德里克·沃尔科特诗5首
德里克·沃尔科特(Derek Walcott,1930-2017),生于圣卢西亚。诗人,剧作家及画家。他的诗因“具有伟大的光彩,历史的视野,献身多元文化的结果”,而获1992年诺贝尔文学奖。
爱之后的爱
这刻终有一天会来到
你将满心欢喜地
走到你自己的门前,
在你的镜中,彼此相视而笑
欢迎你的到来,
并说:“这儿请坐;请进食。”
你会重新爱上这个曾经是你的陌生人。
给他酒喝,给他面包吃。也把你的心
归还给它,归还给这个爱了你一生,
你却因别人而忽视了的
一直用心牵挂你的陌生人。
把你的情书从书架上拿下来,
还有那些照片、那些绝望忧伤的笔记,
从镜中剥下你自己的影子。
坐下来。静静享用你的一生。
(冯默谌 译)
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
黑八月
如此多的雨水,如此多的生活像这黑八月里
浮肿的天空。我的妹妹——太阳,
窝在她黄色的房屋里不愿出来。
万物都下地狱;群山像个水壶
吐着白气,河流泛滥;尽管如此
她还是不愿起身,来关掉雨水。
她在房间里,赏玩着古物,
我的诗作,她的相册。即便雷霆
如一个盘子,从天而降。
她也不肯出来。妹妹,
难道你不知道我爱你吗,还是你无法
修复这雨水?但我现在正慢慢学着
爱这些晦暗的日子、冒着热气的群山、
充满蚊子的流言蜚语的空气,
和要啜饮的苦药。
为了你又重新出现,我的妹妹,
用你那盘着花簇的额头和宽恕的眼睛
分开雨水的珠链。
所有的一切都将不同以往,但它是真的
(你看,他们不会让我从心所欲地
去爱),我的妹妹,因为那时
我将已学会像爱明媚的日子一样地爱黑暗的日子
爱黑色的雨,白色的山,就像曾经
我只爱我的幸福和你。
(冯默谌 译)
Dark August
So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.
Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.
She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,
she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly
to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,
so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,
all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then
I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.
海葡萄
那张倚着阳光,
厌倦了岛屿的帆,
击打着加勒比海上水面的纵帆船
在归航的途中,可能是奥德修斯
在爱琴海上返航;
那是一位父亲和丈夫的
渴望,在多指节的酸葡萄下,就像
那个奸夫能在每一只海鸥的倒彩声中
听见娜乌西卡的名字。
这让所有人都不能平静。在痴迷与职责
之中的那场古老战争
将永远不会结束,而且还会一直如此,
无论对海上的漂泊者,还是此时在海岸上
穿着凉鞋回家的人,从特洛伊
叹别它最后的战火,
到瞎眼的巨人把巨石投入海啸
的波谷中,伟大的六步格诗
拍岸已到达了终点。
诗书可以抚慰人心。但这还远远不够。
1976
(冯默谌 译)
Sea Grapes
That sail which leans on light,
tired of islands,
a schooner beating up the Caribbean
for home, could be Odysseus,
home-bound on the Aegean;
that father and husband's
longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is like
the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name in
every gull's outcry.
This brings nobody peace. The ancient war
between obsession and responsibility will
never finish and has been the same
for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore now
wriggling on his sandals to walk home, since
Troy sighed its last flame,
and the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough from
whose groundswell the great hexameters come to the
conclusions of exhausted surf.
The classics can console. But not enough.
名声
名声就是:星期天,
巴尔蒂斯画中的
一种空虚
是铺满鹅卵石的小径
是金黄色阳光照耀了的
一堵墙,一座棕色的塔
是在街道的尽处,
一朵没有铃声的蓝铃花
像是一张固定在白色画框上的
没有生气的画布,
还是几束花:
差劲的几束剑兰
剑兰,石质的花瓣
插入一个花瓶中。唱诗班
直上云霄的赞美诗
音符休止。一本
被它自己出版的
书。还有高跟鞋
在人行道上的嘀哒声。
一座爬行的钟。
一种工作的渴望。
(冯默谌 译)
Fame
This is Fame: Sundays,
an emptiness
as in Balthus,
cobbled alleys,
sunlit, aureate,
a wall, a brown tower
at the end of a street,
a blue without bells,
like a dead canvas
set in its white
frame, and flowers:
gladioli, lame
gladioli, stone petals
in a vase. The choir's
sky-high praise
turned off. A book
of prints that turns
by itself. The ticktock
of high heels on a sidewalk.
A crawling clock.
A craving for work.
盛夏,多巴哥
广阔的太阳石沙滩。
白色的热气。
一条绿色的河流。
一座桥,
烧焦的黄色的树叶。
从夏日疲倦的房屋伸出,
整个八月都在入睡。
我所拥有的日子,
我所失去的日子,
日子就像长大成熟的女儿,
不能投入双臂。
(冯默谌 译)
Midsummer, Tobago
Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat.
A green river.
A bridge,
scorched yellow palms
from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.
Days I have held,
days I have lost,
days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.
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