在绝望中希望——R.S.托马斯的诗《威尔士人的独白》译读

A Welsh Testament

All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?

I spoke a tongue that was passed on

To me in the place I happen to be,

A place huddled between grey walls

Of cloud for at least half the year.

My word for heaven was not yours.

The word for hell had a sharp edge

Put on it by the hand of the wind

Honing, honing with a shrill sound

Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr

Knew was armour against the rain's

Missiles. What was descent from him?

Even God had a Welsh name:

We spoke to him in the old language;

He was to have a peculiar care

For the Welsh people. History showed us

He was too big to be nailed to the wall

Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him

Between the boards of a black book.

Yet men sought us despite this.

My high cheek-bones, my length of skull

Drew them as to a rare portrait

By a dead master. I saw them stare

From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep

In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand

By the thorn hedges, watching me string

The far flocks on a shrill whistle.

And always there was their eyes; strong

Pressure on me: you are Welsh, they said;

Spoke to us so; keep your fields free

Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar

Of hot tractors; we must have peace

And quietness.

Is a museum

Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper

Of the heart's relics, blowing the dust

In my own eyes? I am a man;

I never wanted the drab role

Life assigned me, an actor playing

To the past's audience upon a stage

Of earth and stone; the absurd label

Of birth, of race hanging askew

About my shoulders. I was in prison

Until you came; your voice was a key

Turning in the enormous lock

Of hopelessness. Did the door open

To let me out or yourself in?

Submitted by gnute

R . S . Thomas

一个威尔士人的独白

是的,我是威尔士人。

这有什么问题吗?

我说着威尔士世代流传的方言,

威尔士是我生长的故乡,

一年有多半,蜷缩于灰色的云墙。

“天堂”的拼读,我跟你的不一样。

而“地狱”,因嘶叫的风昼夜磨砺,

已生出锋利的边刃,闪着寒光。

啊,格林·杜尔,他所知道的,

有什么可以作为铁甲,

抵御这暴雨的张狂?

又留下了什么作为我们的印章?

连神都有一个威尔士的名字:

我们用古老的威尔士语跟他交谈;

他也给威尔士人特别的关照。

历史表明,他身体庞大,

画像不能钉在石头教堂的墙上,

我们仍然屈尊他,

让他挤在圣书的夹板中央。

尽管这样,人们仍追寻着我们,

怀着他们的希冀。

我颧骨高耸,头脑狭长,

犹如已故大师的稀世画像,

吸引着他们的目光。

他们会从那长长的小车的轿厢,

盯着我穿过齐膝的母羊和阉羊。

或站在荆刺篱笆旁,

看我吹着口哨把远方的羊群收放。

到处是他们充满希冀的眼睛,

如巨石沉沉地压上我的肩膀:

他们这样说,你是威尔士人,

请让我们远离这汽油的刺鼻

和拖拉机的咆哮,我们要生活在

一个和平安宁的地方。

博物馆才是和平的地方?

我自问,我只是心中遗物的看护者,

吹着灰尘把自己的眼睛蒙上?

不,我是一个活生生的人。

听凭生活的指派,

在泥石的舞台上,

肩头歪挂着种族和出身的荒唐标签,

为逝去的人而表演,

这种乏味的角色我从未抱任何企望。

我身处牢笼,等着你的到访,

你的声音是一把钥匙,

它将转动这巨大的绝望之锁。

门会开吗?让我解放?

或者,你进场?

黑夜中的飞翔 译

诗意简释

威尔士作为历史,同时作为家园,已被遗忘。人们再也记不起神的智慧和恩典,于是,对着古老的威尔士的代言者,也是家园的守护者,即这“一个威尔士人”,他们所希冀的不是和平与安宁的真理,而是这之外的东西,比如远离机器的噪音和尾气。

以此,这“一个威尔士人”被现世的风尘围裹,陷入绝望的牢笼。但他仍然期待,期待一个声音打开这牢笼。这是一个什么样的声音?它又将导致怎样的结局?是共同解放,还是一起受难?这是一个值得期待的期待。

在此,R . S . Thomas 仍然是基于人的现实存在,而对传统与现代进行拷问。这“一个威尔士人”就是他,他所期待的声音就是传统与现代的握手言和,他所期待的结局就是传统与现代的共同解放。

但握手言和如何可能,共同解放又路在何方?这是一个任重道远的课题。

所以,坚守者在绝望的牢笼中仍然期待着,尽管一切都是未知的。

在绝望中希望,以是,才有人类生命的生生不息。这是这个威尔士人的信念,也是他传递给我们的信念。

2017.12.06

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