|
中文翻译：黑子 安妮·塞克斯顿（Anne Sexton 1928--1974），美国著名女诗人。1967年因诗集《生或死》获得普利策奖。她是现代妇女解放运动的先驱之一， 美国著名自白派诗人。生前曾患有抑郁症，诗歌创作起初是心理医师教给她的一种精神康复手段。她的诗作敏锐、坦诚、有力，充满着不可思议的视野和意象。1974年自杀身亡。 For My Lover, Returning To His Wife She is all there. She was melted carefully down for you and cast up from your childhood, cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies. She has always been there, my darling. She is, in fact, exquisite. Fireworks in the dull middle of February and as real as a cast-iron pot. Let's face it, I have been momentary. A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor. My hair rising like smoke from the car window. Littleneck clams out of season. She is more than that. She is your have to have, has grown you your practical your tropical growth. This is not an experiment. She is all harmony. She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast, sat by the potter's wheel at midday, set forth three children under the moon, three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done this with her legs spread out in the terrible months in the chapel. If you glance up, the children are there like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling. She has also carried each one down the hall after supper, their heads privately bent, two legs protesting, person to person, her face flushed with a song and their little sleep. I give you back your heart. I give you permission - for the fuse inside her, throbbing angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her and the burying of her wound - for the burying of her small red wound alive - for the pale flickering flare under her ribs, for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse, for the mother's knee, for the stocking, for the garter belt, for the call - the curious call when you will burrow in arms and breasts and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair and answer the call, the curious call. She is so naked and singular She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid. As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off. 致回归到妻子身边的情人 她全在那里。 她为你精心熔化 并从你的童年开始从头浇铸自己， 以你百个最爱的创造物为模板而塑造。 亲爱的，她一直在那里。 事实上，她精美玲珑。 就像沉闷的二月中旬的火焰 和铸铁锅一样真实。 让我们面对现实吧，我不过是个心血来潮的人。 奢侈品。一艘港口中明亮红色的单桅帆船。 我的头发像车窗里的烟雾一样升起。 小颈脖从季节中开壳探出。 而她可不止于此。她是你必须拥有的， 让你成长为实用的热带植物。 这不是尝试。她和谐到了极致。 她努力成为小艇的桨和桨锁的支点， 早餐时她在窗口摆上野花， 中午坐在陶工的转轮旁， 月下照看三个孩子， 三个米开朗基罗画中的小天使， 哪怕在教堂中的那几个糟糕透顶的月份里， 她张着双腿，若无其事地照旧处理事务。 如果你抬头看，孩子们就在那里 像在天花板上停歇的娇嫩气球。 晚饭后她怀抱每一个孩子 走下过道，他们的头私密地弯曲， 双腿垂挂，身体互贴相偎， 她的脸因为歌声和他们的酣睡而泛红。 我把你的心还给你。 我允许你 - 为了她内心的引爆，深埋地底却愤怒 悸动，为了她内在的狂野 也为了她潜伏的创伤 - 为了埋葬她小红色鲜嫩的伤口 - 为了她肋骨下苍白的闪烁耀斑， 为了在她左手的脉膊边等候的醉酒水手， 为了母亲的膝盖，为了紧身袜， 对于吊袜带，为了召引的呼唤 - 让人好奇的呼唤 当你将摸弄对方的手臂和乳房 并梳理她头发上的橙色缎带 当你最后接受呼唤，让人好奇的呼唤。 她会是如此的赤裸和专一 她是你和你梦想的总和。 一步步爬上她吧，就像爬上纪念碑。 她异常坚实牢靠。 至于我嘛，我是水彩画。 我会被一洗而去。 In Celebration Of My Uterus Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings. They wanted to cut you out but they will not. They said you were immeasurably empty but you are not. They said you were sick unto dying but they were wrong. You are singing like a school girl. You are not torn. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am and of the soul of the woman I am and of the central creature and its delight I sing for you. I dare to live. Hello, spirit. Hello, cup. Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain. Hello to the soil of the fields. Welcome, roots. Each cell has a life. There is enough here to please a nation. It is enough that the populace own these goods. Any person, any commonwealth would say of it, “It is good this year that we may plant again and think forward to a harvest. A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.” Many women are singing together of this: one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, one is at the aquarium tending a seal, one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, one is at the toll gate collecting, one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, one is straddling a cello in Russia, one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt, one is painting her bedroom walls moon color, one is dying but remembering a breakfast, one is stretching on her mat in Thailand, one is wiping the ass of her child, one is staring out the window of a train in the middle of Wyoming and one is anywhere and some are everywhere and all seem to be singing, although some can not sing a note. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am let me carry a ten-foot scarf, let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds, let me carry bowls for the offering (if that is my part). Let me study the cardiovascular tissue, let me examine the angular distance of meteors, let me suck on the stems of flowers (if that is my part). Let me make certain tribal figures (if that is my part). For this thing the body needs let me sing for the supper, for the kissing, for the correct yes. 子宫颂 我身体里，每个都是鸟儿。 我正在扑腾所有的翅膀。 他们想要把你摘除 但他们却无能为力。 他们说你无比空虚 而你远不如此。 他们说你将要病死 但他们错了。 你像个女学生一样歌唱。 无法撕碎。 甜蜜的重量啊， 为我是如此的女人而庆祝吧 为我这女人的灵魂 也为这中心环绕的生灵和喜悦 我为你歌唱，我顽强地活着。 你好，灵魂。你好，杯子 绑牢，盖好瓶塞。封闭那里的内含。 你好，田野的土壤。 迎接你，根须。 每个细胞都拥有生命。 足够取悦国家。 大众拥有这些商品便足够了。 任何人，任何联邦都会说， “今年我们可以好好地再次播种， 并期待收获。 疫情已被预测，并已排除。“ 许多女人都在一起歌唱： 一人在鞋厂诅咒机器， 一人在水族馆里喂养海豹， 一人在把着她福特车方向盘郁闷， 一人在收费站点接收资金， 一人在亚利桑那州绑紧新生小牛的肚脐带， 一人在俄罗斯演奏大提琴， 一人在埃及的炉堂上移动锅勺， 一人正把她的卧室墙壁漆成月色， 一人在将死之前记得早餐， 一人在泰国摊开地毯， 一人正擦净她孩子的屁股， 一人正从怀俄明州中部的火车 窗户中往外眺望，每处 都是人，有些人无处不在 所有的人都在唱歌，虽然某些人 不懂得唱词。 甜蜜的重量啊， 为我是如此一个女人而庆祝 让我带上十英尺的围巾， 让我为十九岁的孩子击鼓， 让我携带碗盘接受给予 （如果这是我的角色）。 让我研究心血管组织， 让我研究流星的角距， 让我吮吸花茎 （如果这是我的角色）。 让我弄清部落人物 （如果这是我的角色）。 因为这是身体的需求 让我歌唱 为了晚餐， 为了亲吻， 为了适可的生存 这就对了。 The Poet of Ignorance Perhaps the earth is floating, I do not know. Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups made by some giant scissors, I do not know. Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear, I do not know. Perhaps God is only a deep voice heard by the deaf, I do not know. Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question. It is written on the tablet of destiny that I am stuck here in this human form. That being the case I would like to call attention to my problem. There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab. The doctors of Boston have thrown up their hands. They have tried scalpels, needles, poison gases and the like. The crab remains. It is a great weight. I try to forget it, go about my business, cook the broccoli, open the shut books, brush my teeth and tie my shoes. I have tried prayer but as I pray the crab grips harder and the pain enlarges. I had a dream once, perhaps it was a dream, that the crab was my ignorance of God. But who am I to believe in dreams? 无知的诗人 也许地球漂浮， 我并不清楚。 也许星星是由一些巨型剪刀 剪出的纸张碎片， 我并不清楚。 也许月亮是冻结的眼泪， 我并不清楚。 也许上帝只是深沉的音响 让聋子听见， 我并不清楚。 也许我谁也不是。 没错，我有一个躯体 我无法摆脱它。 我想飞出我的脑袋， 但这不可能。 它已经被写在命运的牌匾上 我将永远被困在这人体中。 既然如此 我想提请我的问题，让你关注。 我身体里住着一只动物， 它急迫地劫住我的心， 巨大的毒蟹 连波士顿的医生 也耸肩举手。 他们尝试过手术刀， 针筒，毒气或是类似的玩艺儿。 毒蟹仍然存在。 它异常沉重。 我试图不去想它，继续我的生活， 煮西兰花，翻读关闭的书本， 刷牙，系鞋带。 我试过祈祷 但当我祈祷，毒蟹更加用力抓紧 疼痛蔓延。 我做过一场梦， 也许只是一场梦吧， 那毒蟹其实是我对上帝的无知。 但我又是谁呢，敢于评判梦幻的真实？ 译者简介: 黑子，出生福州，现定居美国。 我尽量提醒自己不去多想我们为何写诗，或者我们为何读诗。诗歌的价值首先应该在于可读性，诗歌的意义也应该是潜移默化的结果。我常想，诗歌就像摄影，相机的镜头在人海中不分高低地观察，记忆。用著名美国街头摄影师加里·文柔古锐 (Garry Winogrand) 的描述，摄影便是他想看到“镜头里看到的事物到底是个什么样子。” 诗歌经常也是的，当诗人被某个细微的想法或感觉触动而提笔时，他不知道将要走的路会带他和读者到达哪个终点，他只是简单地想进入某个领域，在那里，他希望有机会可以看见“事物到底是个什么样子。” ** 此平台属黑子个人创作平台，所有的文字及摄影均黑子本人原作。** |
|
|
