【译诗】

《臭鼬时刻》
           致伊丽莎白·毕晓普
 
                             【美】罗伯特·洛威尔

鹦螺岛上的修隐者
嗣女依然住在她斯巴达式的屋舍过冬；
她的羊依然牧放在海上。
他的儿子是位主教。她的农场主
是我们村庄的首席委员，
她已身处昏聩的残年。

渴慕
维多利亚女王时代的
划分等级的隐私，
她悉数买下
对岸所有碍眼的事物，
再令它们倒塌。

这季节闹了病 --
我们失去我们夏日的百万富翁，
他好像从一册L.L.Bean录本
跳走的。他的九节快艇
被拍卖给了捕虾人。
一只红狐的色斑沾满“蓝色山岭”。

而现在我们仙子般
的装潢师亮丽着他秋日开张的店面；
他的渔网填满橙色的软木，
橙色，他修鞋匠的长凳和锥钻；
他挣不到酬金地忙碌，
他甘愿结婚。

一个黑暗夜晚，
我的“都铎”福特攀越到山的颅顶；
 我观望着爱侣的跑车。灯亮度调低，
它们停处一起，车身彼此靠并。
那里墓园在城镇架置...
我的心神不安。

一台车载收音机轻诉，
 “爱，噢 草率的爱...” 我听到了
我不快的情绪呜咽每个血细胞里，
仿佛我的手扼在它的喉咙...
我自己就是地狱；
没人在这儿--

只有臭鼬，那搜捡
在月光下值为讨一口吃食。
它们靠着脚掌在主街行进下去：
白色条纹，缭乱眼睛红色的光火
在三一教堂那由干燥白垩
与圆材建构的尖顶下面。

我站在我们背后
台阶的顶端呼吸这丰饶的空气--
领着一队幼崽的母鼬在垃圾桶里猛扒。
她把她楔形的脑袋扎进酸奶油
的一只杯中，垂下她鸵鸟状的尾巴，
而不会受到惊悸。

                                                                        2015.1.24
                                            选自作者诗集《生活研究》（Life Studies，1959）

原诗每节均有不规则的韵尾排列。译文大体遵循原诗。



Skunk Hour
          for Elizabeth Bishop
                                                   
                              Robert Lowell 

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan Cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village，
she's in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy
of Queen Victoria's century，
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season's ill--
we've lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bench and awl;
there is no money in his work,
he'd rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town....
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love...." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat...
I myself am hell;
nobody's here--

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air--
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.