拉塞尔·埃德森(Russell Edson, 1935- )：拉塞尔·埃德森，二十世纪美国著名诗人，以寓言式散文诗体驰名于当今美国诗坛，他先后出版了《那发生的非常之事》(1964)、《一个人所见之物》 (1969)、《平静的剧院》(1973)、《一个骑手的童年》(1973)、《直觉的旅程及其它作品》(1976)、《不切实际的人从不悲伤的原因》 (1977)、《受创的早餐》(1985)等多部散文诗集，1995年又出版其散文诗选集《隧道》

Mr. Brain

Mr Brain was a hermit dwarf who liked to eat shellfish off
the moon. He liked to go into a tree then because there is a
little height to see a little further, which may reveal now the
stone, a pebble--it is a twig, it is nothing under the moon that
you can make sure of.

  So Mr Brain opened his mouth to let a moonbeam into his head.

  Why to be alone, and you invite the stars to tea. A cup of
tea drinks a luminous guest.

  In the winter could you sit quietly by the window, in the
evening when you could have vinegar and pretend it to be
wine, because you would do well to eat doughnuts and
pretend you drink wine as you sit quietly by the window. You
may kick your leg back and forth. You may have a tendency
to not want to look there too long and turn to find darkness in
the room because it had become nighttime.

  Why to be alone. You are pretty are you not/you are as
pretty as you are not, or does that make sense.

  You are not pretty, that is how you can be alone. And
then you are pretty like fungus and alga, you are no one
without some one, in theory alone.

  Be good enough to go to bed so you can not think too
much longer.

 
                     (by Russell Edson)

布瑞先生

布瑞先生是个矮个儿的隐者，他喜欢在月亮下吃贝类
他喜欢钻到树上，这里有点高度去望远
但这样会看到石头，或许是颗卵石，实际上是根树枝，
月亮下你可什么也找不到。

因此，布瑞先生张开他的嘴巴，让月光进入他的脑袋里。

为什么孤独，你该请星星们喝茶
敬闪光的贵客一杯茶。

在冬天你静静地坐在窗边，晚上时分
你会把醋当酒，因你爱在窗边啃面包圈
并假装自己在喝酒，你会踢踢腿。你会茫然四顾
之后转头发现房间黑黑的，天已暗下来了。

为何独自一人？你美得你什么也不是
你美得连你都不是你，或许就是这个意义吧。

你不美力，那是怎样的孤独。之后
你就像蘑菇和海藻一样美丽，在没有某人的时候
你谁都不是，虚无的孤独。

或许睡觉更好，这样无须
再做他想。

            （车邻 译）

Russell Edson was born in Connecticut in 1935 and currently resides there with his wife Frances. Edson, who jokingly has called himself "Little Mr. Prose Poem," is inarguably the foremost writer of prose poetry in America, having written exclusively in that form before it became fashionable. In a forthcoming study of the American prose poem, Michel Delville suggests that one of Edson's typical "recipes" for his prose poems involves a modern everyman who suddenly tumbles into an alternative reality in which he loses control over himself, sometimes to the point of being irremediably absorbed--both figuratively and literally--by his immediate and, most often, domestic everyday environment. . . . Constantly fusing and confusing the banal and the bizarre, Edson delights in having a seemingly innocuous situation undergo the most unlikely and uncanny metamorphoses. . . .

Reclusive by nature, Edson has still managed to publish eleven books of prose poems and one novel, The Song of Percival Peacock (available from Coffee House Press). All of the following poems included in this personal website collection, except for "Sleep," "Accidents," "The Death of a Fly," and "Balls," are from The Tunnel: Selected Poems (Field Editions, Oberlin College Press).

THE DEATH OF A FLY 

Russell Edson

      There was once a man who disguised himself as a housefly and went about the neighborhood depositing flyspecks.
      Well, he has to do something hasn't he? said someone to someone else.
      Of course, said someone else back to someone.
      Then what's all the fuss? said someone to someone else.
      Who's fussing? I'm just saying that if he doesn't get off the wall of that building the police will have to shoot him off.
      Oh that, of course, there's nothing so engaging as a dead fly.
      I love dead flies, the way they remind me of individuals who have met their fate . . .

SLEEP 

Russell Edson

      There was a man who didn't know how to sleep; nodding off every night into a drab, unprofessional sleep. Sleep that he'd grown so tired of sleeping.
      He tried reading The Manual of Sleep, but it just put him to sleep. That same old sleep that he had grown so tired of sleeping . . .
      He needed a sleeping master, who with a whip and a chair would discipline the night, and make him jump through hoops of gasolined fire. Someone who could make a tiger sit on a tiny pedestal and yawn . . .

THE REASON WHY THE CLOSET-MAN IS NEVER SAD 

Russell Edson

      This is the house of the closet-man. There are no rooms, just hallways and closets.
      Things happen in rooms. He does not like things to happen. . . . Closets, you take things out of closets, you put things into closets, and nothing happens . . . 

      Why do you have such a strange house? 

      I am the closet-man, I am either going or coming, and I am never sad. 

      But why do you have such a strange house? 

      I am never sad . . .

THE MARIONETTES OF DISTANT MASTERS 

Russell Edson

A pianist dreams that he's hired by a wrecking company to ruin a piano with his fingers . . .
      On the day of the piano wrecking concert, as he's dressing, he notices a butterfly annoying a flower in his window box. He wonders if the police should be called. Then he thinks maybe the butterfly is just a marionette being manipulated by its master from the window above. 
      Suddenly everything is beautiful. He begins to cry. 

      Then another butterfly begins to annoy the first butterfly. He again wonders if he shouldn't call the police. 
      But, perhaps they are marionette-butterflies? He thinks they are, belonging to rival masters seeing whose butterfly can annoy the other's the most. 

      And this is happening in his window box. The Cosmic Plan: Distant Masters manipulating minor Masters who, in turn, are manipulating tiny butterfly-Masters who, in turn, are manipulating him . . . A universe webbed with strings! 
      Suddenly it is all so beautiful; the light is strange . . . Something about the light! He begins to cry . . .

A HISTORICAL BREAKFAST

Russell Edson

      A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks. He scratches his head: another historical event. He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of history this morning.
      Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of history is being made.
      He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be so historical. Others probably just don't have it, he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
      He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh well, another important historical event is about to take place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking up too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he?
      Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written in full it will be mainly about him. That's the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted for centuries to come.
      Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him?
      Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming . . . Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at the end of his arm. If only they could catch it on film, how much it would mean to the future. Oops, spilled it all over his lap. One of those historical accidents that will influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy, he thinks. . .

THE BRIDGE 

Russell Edson

      In his travels he comes to a bridge made entirely of bones. Before crossing he writes a letter to his mother: Dear mother, guess what? the ape accidentally bit off one of his hands while eating a banana. Just now I am at the foot of a bone bridge. I shall be crossing it shortly. I don't know if I shall find hills and valleys made of flesh on the other side, or simply constant night, villages of sleep. The ape is scolding me for not teaching him better. I am letting him wear my pith helmet for consolation. The bridge looks like one of those skeletal reconstructions of a huge dinosaur one sees in a museum. The ape is looking at the stump of his wrist and scolding me again. I offer him another banana and he gets very furious, as though I'd insulted him. Tomorrow we cross the bridge. I'll write to you from the other side if I can; if not, look for a sign . . .

THE FATHER OF TOADS 

Russell Edson

      A man had just delivered a toad from his wife's armpit. He held it by its legs and spanked it. 

      Do you love it? said his wife. 

      It's our child, isn't it? 

      Does that mean you can't love it? she said. 

      It's hard enough to love a toad, but when it turns out to be your own son then revulsion is without any tender inhibition, he said. 

      Do you mean you would not like to call it George Jr.? she said. 

      But we've already called the other toad that, he said. 

      Well, perhaps we could call the other one George Sr., she said. 

      But I am George Sr., he said. 

      Well, perhaps if you hid in the attic, so that no one needed to call you anything, there would be no difficulty in calling both of them George, she said. 

      Yes, if no one talks to me, then what need have I for a name? he said. 

      No, no one will talk to you for the rest of your life. And when we bury you we shall put Father of Toads on your tombstone.

YOU 

Russell Edson

      Out of nothing there comes a time called childhood, which is simply a path leading through an archway called adolescence. A small town there, past the arch called youth.
      Soon, down the road, where one almost misses the life lived beyond the flower, is a small shack labeled, you.
      And it is here the future lives in the several postures of arm on windowsill, cheek on this; elbows on knees, face in the hands; sometimes the head thrown back, eyes staring into the ceiling . . . This into nothing down the long day's arc . . .

ACCIDENTS 

Russell Edson

      The barber has accidentally taken off an ear. It lies like something newborn on the floor in a nest of hair.
      Oops, says the barber, but it musn't've been a very good ear, it came off with very little complaint.
      It wasn't, says the customer, it was always overly waxed. I tried putting a wick in it to burn out the wax, thus to find my way to music. But lighting it I put my whole head on fire. It even spread to my groin and underarms and to a nearby forest. I felt like a saint. Someone thought I was a genius.
      That's comforting, says the barber, still, I can't send you home with only one ear. I'll have to remove the other one. But don't worry, it'll be an accident.
      Symmetry demands it. But make sure it's an accident, I don't want you cutting me up on purpose.
      Maybe I'll just slit your throat.
      But it has to be an accident . . .

ERASING AMYLOO 

Russell Edson

      A father with a huge eraser erases his daughter. When he finishes there's only a red smudge on the wall.
      His wife says, where is Amyloo?
      She's a mistake, I erased her.
      What about all her lovely things? asks his wife.
      I'll erase them too.
      All her pretty clothes? . . .
      I'll erase her closet, her dresser--shut up about Amyloo! Bring your head over here and I'll erase Amyloo out of it.
      The husband rubs his eraser on his wife's forehead, and as she begins to forget she says, hummm, I wonder whatever happened to Amyloo? . . .
      Never heard of her, says her husband.
      And you, she says, who are you? You're not Amyloo, are you? I don't remember your being Amyloo. Are you my Amyloo, whom I don't remember anymore? . . .
      Of course not, Amyloo was a girl. Do I look like a girl?
      . . . I don't know, I don't know what anything looks like anymore. . .

PAYING THE CAPTAIN 

Russell Edson

      We get on a boat, never mind if it sinks, we pay the captain by throwing him overboard. And when he gets back onboard we say, captain, please don't be angry. And he forgives us this time. And so we throw him overboard again just to make sure we have fully paid the price we have set upon our passage. When he gets back onboard he is not anxious to forgive us, and he would like it much better if we would get off his boat. There is nothing left for us to do but to repay him and hope that this time it will be enough. And so we throw him overboard again. When he comes aboard again we say, now this must be the last of this, we will pay no more, we want the journey to begin.
      But it seems there will be no journey since we have gotten the captain used to a good thing. And so we must spend the rest of our days throwing the captain overboard.