——罗伯特。宝莱特（美）
在宾。克罗斯比的歌剧《高高的骑士》结尾，
他的马会被埋在他倒下的跑道中
这被当作我们所有人的一个教训，悲伤的，好笑的宾
以及暴徒们不想让百老汇的比尔获得胜利。所以杰克
拉着缰绳直到纯种马在完成第一炮道时
受伤。.暴跌，心脏病
我爱你像吉他的弦断了
在笨拙的信仰手中——
某些事像那样……
假如我一直想着你那复杂而美丽的手
除了想象要求我拥有吉他，如果不是你，并且弦断了。当
扩音器对着起跑门一遍又一遍地向骑士喊
轨道服务生和讲话的人，射击名手和象棋大师
摔跤选手和小骗子，各自饰演他们的角色
抢劫团伙戴上他们的面具
沙丽将背叛乔治，约翰妮将不会爱芬
手提箱中的命运刚刚吹散
Three Horse Operas
by Robert Polito
At the end of Bing Crosby’s Riding High his horse
Will be buried in the clay of the racetrack where he fell,
As a lesson for all of us. Sad, waggish Bing,
The Mob didn’t want Broadway Bill to win, so the jockey
Pulled on the reins until the thoroughbred, straining
Over the finish line first, collapsed, heart attack.
I loved you like a guitar string breaking
Under the conviction of a clumsy hand—
Something like that . . . I suppose I must have
Been thinking of you and your complex and beautiful band,
Except the image demands I hold the guitar,
If not you, and the broken string, as
Over and over loudspeakers call riders to the starting gate.
The track bartender and a teller, a sharpshooter and the chess master
Wrestler, the petty con man and a cop, reprise their parts.
The heist gang dons clown masks, and
Sherry will betray George, and Johnny can’t love Fay,
And the fortune in the suitcase just blows away.
夜晚
——拉菲尔.巴尔迪尼（意大利）
整夜他们一直在敲打
但我下楼,那里竟无一人
一定是那些让我发疯的小伙子，
现在是两点钟，他们将我完全搞乱
“你不该起床，就让他们敲吧”
可是我，如果听到有人在楼下
我不能仅仅是翻来覆去，
我去看，或者不去，任选一种
可我在那里不停烦躁，无法入睡，
可是当时，“赶紧过来，谁在谈论关于死亡的问题”
他们敲打，他们只是敲打，当时无关紧要，
夜晚对于我，真是度日如年，无可奈何
我可以休息，那儿，我一直观察
坐在床上，听火车经过
我实在无法忍受，瞌睡着，睡眠
被破坏的每一秒钟，躺在那里折磨你自己的
每一秒钟该是多么好。
我穿上拖鞋下楼。
关了灯，前前后后走动
喝了杯水，如果有东西剩下我还会吃
一块奶酪，一串葡萄
我拾掇了，“哦，夜晚
我有够多可做的”
之后我感到有点累，便返回楼上
我躺在床上等着，看睡眠是否会来，敢打赌我会等到。
看起来我仍旧醒着，或者我在梦到它。
如果我仅仅是真的做梦，但那是位于
夜晚的钟点，那儿是Campanone,
我不仅听了一个钟点，还听了半个钟。
然后我所有的努力白费
我下楼，
闪出门，到街上，能走多远是多远
然后我返回来，但无论如何都不轻松
我嘟囔着，抗议着，低头走着
我拉开抽屉，够了够了，我累了
睡眠，时间
关于它这儿没有单独的事可做
我走向外面的人行道坐下来
能获得新鲜空气，这儿比躺在床上好多了
我看了眼患病的夹竹桃
它正在向我盯着的
砌砖地上掉叶子，
夜间工作的人骑着他们的电动自行车
在伯尔格，我看到窗户上的灯光
那会是谁？我在那儿反复琢磨
车轮转出他们想要的任何东西
像这样的事突然出现在我脑海里
关于时间我有了个重大思考
我甚至不打算告诉其他人
即使一个外乡人经过，一个
看不见灵魂的旅行者
即便今晚，
我必须向下走六到七次
时间看起来绝对喜欢敲打着的他们。
Night
by Raffaello Baldini
All night long they’ve been knocking,
but when I went down, no one was there.
It’s got to be those kids who make me so mad,
it’s two o’clock now, they got me all flustered.
You shouldn’t get up, just let them knock,
but I, if I hear that there’s someone downstairs,
I can’t just roll back over,
I go and see, if I don’t go, either way,
I’m there worrying, I’m not going to fall asleep.
But then, come on now, who’s talking about sleeping,
they knock, they just knock, it doesn’t matter when,
for me nights, it’s been years, there’s just no way
I can rest, there I am keeping watch,
sitting on the bed, hearing the train passing.
I just can’t take it anymore, sleeping, every second
my sleep gets broken, and what good is it lying there tormenting yourself,
I put on my slippers, I go downstairs,
I turn on the light, walk back and forth,
drink a glass of water, I’ll even eat if there’s something left,
a slice of cheese, a bunch of grapes,
I straighten things, oh, in the night
I’ve got plenty to do,
then when I’m a little tired I go back upstairs,
I lie down in bed and I wait
to see if sleep is going to come, you bet I wait,
it seems like I’m still awake, or am I dreaming it,
if only I were really dreaming it, but there’s the clock
on the night stand, and there’s the Campanone,
I don’t only hear the hour, I hear the half-hour too,
but then later I get all riled up,
I go downstairs,
slip out the door, go as far as the street,
then come back inside, but I’m not at ease anywhere,
I’m grumbling, I’m protesting, I’m walking with my head down,
I’m opening up drawers, enough’s enough, I’m tired,
sleep, time,
there’s not a single thing you can do about it,
I go and sit down on the step outside,
to get some fresh air, which is better than lying in bed,
I look at that oleander which is sick,
it’s losing its leaves,
down over there I hear, at the brickworks,
the ones working the night shift with their motorbikes,
in the Borgo I see a light in a window,
who can it be? I’m there thinking this over,
the wheels turn however they want to,
things like this just pop into my mind,
and I have great deliberations about them.
I wouldn’t even mind talking to someone else,
if an outsider passes by, a traveller,
but there’s not a soul in sight.
Even tonight,
I must have gone down six or seven times,
it seemed absolutely like they were knocking.
—Translated from the romagnole dialect of Italian by Adria Bernardi
(Published as “La nòta” (La notte) in La nàiva, Furistír, Ciacri (Einaudi, 2000))
(AGNI 58)
拉斐尔。巴尔蒂尼生于1924年意大利桑塔堪格罗，自从1955年起生活在米兰。他出版了四本诗集。
Raffaello Baldini was born in 1924 in Santarcangelo di Romagna and has lived in Milan since 1955. He has published four poetry collections, each written in the romagnolo dialect: E’ solitèri (Galeati, 1976), La nàiva (Einaudi, 1982), Furistír (Einaudi, 1988), Ad Nòta (Mondadori, 1995), and La nàiva, Furistír, Ciacri (Einaudi, 2000). Baldini has written three theatrical monologues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti! and In fondo a destra (Einaudi, 1998). His collection Furistír was awarded the Viareggio Prize, and Ad nòta was awarded the Bagutta Prize. (9/2003)
Adria Bernardi is the author of In the Gathering Woods, a collection of stories awarded the 2000 Drew Heinz Prize (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2000), and a novel, The Day Laid on the Altar (University Press of New England/Plume, 1999), which was awarded the 1999 Bakeless Fiction Prize. She is currently teaching in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. (9/2003)
《对于明天》
约翰。戴蒙德。奈儿（美）
曾经，走向大楼看起来那么容易，向上
向上，向上，当我们去地基时
讲着同样的语言。托梁、地板、墙和椽
但现在工作停止了，我们不再讲话。你的语言
听起来像蓝鸟吵架，几乎是另一种特别的
演讲。你讲“跑”这个单词有点像我讲的
“盲目”，你的“灰泥”接近我的“明天”
你的语言中，看起来，没有一个单词是
针对明天的。雨开始下了，我们收拾起工具
走向我们不同的方向。我乘小车离开，你像来时那样
乘船离开。我们至少要挥手再见
已经，似乎是，轻微的敌人。多年后，我停下来
看了眼那房子，夹板在脱皮，
镍质灰。豪猪的家庭在地板下烦躁不安
一个单词为我们剩下相同的
单词“鸟”或“失去领地”
For Tomorrow
by John Diamond-Nigh
Once it seemed so easy to go on building, up
up, up, and speak the same language as we went.
Foundation, joists, flooring, walls and rafters.
But now work stops, we can no longer talk. Your language
sounds like quarrelling bluejays, almost another species
of speech. Your word for run is a little like my word
for blindness, your word for mortar close to mine
for tomorrow. Your language, it seems, doesn't have a word
for tomorrow. Rain begins so we gather our tools
and go our separate ways. I leave by car, you leave as you
came, by boat. We manage at least to shake hands good-bye,
already, it seems, slight enemies. Years later I stopped
to look at the house. The plywood was peeling,
nickel-gray. A family of porcupines fidgeted under the floor.
One word had remained the same for us both,
the word for bird or lost domain.
(Web exclusive)
John Diamond-Nigh is a poet, sculptor, and designer who works particularly with paper and the combinations of word and image. He teaches part-time in upstate New York, where he lives with his two muses: his wife and cat. (2003)
诗歌在房子的记忆中
胡唐晖（英）
在整个山脚，人家们一直向上
你得背转过来一会儿
再突然出现！向上走到一个新房子前
无尽的木柱像耶稣受难的
情景。用步话机武装起来的
房地产代理商向半完工的
草地吼叫。车道潮湿
且正冻结。没有什么能
阻止他们。他们有贵族
希尔希的样子正讽刺大海
Poem in Memory of a House
by Tung-Hui Hu
Homes were going up all over the hillside.
You'd turn your back for a second
and pop! up went a new house.
Endless columns of wood like a scene
of the crucifixion. Real estate agents
armed with walkie-talkies barking at
half-finished meadows, driveways
wet and congealing. Nothing could
stop them. They had the noble
look of Xerxes lashing the sea.
Tung-Hui Hu's first collection of poems, The Book of Motion, is due out this fall from the University of Georgia Press. A Ph.D. student in the architecture program at UC Berkeley, he has also contributed recently to the Ontario Review. (6/03)
埋葬他们
——哈金（美）
最后我们的帝国发出命令——
“我们开始没收书籍并围捕学者
他们诽谤了贵族家庭
用古代故事笑弄当下”
我们帝国的所有书籍除了
农业、预言、医药都要在
一个月内交给官员
违抗者将遭到部落清洗
大约五百个学者被带给
比利斯。霍尔，让他们在
学识和雄辩中竞赛的执行官审讯
我们的剑在阳光下闪着锋芒
通过打开的窗户涌入
他们的脸突然变得煞白
用一个个指头指点着面面相觑
并试图用一个个小诡计挽回他们的面子
在他们的袍子下做一些小动作和小赌注
有人在他的诡计中屏住呼吸
为神的惩罚感谢上帝吧
他们当中，至少四百人被抓走
把他们扔进联合坟墓
我们兴奋起来，用我们之前击打他们的剑
拍击、鞭策他们
他们伶俐的舌头怎么使用？
他们那满脑袋的知识在哪里？
在我们的铲子下，书的烟灰中
他们尖叫着妈妈，喊我们哥哥
没有一句话能阻止污泥像瀑布落下
Burying Them
by Ha Jin
At last our Emperor gave orders—we began
confiscating books and rounding up scholars
who had slandered the royal family
using ancient stories to mock the present.
All books in our Empire had to be surrendered
to officials within a month, except those
on agriculture, divination, and medicine.
Disobeyers would have their clans erased.
About five hundred scholars were taken
to Bliss Hall to be tried by the ministers
who matched them in learning and eloquence.
Our swords were gleaming in the sunlight
that poured in through the open windows.
How pasty their faces suddenly turned.
They pointed a finger at one another
trying every trick to save their own skins;
some peed and crapped in their robes,
one stopped breathing before his trial.
Thank heaven for the divine retribution—
over four hundred of them were hauled out
and dumped into their joint grave.
We had fun, slapping and spanking them
with our swords before we knocked them down.
Of what use were their clever tongues?
Where were their headfuls of knowledge?
Under our shovels, in the smoke of books,
they screamed Mother and called us Brothers,
but no words could deter cascades of dirt.
《新时代》
——卡特。布朗（美）
那是害虫的旺盛期：
黄鼠狼为公共主席，老鼠为市长。
瘟疫肆虐，疯狂
然后来了猫的管理
接着是狗的统治
在猴子的时代，美元
控制了城市，它的老主顾们
四面出击，抓走他们生殖器上的虱子。
这需要人的出现来救治。
现在大街是干净的
曾被大粪堆积、倾倒盖过的城市；
所有的头发从被忽视的大街上打扫干净。
这是新时代的黎明！
然后是慢性病毒统治的来临
A New Age
by Kurt Brown
It was the heyday of vermin:
weasel for Police Chief, mouse for Mayor.
Pestilence reigned, and frenzy.
Then came the administration of cats,
followed by the rule of dogs.
By the time of monkeys, an afternoon dolor
gripped the city. Its denizens
lay about, picking lice off their genitals.
This was remedied by the advent
of humans. Now streets were cleaned,
feces piled up and dumped
beyond the city; all hair swept clean
from neglected streets.
It was the dawning of a new age!
Then came the reign of the lowly virus.
(AGNI 51)
Kurt Brown’s first full-length collection of poems, Return of the Prodigals, was published by Four Way Books in 1999. He lives with his wife, the poet Laure-Anne Bosselaar, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. (2000)
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