AN INTERNATIONAL POETRY JOURNAL IN ENGLISH & CHINESE

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Winter 2012-13Inaugural Issue

Robert Dana was born in Boston in 1929. After U.S. Navy service in the South Pacific toward the end of World War II, he moved to Iowa where he attended Drake Univ. and the Univ. of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His poetry won numerous awards, including two National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, the Rainer Maria Rilke Prize, the Carl Sandburg Medal, and the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Award from New York University. He taught for over forty years at Cornell College in Iowa, eventually as Professor and Poet-in-Residence, and was also Distinguished Visiting Writer at Stockholm Univ. and several U.S. colleges and universities. After reviving The North American Review, he served as editor from 1964-1968. In 2004 he became the Iowa Poet Laureate. Author of three volumes of prose, his sixteen poetry collections include Starting Out for the Difficult World; The Morning of the Red Admirals; The Other; and New & Selected Poems 1955-2010. He died in 2010.

美國詩人羅伯特·戴納1929年出生在波士頓。二戰後期他曾作為美國海軍的一員在南太平洋上服役,戰後移居愛荷華州,求學於德雷克大學和愛荷華大學作家工作坊。他的詩歌曾榮獲多種獎項,其中包括兩次美國國家藝術基金會獎、萊納·瑪利亞·里爾克詩歌獎、卡爾·桑德堡獎章和紐約大學施瓦茲紀念獎。戴納在康奈爾學院任教四十餘年,是該校的教授和駐校詩人,也是斯德哥爾摩大學和美國多所高校的特邀訪問作家。他從1964至1968年在《北美評論》擔任編輯,2004年成為愛荷華州桂冠詩人,2010年辭世。身前著有《向艱難的世界出發》、《紅色蝴蝶的早晨》、《他者》和《詩選:1955—2010》等十六部詩集和三部散文集。

CHIMES

Mid-August. Evening. Rain falling.

Cold, bright silk where the street fronts a house.

Out back, it laves and slicks the parched leaves of the trees.
Ragged hang of summer’s end.
I lean against the doorway of the poem,
listening to the old patter.

My cat, Zeke, lays himself out imperially.
Eleven pounds of grey smoke
                                with tufted ears and a curved plume of a tail.

Now, a slight wind,
and The Emperor of Heaven’s chimes intone like distant bells,
his court musician’s 4000-year-old pentatonic scale
                                                     pealing in slow, clear ripples.

Occasionally, a chord.

Every day I live I live forever.

 

風鈴

八月中。夜晚。雨落下。
街道,冷豔的綢緞,橫於屋前。
屋後,雨水洗刷粗燥的枝葉,
零落懸掛於夏日的盡頭。

我斜倚詩篇的門廊,
傾聽雨聲啪嗒作響。

(我的貓兒澤珂,帝王般舒展慵懶,
十一磅重的身軀,十一磅重的灰煙一團。
耳朵兩簇,尾巴一卷毛絨。)

此刻,微風一縷,
天帝的風鈴吟誦如遙遠的鐘聲。
天廷的樂師們彈響四千年古樂
樂聲泛起清澈漣漪。

不經意,觸碰琴弦——
我活在每一天我活在永遠。

翻譯 © 西川 & 韓金鵬

THE MORNING OF THE RED ADMIRALS

for D & L

We saw them first
        last evening—two
spiralling up
        a column of late
sunlight, then,
        tilting away
from each other
        in a floating stagger
through the early
        summer leaves—
a jittery dripping,
        dropping, rising—
one coming
        to rest a moment
on the still warm
        roof of our fat
pagoda lantern,
        the other on weathered
deck rail;
        the tips of its
long antennae
        beaded and bright;
wings black,
        white dot
and blue dot,
        and barred aslant
with orange red,
        laid flat,
then clicking shut
        to dull grey sail,
then opening again.

Now it’s morning;
        you’ve gone to work.
The air gleams,
        dry and clear,
almost Greek,
        and a half dozen
admirals sip
        from the lilac blossoms,
still signalling
        their unsayable
story. One
        lights on my shoulder
as I hang the day’s
        laundry on the line,
shirts and drawers,
        dull socks,
our flapping colors
        answering his.
He’s weightless,
        this migrant—
a small, wild
        scrap of grace—
and I’m his resting
        post on the way
to whatever far
        edge of creation
breathes at the tips
        of his wings.

 

紅色蝴蝶的早晨

昨晚我們初次
        遇見牠們——兩隻彩蝶
沿著一柱傍晚的
        陽光,盤旋而上,
然後悠然離去,
        各自東西,
顫抖著翅膀
        飛越夏初的枝葉——
牠們滴瀝,
        濺落,又旋起——
一隻彩蝶小憩在
        依然溫暖的
寶塔燈籠的大尖頂。
        另一隻落在
階前斑駁的
        欄杆上,長長的
觸角末梢
        珍珠般晶瑩;
牠的黑翅翼傾斜,
        白斑,藍斑,
中間是橙紅的軀體;
        翅翼展平,
然後合攏
        成為暗灰色的帆,
然後再次展開。

現在是早晨
        你起身去工作。
空氣閃亮,
        乾爽而潔淨。
這幾乎像
        希臘的清晨,
半打蝴蝶
        吮著丁香花蕊,
依然用信號傳遞著
        牠們說不出的
故事。當我
        把我們的衣物
晾在繩子上:
        襯衫、內衣、
舊襪子,
        一隻蝴蝶
棲落在我的肩頭。
        我們身上的色彩飄擺
應和著它的色彩。
        這個漂泊者,
是一片小小的優雅,
        小巧,野性,
幾無重量;
        而我在走向
遙不可及的
        創造邊緣的時候,
成了牠的
        棲身之所,
在牠翅翼的尖兒上
        呼吸。

翻譯 © 西川 & 韓金鵬

SUMMER IN A VERY SMALL TOWN

The small towns of the strange middle of our lives
remain small

Streets wintry
even in summer

Here the old forget themselves in their own stories
the moon rises
a tall tower lifts its silver planet of water into the sky

and the children believe in God
and the cold gardens of his weather

What makes of such poor wisdom
the knife of the will
of such poverty the flower without memory

we do not know

Tonight men wire their bodies to grenades
jets sizzle blind from the deck of carriers
In the streets something dies

If our heads flamed here once
If together we rolled
and the sun rolled
like a pride of lions through the summer grass
and our teeth clicked with a fever
it was another world
where the day was called by your name and mine
and love was another name for sight

Now the cat stirs beside me
in the deep hair of its sleep
and my envy stirs
that last of my rights
even that frail mania

Too far arrived to go back
I see that I am what I always was

that ordinary man on his front steps
bewildered under the bright mess of the heavens
by the fierce indecipherable language of its stars

 

夏日小鎮

那些我們恍惚的中年生活中的小鎮
依然渺小如故

即使在夏天
街道仍是冰冷

在這兒,老人們在自己的故事裏遺忘了自己
月亮升起
一座塔將水的銀色星球托舉到空中

孩子們相信上帝
相信上帝的天氣造就的冰冷的花園

是什麼把如此貧乏的智慧
變成了意志的刀鋒?是什麼
把如此的困頓變成了沒有記憶的花叢?

我們不知道

今晚,男人們把自己的身體包裹成手榴彈
噴氣機從航空母艦的甲板上盲目地轟鳴而來
街巷裏,有什麼東西死去

如果我們的頭顱曾在此迸射光芒
如果我們曾一起翻滾而太陽
也像高傲的雄獅在夏日草地上翻滾
如果我們的牙齒曾在狂熱中喀嚓作響
那就是另外一個世界
在那兒,日子以你我的名字命名
而愛,則是視線的別名。

現在,在我的身邊
貓在牠沉睡的絨毛中騷動不寧
而我的嫉妒也攪動起
我最後的權利
甚至那脆弱的癲狂

走得太遠,我無法返回
我看見我依然是從前的自己

那個坐在臺階上的平凡的人
在天空那耀眼的混亂之下
被星星們難以破譯的凶猛的語言所迷惑

翻譯 © 胡續冬 & 韓金鵬

HORSES

Horses of earth
Horsed of water
Great horses of grey cloud

A blizzard of horses

Dust
and the ponies of dust
Horses of muscle and blood

Chestnuts Roans Blacks
Palominos
Wild dapple of Appaloosas

Spanish ponies
Cow ponies
Broncs    Mustángs
Arabians    Morgans    Tennessee    Walkers
Trotters
Shetlands
Massive matched Percherons

Horses
and the names of horses
Whirlaway Man O’ War Coaltown
Cannonero
Foolish Pleasure

Horses with tails of smoke
The giddy laughter of horses
Horses of war
their necks clothed in thunder
nostrils wide

The ground beneath them
terrible to look on

Horses of anger
Horses of cruelty
wringing the iron bit in their mouths

The horses of Psyche

Blake’s horses
The horses of instruction
Horses of breath

Dawn horses

And the one horse in the heart

that runs
and runs

 

土的馬
水的馬
灰雲的巨馬

馬的暴風雪

飛塵
飛塵的馬駒
肌肉和血液之馬

栗色馬    雜色馬    黑馬
帕洛米諾馬
阿帕盧薩馬瘋狂的花斑

西班牙矮種馬
牛仔牧馬
烈馬    野馬
阿拉伯馬    摩根馬    田納西走馬
快步馬
設德蘭馬
魁偉的潑雪龍馬成雙成對


還有馬的名字
旋走    戰者    煤鎮
加農炮手
一擲千金

馬的尾巴如煙
馬的笑聲暈眩
戰馬
脖子上套著雷霆
鼻孔張大

土地在牠們腳下
慘不忍睹

憤怒的馬
冷酷的馬
鐵嚼子在嘴中絞動

賽姬之馬

布萊克的馬
馬在傳授
馬在呼吸

黎明之馬

還有一匹住在心裏

牠疾馳
在疾馳

翻譯 © 史春波

譯註:「旋走」「戰者」「煤鎮」「加農炮手」「一擲千金」均為二十世紀有名的賽馬的名字,原文分別為「Whirlaway」「Man O’ War」「Coaltown」「Cannonero」「Foolish Pleasure」。

TO A COCKROACH

My cockroach,
my companion.
There is no easy way.

I’ve seen you drowned
in refrigerated butter.

In New York, one April,
touching a kitchen switch,
I flicked ordinary night
into delirium.

                          All
your old varieties
dizzying the wall
above the pitch and spill
of mouldering dishes.

Hysteria of survival
riding the light.

It comes on us suddenly.
Too quick to be cold.

I loved a girl once
who slammed you dead by half
dozens, night after night,
in a St. Louis railroad
flat. Her big box
of Ohio Blue Tips making
the cheap table silver
jump and ring. Jesus,
she was beautiful!

But you’re the perfect
survivor. Twenty-five
million years of humility.

Let’s hear it,
tiny jewels of typhoid,
for quickness, aliases:
Shiner. Steam Fly. Peri-
planeta americana.

La cucaracha, la cucaracha,
ya no puede caminar…
Drunker than artillery.

That girl I loved
I married. And this morning,
the wind lazy in the window
sheers, sheets rich
with the colors of privilege,
coupled jet fighters
from a nearby air base
sucking everything up,
every word up
into God’s roaring void,
I’m giddy.

Cockroach,
companion,
yours is the life that lasts,
the durable low babble.
Your eyes, quick and dark.
Mine, slow and blue.

 

致蟑螂

我的蟑螂,
我的夥伴。
我們別無選擇。

我曾見你溺死
在冷藏的黃油裏。

紐約的一個四月,
我碰了下廚房開關,
彈指間普通的夜晚
精神錯亂。

                       所有
你古老的變種
讓牆壁發暈,
碗碟在下方搖搖欲墜
即將朽壞。

幸免於難的歇斯底里
騎著光。

事發突然。
我們來不及顫慄。

我愛過一個姑娘
她曾拍死你們,半打
半打的,接連在夜晚
在聖路易斯火車廂似的
公寓裏。她那一大盒
俄亥俄藍頭火柴弄得
桌上的廉價餐具
跳躍嗡鳴。天啊,
她真美!

然而你才是完美的
倖存者者。兩千五百
萬年的謙卑。

讓我們有請
傷寒的小寶石,
有請速度,別名:
發光體,蒸汽蠅,Peri-
planeta americana

「蟑螂啊,蟑螂,
再也無法行走……」
爛醉如炮兵。

那個我愛的姑娘
我娶了她。今天早晨
風在透亮的窗紗裏
慵懶,床單富有
優越的色彩,
一對噴氣戰鬥機
從附近的空軍基地
吸捲起一切,
詞語上升
進入上帝怒吼的空虛,
我頭暈目眩。

哦蟑螂,
夥伴,
那得以延續的生命屬於你,
那持久低微的胡言亂語。
你的眼神迅疾而黑暗。
我的緩慢而空碧。

翻譯 © 史春波

譯註:Peri-planeta americana:蟑螂的拉丁學名,美洲蟑螂;

「蟑螂啊,蟑螂,再也無法行走,因為牠,少了啊,少了一條後腿」是著名墨西哥民謠《蟑螂之歌》中的疊句,詩中引用的是原西班牙語唱詞:

La cucaracha, la cucaracha,
ya no puede caminar…

LATE OCTOBER RAINY DAYS

Almost November.
Light the color and heft of lead.

Air raw with rain.

Last night, in a single swoon,
my neighbor’s ash dropped

all its leaves at once
in a weave thick and intricate—

one only some dreaming Emir’s
Persian carpet-master might dare—

green, brown, yellow-gold, plum.

*

Days like this,
I sometimes turn off all my study lights
and box the darkness in.

One lamp burning over my old black Selectric
like firelight.

Its heart humming.

*

Yesterday,

                                              for miles in every direction,

clouds of starlings ballooned, veering & twittering,
over cornfield & beanfield,

weedrow & swale.

Exfoliating. Infolding. Ribboning.

Black as a dictionary.
Black as the wobble at the pivot of your gaze.

There and not there.

Itself and the other.
Making and unmaking.
                                              Metadimensional.

A language all its own.

Congregation & ikon.

*

Early evening,

the sun has finally returned

surprising sky, houses, trees, the neighborhood’s scraggy lawns,
with fresh color.

Spanging gold off west-facing windows.

Its reflected light
mellowing down to the hue of the last of your last good scotch.

Birds homing to every bush and tree.

Little ones.
Bright eyes.

We earn our keep.

 

十月底,雨

十一月即將來臨。
光,鉛的顏色,鉛的重量。

昨夜,在一陣狂喜之中,
鄰居家的白蠟樹抖落了

它全部的葉子,旋即
一張厚實而精致的織毯——

只有某個酋長夢中
高明的波斯製毯師膽敢——

綠色,褐色,金黃,梅紅。

*

在這樣的日子,
我有時會關掉書房裏所有的燈
幽禁起黑暗。

有一盞在我老式的電動打字機上方燃燒
像爐膛裏的火。

心臟在哼唱。

*

昨天,

                                    從數英里內的每個方向,

椋鳥的雲團不斷膨脹,變換著角度啁啾不停,
下面是玉米地和豆田,

草壟和荒地。

剝落著。包裹著。飄揚的緞帶。

黑如字典。
黑如你眼窩中波動的凝視。

在也不在。

本身和他者。
構成與解構。
                                    超維度。

全屬自己的語言。

會眾和聖像。

*

臨近傍晚,
太陽終於歸來
奇襲天空,房屋,樹,鄰居頹廢的草坪,
用欲滴的色彩。

朝西的窗上有金子迸落。

它反射的光芒
化作你最後一口上等威士忌的芳醇。

灌木和樹迎來歸家的鳥。

小的鳥。
明亮的眼。

我們自食其力。

翻譯 © 史春波

BLACK ANGEL

The wind walks past my window again
wearing a dress of green leaves.
I look up. But no one’s there.
I’m studying A Field Guide to Wild-
flowers. I’ve just discovered
the tall, spiky ones on my back
slope, the ones with heads of tiny,
pink, rattler mouths, are woodbane,
and it seems to make a difference.
I’m curing herbs. Rose smell
of pepper. Pepper of fresh basil.
And here in the old root cellar
where I write, one good sentence
makes a difference. And Barber’s
Adagio for Strings. The opening
of the Boisvallee’s Religioso.
This poem is an adagio. A slow
yearning of winds and strings.
Like the hot August night I got
drunk with friends, and laughing
and sweating, we linked arms and lay
back in the deep wine, the cool
Einstinian space of summer grass,
streaming upward like angels,
past trees, past crumbling eaves
and stars, rising like music father
and father out the closer home.
So I’m checking the rue, the rose-
mary, the sweet marjoram. I’m closing
the book of flowers. All stories
yearn and sing, Rodina Feldevertova,
and that makes a difference.
The parsley will smell of England;
the oregano and basil of Greece;
the rosemary remind us of heaven.
They say you died, mysteriously,
at seventeen, homeward bound
on an Italian liner. Now you stand,
larger than life, over your own grave,
the famous Black Angel of Iowa City,
the iron cape of your wings
spreading its perfect shadow in perfect
sunlight, the right one pointed
upward to protect us, the left
touching the earth, to gather us in.

 

黑天使

風再次路過我的窗口
身著綠葉的盛裝。
我抬起頭。沒有人。
我在研習《野生花卉
指南》。我剛發現屋後山坡上
那些長釘似的植物,
那些長著粉紅色細小的
響尾蛇的嘴的,是忍冬,
這似乎非同尋常。
我在晾香草。玫瑰聞起來
像胡椒。胡椒像新鮮的羅勒。
我在這陳舊的根菜窖裏
寫作,一個好句子
非同尋常。還有巴伯的
弦樂柔板。德·柏瓦雷
虔誠的柔板的開頭。
這首詩就是一段柔板。
緩緩的對管弦的思念。
彷彿那個悶熱的八月夜晚
我跟朋友喝得大醉,我們大笑,
出汗,挽著胳膊仰臥在
酒的深處,在盛夏草地上
涼意習習的愛因斯坦空間,
像天使升向空中,
越過樹,越過瓦解的屋簷
和星辰,像音樂漸漸飄離
趨近一個神秘的家園。
我在查閱芸香,迷迭香,
甘甜的墨角蘭。合上
這本花之書。所有的故事
都思念和歌唱,費德維特家族
非同尋常。
香芹將沾上英格蘭的氣味;
牛至和羅勒沾上希臘;
迷迭香讓我們想起天堂。
他們說你死了,十七歲時
離奇死亡,在一艘返鄉的
意大利客船上。如今你站在這裏,
超出一生,俯視自己的墓,
愛荷華城著名的黑天使,
你翅膀那鐵鑄的披風
在陽光下抖開完美的
陰影,右翼指向高處
為了將我們庇護,左翼
迎向大地,要把我們聚攏。

翻譯 © 史春波

譯註:德·柏瓦雷:François de Boisvallée (1929~1973),法國作曲家,本名為Pierre Duclos;

費德維特家族:Rodina Feldevertova(捷克語),詩中著名的黑天使雕像即費德維特家族在愛荷華市奧克蘭墓園中的墓碑,1912年由特麗莎·費德維特為紀念死去的兒子和丈夫而定製。1924年特麗莎死後骨灰也安葬在碑下。因為銅像的表面經過多年的氧化變成黑色,所以民間流傳著很多與之相關的靈異傳說,至今興盛不衰。戴納詩中的說法為杜撰的一種。

AT SEVENTY

You don’t see yourself
in the morning mirror
anymore. And you tell
yourself you’re disloyal,
that you have a tin ear,
and can’t tell irony
from kvetch. So what?
At seventy, you no longer
expect old friends
to love you, and you’re
sick of stories of the past
because they no longer
matter. Nor do
the day-long silences
that sometimes fall on
you like a cool rain.

But you can’t stop there.
To get it exactly right,
you have to stand before
the window, before
the great scrim of sunlight
falling through the woods;
the green wall of leaves:
oak, hickory, feathery
hackberry, the wild cherry;
the dogberry fruiting;
darting shadows of birds;
hearing the thick rush of
wild flowers down the damp
slope; tasting the bitter
bite of black, thrice-
boiled, late-morning coffee.

Good luck’s your wife’s
laughter. And the yellow-
eyed, grey smoke cat,
der Meistersinger, who
keeps a clock in his belly
and knows what time it is.
And your small, muscular,
green-eyed, clouds-on-milk
cat, who seeks, each day
on the living room floor,
the exact center of the universe,
give or take an inch
or two, east or west, north
or south, curling herself
under on it, folding in
her long paws, bouldering in,
as if to mark it clearly,
hold it firmly in place.

 

在七十歲

你不再從
早晨的鏡子裏
照見自己。你告訴
自己你並不忠實,
你的耳朵不靈,
分辨不出反諷
和牢騷。那又怎樣?
在七十歲,你不再
指望老朋友
愛你,並且早已
厭倦了往日的軼事
因為它們已經
無關緊要。那些
時常落在你身上的
終日的靜默也不再
像清涼的雨。

但你無法止步於此。
准確地說,
你必須在窗前站定,
在陽光偉大的平紋
籠照樹林之前;
葉的綠牆:
橡樹,山胡桃,羽狀的
樸樹,野櫻桃;
山茱萸正結出果實;
鳥投出影子的飛鏢;
聽密集的野花
在潮濕山坡下
翻湧;嘗一口
苦澀的,熱了三次的
黑咖啡,中午已臨近。

好運是你妻子的
笑聲。還有那黃
眼睛,一團灰霧的貓,
「紐倫堡的名歌手」,他
把一隻鐘藏在肚子裏
確知每一刻的時辰。
而你肌肉發達的
綠眼睛的小貓,牛奶上的
雲,她每天都在
客廳的地板上尋找
宇宙精確的中心,
誤差不過一兩寸,
偏東或偏西,偏北
或偏南,她低低的
縮在上面,窩起
她的長爪,縮成一塊圓石,
彷彿要將它清楚地標記,
牢牢守在原地。

翻譯 © 史春波

3:10. JULY. 2009.

The sun’s effulgence like light from a dark diamond.

            Clouds so low we breathe them.

The brindled meadow.

                                       Dapple of shadows, stipple and ripple

of waters.

            The slow creeks. Bank full rivers.

                        The muddy flow and go of it all.

*

Is the sacred ever silent?
                                       Or does it babble and hum and whistle.
Continually. Invisibly.

The tongues of the leaves wagging.
                                                 Wash of wind through the grass.

A young woman wearing it on a hot day as a long flowing dress
            made of something just this side of air.

*

What do I wish?

                                   Or wish for?

At eighty and holding a short string
                                               strummed to a thread by cancer.
Short fuse.

An entirely different story? Or the same story?
                                                                      How would I know?
                        It’s all so obvious in its secrecy.

*

3:10.

            The afternoon sunk to uncharacteristic stillness.

            Below the burning bush, the silk of tent spiders melts away.

Is it better to be the teller of the tale? Or the subject of the story?
            All narratives being false.

                                The darkness dancing away beneath our feet.

 

2009. 7. 3:10

陽光彷彿源自一顆幽暗的鑽石。

            雲彩極低,我們將之呼吸。

印著花紋的草場。
                                陰影斑駁,點彩和漣漪
在水上。

            溪流徐緩。盛滿河的岸。

                           渾濁的流水它沖逝一切。

*

那神聖的是否也會沉默?
                                   是否也胡言亂語也低聲哼唱也吹響口哨。
持續。無形。

樹葉如舌頭顫抖。
                                       風在草間沖洗。

年輕的姑娘在熱天裏穿上它如同一條流動的長裙
            以恰似空氣的材料製成。

*

我有何所願?

                                何所求?

八十歲,手中一根短弦
                                       已被癌症拉奏得纖細。

導火線變短。

故事全然不同?或本無不同?
                                                  我如何知曉?
                           一切都在自身的隱秘中顯而易見。

*

3:10

               下午陷入平庸的死寂。

               燃燒的灌木叢下,蜘蛛的銀帳篷隱去。

最好成為那講故事的人?還是故事的主角?
               一切敘述都是虛構。

                                   黑暗跳著舞在我們腳下消失。

翻譯 © 史春波

.COM

My neighbor across the street
and down, died this morning.
Of colon cancer. Ending
four months of watching
birds in his back yard,
and eating ice cream, his pain
dumbed by a morphine drip
so carefully calibrated
only a machinist, which
he was, could fully
appreciate it. And his wife.
Such a fine and terrible
day to close out a life.
The first morning, really,
you could see your breath;
sunlight slicking every
still-green leaf. The air
windless, brisk, and edgy.

Then, the white van. Not
a hearse. A plain white
van in the drive. No
lettering at all. Just
two men. One in an uncle’s
tired brown suit; his bulky
companion in shirtsleeves
following; both walking
as if in bedroom slippers;
wheeling their gurney up
the lawn to the rear of the house
through the sparkling dew,
past the red geraniums
and drifts of pink impatiens
www.death.com.
It’s early. No children
maunder yet toward their
orange bus. And young
couples, behind the closed
doors of their duplexes,
ready themselves for a day’s
work. Not a car passes.
In such suburbs, no
aproned women approach
death’s door bearing
covered dishes. Later,
I’ll remember how he gave
away his last precision
tools. And still later,
bedroom shades will be
raised, windows opened,
and air enter the house,
and light, and silence.

 

.com

住在我家斜對面
的鄰居,今天早上死了。
結腸癌。最後四個月
他一直在觀察後院的鳥,
吃冰激淩,他的疼痛
在一小滴嗎啡之下
無聲無息,嗎啡的劑量
被量取得過於精確,
對此感到激賞的
只有曾經是機械師的他。
還有他的妻子。
如此美好而可怕的一天
了結了一條命。
真的,這是你能夠看見
自己呼吸的第一個早晨;
陽光擦亮每一片
仍然綠著的葉子。空氣
窒悶,刻薄,急躁不安。

然後,來了輛白色面包車。
不是靈車。一輛普普通通的
白色面包車開了過來。車身上
一個字也沒有。只有
兩個人。一個穿著一套
叔叔輩的人穿的灰衣服,
他肥胖的同伴沒穿外套
跟在身後;兩個人都像是
穿著臥室的拖鞋在走。
他們把擔架車推上草坡,
穿過閃亮的露水,
紅色的天竺葵,
一大叢粉色的鳳仙花,
來到屋子後面——
www.死亡.com
還早了點。還沒有小孩
唧唧喳喳地走向
橙色的校車。年輕的夫婦
在他們的複式公寓
緊閉的門後
准備開始一天的
勞作。沒有一輛車經過。
在這樣一個郊區,沒有
系著圍裙的女人端著
扣起的盤子走近
死亡之門。晚些時候,
我會記起他是如何
送掉他最後的
精密工具。再晚一些,
臥室的窗簾將被
拉起,窗戶將會打開,
空氣將進入屋內,
接著是光,接著是沉寂。

翻譯 © 胡續冬 & 史春波