thousand years
without speaking.

 

寫在陶淵明之後

這絕非第一次
我在荒野中獨眠。

高草懷著沉沉的草籽
把影子投上石碑,
風將盤問白楊
然後留下我獨行。

九月在即,催種子
入土地——路過的小鳥
攪動落葉瑟瑟。

那些帶我到這裏的
必將消散,回歸各自的屋宇,
各自的生計。

獨自在沙子的黑暗中
我將躺臥千年,
千年沒有溫暖
沒有觸摸,千年
不語。

翻譯 © 史春波

LI YU IN TWILIGHT

Fragrance falls from the rose.

Icy rain,
the east wind scatters
a thousand seeds…

Light of all things,
                           you fade.

 

暮色中的李煜

香氣自玫瑰飄落。

冰雨,
東風撒播
一千顆種子……

一切事物之光,
                        你凋零。

翻譯 © 史春波

THE LEGEND OF PAPER PLATES

They trace their ancestry
back to the forest.
There all the family stood,
proud, bushy and strong.

Until hard times,
when from fire and drought
the patriarchs crashed.

The land was taken for taxes,
the young people cut down
and sold to the mills.

Their manhood and womanhood
was crushed, bleached
with bitter acids,
their fibers dispersed
as sawdust
among ten million offspring.

You see them at any picnic,
at ballgames, at home,
and at state occasions.

They are thin and pliable,
porous and identical.
They are made to be thrown away.

 

紙盤傳奇

它們的祖先
追溯回森林。
那裏整個家族挺立,
驕傲,濃密,健壯。

直到貧苦的年代,
因為火和乾旱
族長們先後坍圮。

土地被剝奪,征稅,
青壯年被砍倒
賣給紙廠。

它們中的成年男女
全部碾碎,漂白,
浸入苦澀的酸液,
它們纖維殆盡
變成鋸屑
列位於一千萬子孫。

它們的身影遍及野餐,
球賽場,住家,
和官方場合。

它們單薄,柔韌,
滲透性好,千人一面,
它們存在是為了最終被丟棄。

翻譯 © 史春波

SPILLED MILK

When I see milk spilled on the table,
another glass overturned,
I think of all the cows who labor in vain.

So many tons of forage spent,
so many udders filling and emptying,
forest after forest
stripped for paper cartons,
the wax from millions of candles melting…

A broad sheet of milk spills across
the tables of the world,
and this child stands
with a sopping sponge in his hand,
saying he never meant to do it.

 

灑掉的牛奶

每當我看見牛奶灑在桌上,
又一隻玻璃杯打翻,
我會想起那些徒勞的奶牛。

多少噸草料被用盡,
多少奶牛的乳房被注滿再擠空,
森林一片接一片
砍光了製成紙箱,
成千上萬支蠟燭在消融……

一大張灑滿牛奶的桌布
鋪在全世界的餐桌上,
有個孩子站著
手中拿一塊浸透的海綿,
說他不是故意的。

翻譯 © 史春波

ARLINGTON

The pallor of so many
small white stones,
the metal in their names,
somber and strange
the calm of my country.

My father buried here,
and his father,
so many obedient lives.

And I too in my time
might have come,
but there is no peace
in this ground for me.

These fields of death
ask for broken columns,
a legend in pitted bronze
telling of the city
pulled into rubble here.

The soil should be thick
with shrapnel
and splinters of bone;

for a shrine, a lamp
fueled with blood,
if blood would burn.

 

阿靈頓國家公墓

面無血色,這些
小小的白色石碑,
他們名字裏的金屬,
陰鬱而陌生
我的祖國多麼鎮定。

我的父親葬在這裏,
還有他的父親,
眾多順從的生命。

我也可能前來
當我的壽命用盡,
可是這塊土壤
無法給予我安寧。

這些死亡陣地
缺少坍塌的石柱,
一段傳奇,用布滿坑洞的青銅寫成
講述一個城市
如何淪為瓦礫。

泥土中應該有豐厚的
榴霰彈碎片
和骨碴;

為那神龕點一盞燈
以鮮血為燃料,
如果鮮血能夠點燃。

翻譯 © 史春波

譯注:Arlington National Cemetery,阿靈頓國家公墓,美國軍人公墓,位於弗吉尼亞州阿靈頓縣,與首府華盛頓一水之隔。

THE SUN ON YOUR SHOULDER

We lie together in the grass,
sleep awhile and wake,
look up at the cloverheads
and arrowy blades,
the pale, furred undersides
of leaves and clouds.

Strange to be a seed, and the whole
ascent still before us,
as in childhood
when everything is near
or very far,
and the crawling insect
a lesson in silence.

And maybe not again
that look clear as water,
the sun on your shoulder
when we rise,
shaken free of the grass,
tall in the first green morning.

 

你肩上的太陽

我們挨著在草叢裏躺下,
睡一會然後醒來,
仰面看三葉草
和箭一樣的葉片,
看樹葉和雲朵
黯淡、毛茸茸的腹面。

成為一粒種子真神奇,
面對整個生命的成長,
就像童年時
一切事物都很近
又很遠,
一隻徐徐爬行的昆蟲
一堂無聲的課。

可能不會再有
明澈如水的眼神,
你肩上的太陽,
當我們站起身來
抖落滿身的草,
高高的在這初放的綠色清晨。

翻譯 © 史春波

LITTLE COSMIC DUST POEM

Out of the debris of dying stars,
this rain of particles
that waters the waste with brightness…

The sea-wave of atoms hurrying home,
collapse of the giant,
unstable guest who cannot stay…

The sun’s heart reddens and expands,
his mighty aspiration is lasting,
as the shell of his substance
one day will be white with frost.

In the radiant field of Orion
great hordes of stars are forming,
just as we see every night,
fiery and faithful to the end.

Out of the cold and fleeing dust
that is never and always,
the silence and waste to come…

This arm, this hand,
my voice, your face, this love.

 

宇宙塵,一首小詩

從垂死的星體的殘骸
這場粒子雨下下來
用光明澆灌空虛……

原子的海浪急著回家,
巨星崩塌,
不安定的客人無力久留……

太陽的心臟變紅,膨脹,
他強大的氣息在延續,
而他物質的外殼
終有一日將蒙上白霜。

在獵戶座光熱的領域
群星在聚合,
正如我們每天夜裏所見,
熾烈,至死不渝。

從冰冷的逃逸的塵埃
那未在和永在,
靜寂與空虛將到來……

這臂膊,這手,
我的聲音,你的臉,這愛。

翻譯 © 史春波

THE OWL IN THE MASK OF THE DREAMER

Nothing bestial or human remains
in all the brass and tin
that we strike and break and weld.

Nothing of the hand-warmed stone
made flesh, of the poured heat
filling breast, belly, and thigh.

The craft of an old affection
that called by name the lion shape
of night, gave rain its body

and the wind its mouth—the owl
in the mask of the dreamer,
one of the animal stones asleep…

By tinker and by cutting torch
reduced to a fist of slag,
to a knot of rust on a face of chrome.

So, black dust of the grinding wheels,
bright and sinewy curl of metal
fallen beneath the lathe:

Speak for these people of drawn wire
striding toward each other
over a swept square of bronze.

For them the silence is loud
and the sunlight is strong.

No matter how far they walk
they will never be closer.

 

貓頭鷹在做夢人的面具裏

所有經我們捶打、分割並焊接的
銅和錫
都不再有獸性或人性。

不再有,石頭經手的溫度
做成肉體,傾注的熱
填滿乳房、肚腹和大腿。

這出自古老情感的手藝
被稱為黑夜的
獅子化身,讓雨具有形體

風開口說話——貓頭鷹
在做夢人的面具裏,
一隻石獸在沉睡……

通過敲打和割炬
消縮成一塊熔渣,
鉻表面的一個鏽疙瘩。

於是,磨砂輪產生黑色粉末,
明亮而剛勁的金屬刨花
掉在車床底下:

替這些拉制鋼絲人說話吧
他們大步邁向彼此
在一塊掃淨的青銅上方。

對他們而言,沉默太刺耳,
陽光太強烈。

無論他們走出多遠
始終無法彼此接近。

翻譯 © 史春波

原注:這首詩是一部濃縮的雕塑藝術史,從早期貫穿當代。最後三節描寫阿爾貝托·賈科梅蒂一件著名的銅雕作品。

A GUIDE TO THE ASIAN MUSEUMS

Footbound beneath the owl kings,
princes of darkness and striding priests
who go before us, leading
the dead in their hempen shrouds,

we learned what our crowned,
uneasy fathers learned:

That to be strong you must crush
the darkness underfoot,
break the back of your enemy
and snarl,
raising a fist to the light:

That a stone axe under glass
holds its edge, its weight and purpose:

That a small green scarab,
placed in the grave,
was a better guide in life after death
than the code of the gospels.

As it was in the Prophet’s thronged
and holy city, sun-pillar
and moon-arch will be provided,
straw for the ox
and a tree for the serpent.

And a place at night for the lovers,
tumbled and ruddy with dust,
but who smile and hold each other,
who keep intact
their lesson in abiding passion.

From all our heaped arrangements
to comfort the dead
we have learned this much:

That the least of these fired images,
these flawed souvenirs—items
of rescue, of luck,
obedience and grace—outlast us.

That a single gray elephant,
the size of your thumb,
holds up the earth
with its forests and acres of stones.

 

亞洲博物館指南

裹著腳,在貓頭鷹王之下,
黑暗公主與闊步的祭司
先於我們,帶領
身穿麻布壽衣的死者,

我們學會了王位上
不安父輩們的經驗:

要強大就必須粉碎
你腳下的黑暗,
摧斷你敵人的脊背
咆哮著
朝光舉起拳頭:

隔著玻璃,那把石斧
保持了它的尖利、重量和用途:

一隻綠色小蜣螂,
安放在墓穴裏,
指導陰間的生活
好過福音書上的法則。

彷彿先知口中眾生雲集的
聖城,那裏將備有太陽柱
和月亮門,
將為牛准備稻草
為蛇准備樹。

情侶們將有過夜的場所,
在塵土中打滾,渾身紅褐,
但微笑著彼此擁抱,
從持久的熱情裏
提取純潔的經驗。

這一切堆迭的布置
我們用來安慰死者
並至少從中學會:

這些不起眼的燒製的形象,
殘缺的紀念品——物件
象征救贖,吉祥,
順從和體面——比我們更長命。

一頭灰象
只有你拇指那麼大,
托舉起整個大地
連同地上的森林和無數石頭。

翻譯 © 史春波

THE SLEEPWALKERS

And the time that was given
to Egypt was Sleep,
and they who walked there
were called The Sleepwalkers.

Strode on through burning dust
in the blue-fired glaze of summer,
through unfailing flood,
through sandstorm and sunstroke.

To be, to sleep, to awaken…
that was the gift of an insect.
With the glittering eye of a hawk
and the beak of an ibis,
with the rasping tongue of a dog;

but stronger than any of these,
the law of drift and silence
overheard through reed-whispers
and unstilled barking.

Twilight, the one returning kingdom,
vaster than daybreak,
the unroofed temple where scribe
and monkey-priest sorted the strings
of birds; on a thread of smoke
the clay spirit climbed,
born of the light and the lotus.

And then, in the green heart
of stone, to sleep at last.
Among the restless, the sun-driven,
to be the one cured and stationed
man: Lord of the death-watch.

And night was a cobra, coiled
in the doubled knot of eternity;
symmetrical in sleep,
but steeped in poison, waiting
for the first king to wake.

 

夢遊者

那曾分配給埃及的時間
叫做睡夢,
而行走在那裏的人
叫夢遊者。

大步穿過滾燙的塵霧
在泛著藍色釉光的夏天,
穿過守時的洪水,
穿過沙暴和熱病。

存在,睡覺,蘇醒……
那是一隻昆蟲的天賦。
帶著閃光的鷹眼
和朱鷺的喙;
帶著粗糲的狗的舌頭;

然而比牠們全都強大
漂流與寂靜的法則
透過蘆葦的私語
和不歇止的犬吠
傳入耳中。

黃昏,一個王朝在歸返,
比黎明更廣闊,
在沒有屋頂的神廟,書吏
和猴子祭司整理了鳥
的腸子;順著一根煙柱
陶土的靈魂攀爬,
從光與蓮花中誕生。

然後,在石頭的
綠色心臟,終於入眠。
躋身不安的,被太陽驅逐的中間,
成為那個治愈的、久駐的
男人:守靈人的王。

夜是一條眼鏡蛇,盤成
一個永恒的雙結;
在睡眠中保持對稱,
浸滿毒液,等待著
最先醒來的法老。

翻譯 © 史春波

原注:這首詩是對一些埃及神話和宗教現象的糅合,也是對奧地利作家赫爾曼·布洛赫的重要小說《夢遊者》的間接引用。

THE FATES

Atropos o el Destino
— Goya

North is east, south is west,
first is under and over
the last—all of our spells
are spilled and lost.

We are the swallows you see,
whose tongues are cut,
whose wings are clipped,
bunched on a wire.

And we are the spinster angels
driven from God:
we have saved our scissors
and kept our needles—

four old women who knit
and knit the winds,
and then in a muttering rage
unthread the clouds.

We are done with porches
to sit on, finished
with trees and branches.

Daylight for us was bad,
but night will be better:
star and planet falling,
lion and scorpion down…

Think of your rooms
and your furniture,
make up your beds
and pocket your keys:

You that have shadows
will keep them, you
without shadows will die:

Here is the glass we look
through, and these
are the holes we make:

And now the threads we warp
and twist, the words
we spit, the spell we throw…

 

命運女神

阿特羅波斯或命運女神
——戈雅

北即是東,南即是西
開始是底下,上面
是結束——符咒灑光了
我們失去了魔力。

我們是你眼中所見的燕子
有被裁過的舌頭,
被修剪過的翅膀,
挨擠著棲在電線上。

我們是天使中的老處女
被上帝驅逐:
我們保全了我們的剪刀
攜帶了我們的針——

四個老婦人在紡織
紡織著風,
然後隨一陣狂怒的咕噥
把線從雲彩中抽去。

我們不再於門廊上
靜坐,也不再與
樹和枝椏打交道。

日光對我們有害,
夜晚則更加美好:
星辰紛紛墜落,
獅子與天蠍西沉……

想想你的房間吧
還有你的家具,
疊好你的床
揣起你的鑰匙:

你們當中有影子的
將繼續與之為伴,你們
沒影子的即將死去:

這塊玻璃,我們透過它
來觀看,這些孔洞
全由我們製造。

再看我們盤繞、扭織的
絲線,我們啐出的
詞語,我們擲出的符咒……

翻譯 © 史春波

譯注:spinster有紡織婦女和老處女雙重含義;glass既有玻璃也有透鏡的意思。