西尔维娅·普拉斯|蜜蜂诗

Sylvia Plath

1932.10.27-1963.02.11

“I desire the things

which will destroy me in the end.”

西尔维娅·普拉斯,美国自白派诗人的代表。继艾米莉·狄金森和伊丽莎白·毕肖普之后最重要的美国女诗人。出生于美国麻萨诸塞州的波士顿地区。1955年,普拉斯以优异成绩毕业于史密斯女子学院,之后获得富布赖特奖学金去英国剑桥大学深造,并在那里遇到了后来成为桂冠诗人的特德·休斯,两人于1956年6月结婚。1960年,普拉斯出版了她的第一部诗集《巨神像及其他诗作》(The Colossus and Other Poems)。不久,因丈夫有外遇婚姻出现问题,1962年离异。1963年2月11日,在伦敦的寓所自杀身亡。普拉斯死后出版的诗集包括《爱丽尔》(Ariel),《涉水》(Crossing the Water)等以及唯一的一部小说《钟形罩》(The Bell Jar)。1982年获追颁普利策文学奖。

Bare-handed, I hand the combs.

两手空空,我搬运蜂巢。

蜂聚会
在桥头,等待我的是什么人?是村民——
教区长、接生婆、司事、蜜蜂代理。
穿着无袖的夏日连衣裙,我一无庇护,
他们却戴手套,佩面纱,为什么没人告诉我?
他们微笑着,放下钉在古老帽檐下的面纱。
我赤裸一如小鸡脖,难道就没人爱我?
有,蜜蜂书记来了,穿着她雪白的店员衫,
替我系好腕上的袖口、从脖子开到膝盖的裂缝。
现在我成了乳草丝,蜜蜂不会注意我。
嗅不到我的惊骇,我的惊骇,我的惊骇。
如今谁是教区长,那个黑衣男人?
谁是接生婆,那可是她的蓝外套?
每个人都点着四四方方的黑脑袋,他们是面盔下的骑士,
粗棉布胸甲打结系在胳肢窝。
他们的微笑和声音变幻万千。我被引领着穿过豆田,
一条条锡纸眨眼如人,
蚕豆花海洋里,羽毛掸子扇动手掌,
奶白色豆花,生着黑眼睛,叶片状似倦乏的心。
卷须们沿着筋络向上抽的,可是凝固的血块?
不,不,是有朝一日可供食用的猩红花朵。
现在他们正给我一顶时髦的意大利白草帽
和一匹衬我脸型的黑纱,他们正把我变成其中一员。
他们引我走向修剪完毕的树丛,蜂巢之圈。
闻起来如此恶心的可是山楂树?
山楂树不育的胴体,麻醉着它的子女。
是否有手术正在进行?
是我邻居们等待的那名外科医生,
那绿头盔里的一缕幽魂,
手套闪亮,外套洁白。
还是屠夫、杂货商、邮递员、我认识的某某?
我无法奔跑,我生了根,金雀花弄疼了我
用它那金黄色的囊,它有尖刺的纹章。
我一旦奔跑就必须永世奔跑。
白色蜂巢隐匿如童贞女,
封锁起她的育婴房、她的蜜糖,安静地嗡嗡着。
烟雾在树丛中盘旋飘摇。
蜂巢之脑思忖着:这是一切的终结。
他们来了,先驱者,骑着他们歇斯底里的橡皮筋。
若我站着纹丝不动,他们会以为我是峨参,
一颗好骗的脑袋,对他们的恶意
无动于衷,
甚至头也不点,灌木篱墙中的戏剧角色。
村民们打开蜂房,他们在追捕蜂后。
她是否藏起来了,是否在吃蜂蜜?她很精明。
她老了,老了,老了,必须再活一年,她心知肚明。
在指形榫合的小隔间里,新生的少女蜂
幻想着一场她们终将赢得的决斗,
蜡质窗帘把她们隔开,新娘无法出逃,
女杀人犯上升进入一座爱她的天堂。
村民们搬运着少女蜂,不会有谋杀。
老蜂后没露面,她就这么不知恩?
我累了,精疲力竭——
刀之断电中白色的立柱。
我是魔术师那不会畏缩的女助手。
村民们正解除伪装,他们在握手。
那树林里狭长的白盒子属于谁,他们做了什么,
我为什么冷透了。
The Bee Meeting
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me?  They are the villagers --
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.
Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,
Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey?  She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins
Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?
I am exhausted, I am exhausted --
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.
蜂盒送达
我订购了它,这利索的木盒子
方方正正像椅子,重得几乎搬不动。
我会说,这是一口侏儒棺材
或一个方形婴孩
要不是里面沸反盈天。
盒子上了锁,它是危险的。
我得共它过夜
不能离开它身边。
没有窗,所以我看不见里面。
只有一个小格栅,无出口。
我把眼睛凑上格栅。
一片漆黑,黑洞洞,
挤挤搡搡如非洲人的手
无足轻重,萎缩起皱,便于出口,
黑色叠着黑色,忿怒地攀爬着。
我该如何释放它们?
最叫我生骇的是那嘈杂声,
无法辨认的音节。
就像一众罗马暴民,
一个个来,不太响,但是上帝啊,合起来!
我把耳朵敞向狂暴的拉丁文。
我不是恺撒。
我不过是订购了一盒疯子。
可以把它们送回去。
它们可以死,我什么也不用喂,我是主人。
我疑心它们有多饿。
我疑心它们会否忘记我
假如我松开锁,站回去,变成一棵树。
瞧那金链花,它金光璀璨的石柱廊,
还有樱桃树的小衬裙。
它们可能会立刻无视我
我穿着月衣,佩着葬礼面纱。
我可不是蜜之源
所以啊,它们何必冲我来?
明天我会扮演好心的上帝,我会放走它们。
盒子只是权宜之计。
The Arrival of the Bee Box
I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
The box is only temporary.
两手空空,我搬运蜂巢。
白衣男子微笑着,赤手空拳,
我们的粗棉布手套整洁芬芳,
我们的手腕之喉是勇毅的百合。
他和我
中间隔着一千个干净的蜂室,
八个黄杯蜂巢,
而蜂房本身就是一个茶杯,
白色的,上面缀着粉色花朵。
我为它上釉,以超额的爱
想着“甜蜜啊,甜蜜。”
孵幼室呈现螺壳化石的灰色
吓着了我,它们显得如此苍老。
我在买什么,遍布虫蛀的红木?
里面究竟有没有蜂后?
即使有,她已风烛残年,
翅膀是扯烂的披肩,修长的身体上
绒棉已被搓走——
贫瘠,光秃秃,不像个蜂后,甚至可耻。
我站在一列生着翅翼
平淡无奇的女人之中,
酿蜜的工蜂。
我不是工蜂
尽管多年来我都在吃灰
用我浓密的发拭干盘子。
眼看我的奇异性蒸发,
从危险的皮肤飞起的蓝色珠露。
她们会恨我吗,
这些只知匆匆赶路的女人,
她们的新闻是樱花绽放,三叶草盛开?
几乎干完了。
我现在镇定自如。
这是我的蜂蜜机器,
它将不假思索地运转,
在春天打开,如一只勤劳的少女蜂
搜寻乳状花顶
如同月亮搜寻大海,为它的象牙粉末。
第三者正观望。
他同蜜蜂商人与我都无关。
现在他走了
八个大跃步,了不起的替罪羊。
这只是他的拖鞋,这是另一只,
这是被他当作帽子戴的
白色亚麻布方块。
他和善,
他努力的汗水汇作雨水
将世界猛地拽出果实。
蜜蜂们找到他,
如谎言般覆盖了他的双唇,
使他的面目变得纷纭。
她们认为如此就不算枉死,但我
还得找回一个自我,一只蜂后。
她死了吗?她在安眠?
她去了哪里,
拖着它
狮红的身躯,玻璃的翅翼?
现在她飞起来
比任何时候都可怖,天空中
红色的伤疤,红色的彗星
飞越那杀死她的引擎——
那座皇陵,那座蜡宫。
Stings
Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I
Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it
Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness.'
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?
If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush --
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column
Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.
And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?
It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious ******
To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone
In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,
The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.
They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?
Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her --
The mausoleum, the wax house.
过冬
这是轻松的时刻,什么也没发生。
我转动产婆的真空吸胎器,
我拥有我的蜂蜜,
整整六罐,
六只猫眼在酒窖里,
在没有窗户的黑暗中过冬
在屋子的心脏处
紧邻上一个房客酸腐的果酱
以及装有空洞碎光的瓶子——
某某先生的琴酒。
这是我从未进入过的房间。
这是我永远无法从中呼吸的房间。
黑暗在那儿聚拢如蝙蝠,
没有光
除了火把,和它微弱的
投在可怖之物上的中国黄——
漆黑的愚钝。腐败。
占有。
是它们占有了我。
既不残忍,也不冷漠,
只是无知。
这是蜜蜂必须死撑的时刻——蜜蜂们
迟缓得让我差点认不出,
排成纵列一如士兵
开往糖浆罐
好补上我消耗的蜂蜜。
泰特和莱尔支持它们,
精炼的白雪。
它们靠泰特和莱尔维生,不靠鲜花。
它们消耗。寒意莅临。
如今它们滚成大球,
黑黢黢
脑海反衬那一整片白。
那雪的微笑是白色的。
它铺开自身,一英里长的梅森瓷胎,
——在暖和的日子里,它们只能往其中
送去它们的死者。
一切蜜蜂都是女人,
少女,和修长的皇家贵妇。
它们已经摆脱了男人,
那些鲁钝、蠢笨、踉跄的人,粗人。
冬天是属于女人的——
那女人还在编织毛线,
在西班牙胡桃木摇篮畔,
身体是寒气中一块球茎,麻木无思维。
蜂巢可会活下去?剑兰可会
成功贮存火焰
而迈入新年?
那些圣诞蔷薇,尝起来滋味将如何?
蜜蜂正翩跹。它们尝到了春天。
Wintering
This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,
Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters --
Sir So-and-so's gin.
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
Chinese yellow on appalling objects --
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women --
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
包慧怡  译
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