加载中…【尤瑟夫·科曼亚卡的诗】
(2014-04-23 17:45:28)
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文化 |
Yusef Komunyakaa
城市改造
隔着浓浊的尘埃，
太阳徐徐向西边滑去，
拉开今天生活的角度。一切
融化，即使当支柱
受冲压形成绷紧的工字梁。
密集的锤打落下，石头
化作干燥的空气。
在每一个脚步下，松散的铁块
奏出单调的音符。抢险的工友们，
不要妄图抓住一只麻雀，
在它的翅膀未化成碎片前。蓝色号角
彰显慈悲？还是高贵的血统？没有什么
除了缺席的单调气味。
粗大的铁棒在挥舞，时间停留在
鸽子低咕叫的屋檐，
而此时，它的黑色羽毛正飘摇在
蓝图上的停车场。
Yusef Komunyakaa——【Urban Renewal】
The sun slides down behind brick
dust,
today’s angle of life.
Everything
melts, even when backbones
are I-beams braced for
impact.
Sequential sledgehammers fall, stone
shaped into dry air
white soundsystem of
loose metal
under every footstep. Wrecking
crews,
men unable to catch sparrows without
breaking
wings into splinters.
Blues-horn
mercy. Bloodlines. Nothing
but the white odor of
absence.
The big iron ball
swings, keeping time
to pigeons cooing in eaves
as black
feathers
float on to blueprint
parking lots.
断臂的女孩
你穿过就职途中的那片废墟，
它在阳光的浇洒下，
幻成了另一番完全不同的样貌，
宛如垂降的冰雹抑或是溶解的银器，
它的明亮与壮丽，
迅速地交融每一片树叶与每一块石子，
而且你无法抓住它们，
你无法抓住任何东西——
世界在躲避着你，
当他们保持着躯体健全并自由伸展时，
你的双臂却被摘除。
你触摸不了那咫尺的距离。
你转了转眼珠子，突然向前迈去，
推开那束缚你的距离，
就像卡车装上了轮子，
驶过障碍物与颠簸的路面，
挣脱了那无形的枷锁。
地平线上的金字塔与办公室，
在熠熠闪光并逐渐消失。
那里有一个纯净的圆圈，
没有人能够进入，
你却做到了。
你突破了这个死亡地带，
并且待在里面，
哀悼，只因它过于纯净。
喏，这就是那个女孩，
她穿着白色的裙子，
是纯洁的化身，
或者是色彩调制失败的杰作。
她没有双臂，这是真的。
当他们摘除了她的双臂时，
空气也忍不住哽咽，
就像热沙蒸腾出光环，
却发不出声音。
所有的一切都被她的血浸染。
只有一个女孩能够体会
那发生在你身上的一切，
因为她也有这番遭遇。
如果她在这里，
她会向你伸手，
并且触摸你——
用看不见的双手。
你不会有任何感觉，
不过她确是触摸到了你。
Margaret Atwood, "Girl Without Hands"
Walking through the ruins
on your way to work
that do not look like ruins
with the sun pouring over
the seen world
like hail or melted
silver, that bright
and magnificent, each leaf
and stone quickened and specific in it,
and you can’t hold it,
you can’t hold any of it. Distance surrounds you,
marked out by the ends of your arms,
when they are stretched to their fullest.
You can go no farther than this,
you think, walking forward,
pushing the distance in front of you,
like a metal cart on wheels
with its barriers and horizontals.
Appearance melts away from you,
the offices and pyramids
on the horizon shimmer and cease.
No one can enter that circle
you have made, that clean circle
of dead space you have made
and stay inside,
mourning because it is clean.
Then there’s the girl, in the white dress,
meaning purity, or the failure
to be any colour. She has no hands, it’s true.
The scream that happened to the air
when they were taken off
surrounds her now like an aureole
of hot sand, of no sound.
Everything has bled out of her.
Only a girl like this
can know what’s happened to you.
If she were here she would
reach out her arms towards
you now, and touch you
with her absent hands
and you would feel nothing, but you would be
touched all the same.
花园
她路过花园小径边的栏杆，
宛如一缕轻丝撩向青墙。
情感的苍白会消解花的容光，
她正迈向死亡。
周围尽是庸众的肮脏。
还有不知窘困的婴儿，
他们茁壮，生命顽强。
他们将继承这片土壤。
而她，终结了生育，
她的厌倦细腻且绵长。
我猜她需要一个人互述衷肠，
可我滞足不前，
因我的轻率不懂潜藏。
Ezra Pound, “The Garden”
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a
wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington
Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anemia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very
poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
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