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