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(翻译诗歌)罗莎娜.沃伦的诗歌  

2011-04-07 16:19:12|  分类: 私人 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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      诗两首

 

地中海

  

——她消失在我前方的小径

我斜倚在扭曲的橡树旁,我看到的只是黄昏的光影,在那里

在她曾经伫立的地方:

  

金色沙尘中的光亮,在稍早

三十八年前的一刻。

  

身体结实的母亲在我面前大步走过,戴着草帽,穿着泳衣

和宽松摆动的衣衫,

每个夏天午后,轻松地背着包上路,

  

穿着凉鞋,她的步伐,坚实地落在碎石路面上

当我们回来,从海滩

 

我酝酿着小把戏并观察充满魔力的软木树上

那些疤节的树皮,像双臂叉腰与风扭成一团的橡树,

  

当海面的光亮如万箭般刺向林间。

我想说点什么,在12岁那年,

  

她没有回答这些疑问,

仿佛昨天,那么清晰地浮现,当她踱步于我面前

  

它再次涌向我的舌尖,这个谜团

不是因为她在那里踯躅,在她去世十年之后,

  

但她消失了,在那里,被黄昏取代——

 

 

 

戴着一顶红帽子的鬼怪

 

 

          ——这些满帆下的卷心菜,这些远古的城墙

                         覆盖在常春藤和泛起紫色泡沫的柴藤:

 

         在我中年和可感知的周边

 

  我记得

 

  饥饿。

  却不知道为什么。

  我学做一个鬼魂。

         当我还是个小女孩,我曾想

 

   一个人如何变成

       一个女人。生活在一所村庄

       在意大利,一个风景如画的地方,我却没有

 

  诗情画意。那是一种历程:

  我咬着不新鲜的面包,漫步葡萄园和橄榄树林,

  画蓟类植物的肖像,在扭曲的树木底下

         朗诵比特拉克的诗句并长大

 

         那么瘦我像是一口明晃晃的

         刀刃,在我崭新的白裤子里面。

 

  老祖母悄悄诅咒于角落。

  家人对她视而不见。他们会不理我。

  我背诵着更多的比特拉克的诗章并买下一顶朱红色宽檐

                  草帽。

 

         与这个女孩在一块能做些什么?

 

  她学会了在长期严寒干燥环境下生存。

  她欣然接受陌生人和他们奇幻的生活状态。

  她画静物画,他们一如往昔地生活。

  她梦见自己出席苏荷区阁楼里黄昏的聚会

         那里的主菜放在浅盘子上,装饰着欧芹

         犹如一个女人裸体的半身塑像,被烘烤,弯下身子,易碎而热烈。

 

  她渴望圣坛槽檐边闪烁的微暗之火。

 

  诞生是一种方式。握着一个垂死者的手是另一种。

       她亲手埋葬小动物,以适当的仪式,在后院。

 

         世世代代,这里是:水与火

         生产出松脂,那联结

         大地和来自

 

                矿脉腹地的颜色和凝聚的

                       植物的灵魂。

 

      所以,我生活的这片土地,被浸泡和侵染,

            所以,被冲刷在雨中,

 

 屋顶瓦片上怒放的藓类植物,编织密实或如羽毛般,布满孢子的

           带叶的小枝——

 

   公墓布满:地衣,金银花,玫瑰。

      玻璃下面霉斑的照片。

   敌对双方握手言欢。

      世纪衰落了,在石灰岩的裂隙间。

 

 伊迪丝今早来到街上

     给我带来《世界报》《两个世界评论》

 

     和一包新鲜山羊奶酪

 

 动身前,天在下雨,当她开车去多尔多涅河之时。

 

 

 

Two Poems


Mediterranean

 

—when she disappeared on the path ahead of me
       I leaned against a twisted oak, all I saw was evening light where
           she had been:

gold dust light, where a moment before
       and thirty-eight years before that

my substantial mother strode before me in straw hat, bathing suit,
           and loose flapping shirt,
       every summer afternoon, her
knapsack light across her back,

her step, in sandals, firm on the stony path
       as we returned from the beach

and I mulled small rebellions and observed the dwarfish cork trees
       with their pocky bark, the wind-wrestled oaks with arms akimbo,

while shafts of sea-light stabbed down between the trunks.
       There was something I wanted to say, at the age of twelve,

some question she hadn't answered, 
       and yesterday, so clearly seeing her pace before me

it rose again to the tip of my tongue, and the mystery was
       not that she walked there, ten years after her death,

but that she vanished, and let twilight take her place—

 

 


Ghost in a Red Hat

        

         —these cabbages under full sail, these ancient walls
                           smothered in ivy and wisteria with its purple froth:

  

       in my middle age and sensible girth

 

I remember

 

starving.
       I didn't know why.

I practiced being a ghost.
         I was a girl, I thought 

 

this was how one became
                    a woman. I lived in a village
                    in Italy, it was picturesque, I was not

 

picturesque. That was the project:
       I gnawed stale bread, roamed vineyards and olive groves,
      drew portraits of artichoke plants under
twisted trees,
                  recited Petrarch and grew

 

           so thin I was a dazzling
                  knife blade in my new white pants.

 

The old grandmother quietly cursed in a corner.
       Her family ignored her. They ignored me.
       I recited more Petrarch and bought a broad-brimmed crimson
                               straw hat.

 

           What to do with this girl?

 

She learned to survive long spells of dryness.
       She embraced strangers and they stayed strange. 
       She painted still lifes and they stayed still.
       She dreamed she attended a
soiree at a Soho loft
                  where the main dish on a
platter garnished with parsley
                  was a woman's naked torso, roasted, belly down,
crisply hot.

 

She looked for the small flame guttering in a sacred jar.

 

Giving birth was one way. Holding a dying man's hand was another.
       She buried small animals, with appropriate rites, in the backyard.

 

         And here are the generations: water and fire
                
begat turpentine which joined
                earth and brought
forth

 

                   color from mineral loins and boiled-down
                                vegetable soul.

 

         So steeped and soaked, this land where I live now,
                             so rushing in rain,

roof tiles bristle in moss, close-woven or feathery, sprigging with
               spores—

 

The cemetery teems: lichen, honeysuckle, roses. 
                     Little mildewed photographs under glass.
       Enemies make peace.
                   Centuries fall through limestone cracks.

 

And Edith came up the street this morning 
                  to bring me
Le Monde and La Revue des deux mondes

 

           and a packet of fresh goat cheese

 

before setting out, in rain, on her drive to the Dordogne.

 

 

 

① 弗兰齐斯科·彼特拉克(Francisco Petrach,1304—1374)是文艺复兴第一个人文主义者,被誉为“文艺复兴之父”。他以其14行诗著称于世,为欧洲抒情诗的发展开辟了道路,后世人尊他为“诗圣”。他与但丁、薄伽丘齐名,文学史上称他们为“三颗巨星”。

  (翻译诗歌)罗莎娜.沃伦的诗歌 - elford - Elfordcolor的博客        

   (翻译诗歌)罗莎娜.沃伦的诗歌 - elford - Elfordcolor的博客

Rosanna Warren is the author of four previous books of poetry. Among her numerous awards are the Witter Bynner Prize from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Pushcart Prize, and the Lamont Poetry Prize. She teaches at Boston University and lives in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts.

 

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