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〔英国〕 泰德·休斯:《黄水仙》

(2007-01-10 00:12:33)
标签:

休斯

泰德

hughes

ted

诗歌

黄水仙

英国

poem

poet

分类: 翻译

(*啃了一首长的,不知道自己为什么会选择这首。)

 

黄水仙

泰德·休斯/作,张文武/译

 

还记得我们怎样去摘黄水仙吗?
没有人记得了,除了我。
你的女儿急切而幸福地抱着花儿跑过来,
帮我们采摘。她忘了。
她甚至不记得你了。然后我们卖了花儿。
听起来像是亵渎,但是我们卖了她们。
我们就这么穷吗?老斯通曼,那个独眼的
杂货商,他的血管像甘蓝一样紫
(这是他的最后一次了,
他将和你一样,死在同一场严寒中)。
他劝我们。每年春天
他总是要买我们的花,七便士一打。
“这屋子的惯例。”

 

而我们仍然不太清楚,我们想拥有
一切。主要是我们太饿了,
想把一切东西都变成利润。
我们依然是流浪者,依然是异乡人,
对我们拥有的一切而言。黄水仙
为一切镀上了金边,
是一个宝藏。她们就这么来了,
并不断地来临。
仿佛不是来自故乡,而是从天堂坠落。
我们的生活吞噬了我们自己的好运。
我们知道我们将永远活下去,却没有发现
这些黄水仙是对永恒的匆匆一瞥。
从来没有认出
这罕见的蜉蝣的婚飞——
我们自己的日子!

我们以为那是一场意外之财。
从来不去猜想她们是最后的好运。
于是我们卖了她们。我们忙着卖她们,
仿佛是受雇在别人的花圃里
干活。你弯腰苦干
在四月的雨里——你的最后一个四月。
我们一起弯着腰苦干,在她们密密的
轻声尖叫的花茎之间,潮湿的花丛抖动着
她们少女的舞衣——
稚嫩的蜻蜓,潮湿而单薄,
出来得太早。

 

我们把她们纤弱的身体堆在木匠的长凳上,
为一打打花束分配叶子——
弯曲的叶片,多么柔软,抚摩着空气,锌白色
——
将她们去皮后的根放在水桶中,
她们那椭圆的,肉乎乎的根,
然后卖掉她们,七便士一束——


蜿蜒曲折,黑暗的泥土中的痉挛,
伴着那没有气味的金属,
深墓里石头的寒冷,火焰般纯洁,
仿佛冰也有气息——

 

我们卖了她们,直到枯萎。
庄稼越来越茂密,我们都来不及将她们匀一匀。
后来,我们过于激动
丢失了我们那作为结婚礼物的剪刀。

 

每年三月,她们便从同样的球茎里
长出来,解冻的季节,传来
同样的婴儿的啼哭。音乐还未响起
便早早出场的芭蕾舞女演员,
在一年中冷风呼啸的时刻瑟瑟发抖。
她们在记忆的潮涌中扑动,
她们重游故地,却忘了
在一个黑色的四月,你蹲在雨中
剪去她们的茎干。

 

而在某个地方,你的剪刀会记得。不管它在哪里。
这儿,某个地方,剪刀大开着,
一个又一个四月
不断地沉入地下
穿过故乡——一只锚,一只生锈的十字。

 

 

 

Daffodils
 
  Remember how we picked the daffodils?
Nobody else remembers, but I remember.
Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy,
Helping the harvest. She has forgotten.
She cannot even remember you. And we sold them.
It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them.
Were we so poor? Old Stoneman, the grocer,
Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot
(It was his last chance,
He would die in the same great freeze as you) ,
He persuaded us. Every Spring
He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen,
'A custom of the house'.

Besides, we still weren't sure we wanted to own
Anything. Mainly we were hungry
To convert everything to profit.
Still nomads-still strangers
To our whole possession. The daffodils
Were incidental gilding of the deeds,
Treasure trove. They simply came,
And they kept on coming.
As if not from the sod but falling from heaven.
Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck.
We knew we'd live forever. We had not learned
What a fleeting glance of the everlasting
Daffodils are. Never identified
The nuptial flight of the rarest ephemera-
Our own days!
We thought they were a windfall.
Never guessed they were a last blessing.
So we sold them. We worked at selling them
As if employed on somebody else's
Flower-farm. You bent at it
In the rain of that April-your last April.
We bent there together, among the soft shrieks
Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken
Of their girlish dance-frocks-
Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy,
Opened too early.

We piled their frailty lights on a carpenter's bench,
Distributed leaves among the dozens-
Buckling blade-leaves, limber, groping for air, zinc-silvered-
Propped their raw butts in bucket water,
Their oval, meaty butts,
And sold them, sevenpence a bunch-

Wind-wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave's stony cold
As if ice had a breath-

We sold them, to wither.
The crop thickened faster than we could thin it.
Finally, we were overwhelmed
And we lost our wedding-present scissors.

Every March since they have lifted again
Out of the same bulbs, the same
Baby-cries from the thaw,
Ballerinas too early for music, shiverers
In the draughty wings of the year.
On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering
They return to forget you stooping there
Behind the rainy curtains of a dark April,
Snipping their stems.

But somewhere your scissors remember. Wherever they are.
Here somewhere, blades wide open,
April by April
Sinking deeper
Through the sod-an anchor, a cross of rust.

Ted Hughes

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