加载中…【澳大利亚诗人莱斯·穆瑞】
(2015-10-02 23:17:25)
莱斯·穆瑞生于1938年，1996年获得“艾略特诗歌奖”，他还写过小说《The Boys Who Stole the Funeral》（偷葬礼的男孩），他的作品很少被翻译成中文，但有一首诗在网上颇受中国年轻读者追捧，即《母海狮》：
我的幼崽已成了我自己。
而我还在。
我的乳房已消失。
我的幼崽的乳房已长出。
我们温柔地摩擦腮须。
她，我，都还在。
我钻进海中，屈体深潜。
我的血液上撞。熟悉的快乐。
我浮出海面，卷起海滩沙石。
血液下沉,享受平静。（果河子翻译）
Mother Sea Lion
My pup has become myself
yet I'm still present
My breasts have vanished.
My pup has grown them on herself.
Tenderly we rub whiskers.
She, me, both still present.
I plunge, dive deep in the Clench.
My blood erects. Familiar joy.
Coming out, I swim the beach-shingle.
Blood subsides. Yet I enjoy still.
Blowfly Grass
BY
The houses those
suburbs could afford
were roofed with
old savings books, and
some
seeped gravy at
stitches in their walls;
some were
clipped as close as fury,
some grimed and
corner-bashed by
love
and the real
estate, as it got more vacant,
grew blady grass
and blowfly grass, so
called
for the
exquisite lanterns of its
seed,
and the land
sagged subtly to a low point,
it all inclined
way out there to a
pit
with
burnt-looking cheap marble
edges
and things and
figures flew up from it
like the stones
in the crusher Piers
had
for making dusts
of them for glazes:
flint,
pyroclase, slickensides, quartz, schist,
snapping,
refusing, and spitting high
till the steel
teeth got gritty corners on
them
and could grip
them craw-chokingly to grind.
It’s their
chance, a man with beerglass-cut
arms
told me. Those
hoppers got to keep filled. A
girl,
edging in,
bounced out cropped and wrong-coloured
like a chemist’s
photo, crying. Who could blame
her
among in-depth
grabs and Bali flights and
phones?
She was true,
and got what truth gets.
Bottles in the Bombed City
They gave the
city a stroke. Its memories
are cordoned
off. They could collapse on you.
Water leaks into
bricks of the Workers’
century
and every
meaning is blurred. No word in Roget
now squares with
another. If the word is Manchester
it may be
Australia, where that means sheets and towels.
To give the city
a stroke, they mixed a lorryload
of henbane and
meadowsweet oil and countrified her.
Now Engels
supports Max, and the British
Union
of beautiful
ceramics is being shovelled up,
blue-green tiles
of the Corn Exchange,
umber gloss
bricks of the Royal Midlands Hotel.
Unmelting ice
everywhere, and loosened molecules.
When the stroke
came, every bottle winked at its neighbour.
Holland’s Nadir
Men around a
submarine
moored in Sydney
Harbour
close to the end
of wartime
showed us below,
down into
their oily,
mesh-lit gangway
of bunks atop
machines.
In from the
country, we
weren’t to know
our shillings
bought them
cigars and thread
for what
remained of Holland’s Glory:
uniforms, odd,
rescued aircraft,
and a clutch of
undersea boats
patrolling from
Fremantle. The men’s
country was
still captive, their great
Indies had seen
them ousted,
their slaves
from centuries back
were still
black, and their queen
was in English
exile.
The only
ripostes still open
to them were
torpedoes
and their
throaty half-
American-sounding language.
Speaking a
luckier one
we set off home
then. Home
and all that
word would mean
in the age of
rebirthing nations
which would be
my time.
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