◎ 四首美国诗一首意大利诗
托尼 ·侯格兰 Tony Hoagland生于1953年，美国当代著名诗人。
第一本诗集《甘美的遗迹》Sweet Ruin出版于1992年，被提名为
当年的Brittingham Prize诗歌奖，并获得Emerson College 的
Zacharis Award奖；以下两首诗即选自这本诗集。他的第二本诗集
《驴福音》Donkey Gospel（1998） 获得美国诗歌协会的
James Laughlin Award奖。第三本诗集《自恋于我意味着什么》
What Narcissism Means to Me，很受好评。他现在休斯敦大学任教。
发发慈悲吧
只有十亿分之一的人
才会抬头扫一眼今夜的月亮，
在我看来，它秃顶、自视品味过人、有教授的神气，
这张脸是属于我十七岁时
总想挥拳揍一顿的那类
而每个停车标志都是具体的权威
想伺机报复我
每个冰啤酒空瓶上的标签
都有我老爸的一帧小像
这样才能在凌晨两点的停车场
被摔得粉碎 那时 一切东西
都滚落到了最疯狂的人的舞蹈中。
那一年，要是我们能够够到月亮，
要是我们能够从店里偷出油漆和折梯，
我们就会在它肥硕的黄脸上
涂抹上“操你妈！”
想到有机会在一夜之间
就能触怒三十亿人，
我们兴奋不已。
但月亮还是遥不可及，
沉静，彬彬有礼。
它依然将清辉洒向海洋，
俯视着葡萄在意大利发育成长，
给中西部大地穿上
白睡衣、送它上床。
像我这类人
月亮已见过百万次之多，
坐在这堵孤独和恐惧的矮墙上，
也见过我们总会不失时机
抬头仰望
寻求仁慈，
令我们觉得报复毫无必要。
Oh Mercy
Only the billionth person
to glance up at the moon tonight
which looks bald, high-browed and professorial to me,
the kind of face I always shook my fist at
when I was seventeen
and every stopsign was a figure of authority
that had it in for me
and every bottle of cold beer
had a little picture of my father on the label
for smashing down in parking lot
at 2 AM, when things devolved
into the dance of who was craziest.
That year, if we could have reached the moon,
if we could have shoplifted the paint and telescoping ladders,
we would have scribbled FUCK YOU
on its massive yellow cheek,
thrilled about the opportunity
to offend three billion people
in a single night.
But the moon stayed out of reach.
imperturbable, polite.
It kept on varnishing the seas,
overseeing the development of grapes in Italy,
putting the Midwest to bed
in white pajamas.
It’s seen my kind
a million times before
upon this parapet of loneliness and fear
and how we come around in time
to lifting up our heads,
looking for the kindness
that would make revenge unnecessary.
我的祖国
每当想到我对美国了解多少，
便想起我曾亲过朋友之妻，
那是某个下午在动物园的停车场，
就在狮子笼外的围墙上方。
前一分钟随便聊聊，後一分钟
我便低下脸去接应她仰过来的嘴，
湿润而轻启。那就像一种爱国行为，
宣誓我们只效忠于享乐
而不顾其后果，逾越了
我们理应如此的边界，
破釜沉舟，作乐的温床摆放在
鸣禽尖啸的管弦齐奏
和大象的粪臭之间。从她的肩头望去，
我看到太阳在冬日的天空苍白地燃烧，
而我想到了我那朋友，他总想着
在各种境遇中看着好的一面——纯真如此
真的不该背叛。
接着她将我的下唇轻咬在齿间，
我让手滑入她的衬衣下，感到
我所有的原则在我身后忽闪着黯淡
犹如某个小镇的街灯，某个我从未
居住过也没打算要去拜访的小镇。
那么还有谁会说起发生过何事？
谁会有勇气、或因为孤独
或因为闲得无聊而来查问？
My Country
When I think of what I know about America,
I think of kissing my best friend’s wife
in the parking lot of the zoo one afternoon,
just over the wall from the lion’s cage.
One minute making small talk, the next
my face was moving down to meet her
wet and open, upturned mouth. It was a kind of patriotic act,
pledging our allegiance to the pleasure
and not the consequence, crossing over the border
of what we were supposed to do,
burning our bridges and making our bed
to an orchestra of screaming birds
and the smell of elephant manure. Over her shoulder
I could see the sun, burning palely in the winter sky
and I thought of my friend, who always tries
to see the good in situations—how an innocence
like that shouldn’t be betrayed.
Then she took my lower lip between her teeth,
I slipped my hand inside her shirt and felt
my principles blinking out behind me
like streetlights in a town where I had never
lived, to which I never intended to return.
And who was left to speak of what had happened?
And who would ever be brave, or lonely,
or free enough to ask?
斯坦利·库尼兹Stanley Kunitz生于1905年7月29日，
死于2006年5月14日，活过了整整一百岁，是美国长寿诗人。
1995年他出版了一本题为《经过》Passing Through的诗集，
获得全国图书奖。2000年，他接任罗伯特·品斯基Robert Pinsky
成为美国桂冠诗人。
画像
我母亲从未宽恕我父亲
自杀了事
尤其对他在那样尴尬的时节
在一个公园了结耿耿于怀
那是春天
我正等着来到人世
她把他的名字
锁在她的橱柜深处
决不让他出来
而我却能听到他捶着橱门
那次我从阁楼上下来
手拿一幅蜡笔画像
那陌生人嘴唇宽长
勇毅的髭须
直勾勾的深褐色眼睛
她一声未吭
一把将它撕成碎片
并且狠狠地扇了我一个嘴巴
而今我已六十有四
仍能感到我的脸颊
火烧火辣
The Portrait
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
末代皇朝过后
我读着李白
“桃花流水杳然去”
想到了你
因为你那么像
毛主席
当然你们
性别不同
而且你身材更为瘦削
爱你犹如一场
中国游击战
亏你天生脚步轻捷
没有八路军
能有如此流转的战线
带着更少的辎重
折损对方的优势
虽说你心脏不够强健
却仍能跳完告别之舞
在春季的冷雨中
终于弃我而去
留下我孑然一身
只剩一种红蜡笔的语言
写一写敌方的特性
如何不守约定
和我们对决时
不是凭借兵力
而是以其虚弱
令我们毙命
不是以其健康
而是以其疾病
我宠爱的烈性蓝眼小马啊
这张新写的短签
我想贴在你的门上
虽然我已晚了十年
而你也已不知所终：
告诉我
你是否依然是那幽谷的主人
那儿有何随波流去的战利品
你为何令我苦苦等待
原作者注：毛主席将他的游击战术归纳为：
“敌人前进，我们退缩；敌人停歇，我们撩拨；
敌人倦惫，我们侵扰；敌人退缩，我们追击”。
选自《经过》（1995年）
After The Last Dynasty
Reading Li Po
how "the peach blossom follows the water"
I keep thinking of you
because you were so much like
Chairman Mao
naturally with the sex
transposed
and the figure slighter.
Loving you was a kind
of Chinese guerrilla war.
Thanks to your lightfoot genius
no Eighth Route Army
kept its lines more fluid,
traveled with less baggage,
so nibbled the advantage.
Even with your small bad heart
you made a dance of departures.
In the cold spring rains
when last you failed me
I had nothing left to spend
but a red crayon language
on the character of the enemy
to break appointments,
to fight us not
with his strength
but with his weakness,
to kill us
not with his health
but with his sickness.
Pet, spitfire, blue-eyed pony,
here is a new note
I want to pin on your door,
though I am ten years late
and you are nowhere:
Tell me,
are you still mistress of the valley,
what trophies drift downriver,
why did you keep me waiting?
Note: Chairman Mao’s summation of his strategy of guerrilla warfare:
"Enemy advances, we retreat; enemy halts, we harass;
enemy tires, we attack; enemy retreats, we pursue."
From Passing Through (1995)
译者按：
毛主席的原文是：敌进我退、敌驻我扰、敌疲我打、敌退我追。
我之所以将原作者注那样翻译，是为了帮助传达英文读者可能如何
将这些话运用于这首包含着性爱意味的情诗，只有这样才有助于传达
一种歧义性理解。
乔科莫·莱奥帕迪Giacomo Leopardi
莱奥帕迪 (1798年6月29日-1837年6月14日) 被认为是
意大利最著名的浪漫主义诗人（之一，如果算上曼兹尼的话）。
他天生是一个柔弱易感的人，因为身体的原因一生大部分时间
被孤独地困在家乡雷卡纳提Recanati。下面这首诗可谓是
他从早年的明亮转入后期的阴沉时期的代表作品之一。
乡村的星期六
少女从田野走来，
正是日落时分；
她夹着一捆青草，手拿
一束紫罗兰与玫瑰花，
像往常一样，用来装扮
她的秀发与胸襟；
明天是节日。
阶前纺车边
坐着一个老妇，
面向西沉的日落；
她和邻居絮叨那美妙的往日，
她也曾为了节日盛装打扮；
那时多么敏捷与苗条，风华
正茂，而男孩子伴随左右，共舞
直到夜色褪消。
夜色已浓郁进空气，
整个天空转为深蓝，暗影
从远山与屋檐上倾覆而下，
映衬着月亮苍白地升起。
破空的钟声此时宣布
节日的来临；
幸闻这嘹亮，
人们在内心感到慰籍。
小场院上
一帮孩子一边
东奔西跑，一边
欢腾地喊叫，
而晚归的农夫吹着口哨，
想着简朴的晚餐
和一日辛劳后的休憩。
然后，当所有的灯盏熄灭，
万籁俱静，
便可听见木匠锯子的沙沙声、
可听见铁锤的丁丁
从门扇紧闭的作坊中传来；
油灯下，他彻夜苦干，
力争在天亮前完工。
这是一星期七天中最美好的
一日，充满希望与欢乐。
明日的时辰便会带来
焦虑与惆怅，人人都得想到
寻常日的辛苦劳碌。
开心嬉游的孩子啊，
你的日子如花的盛开，
这是纯净的欢乐，
杳蓝的天空没有乌云，
它展示着你生命的盛宴。
尽情享用吧，孩子，尽享
这喜悦与欢欣的良辰。
而我将不再赘言；只愿你不要焦急
只因为你的节日如我的那样姗姗来迟。
1829年
Il Sabato del Villaggio
La donzelletta vien dalla campagna
In sul calar del sole,
Col suo fascio dell’erba; e reca in mano
Un mazzolin di rose e viole,
Onde, siccome suole, ornare ella si appresta
Dimani, al dí di festa, il petto e il crine.
Siede con le vicine
Su la scala a filar la vecchierella,
Incontro là dove si perde il giorno;
E novellando vien del suo buon tempo,
Quando ai dí della festa ella si ornava,
Ed ancor sana e snella
Solea danzar la sera intra di quei
Ch’ebbe compagni nell’età piú bella.
Già tutta l’aria imbruna,
Torna azzurro il sereno, e tornan l’ombre
Giú da’ colli e da’ tetti,
Al biancheggiar della recente luna.
Or la squilla dà segno
Della festa che viene;
Ed a quel suon diresti
Che il cor si riconforta.
I fanciulli gridando
Su la piazzuola in frotta,
E qua e là saltando,
Fanno un lieto romore;
E intanto riede alla sua parca mensa,
Fischiando, il zappatore,
E seco pensa al dí del suo riposo.
Poi quando intorno è spenta ogni altra face,
E tutto l’altro tace,
Odi il martel picchiare, odi la sega
Del legnaiuol, che veglia
Nella chiusa bottega alla lucerna,
E s’affretta, e s’adopra
Di fornir l’opra anzi al chiarir dell’alba.
Questo di sette è il più gradito giorno,
Pien di speme e di gioia:
Diman tristezza e noia
Recheran l’ore, ed al travaglio usato
Ciascuno in suo pensier farà ritorno.
Garzoncello scherzoso,
Cotesta età fiorita
E come un giorno d’allegrezza pieno,
Giorno chiaro, sereno,
Che precorre alla festa di tua vita.
Godi, fanciullo mio; stato soave,
Stagion lieta è cotesta.
Altro dirti non vo’; ma la tua festa
Ch’anco tardi a venir non ti sia grave.
1829
休斯三首或四首诗
满月和小弗丽达
泰德·休斯
凉夜初起，收缩成一声狗吠与水桶的咣当 ——
你在倾听。
一张蜘蛛网，因露珠触摸而绷紧。
一只吊桶悬着，静止而满溢 ——一面镜子
想诱发一颗初升的星星颤动。
奶牛沿着那巷道回家，它们呼出的雾气如温暖的花环缭绕着树篱——
一条暗黑的血河，许多巨石，
平衡着满胀欲滴的乳汁。
“月亮！”你突然喊道，“月亮！月亮！”
而月亮已经退后一步，犹如一位艺术家愕然注视一件
愕然面对他的作品。
Full Moon and Little Frieda
Ted Hughes
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket—
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch
A pail lifted, still and brimming—mirror
To tempt a first start to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm wreaths of breath—
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
"Moon!" you cry suddenly, "Moon! Moon!"
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.
下面这一首本来属于《生日信札》，但是最终还是取了出来，原先
已发表在1997年10月26日的《周日时报》Sunday Times上，
稍有不同。参看我的博客文章对此不同的读解。
城
你的诗是一座黑暗之城的中心。
你的长短篇、你的日记
是这巨大城廓的四郊。
宾馆旅店挤满了学者、牧师和朝拜的人，
彻夜通明，犹如办公大楼。也是在深夜，
有时我会驱车缓行，不过我只是
游荡在自己的黑暗中，回想着
你的所作所为。我几乎总会
瞥见你――在某个交叉路口，
仰头望天，一脸迷茫，六十岁的人了。
人群围着你涌动。你站着，纹丝不动。
交通灯的绿光或橘黄将你的脸映照成
沙漠的印第安人，透着野性、不知所措。
你想询问什么但无从开口。
你盯着每一张脸，
试图认出一个熟人。
无人理会你。接着，红灯亮起，
他们便全都从你身边涌走。
然后你看到我在车中，盯着你。
我看到你皱了皱眉头，我看出你
试图记起什么——或者突然不要记起。
选自《呼号与低诉》（1998）
The City
Your poems are a dark city centre.
Your novels, your stories, your journals, are suburbs
Of this big city.
The hotels are lit like office blocks all night
With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It’s at night
Sometimes I drive through, going slow, simply
Roaming in my own darkness, pondering
What you did. Nearly always
I glimpse you--at some crossing,
Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old.
The crowd piles around you. You stand stock still.
Your face, under the green or orange light,
A desert Indian’s, wild, bewildered.
You want to ask something but you can’t.
You stare into every face
Trying to recognise somebody.
They ignore you. Then the light goes red
And they all surge pass you.
Then you see me in my car, staring at you.
I see you frown. I see you trying
To remember--or suddenly not to remember.
From Howls and Whispers (1998)
休斯写过一首诗，为两个女人分别发表一次，几乎没有什么改动。
为阿霞发表的时候题为《随想曲》，为普拉斯发表的时候题为《迷信》。
Middlebrook认为该诗是休斯为纪念与阿霞第一次发生关系而作的。
Capriccios
Friday created Adam. Cast out Adam.
Buried Adam. Friday. Today. Friday
The thirteenth: drunken laughter of the festive gods
So lightly reversed by Loki’s gift:
Spermy mistletoe and a ship of tinder.
Friday the thirteenth. With a fable
Of the bloodied halo, the sponge and the nail.
Friday the thirteenth unveiled perfumed
America. (Lifting the eyelid
Of Columbus
With the chains from his coffin.)
Friday the 13th
Prestidigitateur
May find odds and ends, even for you.
Maybe Frigga’s
Two-faced gift. Imagine the bride’s mirror
In the form of a cauldron. Call it a cauldron
Of the soul’s rebirth.
Under the cold
Epicanthic fold lifted in the bride’s
Mirror, a cauldron.
Where this one
Forgot death. Where that one
Forgot life. Where this other
Sank without a cry.
You will be laughed at
For your superstition.
(Even so,
Remembering it: will make your palms sweat,
The skin lift blistering, both your lifelines bleed.)
From Capriccio (1990)
随想曲
星期五创造了亚当。铸就了亚当。
埋葬了亚当。星期五。今天。星期五
十三号：节庆之神酣醉的大笑
如此轻易地就被火神洛基的礼物逆转：
含精的槲寄生和一船引火绒。
星期五十三号。有一个寓言
说的是浸血的光环、海绵与钉子。
星期五十三号熏香的美洲
揭了幕。（用哥伦布
棺材中的链索撩起
他自己的眼帘。）
星期五13号
戏法大师
或许会发现一些零碎，甚至有你一份。
或许女神弗丽嘉
送来双面礼物。将新娘的镜子
想象成巫婆炼锅的形状。称之为
灵魂再生的炼锅。
在内眼角
冰凉的皱褶下，撩起新娘的
镜子，一口炼锅。
在这儿这个人
忘记了死，在这儿那个人
忘记了生。在这儿另一个人
一沉到底，没有哭喊。
你的迷信
将使你受尽嘲笑。
（即便如此，
记住这一点：将会令你的手心出汗，
皮肤冒出水泡，两条生命线都会流血。
选自《随想曲》1990年
Superstitions
Friday created Adam. Cast out Adam.
Buried Adam. Friday. Today. Friday
The thirteenth was laughter of the drunken gods
So lightly reversed by Loki’s gift:
Spermy mistletoe and a ship of tinder.
Friday the thirteenth. A fable told
Of the bloodied halo, the sponge, and the nail.
And Friday the thirteenth unveiled perfumed
America. (Lifting the eyelid
Of Columbus
With the chains from his coffin.)
Friday the thirteenth
Prestidigitateur
May find odds and ends, even for you.
Maybe Frigga’s
Two-faced gift. The cauldron of Valhalla,
Where warriors were reborn.
Under the cold
Epicanthic fold lifted in the bride’s
Mirror, a cauldron
where this one
Forgot death. Where that one
Forgot life. Where this other
Sank without a cry.
Let them laugh
At your superstition.
(Remembering it will make your palms sweat,
The skin lift blistering, both your lifelines bleed.)
From Howls and Whispers (1998)
迷信
星期五创造了亚当。铸就了亚当。
埋葬了亚当。星期五。今天。星期五
十三号节庆之神酣醉的大笑
如此轻易地就被火神洛基的礼物逆转：
含精的槲寄生和一船引火绒。
星期五十三号。有人讲了一个
寓言，有关浸血的光环、海绵以及钉子。
也是星期五十三号熏香的美洲
揭了幕。（用哥伦布
棺材中的链索撩起
他自己的眼帘。）
星期五十三号
戏法大师
或许会发现一些零碎，甚至有你一份。
或许女神弗丽嘉
送来双面礼物。英烈神殿中
勇士们在炼锅中再生。
在内眼角
冰凉的皱褶下，撩起新娘的
镜子，一口炼锅。
在这儿这个人
忘记了死，在这儿那个人
忘记了生。在这儿另一个人
一沉到底，没有哭喊。
随他们嘲笑
你的迷信去吧。
记住这一点便会令你的手心出汗，
皮肤冒出水泡，两条生命线都会流血。
选自《呼号与低诉》（1998）
