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诗歌:《蓝莓》就是你想象的生活

(2007-05-08 12:47:59)
标签:

蓝莓

家园

地产

记忆

分类: 转载·转载

落落按:在张万新大哥的博客里看到徐淳刚大哥译的这首诗歌,非常喜欢。昨天晚上我看贾樟柯的新片《东》,半记录片半剧情片的形式很爽。真实、物化、隐忍、随性。从我观察的很多东西来说,我觉得这个世界的所有艺术,包括文学、绘画以及音乐,甚至连广告都在朝着写实的方向发展,当然,这种写实的手法是在不断变化和创新的。这个世界风起云涌,瞬息万变,稍纵即逝,太多的东西需要记录和收藏,并用挤出来的时间想象和思考了。

这首诗歌以“对话”的方式来完成了作者的叙述和思想的传达,从文字来说,我觉得更是一篇很好的地产文案。对方的每一个提问稍加变动就可以是一个很好的题目。

 

□ 蓝莓

 

译者:徐淳刚
作者:弗罗斯特

 

“你应该见过,我在去村子的路上
看到的,就在我今天穿过莫德森牧场:
蓝莓像你的拇指根儿一样大,
真正的天蓝色,沉甸甸的,像是等着
掉进第一个来这儿的桶里去打鼓!
全都熟了,并不是有的青绿
有的成熟!你应该看见过!”

 

“我不知道,你说的是牧场的哪块儿。”

 

“你知道,他们在那儿砍过树——让我想想——
是两年前——好像不对——或者
比这还要晚?——反正,接下来是秋天
大火蔓延,把那里烧得只剩下墙壁。”

 

“不对吧?那里还不可能长出灌木什么的。
尽管那条路,总会长满蓝莓:
现在,在松树下的任何地方,还看不到
它们的一点点儿影子,
要是,没有松树的话,你就是把
整个牧场都烧光,哪怕不剩一片羊齿草
或者蒿子,更别说一根树枝,
可是很快,莓子就会在你周围冒出来
像魔术师的把戏一样,难以理解。”

 

“它们,一定是用炭灰给自己上肥呢。
有时,我在那儿就闻到了烟灰味儿。
毕竟,它们真是给黑檀树笼罩着:
那种蓝,好像是风吹来的薄雾,
但是,如果你用手一碰,它就变得黯淡了,
还不如制革的人采的那种棕褐色。”

 

“莫德森知道他有这些莓子吗,你想?”

 

“可能吧,但他不会在意,他不会
离开,丢下他的红眼小鸟不管。
当然,他不会弄出个什么理由
不让别人去他那里——他就是这种人。”

 

“我想,你在那儿没见到劳恩吧。”

 

“不,我正好见到他了。你不知道,
我正要穿过那片蓝莓
再绕过围墙,走上大路时,
就见他赶着马车经过,
拉着他那叽叽喳喳的一家子,
但是劳恩,这个当爸的,他停下是为拾掇车。”

 

“他看见你了?然后,怎么样?他不高兴?”

 

“他,只是对我连连点头。
你知道,他每次都这么客气。
但是,他显然在想一件重要的事,
——我从他的眼里能看出来——:
‘我的莓子还在那儿呢,我猜它们
已经熟透了。唉,我该为这事感到惭愧。’”

 

“他这个人,比我能叫上名字的人都要勤俭。”

 

“或许,他真的勤俭;这也应该,
不是有那么多张小嘴等着他喂呢嘛。
人家说,他喂给孩子的都是野莓子,
喂鸟似的。他家在别处还储存了不少。
他们常年都吃这个,吃不了的
他就放到商店里卖掉,给娃买鞋穿。”

 

“谁会在意别人说什么?这样挺好,
只得到老天爷愿意赏赐的,
而没逼着他去耙地、犁地。”

 

“我希望,你改天瞧瞧他那么深地哈腰——
还有那些小家伙的脸。他们没一个回头,
看上去既严肃又荒谬。”

 

“我要是知道,他们知道的一半就好了,
就是,所有的莓子和其它的果子在哪里,
或许,酸果蔓长在沼泽里,悬钩子则在
满是鹅卵石的山顶上,想摘就去摘。
有一天,我碰到他们,他们每个人都把花
插在像阵雨一样新鲜的莓子里;
一些奇怪的种类——他们说这东西没名字。”

 

“我给你说过,我们来这儿不久,
我几乎使劳恩这个穷鬼变得乐观起来。
就说那次吧,我一个人去他那儿,
问他,知不知道有什么野莓子
可以摘。这狗日的,他说,如果他知道
倒是很乐意说出来,但是年景不好。
有个地方长过一些——现在,全不见了。
他就是不说它们长在哪儿。他还说:
‘我保证——我保证’——尽量客气,好让我信。
他对站在门里的妻子说,‘让我想想,
娃他妈,我们不知道哪里有莓子,对不对?’
这就是他那张坦率的脸所说出的全部。”

 

“如果,他认为所有的莓子都是为他长的,
那他就错了。要是有兴致,
今年,我们就到莫德森家的牧场那儿去摘。
我们早上去,就是说,如果天气好,
阳光暖暖地照着,那蔓一定还是湿的。
已经好长时间没摘莓子,我几乎忘了
我们以前是咋样摘莓子的:我们总是
四处看看,然后像轮流唱歌一样隐现,
谁也看不见谁,也听不到声,
除非当你说,我把一只鸟
吓得飞离了窝,我就说,那是你干的。
‘好,反正是我们中的一个。’像是在抱怨
那只鸟绕着我们打转。然后
我们摘了一会儿莓子,直到我担心你走远了
甚至把你弄丢了。因为距离远
我大声喊着你,声音传了出去,
但你答应的时候,声却很低
就像在说话——你在我跟前冒了出来,记得不?”

 

“也许,我们在那儿找不到乐趣——
不太可能,因为劳恩的孩子都要去。
他们明天就去,甚至今天晚上。
他们不会对我们客气——也说不定——
因为,在他们眼里,别人无权
去他们正摘莓子的那块儿摘。但是,我们不管这些。
你应该见过,莓子在雨中是什么样子,
在层层枝叶中间,蓝莓和水珠混在一起,
就像两种珍宝,像小偷一眼瞅见的。”

 

Blueberries

 

By Robert Frost

 

"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"
"I don't know what part of the pasture you mean."
"You know where they cut off the woods--let me see--
It was two years ago--or no!--can it be
No longer than that?--and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they're up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick."
"It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they're ebony skinned:
The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned."
"Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?"
"He may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them for him--you know what he is.
He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us other folk out."
"I wonder you didn't see Loren about."
"The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should come by, with a democrat-load
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive."
"He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?"
"He just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But he thought a big thought--I could tell by his eye--
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
'I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'"
"He's a thriftier person than some I could name."
"He seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need,
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They store a great many away.
They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet."
"Who cares what they say? It's a nice way to live,
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow."
"I wish you had seen his perpetual bow--
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned."
"I wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange kind--they told me it hadn't a name."
"I've told you how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been some berries--but those were all gone.
He didn't say where they had been. He went on:
'I'm sure--I'm sure'--as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, 'Let me see,
Mame, we don't know any good berrying place?'
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.
"If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year.
We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It's so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.
'Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking--you stood up beside me, you know."
"We sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy--
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They won't be too friendly--they may be polite--
To people they look on as having no right
To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain.
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves."

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