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玛丽·奥利弗诗40首(下)|身体在衣服中像一盏灯发出光芒

2017-08-04  卡夫卡的...


玛丽·奥利弗(Mary Oliver, 1935-),1935年9月10日生于美国俄亥俄州,13岁开始写诗,1962年玛丽前往伦敦,任职于移动影院有限公司和莎士比亚剧场。回到美国,定居普林斯顿。她的诗歌赢得了多项奖项,其中包括国家图书奖和普利策诗歌奖(1984年)。主要诗集有:《夜晚的旅行者》(The Night Traveler,1978),《美国原貌》(American Primitive, 1983),《灯光的屋宇》(House of Light,1990),《新诗选》(New and Selected Poems,1992),《白松:诗和散文诗》(White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems,1994)等。 


玛丽·奥利弗诗歌6首

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16:26


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世界,我用诗歌爱着你



       在冬天的边缘
  
  在冬天的边缘,看见小鸟,此刻
  携带着半真半幻的记忆蜂拥而回,
  回到以仁慈著称的花园。
  绿色的地球一片荒凉;藤蔓彼此纠结着,
  悬挂在树林沉默的入口。
  
  带着半块面包,我就是面包屑王子;
  当雪开始飘落,鸟云集着歌唱,
  像孩子们为他们的陛下走到户外!
  但我所钟爱的,是倔强的灰鹰,
  它独自停歇在结满冰霜的藤上;
  我所梦想的是隐忍的鹿,
  它的腿像芦苇一样,迎风而立;——
  
  它们是这个世界的拯救者:宁愿长得清瘦,
  以此作为超越贫困的起点。
  
  
  On Winter's Margin 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  On winter’s margin, see the small birds now
  With half-forged memories come flocking home
  To gardens famous for their charity.
  The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins
  Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
  
  With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs; 
  By snow’s down, the birds amassed will sing
  Like children for their sire to walk abroad! 
  But what I love, is the gray stubborn hawk
  Who floats alone beyond the frozen vines; 
  And what I dream of are the patient deer
  Who stand on legs like reeds and drink that wind; -
  
  They are what saves the world: who choose to grow
  Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.
  
  
  当死亡来临
  
  当死亡来临
  如秋天饥饿的熊;
  当死亡来临,掏出钱包中所有崭新的钱币
  
  来买我,再啪地合上钱包;
  当死亡来临
  如麻疹
  
  当死亡来临
  如肩胛骨间的一座冰山,
  
  我想穿过门,充满好奇,想知道:
  它会是什么样子,那黑暗的小屋?
  
  因而,我视一切
  如同兄弟姐妹,
  我视时间只是一个念头,
  我想到永恒是另一种可能性,
  
  我将每一个生命看作一朵花,和野菊花一样
  平常,又独特,
  
  而每个名字是唇中舒缓的音乐,
  就像所有的音乐,趋向沉默,
  
  而每一个身体是一头勇敢的狮子,对于地球而言
  珍贵无比。
  
  当一切结束,我将说终此一生
  我是惊奇的新娘。
  我是新郎,怀抱着世界。
  
  当一切结束,我不想知道
  我是否度过了特别而真实的一生。
  
  我不愿发现自己叹息并惊恐,
  或者充满争辩。
  
  我不愿只在世上走一遭就死去。
  
  
  When Death Comes 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  When death comes
  like the hungry bear in autumn;
  when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
  
  to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
  when death comes
  like the measle-pox
  
  when death comes
  like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
  
  I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
  what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
  
  And therefore I look upon everything
  as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
  and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
  and I consider eternity as another possibility,
  
  and I think of each life as a flower, as common
  as a field daisy, and as singular,
  
  and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
  tending, as all music does, toward silence,
  
  and each body a lion of courage, and something
  precious to the earth.
  
  When it's over, I want to say all my life
  I was a bride married to amazement.
  I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
  
  When it's over, I don't want to wonder
  if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
  
  I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
  or full of argument.
  
  I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
  
  
  旅程
  
  有一天,你终于知道
  你必须做什么,并开始去做,
  虽然你周围的声音
  一直喊叫
  他们的坏建议
  虽然整个房子
  开始发抖
  而你感到古老的绳索
  绊住你的脚踝。
   “改善我的生活!”
  每个声音哭喊着。
  但你不停止。
  你知道你必须做什么,
  虽然风用它僵硬的手指
  撬动
  这个根基,
  虽然他们的忧郁
  着实可怕。
  天已经
  晚了,一个疯狂的夜晚,
  路上塞满了
  断枝和石头。
  但是,渐渐地,
  你将他们的声音抛在身后,
  星星穿透云层
  散发光辉,
  一个新的声音出现
  你慢慢
  意识到,它是你自己的声音,
  伴随着你
  当你越来越深地
  步入世界,
  决定去做
  你唯一能做的事——
  决定去拯救
  你唯一能拯救的生活。
  
  
  The Journey 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  One day you finally knew
  what you had to do, and began,
  though the voices around you
  kept shouting
  their bad advice—
  though the whole house
  began to tremble
  and you felt the old tug
  at your ankles.
  'Mend my life!'
  each voice cried.
  But you didn't stop.
  You knew what you had to do,
  though the wind pried
  with its stiff fingers
  at the very foundations,
  though their melancholy
  was terrible.
  It was already late
  enough, and a wild night,
  and the road full of fallen
  branches and stones.
  But little by little,
  as you left their voices behind,
  the stars began to burn
  through the sheets of clouds,
  and there was a new voice
  which you slowly
  recognized as your own,
  that kept you company
  as you strode deeper and deeper
  into the world,
  determined to do
  the only thing you could do—
  determined to save
  the only life you could save.
  
  
  相遇
  
  她走进黑暗的泥沼
  那漫长等待的尽头。
  
  神秘光滑的包裹
  落入杂草。
  
  她倾斜着长长的脖子,舔它
  疲惫而轻缓地呼吸着
  
  过了一会儿,它站起来,变成一个和她相似的
  生物,但是要小得多。
  
  现在有两个她。她们一起走着
  像树下的一个梦。
  
  六月初,田边
  开满密密麻麻的粉色和黄色花
  
  我遇见她们。
  我只能凝望。
  
  她是我曾见过的
  最美的妇人。
  
  她的孩子跳跃在花丛中,
  天空的蓝挂在头顶
  
  像丝绸,花儿们燃烧着,而我希望
  再活一次,从头开始,
  
  彻底
  而狂野。
  
  
  A Meeting 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  She steps into the dark swamp 
  where the long wait ends. 
  
  The secret slippery package
  drops to the weeds.
  
  She leans her long neck and tongues it
  between breaths slack with exhaustion
  
  and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
  like her, but much smaller.
  
  So now there are two. And they walk together
  like a dream under the trees.
  
  In early June, at the edge of a field
  thick with pink and yellow flowers
  
  I meet them.
  I can only stare.
  
  She is the most beautiful woman
  I have ever seen.
  
  Her child leaps among the flowers,
  the blue of the sky falls over me
  
  like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
  to live my life all over again, to begin again,
  
  to be utterly
  wild.
 


       触及信仰主题的夏日短章
  
  每个夏天
  我倾听并观看
  在黄铜般的阳光下,在
  月光中,但
  
  我什么也听不见,什么也看不见——
  苍白的根在地底延伸,绿色的梗
  有力地向上,
  叶子不断加深
  它们潮湿的皱摺
  
  玉米穗正在成形,
  玉米壳和玉米棒子也是。
  每天,
  如此,
  
  枝叶的原野
  长得越来越高,越来越厚实——
  绿色长袍在夜晚高高托起,
  闪亮的丝绸。
  
  因此,每个夏天,
  我什么也没看见,无法做一名证人——
  我也是聋子
  听不见叶子的滴答声,
  
  菩提树向下的拍击声——
  所有这些
  发生了
  却没有留下可见的证据,或可闻的嗡嗡声。
  
  因而,无限降临。
  不可知触及我的脊骨。
  风在树上栖息,
  而泥土的秘密
  
  在空中回旋。
  我怎能看着这世上的一切
  并颤抖,并护紧我的心呢?
  我应该担心什么吗?
  
  早晨
  在绿叶的海洋中
  玉米蜂窝状的美丽身体
  一定会在那儿。
  
  
  Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Every summer
  I listen and look
  under the sun's brass and even
  into the moonlight, but I can't hear
  
  anything, I can't see anything --
  not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
  stalks muscling up,
  nor the leaves
  deepening their damp pleats,
  
  nor the tassels making,
  nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
  And still,
  every day,
  
  the leafy fields
  grow taller and thicker --
  green gowns lofting up in the night,
  showered with silk.
  
  And so, every summer,
  I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
  I am deaf too
  to the tick of the leaves,
  
  the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
  all of it
  happening
  beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.
  
  And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
  Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
  Let the wind turn in the trees,
  and the mystery hidden in the dirt
  
  swing through the air.
  How could I look at anything in this world
  and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
  What should I fear?
  
  One morning
  in the leafy green ocean
  the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
  is sure to be there.
  
  
  冷之诗
  
  现在,冷。
  到了极限。几乎
  难以忍受。云
  沸腾着,聚成一团
  从北极熊的北方来。
  这个冷得树开裂的清晨
  我梦想着它肥胖的足迹,
  和维持生命的脂肪。
  
  我想念夏天,连同它明亮的果实,
  鲜花,环绕着浆果,叶子,
  一把把谷粒。
  
  也许所谓冷,是这样的时刻
  我们秘密测量我们始终拥有的爱
  为了我们自己的身体,坚硬而锋利的爱,
  为“我”而非他人的温暖水域;也许
  
  它意味着蓝鲨之美,它正游向
  翻筋斗的海豹。
  
  在雪的季节,
  在无限的冷中,
  我们残忍却诚实地生长;我们使
  自己活着,
  如果可以,我们不断占有
  必需的其他身体,这些
  被压碎的红色花朵。
  
  
  Cold Poem
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Cold now.
  Close to the edge. Almost
  unbearable. Clouds
  bunch up and boil down
  from the north of the white bear.
  This tree-splitting morning
  I dream of his fat tracks,
  the lifesaving suet.
  
  I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
  blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
  handfuls of grain.
  
  Maybe what cold is, is the time
  we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
  for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
  for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe
  
  that is what it means the beauty
  of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.
  
  In the season of snow,
  in the immeasurable cold,
  we grow cruel but honest; we keep
  ourselves alive,
  if we can, taking one after another
  the necessary bodies of others, the many
  crushed red flowers.


  爱万物的偶然性
  
  整个夏天,我和邻近的生物
  交朋友——
  它们飘荡在田野
  和帐篷周围,
  有时它们的脑袋钻进门帘
  露出一些牙齿
  寻找种子,
  板油,糖;嘴里哼哼唧唧,
  打开面包盒,发现里面有牛奶和音乐时
  无比开心。但是,有一个
  晚上,我听见外面
  有一种声音,帆布
  轻微鼓起——某种东西的
  眼睛正贴在上面向里看。
  我盯着它,浑身发抖,我的确听见了
  爪子的摩擦声,嘴唇的啪嗒声
  在我单薄的房子外——
  我想象它有红色的眼睛,
  宽大的舌头,粗壮的腿。
  它是友好的吗?
  恐惧战胜了我。然而,
  不是出于信念和疯狂
  只是认为
  我的梦应该有勇气,
  我走了出去。它消失了。
  然后我恍然听见了沉重的
  脚步声。
  我是否真的看见了一个黑色的尾巴闪到了
  树后?看见
  月光照耀着它?
  我是否真的朝它伸出了
  胳膊,朝着降落的天堂,像
  爱人的消逝,最狂野的希望——
  这个故事黑暗的中心,是它被讲出的
  全部原因吗?
  
  
  The Chance To Love Everything
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  All summer I made friends
  with the creatures nearby ---
  they flowed through the fields
  and under the tent walls,
  or padded through the door,
  grinning through their many teeth,
  looking for seeds,
  suet, sugar; muttering and humming,
  opening the breadbox, happiest when
  there was milk and music. But once
  in the night I heard a sound
  outside the door, the canvas
  bulged slightly ---something
  was pressing inward at eye level.
  I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
  the click of claws, the smack of lips
  outside my gauzy house ---
  I imagined the red eyes,
  the broad tongue, the enormous lap.
  Would it be friendly too?
  Fear defeated me. And yet,
  not in faith and not in madness
  but with the courage I thought
  my dream deserved,
  I stepped outside. It was gone.
  Then I whirled at the sound of some
  shambling tonnage.
  Did I see a black haunch slipping
  back through the trees? Did I see
  the moonlight shining on it?
  Did I actually reach out my arms
  toward it, toward paradise falling, like
  the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
  the dark heart of the story that is all
  the reason for its telling?
  
  
  下一次
  
  下一次我该做的是,说话之前
  看着地面。进入一所房子前
  我要先停下
  短暂地做一做皇帝
  更好地倾听风
  或静止的空气。
  
  当任何人与我交谈,无论是
  责备,赞扬或仅仅为了消磨时间,
  我要观察他的脸,嘴唇如何
  动,留意发声的
  任何变化,任何迹象。
  
  尽管,我该知道更多——大地
  支撑着自己并翱翔,空气
  托举着每一片叶子和羽毛
  在森林与流水之上,对每个人来说
  身体在衣服中散发出光芒
  像一盏灯。
  
  
  Next Time
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Next time what I'd do is look at
  the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
  just before going into a house
  and be an emperor for a minute
  and listen better to the wind
  or to the air being still.
  
  When anyone talked to me, whether
  blame or praise or just passing time,
  I'd watch the face, how the mouth
  has to work, and see any strain, any
  sign of what lifted the voice.
  
  And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
  bracing itself and soaring, the air
  finding every leaf and feather over
  forest and water, and for every person
  the body glowing inside the clothes
  like a light.
  
  
  早晨之诗
  
  每天早晨
  世界
  被创造出来
  在太阳的
  
  橙色光芒中
  夜晚
  堆积的灰尘
  变成叶子
  
  将自己固定在高高的枝条上——
  池塘显现
  如同黑布上
  开满荷花的
  
  岛屿图案。
  如果你的天性
  是快乐的
  你将沿着柔软的小径
  
  游荡几个小时,你的想象
  落在每一处。
  如果
  你的灵魂
  
  携带着
  比铅垂还沉重的刺——
  如果你所能做的
  是继续跋涉——
  
  你的内心深处
  仍有
  一只野兽在叫喊,土地
  才是它所需要的——
  
  每个盛开荷花的池塘
  是一声祈祷,被听见并得到
  慷慨的回应,
  每个早晨,
  
  你是否
  曾勇敢地快乐,
  你是否
  曾勇敢地祈祷。
  
  
  Morning Poem
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Every morning
  the world
  is created.
  Under the orange
  
  sticks of the sun
  the heaped
  ashes of the night
  turn into leaves again
  
  and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
  and the ponds appear
  like black cloth
  on which are painted islands
  
  of summer lilies.
  If it is your nature
  to be happy
  you will swim away along the soft trails
  
  for hours, your imagination
  alighting everywhere.
  And if your spirit
  carries within it
  
  the thorn
  that is heavier than lead ---
  if it's all you can do
  to keep on trudging ---
  
  there is still
  somewhere deep within you
  a beast shouting that the earth
  is exactly what it wanted ---
  
  each pond with its blazing lilies
  is a prayer heard and answered
  lavishly,
  every morning,
  
  whether or not
  you have ever dared to be happy,
  whether or not
  you have ever dared to pray.
  
  
  
  大池塘
  
  在大池塘
  太阳,正在升起,
  他橙色的胸脯
  掠过粗大的松树,
  一些橙色的羽毛
  飘进
  幽暗的水中。
  远处的岸上
  立着一只白鸟
  仿佛一只白色的蜡烛——
  或者一个男人,在远处,
  陷入冥想——
  而所有环绕着我的百合
  正从夜晚
  黑色的洞穴中
  再次开放。
  以后,我会思考
  我所见的——
  它可能象征什么——
  我可能用什么赞誉之词
  解释它,而为了这样做,
  我将进屋坐在书桌前——
  我将坐在椅子中——
  我将回头去看
  这个遗失了的早晨
  此刻,我正在其中移动,
  像一个游泳者,
  多么平稳,
  多么安宁,
  我就像百合——
  就像正消失在水面上的鸟
  穿着夜晚的衣袖。
  
  
  At Great Pond
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  At Great Pond
  the sun, rising,
  scrapes his orange breast
  on the thick pines,
  and down tumble
  a few orange feathers into
  the dark water.
  On the far shore
  a white bird is standing
  like a white candle ---
  or a man, in the distance,
  in the clasp of some meditation ---
  while all around me the lilies
  are breaking open again
  from the black cave
  of the night.
  Later, I will consider
  what I have seen ---
  what it could signify ---
  what words of adoration I might
  make of it, and to do this
  I will go indoors to my desk ---
  I will sit in my chair ---
  I will look back
  into the lost morning
  in which I am moving, now,
  like a swimmer,
  so smoothly,
  so peacefully,
  I am almost the lily ---
  almost the bird vanishing over the water
  on its sleeves of night.
  
  
  闪光
  
  1.
  
  欢迎来到这首无所事事的诗。
  
  它不是日出,
  一阵红色的漂洗,
  照亮整个东边的天空;
  
  它不是从上帝钱包中落下的雨;
  
  它不是雨后天空的蓝色盔甲,
  
  或者树,或者正钻进泥土的甲虫;
  
  它不是嘲鸟,在开满繁花的梓树枝上,
  以它自己的旋律
  继续咝咝鸣叫,拍打着翅膀,
  而那些花,正波浪似的翻腾,闪亮,
  随风摇摆。
  
  2.
  
  有时,你仍会记起,曾祖父农场中的
  旧谷仓,你曾去过一次,
  独自走进去,而大人们正坐在屋子里
  交谈。
  它几乎是空的。地上铺着一层干草,
  一些黄蜂在窗上嗡嗡鸣叫,也许,
  高处有一只奇怪的鸟,受到惊扰,呼地叫
  一声,停在凌乱的壁架上,用它野性的双目
  向下瞪视。
  虽然,里面主要充斥着牛奶与动物
  忍耐的气息;
  虽然,主要是宁静与神秘,屋顶
  高高拱起,未上漆的木板,简单质朴。
  但是粪便的味道仍然散发在空中,
  一种模糊的氨,令人讨厌。
  你可能永远停留在那儿,角落里的一个小孩。
  在剩下的干草堆上,被那看上去空虚
  其实并不空的空间弄晕。
  然后——你仍然记得——你感到饥饿的折磨——正是
  中午——而你从黎明的梦中醒来,匆匆回到
  房子,那里桌子已经摆好,一位叔叔
  拍拍你的肩,表示欢迎,桌上有你的位置。
  
  3.
  
  没有留下什么。
  我正在说起的地方,现在,是一块
  墓地。
  
  我曾站在那里,在绿色的草地上,撒下鲜花。
  
  4.
  
  没有什么能像青蛾的翅膀那样
  灵敏或细微地扇动
  扑向灯
  扑向它的炉火
  扑向乌鸦的喙
  在清晨。
  
  飞蛾也有整洁,和生机,但是它没有一丝丝
  自怜。
  
  并不存在于这个世界。
  
  5.
  
  我的母亲
  是忧伤的紫藤,
  我的母亲
  是房后蔓生的青苔,
  我的母亲,唉,唉,
  并不总是爱她的生活,
  它比熨斗还重
  当她拎着它,从一个房间到另一个房间,
  哦,令人难以释怀!
  
  我将她
  装在盒子里
  葬入泥土
  然后转身离开。
  我的父亲
  是一个梦想落空的魔鬼,
  一个信仰破灭者,
  一个穷人,倒霉的瘦男孩。
  他跟随上帝,在上帝面前吹牛,
  除了上帝,
  他无人交谈,无人
  愿意倾听。
  倾听,
  这是他的生活。
  我将它葬入泥土。
  我清空壁橱。
  我离开房子。
  
  6.
  
  此刻我提起他们,
  我不会再提起。
  
  不是不爱
  也不是不悲伤。
  但是他们拎着的铁东西,我不会再拎着。
  
  我给他们——一个,两个,三个,四个——礼节性的吻,
  甜蜜的致谢之吻,
  生气的吻,祝他们在泥土中好运的吻。
  他们也许睡得很安稳。他们也许变柔和了。
  
  但是我不会给他们同类的吻。
  我不需要他们为我的生活负责。
  
  7.
  
  你知道吗,蚂蚁有一只舌头
  用来收集它所能收集的
  全部甜蜜?
  
  你知道这点吗?
  
  8.
  
  诗不是世界。
  它甚至不是世界的首页。
  
  但是诗歌想开放,像一朵花那样。
  它非常清楚这点。
  
  它想打开自己,
  像一座小修道院的门,
  以便你能走进去,平静下来,重新振作,
  使你自己卑微如尘埃。
  
  9.
  
  从成熟妇女嘴中喊出的
  孩子气声音
  是一种痛苦和失望。
  从身材高大、长胡须的壮实男人嘴中
  嚎出的孩子气声音
  是一种痛苦,一种恐怖。
  
  10.
  
  那么,告诉我:
  什么将吸引你?
  什么将打开你精神的黑暗领域,
  像初次亲热的
  情人那样?
  
  11.
  
  无论如何,
  没有谷仓。
  没有孩子在谷仓里。
  
  没有叔叔没有桌子没有厨房。
  
  只有一块狭长可爱的田野,停满了食米鸟。
  
  12.
  
  当孤独偷偷潜来,进入田野,思考
  世界的秩序。留意
  你以前从未留意过的,
  
  比如蟋蟀的鼓声
  它淡绿色的身体比你的拇指长不了多少。
  
  在夏天的雨中,努力注视蜂雀,
  看它如何抖落翅膀上的水珠。
  
  让忧伤做你的妹妹,无论她是否愿意。
  从悲痛的树桩上站起,和勤奋的叶子一样,
  也长成绿色。
  
  对于这个世界的美,和你生活的责任
  一生的时间并不够用。
  
  在坟墓上撒下你的鲜花,然后离开。
  在你的生机勃勃中,保持善良和懒散。
  
  在你精神的闪耀中,保持谦逊。
  对可触而动人的事物充满感激。
  
  与甲虫和风生活在一起。
  
  这是诗歌隐秘的面包。
  这是诗歌隐秘而富有营养的面包。
  
  
  Flare
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  1.
  
  Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.
  
  It is not the sunrise,
  which is a red rinse,
  which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
  
  it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
  
  it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,
  
  or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;
  
  it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
  will go on sizzling and clapping
  from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
  that are billowing and shining,
  that are shaking in the wind.
  
  2.
  
  You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
  great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
  and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
  talked in the house.
  It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
  and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
  a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
  a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
  binocular eyes.
  Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
  animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
  a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
  Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
  up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
  You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
  on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
  empty, but wasn't.
  Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
  noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
  to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
  on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.
  
  3.
  
  Nothing lasts.
  There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
  now.
  
  I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.
  
  4.
  
  Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
  of the green moth
  against the lantern
  against its heat
  against the beak of the crow
  in the early morning.
  
  Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
  of self-pity.
  
  Not in this world.
  
  5.
  
  My mother
  was the blue wisteria,
  my mother
  was the mossy stream out behind the house,
  my mother, alas, alas,
  did not always love her life,
  heavier than iron it was
  as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
  oh, unforgettable!
  
  I bury her
  in a box
  in the earth
  and turn away.
  My father
  was a demon of frustrated dreams,
  was a breaker of trust,
  was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
  He followed God, there being no one else
  he could talk to;
  he swaggered before God, there being no one else
  who would listen.
  Listen,
  this was his life.
  I bury it in the earth.
  I sweep the closets.
  I leave the house.
  
  6.
  
  I mention them now,
  I will not mention them again.
  
  It is not lack of love
  nor lack of sorrow.
  But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.
  
  I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
  of sweet thanks,
  of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
  May they sleep well. May they soften.
  
  But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
  I will not give them the responsibility for my life.
  
  7.
  
  Did you know that the ant has a tongue
  with which to gather in all that it can
  of sweetness?
  
  Did you know that?
  
  8.
  
  The poem is not the world.
  It isn't even the first page of the world.
  
  But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
  It knows that much.
  
  It wants to open itself,
  like the door of a little temple,
  so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
  and less yourself than part of everything.
  
  9.
  
  The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
  grown woman
  is a misery and a disappointment.
  The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
  muscular man
  is a misery, and a terror.
  
  10.
  
  Therefore, tell me:
  what will engage you?
  What will open the dark fields of your mind,
  like a lover
  at first touching?
  
  11.
  
  Anyway,
  there was no barn.
  No child in the barn.
  
  No uncle no table no kitchen.
  
  Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.
  
  12.
  
  When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
  the orderliness of the world. Notice
  something you have never noticed before,
  
  like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
  whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.
  
  Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
  shaking the water-sparks from its wings.
  
  Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
  Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
  like the diligent leaves.
  
  A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
  and the responsibilities of your life.
  
  Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
  Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
  
  In the glare of your mind, be modest.
  And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.
  
  Live with the beetle, and the wind.
  
  This is the dark bread of the poem.
  This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.


  白夜
  
  整夜
  我漂浮
  在浅水池塘
  而月亮四处漫步
  明亮刺眼,
  白色的骨头
  在牛奶似的茎干中。
  有一次
  我看见她伸出手
  抚摸麝鼠
  小巧光滑的头
  它真可爱,哦,
  我不想再去争论
  这些事情
  我想我不能
  一无所有地生活!很快
  麝鼠
  将和另一只麝鼠
  一起溜进它们野草的
  城堡,早晨
  从东边起来
  衣衫蓬乱,大大咧咧的,
  站在
  那难以对付的
  美丽的
  光的飓风面前
  我想从
  所有水域的
  源头流出,
  我想在黑暗
  柔滑的水流中
  迷失自己,
  张着嘴,
  聚拢
  睡眠的
  高大百合。
  
  
  White Night
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  All night
  I float
  in the shallow ponds
  while the moon wanders
  burning,
  bone white,
  among the milky stems.
  Once
  I saw her hand reach
  to touch the muskrat’s
  small sleek head
  and it was lovely, oh,
  I don’t want to argue anymore
  about all the things
  I thought I could not
  live without! Soon
  the muskrat
  will glide with another
  into their castle
  of weeds, morning
  will rise from the east
  tangled and brazen,
  and before that
  difficult
  and beautiful
  hurricane of light
  I want to flow out
  across the mother
  of all waters,
  I want to lose myself
  on the black
  and silky currents,
  yawning,
  gathering
  the tall lilies
  of sleep.
  
  
  黑橡树
  
  好吧,没有一棵树能写一首交响乐,或者一本字典,
  
  或者哪怕一封信,给一位老朋友,充满回忆
  与安慰。
  
  没有一棵树能发出一点声音,如果
  没有风的摇动,虽然蓝松鸦
  整天在枝条上叽叽喳喳。
  
  但是,说实话,过了没多久,我感到软弱,渴望
  它们覆盖着青苔的粗大躯干
  
  而你不能阻止我进入树林,进入他们
  
  厚实的肩膀,进入他们亮闪闪的绿头发。
  
  今天和其他日子相似:二十四小时,
  一点阳光,一点雨。
  
  听着,野心说,紧张地将她身体的重心,从
  一只脚移到另一只脚——为什么你不继续向前走?
  
  因为我在那里了,在长满青苔的阴影中,在树下。
  
  说实话,我不想放开懒散的
  手,我不想为钱出卖我的生活。
  
  我甚至不想离开雨。
  
  
  Black Oaks
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
  
  or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
  and comfort.
  
  Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
  carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
  the push of the wind.
  
  But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
  for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
  
  and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
  
  of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
  
  Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
  little sunshine, a little rain.
  
  Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
  one boot to another -- why don't you get going?
  
  For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
  
  And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
  of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,
  
  I don't even want to come in out of the rain.
  
  
  佛的临终训导
  
  “将自己看成一束光”
  佛死之前,
  如是说。
  每天早晨,我都会想起这句话
  东边的天空正褪去
  黑色的
  云层,发出第一个
  信号——一柄白色的扇子
  布满粉红,紫色,
  以及绿色的条纹。
  一位老人躺在
  两棵菩提树之间,
  他或许已说了许多,
  明白这是他最后的时间。
  光向上延伸,
  变得更亮,笼罩在田野上空。
  村民们围绕在他周围
  身体向前倾,专注地听着。
  当太阳尚未升起,尚未高悬于
  蓝色的天空时,
  我已被它黄色的波浪之海
  触及全身。
  无疑,他想到了
  自己艰难一生所经历的一切。
  于是,我感受到太阳
  它在山头燃烧,
  仿佛千万朵火焰之花——
  显然,我无足轻重,
  但我觉得自己
  变成了某种难以言说的有用之物。
  在树枝下,他慢慢地
  抬起头。
  他注视着人们惊恐的脸。
  
  
  The Buddha's Last Instruction
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  'Make of yourself a light'
  said the Buddha,
  before he died.
  I think of this every morning
  as the east begins
  to tear off its many clouds
  of darkness, to send up the first
  signal-a white fan
  streaked with pink and violet,
  even green.
  An old man, he lay down
  between two sala trees,
  and he might have said anything,
  knowing it was his final hour.
  The light burns upward,
  it thickens and settles over the fields.
  Around him, the villagers gathered
  and stretched forward to listen.
  Even before the sun itself
  hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
  I am touched everywhere
  by its ocean of yellow waves.
  No doubt he thought of everything
  that had happened in his difficult life.
  And then I feel the sun itself
  as it blazes over the hills,
  like a million flowers on fire-
  clearly I'm not needed,
  yet I feel myself turning
  into something of inexplicable value.
  Slowly, beneath the branches,
  he raised his head.
  He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
  
  
  是!不!
  
  拥有看法多么必要!我认为赤莲
  满足于站在地面几英尺之上。
  我认为宁静并不是你在世上刚刚发现的事物,
  如一棵李子树,舒展着白色的花瓣。
  
  河边的紫罗兰,正露出它们蓝色的脸,像
  忧郁的小灯笼。
  
  绿色的青苔,大片大片,充满强健的生机。
  
  沿着河,慢慢地走,不要着急,这多么重要,
  看看每一件事物并喊出
  
  是!不!
  
  天鹅,他全部的夸耀,他的青草和花瓣的长袍,只不过渴望
  能居住在无名的池塘。猫藤
  没有错。水鸫,跳到潮湿的
  岩石上,快乐得要疯掉。想象,比
  一件利器更好。注意,这是我们无穷无尽
  而又合宜的工作。
  
  
  Yes! No!
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
  lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
  think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
  like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.
  
  The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like
  small dark lanterns.
  
  The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.
  
  How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
  looking at everything and calling out
  
  Yes! No! The
  
  swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
  only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
  is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
  rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
  than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
  and proper work.

       倪志娟译



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