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露易丝·博根(Louise Bogan，1897-1970)，1897年出生于美国缅因州的利佛莫尔福尔斯镇。她一生坎坷，患有轻微的精神抑郁症。许多评论家认为：博根创造了一种不同于传统女性的抒情诗歌，将克制、含蓄与细腻和优雅完整地结合起来。她的大部分作品出版于1938年之前，主要包括《死亡的身体》（Body of This Death，1923），《黑暗的夏季》（Dark Summer，1929），《沉睡的愤怒》（The Sleeping Fury，1937），以及选集《河口：1923年—1968年诗选》（The Blue Estuaries: Poems, 1923-1968，1968）。 胡安之歌 当美裂成碎片，纷纷落下， 我并不悲伤，只感到惊奇。 当爱像一个脆弱的壳，被摔破了， 我没有保留它的碎片作为纪念。 我从不将一个男人引为朋友， 他不理解爱必须结束。 我从不将一个女孩当作情人， 她能察觉爱已经结束了。 智者怀疑，愚者相信—— 那么，爱，欺骗的是谁？ 一个浪漫女人的墓志铭 她得到了 她梦想的永恒，那里，古老的石头躺在阳光下。 杂草轻抚着她， 节奏平稳而迅捷，像年轻男人正在奔跑。 她总是真诚地爱着 其他活着的人——她听见他们的笑声。 她躺在无人躺过的地方， 当然，也无人跟随。 （倪志娟 译） Epitaph For A Romantic Woman She has attained the permanence She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning. Untended stalks blow over her Even and swift, like young men running. Always in the heart she loved Others had lived, -- she heard their laughter. She lies where none has lain before, Where certainly none will follow after. 从一次地狱旅行中带回的孤独经验 午夜的眼泪 流入你的耳中。 （倪志娟 译） 孤独的人 在长久的愤怒中， 审视光，黑暗， 镜子和书页。 你寻找的，不过是你自己。 里面映射的 是那些眼睛，和浓密的头发， 是热情的面容，笑声。 你将出现在 书中，或者在镀银的玻璃中， 被复制，被释放； 进入你将经过的 所有其他人的身体。 玻璃不会消融； 镜子像墙壁一样站立； 被印刷的书页通过另一双手 归还词语。 而你迷醉的眼睛， 在下文中没有遇见它自己； 陌生人躺在你的怀里， 如同我此时一样。 （倪志娟 译） Man Alone It is yourself you seek In a long rage, Scanning through light and darkness Mirrors, the page, Where should reflected be Those eyes and that thick hair, That passionate look, that laughter. You should appear Within the book, or doubled, Freed, in the silvered glass; Into all other bodies Yourself should pass. The glass does not dissolve; Like walls the mirrors stand; The printed page gives back Words by another hand. And your infatuate eye Meets not itself below; Strangers lie in your arms As I lie now. 睡眠中的眼泪 整夜，公鸡在亮如白昼的月光下鸣叫， 而我，在睡眠的牢笼中，在一个陌生人的胸脯上 流泪，像一个无法摆脱的使命—— 在虚假的光中，虚假的悲伤在我欢乐的床上， 眼泪的劳作，抵消了欢愉的无所事事。 我不会唤醒你的话，我让眼泪去说。 我攀紧梦的栅栏，它们被说出， 痛苦嘲弄的手使我平息， 夜晚，散发出火焰，黑暗再次降临。 （倪志娟 译） Tears In Sleep All night the cocks crew, under a moon like day, And I, in the cage of sleep, on a stranger's breast, Shed tears, like a task not to be put away--- In the false light, false grief in my happy bed, A labor of tears, set against joy's undoing. I would not wake at your word, I had tears to say. I clung to the bars of the dream and they were said, And pain's derisive hand had given me rest From the night giving off flames, and the dark renewing. 肖像 她不必担心收获的 秋季，果园中架起的 的梯子，不担心潮水 从陡峭的沙滩上消退。 不任由痛苦泛滥， 她身体的堡垒，坚硬而荒凉， 也不是一个望远镜，能预见 另一个人的毁灭。 她已得到和失去的， 不会再失去。 她，曾被男人所爱，现在 被时间拥有。 （倪志娟 译） Portrait She has no need to fear the fall Of harvest from the laddered reach Of orchards, nor the tide gone ebbing From the steep beach. Nor hold to pain's effrontery Her body's bulwark, stern and savage, Nor be a glass, where to forsee Another's ravage. What she has gathered, and what lost, She will not find to lose again. She is possessed by time, who once Was loved by men. 十四行诗 既然你自称是我思想的源头， 那么，请除去使它陷落的陷阱， 那芦苇丛中，其他人 能捕获它的陷阱。请用魔法召唤 炙热的火焰，或者一场雪，彻底 清除。它将获得自由。 无论什么网诱张着，想捕获我， 你的眼睛必定照看着，让它逃离。 我的嘴，也许可以很好地了解， 我的身体却听不见它自己的回声， 而绝望的精神，将傲慢又疯狂地 追随风暴，摆脱控制我们的 严厉符咒，扯紧风，在电闪雷鸣的云中 直接投向它的自由。 （倪志娟 译） Sonnet Since you would claim the sources of my thought Recall the meshes whence it sprang unlimed, The reedy traps which other hands have times To close upon it. Conjure up the hot Blaze that it cleared so cleanly, or the snow Devised to strike it down. It will be free. Whatever nets draw in to prison me At length your eyes must turn to watch it go. My mouth, perhaps, may learn one thing too well, My body hear no echo save its own, Yet will the desperate mind, maddened and proud, Seek out the storm, escape the bitter spell That we obey, strain to the wind, be thrown Straight to its freedom in the thunderous cloud 罗马喷泉
我看见水，从青铜座向上 喷洒，到达最高处， 再落下，仿佛静止在空中， 光滑地流淌。 阴影似的青铜座， 一种人造的物件， 塑造了直立在空中的 透明清澈的水流。 哦，如同拿着锤子的手臂， 它善于努力地 敲打出这完整的形象， 回声断断续续， 而向上奔涌的水， 跟随夏日的空气，调皮地 跃进喷泉池。 Roman Fountain Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air, Reach to its rest, and fall. Bronze of the blackest shade, An element man-made, Shaping upright the bare Clear gouts of water in air. O, as with arm and hammer, Still it is good to strive To beat out the image whole, To echo the shout and stammer When full-gushed waters, alive, Strike on the fountain's bowl After the air of summer. 远景尽头的山 来，让我们分辨沟渠中的种子， 曾经富有的我们，此刻多么贫穷， 躺在牛群啃噬过的 贫瘠而潮湿的牧场， 秋天的夜晚，为这个小镇 带来安宁。 来，让我们告诫冷漠的陌生人， 我们如何寻求安全，却爱上了危险。 因此，靠着坚硬的墙壁，我们 选择了更脆弱的边界： 山那边，明亮的白杨，高大的橡树， 淡成了一片轻烟。 （倪志娟 译） Last Hill In A Vista Come, let us tell the weeds in ditches How we are poor, who once had riches, And lie out in the sparse and sodden Pastures that the cows have trodden, The while an autumn night seals down The comforts of the wooden town. Come, let us counsel some cold stranger How we sought safety, but loved danger. So, with stiff walls about us, we Chose this more fragile boundary: Hills, where light poplars, the firm oak, Loosen into a little smoke. 炼金术士 我焚烧我的生命，也许我能找到 完全属于精神的热情， 从眼睛和骨头中剥离思想， 让迷狂独自存在。 我破坏我的生活，为了摆脱 爱和悲伤那破碎的光芒。 纯粹的火焰跳跃着， 烧焦了存在和欲望。 它变得虚弱，停止了悸动。 我看到毫无神秘可言的肉体—— 并非精神的狂热本质——仍然 充满不受意志约束的热情。 （倪志娟 译） The Alchemist I burned my life, that I might find A passion wholly of the mind, Thought divorced from eye and bone, Ecstasy come to breath alone. I broke my life, to seek relief From the flawed light of love and grief. With mounting beat the utter fire Charred existence and desire. It died low, ceased its sudden thresh. I had found unmysterious flesh -- Not the mind's avid substance -- still Passionate beyond the will 美杜莎 我已来到这所房子，它在树洞中， 面对着清澈的天空。 一切都在移动——一只铃铛悬挂着准备敲响， 太阳和倒影旋转着。 我看见了直率的眼睛 和嘶嘶作响的头发， 她正靠着窗子，向门外看。 极其直率的眼睛，额头上 盘绕着的蛇。 这是一幅永恒的死亡景象。 没有任何生机。 结局绝不会使它变得更明亮， 雨也不能模糊它。 水将总是向下流，但不会落下， 倾斜的铃铛不会发出声音。 草，深深扎根在土地， 生长，只是为了变成干草。 而我将站在这里，像一个影子， 在无比安宁的日子， 注视着黄色的尘土，它们在风中飘浮， 但不会散去。 （倪志娟 译） Medusa I had come to the house, in a cave of trees, Facing a sheer sky. Everything moved, -- a bell hung ready to strike, Sun and reflection wheeled by. When the bare eyes were before me And the hissing hair, Held up at a window, seen through a door. The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead Formed in the air. This is a dead scene forever now. Nothing will ever stir. The end will never brighten it more than this, Nor the rain blur. The water will always fall, and will not fall, And the tipped bell make no sound. The grass will always be growing for hay Deep on the ground. And I shall stand here like a shadow Under the great balanced day, My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind, And does not drift away. 离别之言
没有什么被记住，没有什么被遗忘。 当我们醒来，马车正驶过温暖的夏日大道， 窗台被夜晚的雨水淋湿， 鸟儿停歇在烟囱周围 如同停歇在一些奇怪的树上。 没有什么被接受，没有什么被忽略。 微弱的钟声划分了每一个钟点， 下午散发着凉爽的气息， 人们在越来越冷清的街头踟蹰。 月亮，和店铺前的光，亮着 黄昏如倾斜的水，降临。 手紧握着手， 额头仍然紧抵着额头—— 没有什么被丢失，没有什么被拥有， 没有礼物也没有拒绝。 2 我已记住你。 你不是曾被探访的小镇， 也不是在奔跑的脚下逝去的小路。 你笨拙如肉体 比霜或灰烬更轻。 你是壳， 是白色汁液的苹果， 是歌，是等待音乐的词语。 3 你已学会了开始： 从我走向其他人。 相伴；吃，跳舞，绝望， 睡，被威胁，容忍。 你明白了这种方式。 但最后，是无礼； 是荒唐——突然地删除一切； 是疯狂——绝不再谈起， 戴着沉默中开放的花。 离别，没有火把或灯笼， 使你的离别充满了某种不确定性。 （倪志娟 译） Words For Departure Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten. When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements, The window-sills were wet from rain in the night, Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots As among grotesque trees. Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond. Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour, The afternoon sifted coolness And people drew together in streets becoming deserted. There was a moon, and light in a shop-front, And dusk falling like precipitous water. Hand clasped hand Forehead still bowed to forehead-- Nothing was lost, nothing possessed There was no gift nor denial. 2 I have remembered you. You were not the town visited once, Nor the road falling behind running feet. You were as awkward as flesh And lighter than frost or ashes. You were the rind, And the white-juiced apple, The song, and the words waiting for music. 3 You have learned the beginning; Go from mine to the other. Be together; eat, dance, despair, Sleep, be threatened, endure. You will know the way of that. But at the end, be insolent; Be absurd--strike the thing short off; Be mad--only do not let talk Wear the bloom from silence. And go away without fire or lantern Let there be some uncertainty about your departure. 理解
现在，我明白了 热情如何温暖 泥土中的一点肉体， 而珠宝是脆弱的，—— 我将躺在这里，了解 树，如何在它们的土地上 投下长长的阴影， 和一种轻柔的声音。 （倪志娟 译） Knowledge Now that I know How passion warms little Of flesh in the mould, And treasure is brittle,-- I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground Trees make a long shadow And a light sound. 约定 你曾将双手放在我身上，还有你的唇， 你念着我的名字如同祈祷。 这里，树种满河岸， 我留意过你的眼睛，清澈，毫无遗憾， 而你的唇，关闭着爱不能说出的一切。 我的母亲记得她子宫的疼痛， 长久以来，她期望的远不止这一点。 她说；“你不爱我， 你不需要我， 你终会离开我。” 在我去往的国度中， 我将无法看见朋友的脸， 以及她烈日下枯草色的头发， 同时，我们也无法拥有 这样一片土地，山间悬挂着新月， 空中划过飞鸟的踪迹。 我曾如何设想爱？ 我说：“它是美和忧愁。” 我曾以为，它将带给我失去的欢乐，和辉煌 如同往昔岁月吹来的一缕风…… 但是，此时只有黄昏 和柳树的细叶 间或掠过水面的声音。 （倪志娟 译） 梦 哦，上帝，梦中那匹可怕的马， 开始在空中刨蹄子，对着我喷气， 埋藏了35年的恐惧，从它的鬃毛上倾泻而下， 几乎同样古老的报复，从它的鼻孔喷出。 当某种强壮的生物跃起，扯紧了缰绳。 我，一个彻头彻尾的懦夫，只能躺在地板上流泪， 我迷迷糊糊躺着时，另一个女人 跳到空中，拽紧了皮革和链子。 给他，她说，把你的一些东西给他作为符咒。 扔给他，她说，把你特有的一些卑微之物扔给他。 不，不，我叫喊着，他恨我；他的出现只是为了伤害， 无论我是否屈服，结果都一样。 但是，如同传说中的狮子，当我 从冰冷的右手，褪下浸透汗水的手套，扔过去； 这可怕的野兽，令人难以理喻地 走到我身边，低下它爱恋的头颅。 （倪志娟 译） The Dream O God, in the dream the terrible horse began To paw at the air, and make for me with his blows, Fear kept for thirty-five years poured through his mane, And retribution equally old, or nearly, breathed through his nose. Coward complete, I lay and wept on the ground When some strong creature appeared, and leapt for the rein. Another woman, as I lay half in a swound Leapt in the air, and clutched at the leather and chain. Give him, she said, something of yours as a charm. Throw him, she said, some poor thing you alone claim. No, no, I cried, he hates me; he is out for harm, And whether I yield or not, it is all the same. But, like a lion in a legend, when I flung the glove Pulled from my sweating, my cold right hand; The terrible beast, that no one may understand, Came to my side, and put down his head in love. 女人 女人的内心并不杂乱， 相反，她们很精明， 内心宁静温暖， 甘于啃布满尘土的面包。 她们不看牛吃红色的冬草， 她们不听雪水 在浅而清澈的沟渠中 流动。 当她们应该踏上旅程时，她们等待， 当她们应该屈服时，她们强硬。 她们反对自己大发慈悲 将男人当做朋友。 她们无法想象一块田里有那么多作物， 或者一把斧头能劈开那么多整齐的木头。 她们的爱是一种急切的虚无， 要么太紧，要么太松。 她们倾听任何一种低语， 一声叫喊或者哭泣。 很可能，在她们将生活带进她们的门槛之前， 她们本应对它视而不见。 （倪志娟 译） Women Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident instead, Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread. They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass, They do not hear Snow water going down under culverts Shallow and clear. They wait, when they should turn to journeys, They stiffen, when they should bend. They use against themselves that benevolence To which no man is friend. They cannot think of so many crops to a field Or of clean wood cleft by an axe. Their love is an eager meaninglessness Too tense, or too lax. They hear in every whisper that speaks to them A shout and a cry. As like as not, when they take life over their door-sills They should let it go by. 嫁接的苹果
让我为你详细说说 我果园中的丰收情况。 我的苹果树，为我结出了一些果实。 包含不同的品种： 外表光滑和带条纹的；红色和赤褐色的；绿色和黄色的； 还有酸的或甜的。 在那棵无人照看的苹果树上， 两个品种相遇了—— 因此，它结出的苹果，一半是毫无瑕疵的红， 而另一半 是雪白的。它是一个可爱的苹果。 它属于你。 它有五个豌豆一般大的果核， 你会发现， 它们将长成五棵结实高大， 品种不同的苹果树： 为你提供取火的木头，遮阴的叶子， 以及做果酱的苹果。 哦，对少女而言，这是一个好苹果， 它是一个杂交品种， 它的果肉紧密，有丝一般的条纹 是珍品中的珍品。 红色的一边甜蜜如火，而白色的一边 如牧场上的牛奶。 吃它时，你能品尝到果实之外的东西： 包括花， 阳光，空气，根部的黑暗， 雨，露水， 我们从之而来的土地，我们逃避的时间， 以及火焰和胸膛。 我要白色的那一半，女孩，那是属于我的。 剩余的部分归你。 （倪志娟 译） The Crossed Apple I’ve come to give you fruit from out my orchard, Of wide report. I have trees there that bear me many apples. Of every sort: Clear, streaked; red and russet; green and golden; Sour and sweet. This apple’s from a tree yet unbeholden, Where two kinds meet, - So that this side is red without a dapple, And this side’s hue Is clear and snowy. It’s a lovely apple. It is for you. Within are five black pips as big as peas, As you will find, Potent to breed you five great apple trees Of varying kind: To breed you wood for fire, leaves for shade, Apples for sauce. Oh, this is a good apple for a maid, It is a cross, Fine on the finer, so the flesh is tight, And grained like silk. Sweet Burning gave the red side, and the white Is Meadow Milk. Eat it, and you will taste more than the fruit: The blossom, too, The sun, the air, the darkness at the root, The rain, the dew, The earth we came to, and the time we flee, The fire and the breast. I claim the white part, maiden, that’s for me. You take the rest. 夜晚 在遥远冷漠的岛屿 和忧郁的河口， 港湾动荡的风， 吹拂着，吹拂着 上涨的潮水 涌动着，涌动着； 那里的贝壳和野草 忍受着大海的咸， 晴朗的夜晚，星星 向着西边褪去它的光芒， 消失在陆地之后； 那里绵绵无尽的海水， 拍打着岩石； 无云的夜晚， 水，再次映照出 苍穹的片段； ——哦，请记住 在不断消逝的黑暗的时光中， 移动着比心脏中的血液 更多的事物。 云中飘来的几种声音 来吧，醉鬼和瘾君子；来吧，丧失了勇气的堕落者！ 接受这顶桂冠吧，虽然是迟来的荣誉，你们却 受之无愧。 目光短浅的愚人，见风使舵者，正人君子，上流人士， 请滚远一点，不要碰这桂冠。它是不朽的， 绝不属于你们 （倪志娟 译） 竖琴之歌 我所依偎着的风景 再次从枝群中释放夏天； 形成那浓重的树荫 八月葱茏的树叶，必然 在风的晦暗里， 舞动整晚。 很快，秋日潺潺的小溪， 流回到画里的夜晚， 正如在睡眠的欢欣里 它留在了梦幻， 轻轻的苏醒,它那声音 倾泻在大地的冰寒。 不久树叶蜂拥而起； 噢，爱，当夜晚 隔开我的睡眠，当星辰， 秋水，沉静隔开我的梦幻， 尽管，想哭，我曾 离它的声音甚远， 它的嗓音依然属于夜晚。 （靳乾 译） Song For a Lyre The landscape where I lie Again from boughs sets free Summer; all night must fly In wind’s obscurity The thick, green leaves that made Heavy the August shade. Soon, in the pictured night, Returns—as in a dream Left after sleep’s delight— The shallow autumn stream: Softly awake, its sound Poured on the chilly ground. Soon fly the leaves in throngs; O love, though once I lay Far from its sound, to weep, When night divides my sleep, When stars, the autumn stream, Stillness, divide my dream, Night to your voice belongs. Men Loved Wholly Beyond Wisdom Men loved wholly beyond wisdom Have the staff without the banner. Like a fire in a dry thicket Rising within women's eyes Is the love men must return. Heart, so subtle now, and trembling, What a marvel to be wise., To love never in this manner! To be quiet in the fern Like a thing gone dead and still, Listening to the prisoned cricket Shake its terrible dissembling Music in the granite hill. Leave-Taking I do not know where either of us can turn Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other. I do not know how we can bear The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon, Or many trees shaken together in the darkness. We shall wish not to be alone And that love were not dispersed and set free— Though you defeat me, And I be heavy upon you. But like earth heaped over the heart Is love grown perfect. Like a shell over the beat of life Is love perfect to the last. So let it be the same Whether we turn to the dark or to the kiss of another; Let us know this for leavetaking, That I may not be heavy upon you, That you may blind me no more. Juan's Song When beauty breaks and falls asunder I feel no grief for it, but wonder. When love, like a frail shell, lies broken, I keep no chip of it for token. I never had a man for friend Who did not know that love must end. I never had a girl for lover Who could discern when love was over. What the wise doubt, the fool believes-- Who is it, then, that love deceives? Chanson Un Peu Naïve What body can be ploughed, Sown, and broken yearly? But she would not die, she vowed, But she has, nearly. Sing, heart sing; Call and carol clearly. And, since she could not die, Care would be a feather, A film over the eye Of two that lie together. Fly, song, fly, Break your little tether. So from strength concealed She makes her pretty boast: Plain is a furrow healed And she may love you most. Cry, song, cry, And hear your crying lost. Cassandra To me, one silly task is like another. I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride. This flesh will never give a child its mother,— Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side, And madness chooses out my voice again, Again. I am the chosen no hand saves: The shrieking heaven lifted over men, Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves. Betrothed You have put your two hands upon me, and your mouth, You have said my name as a prayer. Here where trees are planted by the water I have watched your eyes, cleansed from regret, And your lips, closed over all that love cannot say, My mother remembers the agony of her womb And long years that seemed to promise more than this. She says, 'You do not love me, You do not want me, You will go away.' In the country whereto I go I shall not see the face of my friend Nor her hair the color of sunburnt grasses; Together we shall not find The land on whose hills bends the new moon In air traversed of birds. What have I thought of love? I have said, 'It is beauty and sorrow.' I have thought that it would bring me lost delights, and splendor As a wind out of old time . . . But there is only the evening here, And the sound of willows Now and again dipping their long oval leaves in the water. A Tale This youth too long has heard the break Of waters in a land of change. He goes to see what suns can make From soil more indurate and strange. He cuts what holds his days together And shuts him in, as lock on lock: The arrowed vane announcing weather, The tripping racket of a clock; Seeking, I think, a light that waits Still as a lamp upon a shelf, -- A land with hills like rocky gates Where no sea leaps upon itself. But he will find that nothing dares To be enduring, save where, south Of hidden deserts, torn fire glares On beauty with a rusted mouth, -- Where something dreadful and another Look quietly upon each other. Zone We have struck the regions wherein we are keel or reef. The wind breaks over us, And against high sharp angles almost splits into words, And these are of fear or grief. Like a ship, we have struck expected latitudes Of the universe, in March. Through one short segment’s arch Of the zodiac’s round We pass, Thinking: Now we hear What we heard last year, And bear the wind’s rude touch And its ugly sound Equally with so much We have learned how to bear. To Be Sung On The Water Beautiful, my delight, Pass, as we pass the wave. Pass, as the mottled night Leaves what it cannot save, Scattering dark and bright. Beautiful, pass and be Less than the guiltless shade To which our vows were said; Less than the sound of the oar To which our vows were made, - Less than the sound of its blade Dipping the stream once more. To A Dead Lover The dark is thrown Back from the brightness, like hair Cast over a shoulder. I am alone, Four years older; Like the chairs and the walls Which I once watched brighten With you beside me. I was to waken Never like this, whatever came or was taken. The stalk grows, the year beats on the wind. Apples come, and the month for their fall. The bark spreads, the roots tighten. Though today be the last Or tomorrow all, You will not mind. That I may not remember Does not matter. I shall not be with you again. What we knew, even now Must scatter And be ruined, and blow Like dust in the rain. You have been dead a long season And have less than desire Who were lover with lover; And I have life—that old reason To wait for what comes, To leave what is over. The Frightened Man In fear of the rich mouth I kissed the thin,-- Even that was a trap To snare me in. Even she, so long The frail, the scentless, Is become strong, And proves relentless. O, forget her praise, And how I sought her Through a hazardous maze By shafted water. Statue And Birds Here, in the withered arbor, like the arrested wind, Straight sides, carven knees, Stands the statue, with hands flung out in alarm Or remonstrances. Over the lintel sway the woven bracts of the vine In a pattern of angles. The quill of the fountain falters, woods rake on the sky Their brusque tangles. The birds walk by slowly, circling the marble girl, The golden quails, The pheasants, closed up in their arrowy wings, Dragging their sharp tails. The inquietudes of the sap and of the blood are spent. What is forsaken will rest. But her heel is lifted,—she would flee,—the whistle of the birds Fails on her breast. Song For The Last Act Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook. Beyond, a garden, There, in insolent ease The lead and marble figures watch the show Of yet another summer loath to go Although the scythes hang in the apple trees. Now that I have your face by heart, I look. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read In the black chords upon a dulling page Music that is not meant for music's cage, Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed. The staves are shuttled over with a stark Unprinted silence. In a double dream I must spell out the storm, the running stream. The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see The wharves with their great ships and architraves; The rigging and the cargo and the slaves On a strange beach under a broken sky. O not departure, but a voyage done! The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see. A Letter I came here, being stricken, stumbling out At last from streets; the sun, decreasing, took me For days, the time being the last of autumn, The thickets not yet stark, but quivering With tiny colors, like some brush strokes in The manner of the pointillists; small yellows Dart shaped, little reds in different pattern, Clicks and notches of color on threaded bushes, A cracked and fluent heaven, and a brown earth. I had these, and my food and sleep—enough. This is a countryside of roofless houses,— Taverns to rain,—doorsteps of millstones, lintels Leaning and delicate, foundations sprung to lilacs. Orchards where boughs like roots strike into the sky. Here I could well devise the journey to nothing, At night getting down from the wagon by the black barns, The zenith a point of darkness, breaking to bits, Showering motionless stars over the houses. Scenes relentless—the black and white grooves of a woodcut. But why the journey to nothing or any desire? Why the heart taken by even senseless adventure, The goal a coffer of dust? Give my mouth to the air, Let arrogant pain lick my flesh with a tongue Rough as a cat’s; remember the smell of cold mornings, The dried beauty of women, the exquisite skin Under the chins of young girls, young men’s rough beards,— The cringing promise of this one, that one’s apology For the knife struck down to the bone, gladioli in sick rooms, Asters and dahlias, flowers like ruches, rosettes. . . Forever enough to part grass over the stones By some brook or well, the lovely seed-shedding stalks; To hear in the single wind diverse branches Repeating their sounds to the sky—that sky like scaled mackerel, Fleeing the fields—to be defended from silence, To feel my body as arid, as safe as a twig Broken away from whatever growth could snare it Up to a spring, or hold it softly in summer Or beat it under in snow. I must get well. Walk on strong legs, leap the hurdles of sense, Reason again, come back to my old patchwork logic, Addition, subtraction, money, clothes, clocks, Memories (freesias, smelling slightly of snow and of flesh In a room with blue curtains) ambition, despair. I must feel again who had given feeling over, Challenge laughter, take tears, play the piano, Form judgments, blame a crude world for disaster. To escape is nothing. Not to escape is nothing. The farmer’s wife stands with a halo of darkness Rounding her head. Water drips in the kitchen Tapping the sink. To-day the maples have split Limb from the trunk with the ice, a fresh wooden wound. The vines are distorted with ice, ice burdens the breaking Roofs I have told you of. Fifteenth Farewell I You may have all things from me, save my breath, The slight life in my throat will not give pause For your love, nor your loss, nor any cause. Shall I be made a panderer to death, Dig the green ground for darkness underneath, Let the dust serve me, covering all that was With all that will be? Better, from time’s claws, The hardened face under the subtle wreath. Cooler than stones in wells, sweeter, more kind Than hot, perfidious words, my breathing moves Close to my plunging blood. Be strong, and hang Unriven mist over my breast and mind, My breath! We shall forget the heart that loves, Though in my body beat its blade, and its fang. II I erred, when I thought loneliness the wide Scent of mown grass over forsaken fields, Or any shadow isolation yields. Loneliness was the heart within your side. Your thought, beyond my touch, was tilted air Ringed with as many borders as the wind. How could I judge you gentle or unkind When all bright flying space was in your care? Now that I leave you, I shall be made lonely By simple empty days, never that chill Resonant heart to strike between my arms Again, as though distraught for distance,–only Levels of evening, now, behind a hill, Or a late cock-crow from the darkening farms. My Voice Not Being Proud My voice, not being proud Like a strong woman’s, that cries Imperiously aloud That death disarm her, lull her— Screams for no mourning color Laid menacingly, like fire, Over my long desire. It will end, and leave no print. As you lie, I shall lie: Separate, eased, and cured. Whatever is wasted or wanted In this country of glass and flint Some garden will use, once planted. As you lie alone, I shall lie, O, in singleness assured, Deafened by mire and lime. I remember, while there is time. Song Love me because I am lost; Love me that I am undone. That is brave,—no man has wished it, Not one. Be strong, to look on my heart As others look on my face. Love me,—I tell you that it is a ravaged Terrible place. |
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