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玛丽·奥利弗诗40首(上)|空气般的无形之物需要肉体的隐喻

2017-11-04  莫如天气...


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《诗歌写作》 来自诗歌 04:50


音频来自荔枝FM484795 

世界,我用诗歌爱着你



玛丽奥利弗,1935年出生于美国俄亥俄州一个充满了田园牧歌之美的小镇,13岁开始写诗。1955年,奥利弗进入俄亥俄州大学,在那里读完一年级后,她接到瓦萨大学的奖学金,转学到瓦萨大学,同样只读了一年,她就放弃学业,开始专心写作。1962年,奥利弗动身前往伦敦,任职于移动影院有限公司,为剧团编写儿童剧本。回到美国后,奥利弗定居普林斯顿,在那里一直居住到现在。奥利弗的诗歌以书写自然著称,自然是她绝对的诗歌主题。在充满了分裂、对抗、阴郁人性的美国现代诗歌中,她的诗歌堪称一个奇迹般的例外,她本人则被冠以“自然诗人”的美誉。1984年,她以诗集《美国始貌》赢得普利策诗歌奖。

  奥利弗与自然有着与生俱来的亲近感,正是这种亲近感成就了她的诗歌。按她自己的说法,孩提时接触世界的方式建立了一个人成长之后的意义模式。在少女时代,奥利弗就知道自己应该做什么,然后,一生的时光,她都在做这件事:写诗。她始终按照自己的方式感受,写。对她而言,写诗不是一种事业,更不是一种职业,它就是生活,是幸福本身。她最喜欢的是散步,行走,体验。她总是随身携带着笔和本子,当一些零碎的句子出现时,她就记录下来,用她自己的话说,“我只是削尖了铅笔等待着。”

  为了使自己专心沉浸在诗歌世界中,她小心翼翼地回避了任何一种有趣的职业,将物质需求降到最低。因为“如果你愿意保持好奇心,那么,你最好不要追求过多的物质享受。这是一种担当,但也是朝着理想生活的无限提升。”她唯一需要的是“独处的时光,一个能够散步、观察的场所,以及将世界再现于文字的机会。”普林斯顿为她提供了她所需要的隐秘生活,使她得以在一种不受干扰的情形下写作。

  在将近25年的时光中,她隐士一样地生活,不为人知地写,很少将作品示人,也很少发表。但是对她而言,她的孤独并非一种折磨,而是一种全身心的沉浸,是一种快乐。当她赢得1984年的普利策诗歌奖,受到人们的普遍关注之后,她也没有因此改变自己的孤独状态,这使奥利弗成功保持了自己的风格和品性。她没有受到时尚的干扰,也拒绝加入任何诗歌圈子。她认为诗歌圈子由众人组成,加入其中往往意味着要去迎合众人的口味,尤其要迎合组织者的口味,这必然会损坏一个诗人独特的个性。同时,她也愿意隐身在她自己的作品之中,不仅她的诗歌极少涉及个人生活,即便在新书出版、获奖之后,接受必要的采访时,她也避免谈及自己的私生活。她认为,作品说明了一切,“当你更多了解作者时,就是对作品的一种伤害。”

  她与她的时代保持着深刻的距离,政治事件、技术产品、人际变迁,很少出现在她的诗歌中。她对现实生活的拒绝并非采取了一种批判或不屑的姿态,而是一种极其自然的忽视或者过滤,她仿佛从未进入那个现实世界。她的目光总是跟随着自然的变迁,她的脚步总是走向树林深处,而她敏感的神经,捕捉着宇宙中无处不在的欢欣与生机。和她的前辈女诗人艾米丽狄金森一样,奥利弗专注于自然中明亮的时刻,欣赏那种简单深刻的美,能捕捉到事物外表下隐藏的神秘与惊奇。在诗歌中,她找到了另一个和现实世界一样生动的世界,她相信,一个人可以依赖想象生活,借助艺术拯救我们自身,使我们摆脱狭隘和限制,获得一种无限。事实上她做到了这一点,在美国诗人中,她经常被归之于惠特曼、梭罗、爱默生、默温、莱维托芙等诗人的行列,不过,在追求与自然的融合以及对待自然的态度上,她比这些诗人更纯粹一些。

  需要特别指出的是,奥利弗诗歌中的自然既有神性,又有自我体验,她对待自然的态度,并非东方似的静观,亦非西方似的居高临下,而是深入其中,让自己全身融化,变成自然中的一股气息,突破了人类与自然之间的那层隔膜。但是她很清楚,作为诗人的她必须回来,坐在书桌前,拿起纸和笔,开始写,当她开始写作时,她的自我也回来,重新安居于当下。这时,她是一个记录者,完整地记录下自己的体验。这种体验既是私密性的,却又是可以和所有人共享的。

  奥利弗在诗歌中经常使用的人称是“你”,这是她对读者的一种隐秘召唤,召唤读者进入她的诗歌中,进入诗歌中的自然,进入她体验到的境界中,最终,消融了她与读者、读者与自然的界限。阅读她的诗歌,便是和她一起,慢慢体会“那转瞬即逝的美妙之物”…… (倪志娟)



        黑水塘
  

        文/玛丽·奥利弗


  雨下了一整夜
  黑水塘沸腾的水平静下来。
  我掬了一捧。慢慢
  饮下。它的味道
  像石头,叶子,火。它把寒冷
  灌进我体内,惊醒了骨头。我听见他们
  在我身体深处,窃窃私语
  哦,这转瞬即逝的美妙之物
  究竟是什么?
  
  
  At Blackwater Pond
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
  after a night of rain.
  I dip my cupped hands. I drink
  a long time. It tastes
  like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
  into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
  deep inside me, whispering
  oh what is that beautiful thing
  that just happened?
  
  
  天鹅


  你是否也看见它,整夜,漂浮在黑暗的河上?
  你是否看见它在早晨,飞入银亮的空气——
  一束白色的花,
  丝绸与亚麻的一阵完美抖动,当它
  将头藏进翅膀中;一道雪堤,一片开满百合的坡岸,
  它黑色的喙咬紧了空气?
  你是否听见它,笛声和哨音
  一种尖锐而深沉的音乐——像雨拍打着树——像一片瀑布
  冲下黑色的岩石?
  你是否看见它,最后,就在云层下——
  滑过天空的一个白十字架,它的脚
  像黑色的叶子,它的翅膀像河面上伸展的光?
  在你心里,是否感受到它如何化归万物?
  而你最终领会了,美是为了什么?
  并改变了你的生活?
  
  
  The Swan
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
  Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
  An armful of white blossoms,
  A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
  into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
  Biting the air with its black beak?
  Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
  A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
  Knifing down the black ledges?
  And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
  A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
  Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
  And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
  And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
  And have you changed your life?
  
  
  


  我捉住的
  第一条鱼,
  不愿安静地
  躺在提桶中,
  而是拼命拍打着,大口喘气,
  显得
  惊慌失措,
  在缓慢倾泻的
  彩虹中,
  它死了。后来
  我剖开它的身体,将肉
  和骨头分开,
  吃掉了它。现在,海
  在我身体里:我是鱼,鱼
  在我里面闪闪发光;我们
  正在上升,紧紧缠绕着,将要
  掉回海中。摆脱痛苦,
  和痛苦,和更多的痛苦,
  我们喂养这个狂热的阴谋,我们被这个秘密
  所滋养。
  
  
  The Fish
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  The first fish
  I ever caught
  would not lie down
  quiet in the pail
  but flailed and sucked
  at the burning
  amazement of the air
  and died
  in the slow pouring off
  of rainbows. Later
  I opened his body and separated
  the flesh from the bones
  and ate him. Now the sea
  is in me: I am the fish, the fish
  glitters in me; we are
  risen, tangled together, certain to fall
  back to the sea. Out of pain,
  and pain, and more pain
  we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
  by the mystery.
  
  
  
  
  当红尾鸟
  巨大的翅膀拍打水面,
  然后,飞上嶙峋的
  灰色岩壁,
  是什么
  正
  穿透我的心,
  如同最薄的刀片。
  它无关于
  鸟,而是关于
  石头
  沉默,并促使
  某种事物
  一闪而过的方式。
  有时
  当我这样安静地坐着,
  我生命的全部梦想
  和全部非凡的时刻,
  似乎要离开,
  从我身上溜出去。
  于是,我想象,我将不再移动。
  此时,
  鹰至少已飞了
  五英里,
  无论谁偶然抬头去看
  都会头昏眼花。
  我感到晕眩。但那
  不是刀。
  它是陡峭、盲目而厚实的
  石头墙,
  不含一点希望,
  或者一个未满足的欲望,
  海绵般吸收并反射着
  太阳之火,
  它如此明亮,
  仿佛已存在了几个世纪。
  
  
  Knife
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Something
  just now
  moved through my heart
  like the thinnest of blades
  as that red-tail pumped
  once with its great wings
  and flew above the gray, cracked
  rock wall.
  It wasn't
  about the bird, it was
  something about the way
  stone stays
  mute and put, whatever
  goes flashing by.
  Sometimes,
  when I sit like this, quiet,
  all the dreams of my blood
  and all outrageous divisions of time
  seem ready to leave,
  to slide out of me.
  Then, I imagine, I would never move.
  By now
  the hawk has flown five miles
  at least,
  dazzling whoever else has happened
  to look up.
  I was dazzled. But that
  wasn't the knife.
  It was the sheer, dense wall
  of blind stone
  without a pinch of hope
  or a single unfulfilled desire
  sponging up and reflecting,
  so brilliantly,
  as it has for centuries,
  the sun's fire.
  
  
  野鹅
  
  你不必善良。
  不必跪行
  一百英里,穿过荒凉的忏悔。
  你只要让你温柔的身体
  爱它所爱的。
  
  告诉我,你的绝望,而我将告诉你我的。
  同时世界继续。
  同时太阳和雨清澈的鹅卵石
  正在穿越风景,
  越过大草原,幽深的树林,
  山脉和河流。
  同时野鹅,在洁净蔚蓝的高空,
  正再次飞回家乡。
  
  无论你是谁,无论多么孤独,
  世界为你提供了想象,
  召唤你,像野鹅那样,严厉并充满激情——
  反复宣告
  你在万物中的位置。
  
  
  Wild Geese
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  You do not have to be good.
  You do not have to walk on your knees
  for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
  You only have to let the soft animal of your body
  love what it loves.
  
  Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
  Meanwhile the world goes on.
  Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
  are moving across the landscapes,
  over the prairies and the deep trees,
  the mountains and the rivers.
  Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
  are heading home again.
  
  Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
  the world offers itself to your imagination,
  calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
  over and over announcing your place
  in the family of things.
  
  
  桌上的蜂蜜
  
  它用柔软无形的
  花的精魂,填满你,它滴成
  一根头发似的细线,你跟随它
  从蜂蜜罐到桌子
  
  到门外,到地上,
  它不断变稠,
  
  变深,变宽,经过
  松树枝,潮湿的大石头,
  山猫和熊的爪印,进入了
  
  森林深处,你
  匆匆放倒一些树,剥掉树皮,
  
  你漂浮着,并吞下淌着蜂蜜的蜂巢,
  树屑,被压碎的蜜蜂……一种味道

       由失去的一切所构成,在其中,失去的一切又被找回。

  
  Honey At The Table
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  It fills you with the soft
  essence of vanished flowers, it becomes
  a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow
  from the honey pot over the table
  
  and out the door and over the ground,
  and all the while it thickens,
  
  grows deeper and wilder, edged
  with pine boughs and wet boulders,
  pawprints of bobcat and bear, until
  
  deep in the forest you
  shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark,
  
  you float into and swallow the dripping combs,
  bits of the tree, crushed bees - - - a taste
  composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found.
  


  音乐 
  
  我将一些细芦管
  绑在一起,刻上
  气孔,吹奏出一种音乐
  使你呆立
  如受电击,然后
  
  跟随着,当我漫步,一点点
  长出
  斜眼睛和粗糙的毛发,我的脚
  踏着岩石,长出
  坚硬的羊角,而你
  
  跟在后面,沉溺在
  音乐中,取下
  头上的银发夹
  匆匆地,脱掉
  衣服。
  
  我不记得
  这发生在哪里,但是我想
  它是夏末,万物
  充满火焰,孕育着果实
  不做其他事,
  也不抵抗,
  只是躺着,像一片黑暗的水域
  在月亮的引力下,
  颠簸不休。
  
  在城市野蛮的优雅中
  我曾散步
  在旅店大厅
  
  并听见这种音乐,在
  闭紧的门后。
  
  你以为心灵
  可以被解释吗?你以为身体
  是皂荚树的
  一根枝条,
  
  追逐水,
  对着太阳隆起,
  颤抖着,当它感到
  善,进入了
  白色的花中?
  
  或者你以为有一种
  音乐,一种特定的旋律
  点亮身体
  迟钝的荒原——
  一种兴奋
  而难以解释的选择?
  
  哈,好吧,总之,无论是不是
  夏末,或是不是
  发生在我们身上,它只是
  一场梦,我没有
  变成柔软的山羊神。你也没有像那样
  奔跑着到来。
  
  你说呢?
  
  
  Music 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  I tied together
  a few slender reeds, cut
  notches to breathe across and made
  such music you stood
  shock still and then
  
  followed as I wandered growing
  moment by moment
  slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
  slamming over the rocks, growing
  hard as horn, and there
  
  you were behind me, drowning
  in the music, letting
  the silver clasps out of your hair,
  hurrying, taking off
  your clothes.
  
  I can't remember
  where this happened but I think
  it was late summer when everything
  is full of fire and rounding to fruition
  and whatever doesn't,
  or resists,
  must lie like a field of dark water under
  the pulling moon,
  tossing and tossing.
  
  In the brutal elegance of cities
  I have walked down
  the halls of hotels
  
  and heard this music behind
  shut doors.
  
  Do you think the heart
  is accountable? Do you think the body
  any more than a branch
  of the honey locust tree,
  
  hunting water,
  hunching toward the sun,
  shivering, when it feels
  that good, into
  white blossoms?
  
  Or do you think there is a kind
  of music, a certain strand
  that lights up the otherwise
  blunt wilderness of the body -
  a furious
  and unaccountable selectivity?
  
  Ah well, anyway, whether or not
  it was late summer, or even
  in our part of the world, it is all
  only a dream, I did not
  turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
  like that.
  
  Did you?
  
  
  太阳
  
  在你的生命中
  可曾见过
  比太阳的旅程
  更精彩的
  
  事物,
  每天傍晚,
  它悠闲地,
  向着地平线飘落
  
  隐入云层或山峦,
  或微波荡漾的大海,
  然后消失了——
  它再次从黑暗中
  
  滑出,
  每个早晨,
  在世界的另一边,
  像一朵红花
  
  浮在神圣的油中向上流动,
  说,初夏的一个早晨,
  隔着其完美的帝国距离——
  你可曾感受到
  如此疯狂的爱——
  难道你认为,在什么地方,在什么语言中,
  一个词可能激起
  巨浪似的快乐
  
  充满你,
  如同太阳
  升起,
  如同它温暖你
  
  当你站在那儿,
  两手空空——
  或者你
  已从这个世界转身离去——
  
  或者你
  已变得疯狂
  为权力,
  为物质?
  
  
  The Sun 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Have you ever seen 
  anything 
  in your life 
  more wonderful 
  
  than the way the sun, 
  every evening, 
  relaxed and easy, 
  floats toward the horizon 
  
  and into the clouds or the hills, 
  or the rumpled sea, 
  and is gone-- 
  and how it slides again 
  
  out of the blackness, 
  every morning, 
  on the other side of the world, 
  like a red flower 
  
  streaming upward on its heavenly oils, 
  say, on a morning in early summer, 
  at its perfect imperial distance-- 
  and have you ever felt for anything 
  such wild love-- 
  do you think there is anywhere, in any language, 
  a word billowing enough 
  for the pleasure 
  
  that fills you, 
  as the sun 
  reaches out, 
  as it warms you 
  
  as you stand there, 
  empty-handed-- 
  or have you too 
  turned from this world-- 
  
  or have you too 
  gone crazy 
  for power, 
  for things?



  在森林中沉睡
  

  我想大地记得我,
  她那么温柔地接纳我,
  整理好她的黑裙子,她的口袋中
  装满青苔和种子。
  我沉沉睡去,就像河床上的一块石头,
  在我和星星的白色火焰之间,空无一物
  只有我的思想,它们像飞蛾一样
  轻轻漂浮在完美之树的枝叶间。
  整夜,我听见这个小王国
  在我周围呼吸,昆虫,
  和鸟儿们,在黑暗中工作。
  整夜,我沉浮起落,如同在水中,
  挣扎于一种明亮的光。直到清晨,
  我在一些更好的事物中
  至少消失了十二次。
  
  
  Sleeping In The Forest
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  I thought the earth remembered me,
  she took me back so tenderly,
  arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
  full of lichens and seeds.
  I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
  nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
  but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
  among the branches of the perfect trees.
  All night I heard the small kingdoms
  breathing around me, the insects,
  and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
  All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
  grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
  I had vanished at least a dozen times
  into something better.
  


       诗(灵魂喜欢伪装……)
  
  灵魂
  喜欢装扮成这个样子:
  十个手指,
  十个脚趾,
  
  肩膀,以及其余部分
  在晚上
  是世界的黑色枝条,
  在早上
  
  是世界的
  蓝色枝条。
  当然,它可以浮动, 
  但是更愿
  
  垂挂着重物。
  空气般的无形之物,
  它需要
  肉体的隐喻,
  
  肢体和欲望,
  海洋般的流体,
  它需要肉体的世界,
  本能
  
  想象力
  时间黑暗的拥抱,
  甜蜜
  和实在性,
  
  需要被理解,
  燃烧出
  更纯粹的光
  无人在那里——
  
  因此它进入我们——
  早晨
  在野蛮的安逸中闪耀
  如一道闪电;
  
  夜晚
  点亮肉体深刻而奇异的
  沉溺
  如一颗星。
  
  
  Poem (The spirit likes to dress up...) 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  The spirit
  likes to dress up like this:
  ten fingers, 
  ten toes,
  
  shoulders, and all the rest
  at night
  in the black branches,
  in the morning
  
  in the blue branches
  of the world.
  It could float, of course,
  but would rather
  
  plumb rough matter.
  Airy and shapeless thing,
  it needs 
  the metaphor of the body,
  
  lime and appetite,
  the oceanic fluids;
  it needs the body's world,
  instinct
  
  and imagination
  and the dark hug of time,
  sweetness
  and tangibility,
  
  to be understood,
  to be more than pure light
  that burns
  where no one is --
  
  so it enters us --
  in the morning
  shines from brute comfort
  like a stitch of lightning;
  
  and at night
  lights up the deep and wondrous
  drownings of the body
  like a star.
  
 

 

       白鹭
  

  在道路
  被堵塞了的地方,
  我踏过暗淡的叶子, 
  坠落的枝条,
  以及盘根错节的猫藤,
  继续向前。最后
  我的胳膊
  被荆棘
  划伤,很快
  蚊子们
  围着我,闷热
  伤痛,我感到
  天旋地转,
  这是我
  到达池塘的经过:
  黑暗而空虚
  惟有一管被水泡白的
  芦苇
  躺在远处的岸边
  当我正看着那里时,
  水面突然荡起波纹
  三只白鹭——
  一束
  白色的火焰!
  即使半睡半醒,它们
  对这个造就了它们的世界
  也如此信任——
  倾斜着飞过水面,
  安静,确定,
  借助它们的信仰法则
  而不是逻辑,
  它们温柔地张开
  翅膀,滑过
  每一件黑暗的事物。
  
  
  Egrets 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Where the path closed
  down and over,
  through the scumbled leaves,
  fallen branches,
  through the knotted catbrier,
  I kept going. Finally
  I could not
  save my arms
  from thorns; soon
  the mosquitoes
  smelled me, hot
  and wounded, and came
  wheeling and whining.
  And that's how I came
  to the edge of the pond:
  black and empty
  except for a spindle
  of bleached reeds
  at the far shore
  which, as I looked,
  wrinkled suddenly
  into three egrets - - -
  a shower
  of white fire!
  Even half-asleep they had
  such faith in the world
  that had made them - - -
  tilting through the water,
  unruffled, sure,
  by the laws
  of their faith not logic,
  they opened their wings
  softly and stepped
  over every dark thing.
  


       嘲鸟
  
  今天早晨
  绿色的田野上
  有两只嘲鸟
  正在空中
  
  纺织
  它们歌声的
  白丝带。
  除了倾听
  
  我没有
  更好的事去做。
  我这样说时
  很严肃。
  
  很久以前, 
  希腊,
  有一对老夫妇
  为两个
  
  陌生人
  打开门,
  发现
  根本不是人,
  
  而是神。
  这是我喜爱的故事——
  这对老人
  没有什么能给予
  
  除了他们殷勤的
  意愿——
  但是仅此一点
  神就爱他们
  
  并祝福他们——
  当他们升离
  肉身,
  像无数水珠
  
  从一个喷泉中升起,
  光
  照进农舍的
  每一处角落,
  
  这对老人,
  颤抖着领受,
  弯下身躯——
  但是他们仍然什么也不求
  
  除了他们已经拥有的
  困难生活。
  神微笑着,拍动巨大的翅膀,
  消失了。
  
  这个早晨
  无论我假设
  这个故事发生在哪里——
  无论我所说的是什么
  
  我将要做的是——
  我正站在
  田野的边缘——
  匆匆
  
  穿越自己的灵魂,
  打开它黑暗的门——
  我探出头来;
  我正在倾听。
  
  
  Mockingbirds 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  This morning
  two mockingbirds
  in the green field
  were spinning and tossing
  
  the white ribbons
  of their songs
  into the air.
  I had nothing
  
  better to do
  than listen.
  I mean this
  seriously.
  
  In Greece,
  a long time ago,
  an old couple
  opened their door
  
  to two strangers
  who were,
  it soon appeared,
  not men at all,
  
  but gods.
  It is my favorite story--
  how the old couple
  had almost nothing to give
  
  but their willingness
  to be attentive--
  but for this alone
  the gods loved them
  
  and blessed them--
  when they rose
  out of their mortal bodies,
  like a million particles of water
  
  from a fountain,
  the light
  swept into all the corners
  of the cottage,
  
  and the old couple,
  shaken with understanding,
  bowed down--
  but still they asked for nothing
  
  but the difficult life
  which they had already.
  And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
  clapping their great wings.
  
  Wherever it was
  I was supposed to be
  this morning--
  whatever it was I said
  
  I would be doing--
  I was standing
  at the edge of the field--
  I was hurrying
  
  through my own soul,
  opening its dark doors--
  I was leaning out;
  I was listening.



  开花
  
  四月
  池塘像黑色的花
  开放了,
  月亮
  游在每一朵花中;
  处处
  都着了火:青蛙叫喊着
  它们的欲望,
  它们的满足。我们
  知道:时间
  向我们砸来,像一把
  铁锄头,死亡
  是一种瘫软状态。我们
  渴望:死亡之前的
  欢乐,湿地的
  夜晚——其他的一切
  都能等,惟有
  发自肉体的
  冲动
  不能等。我们
  知道:我们浓于
  血——我们大于
  我们的饥饿,而
  我们属于
  月亮,当池塘
  开放,当火
  在我们之间燃烧,我们
  深深梦想
  赶紧
  进入黑色的花瓣
  进入火,
  进入时间粉碎的夜晚
  进入另一个人的身体。
  
  
  Blossom
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  In April
  the ponds open
  like black blossoms,
  the moon
  swims in every one;
  there’s fire
  everywhere: frogs shouting
  their desire,
  their satisfaction. What
  we know: that time
  chops at us all like an iron
  hoe, that death
  is a state of paralysis. What
  we long for: joy
  before death, nights
  in the swale - everything else
  can wait but not
  this thrust
  from the root
  of the body. What
  we know: we are more
  than blood - we are more
  than our hunger and yet
  we belong
  to the moon and when the ponds
  open, when the burning
  begins the most
  thoughtful among us dreams
  of hurrying down
  into the black petals
  into the fire,
  into the night where time lies shattered
  into the body of another.
  
  
  八月
  

  当黑莓饱满地
  挂在林中,挂在不属于任何人的
  莓枝上,我整天
  
  晃悠在高高的
  枝条下,什么也不
  想,只是伸出
  
  我被划破的胳膊,把夏日的黑蜜
  塞进
  嘴中;整天,我的身体
  
  顺其自然。在流过的
  幽暗溪水中,有我
  生命的厚爪,张扬在
  
  黑色的钟型浆果和枝叶间;还有
  这欢乐的语言。
  
  
  August
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  When the blackberries hang
  swollen in the woods, in the brambles
  nobody owns, I spend
  
  all day among the high
  branches, reaching
  my ripped arms, thinking
  
  of nothing, cramming
  the black honey of summer
  into my mouth; all day my body
  
  accepts what it is. In the dark
  creeks that run by there is
  this thick paw of my life darting among
  
  the black bells, the leaves; there is
  this happy tongue.
  
  
  秋歌
  
  又一年将尽,处处留下了
  气味浓郁的残余:藤蔓,落叶,
  
  吃剩的果实在阴影中
  腐烂,消融,
  
  撤离这个夏天的
  孤岛,这个此刻,无处可寻。
  
  除了腐烂,在脚下,
  在不可知的
  
  黑暗神秘的地下城堡中——根和带壳的种子
  和水的渗透。当时间的轮盘
  
  艰难地转动,我试图记住
  这些,譬如,当秋天
  
  终于闪现,喧闹着,像我们那样渴望
  停驻——明亮的景物变换更替,在这转瞬即逝的
  
  草场中,万物如何
  进入永恒。
  
  
  Fall Song
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Another year gone, leaving everywhere
  its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
  
  the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
  in the shadows, unmattering back
  
  from the particular island
  of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere
  
  except underfoot, moldering
  in that black subterranean castle
  
  of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
  and the wanderings of water. This
  
  I try to remember when time's measure
  painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
  
  flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
  to stay - how everything lives, shifting
  
  from one bright vision to another, forever
  in these momentary pastures.
  
  
  百合
  
  一夜又一夜
  黑暗
  笼罩了百合的
  脸,
  轻轻地
  关闭了
  它的五面墙,
  它的
  花蜜袋,
  以及它的芬芳,
  它心满意足地
  站在
  花园里,
  并不安静地睡去,
  而是
  用百合的语言,
  说着一些
  我们无法听见的私语,
  尤其是
  一丝风也没有时,
  它的唇
  守口如瓶,
  它的语调
  那么隐秘——
  或者,它
  什么也没说
  只是站在那儿,
  带着植物
  和圣人似的
  耐心,
  直到整个地球转了一圈,
  银色的月亮
  变成金色的太阳——
  百合仿佛对此了然于心,
  它自己,难道不正是
  最完美的祈祷?
  
  
  The Lily
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Night after night
  darkness
  enters the face
  of the lily
  which, lightly,
  closes its five walls
  around itself,
  and its purse
  of honey,
  and its fragrance,
  and is content
  to stand there
  in the garden,
  not quite sleeping,
  and, maybe,
  saying in lily language
  some small words
  we can’t hear
  even when there is no wind
  anywhere,
  its lips
  are so secret,
  its tongue
  is so hidden –
  or, maybe,
  it says nothing at all
  but just stands there
  with the patience
  of vegetables
  and saints
  until the whole earth has turned around
  and the silver moon
  becomes the golden sun –
  as the lily absolutely knew it would,
  which is itself, isn’t it,
  the perfect prayer?


  停歇在凌霄花上的蜂雀
  
  谁不爱
  玫瑰,谁
  不爱黑暗池塘中
  小天鹅一般
  
  漂浮的
  睡莲,
  以及,热烈开放的
  凌霄花呢。
  
  蜂雀飞来,
  像一个小小的绿色天使,
  将棕黑的舌头
  浸泡在幸福中——
  
  谁不希望
  和它小马达似的心灵一起
  轻快地跳动
  像舒伯特那样
  
  歌唱
  眼睛
  四处观望,像阿尔勒的梵高那样
  心醉神迷?
  
  看!几乎整个世界
  都在等待
  或回忆——
  几乎整个世界都处于
  
  我们不在其中的时刻,
  我们尚未出生,或已死去——
  一束缓慢燃烧的火
  与我们所有聋哑、疯狂而盲目的兄妹们
  一起呆在地底
  他们
  甚至不再记得
  自己的幸福——
  
  看!我们将
  如同苍白、冰凉的
  石头,永远
  存在。
  
  
  Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Who doesn’t love
  roses, and who
  doesn’t love the lilies
  of the black ponds
  
  floating like flocks
  of tiny swans,
  and of course, the flaming
  trumpet vine
  
  where the hummingbird comes
  like a small green angel, to soak
  his dark tongue
  in happiness -
  
  and who doesn’t want
  to live with the brisk
  motor of his heart
  singing
  
  like a Schubert
  and his eyes
  working and working like those days of rapture,
  by Van Gogh in Arles?
  
  Look! for most of the world
  is waiting
  or remembering -
  most of the world is time
  
  when we’re not here,
  not born yet, or died -
  a slow fire
  under the earth with all
  our dumb wild blind cousins
  who also
  can’t even remember anymore
  their own happiness -
  
  Look! and then we will be
  like the pale cool
  stones, that last almost
  forever.
  
  
  叶子姑妈
  
  因为需要,我创造了她——
  这个伟大的姑妈像山胡桃树一样黑
  名叫亮叶子,或者浮云
  或者夜美人。
  
  我在叶子中呼喊,亲爱的姑妈,
  她就会站起来,像池塘中一根古旧的木头,
  用一种只有我们俩才懂的语言,低声
  吩咐我跟随,
  
  我们将去旅行
  像快乐的鸟儿一样
  离开灰尘扑扑的小镇,一旦进入树林
  她就把我们俩变成某种更敏捷的动物——
  两只黑脚狐狸,
  两条绿丝带似的蛇,
  两条闪光的鱼——我们将整天旅行。
  
  夜晚来临时,她离开我,让我回到自己的家
  和家人呆在一起,
  他们心地善良,却像木头一样顽固
  从不流浪。而她,
  是羽毛和白桦树皮缠绕成的一团
  像雨一样盘旋着,又
  飘回来
  
  将黎明的光
  播撒在飞舞的蛾翅上,
  
  或者,像一只负鼠,懒散地呆在谷仓;
  
  或者,悬挂在凝练的月光下,
  像一枚耀眼的大奖章,
  
  这个深刻的梦想,这个我需要的朋友,
  这个老妇人,是用叶子做成的。
  
  
  Aunt Leaf
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Needing one, I invented her -
  the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
  called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
  or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.
  
  Dear aunt, I'd call into the leaves,
  and she'd rise up, like an old log in a pool,
  and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
  the word that meant follow,
  
  and we'd travel
  cheerful as birds
  out of the dusty town and into the trees
  where she would change us both into something quicker -
  two foxes with black feet,
  two snakes green as ribbons,
  two shimmering fish - and all day we'd travel.
  
  At day's end she'd leave me back at my own door
  with the rest of my family,
  who were kind, but solid as wood
  and rarely wandered. While she,
  old twist of feathers and birch bark,
  would walk in circles wide as rain and then
  float back
  
  scattering the rags of twilight
  on fluttering moth wings;
  
  or she'd slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;
  
  or she'd hang in the milky moonlight
  burning like a medallion,
  
  this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
  this old woman made out of leaves
  
  
  
  蚊子如此渺小,
  毁灭它无需费一点力气。
  每一片叶子,以及匆匆来去的黑蚂蚁,
  同样如此。
  这么多生命,这么多命运!
  每天早晨,我轻轻走着,眼睛扫视
  低处的池塘和松树林。
  在鼻涕虫爬向它的盛宴之前,
  在松针簌簌地落下之前,
  在迅疾而有益的雨中,
  即使只有短短数小时,蘑菇,也会繁殖
  许多,许多,许多
  组成一个世界!
  于是我想起那个古老的观念:独特的
  才是永恒的。
  一只杯子,万物在其中旋转着
  变回大海和天空的颜色。
  想象它!
  必定是一只明亮的杯子!
  那一刻
  没有风掠过你的肩膀,
  你凝视着它,
  你在它里面,
  你自己亲切的脸,你自己的眼睛。
  而风,不顾及你,只是掠过。
  轻抚着蚂蚁,蚊子,叶子,
  以及你所知道的其他一切!
  大海多么蓝,天空多么蓝,
  万物多么蓝,多么微小,万物皆可以救赎,包括你,
  包括你的眼睛,包括你的想象。
  
  
  One
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  The mosquito is so small
  it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
  Each leaf, the same.
  And the black ant, hurrying.
  So many lives, so many fortunes!
  Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
  down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
  Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
  before the slug creeps to the feast,
  before the pine needles hustle down
  under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.
  How many, how many, how many
  make up a world!
  And then I think of that old idea: the singular
  and the eternal.
  One cup, in which everything is swirled
  back to the color of the sea and sky.
  Imagine it!
  A shining cup, surely!
  In the moment in which there is no wind
  over your shoulder,
  you stare down into it,
  and there you are,
  your own darling face, your own eyes.
  And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
  touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
  and you know what else!
  How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
  how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
  even your eyes, even your imagination.
  
  
  家信
  
  她给我寄来蓝松鸦,霜,
  星星,以及此刻正升起在贫瘠山巅的
  秋月的消息。
  她轻描淡写地提及寒冷,痛苦,
  并罗列出已经丧失的东西。
  读到这里,我的生活显得艰难而缓慢,
  我读到生机勃勃的瓜
  堆在门边,篮子里装满
  茴香,迷迭香和莳萝,
  而所有无法采集,或隐藏在叶子中的
  那些,她只能任其变黑并落下。
  读到这里,我的生活显得艰难而陌生,
  我读到她的兴奋,每当
  星星升起,霜降下来,蓝松鸦唱起歌。
  荒芜的岁月没有改变
  她聪明而热情的心;
  她知道人们总是
  计划自己的生活,却难以实现。
  如果她哭泣,她不会告诉我。
  
  我抚摸着她的名字;
  我叠好信,站起来,
  倾倒信封,从里面飘出了
  玻璃苣,忍冬,芸香的碎片。
  
  
  A Letter from Home
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
  Of stars and now the harvest moon
  That rides above the stricken hills.
  Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
  And lists what is already lost.
  Here where my life seems hard and slow,
  I read of glowing melons piled
  Beside the door, and baskets filled
  With fennel, rosemary and dill,
  While all she could not gather in
  Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
  Here where my life seems hard and strange,
  I read her wild excitement when
  Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
  The broken year will make no change
  Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
  She knows how people always plan
  To live their lives, and never do.
  She will not tell me if she cries.
  
  I touch the crosses by her name;
  I fold the pages as I rise,
  And tip the envelope, from which
  Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.
  
  
  沉迷
  
  整个夏天
  我漫步于田野,
  在每个清晨,
  每一场雨中,
  
  田野变得深邃
  充满种子和花,
  以及闪烁不定的
  耀眼的光环——
  
  如同苍白的火焰,它们升起
  又熄灭,
  丰盈而美——
  这就是田野的全部——
  
  而我
  至少有一两次,
  感到自己飞起来了,
  我的鞋子
  
  突然碰到种子的顶端,
  丝绸一般柔滑的蓝色空气——
  听,
  它热情地
  
  召唤我,
  使我迷茫,
  剥去我的外壳
  再为我穿上欢乐的衣裳——
  
  我不再需要什么,
  只是沉迷于这闪亮的一刻,
  沉迷于这不合逻辑的失重——
  
  它是否是你所爱之物的
  完美形式——
  属于一首古老的德国歌曲——
  或者某个人——
  
  或者就是地球自身的黑色丝线,
  沉重,带电。
  在可爱心智的边缘,展开
  如此狂野而盲目的翅膀。
  
  
  The Rapture
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  All summer
  I wandered the fields
  that were thickening
  every morning,
  
  every rainfall,
  with weeds and blossoms,
  with the long loops
  of the shimmering, and the extravagant-
  
  pale as flames they rose
  and fell back,
  replete and beautiful-
  that was all there was-
  
  and I too
  once or twice, at least,
  felt myself rising,
  my boots
  
  touching suddenly the tops of the weeds,
  the blue and silky air-
  listen,
  passion did it,
  
  called me forth,
  addled me,
  stripped me clean
  then covered me with the cloth of happiness-
  
  I think there is no other prize,
  only rapture the gleaming,
  rapture the illogical the weightless-
  
  whether it be for the perfect shapeliness
  of something you love-
  like an old German song-
  or of someone-
  
  or the dark floss of the earth itself,
  heavy and electric.
  At the edge of sweet sanity open
  such wild, blind wings.
  


  夏日
  
  谁创造了世界?
  谁创造了天鹅,和黑熊?
  谁创造了蚱蜢?
  蚱蜢,我指的是——
  跳出草丛的这一只,
  正在我手中吃糖的这一只,
  正在来回而不是上下移动她的颚——
  正在用她巨大而复杂的眼睛四处张望的这一只。
  现在她抬起柔弱的前臂,彻底洗净她的脸。
  现在她张开翅膀,飞走了。
  我不能确定祷告是什么。
  我只知道如何专注,如何躺进
  草里,如何跪在草中,
  如何偷懒并享受幸福,如何在田野闲逛,
  这是我整天所做的事。
  告诉我,我还应该做什么?
  一切最终不都死去了,而且很快?
  告诉我,你打算做什么
  用你疯狂而宝贵的一生?
  
  
  The Summer Day 
  
  by Mary Oliver
  
  Who made the world?
  Who made the swan, and the black bear?
  Who made the grasshopper?
  This grasshopper, I mean--
  the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
  the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
  who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
  who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
  Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
  Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
  I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
  I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
  into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
  how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
  which is what I have been doing all day.
  Tell me, what else should I have done?
  Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
  Tell me, what is it you plan to do
  With your one wild and precious life?


     以上全部诗歌由倪志娟翻译

  


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