Waking into the Noon
Waking into the noon, into an expanse of blank stillness.
Nobody around. Brightness abound in sight,
Thinning everything into a translucent illusion.
A patch of paper clings to a water jar by a tiny tent on the table:
"Gone for a tea appointment and eye shopping.
Won’t be back till dinnertime.
Udon for your lunch under the food cover. Heat before eating."
For the signature, a line drawing bird is flying, with two hearts for eyes.
This is real, and I feel it between my right thumb and forefinger.
The post-it notepad is my favorite, of quality canary yellow paper
With preprinted patterns of orchids, with a touch
That reminds me of the touch in a dimly lit room, of weakly electrified thrill.
Upon a touch, Monteverdi’s Madrigals send me away
And away from my body;
I am a man from the CD Age, in love with the music
That comes with the tangible heaviness of casing and inserts.
Bare feet on bare floor, the cool from my soles
Say: You are still alive in your body, here!
On the door to my son’s room hangs a pinewood plate,
He carves out a helmeted head, similar to the I-Want-You poster,
Pointing at me: Fine upon Trespassing!
The plate is a tourist trash from a famous mountain in China.
In holidays, he does voluntary work, teaching Chinese calligraphy
To some barely literate elders in a center, where I went to visit, once.
Those finally can live as gregarious beings, happily,
Before they are transferred to the hospice for the terminally ill.
What hurts is not their shabby writing, but their knowledge,
Despite their non-Buddhist non-Taoist hold onto the everyday,
That one lives on and on to realize life is nothing but a transition.
Outside the window, sunshine hurts my eyes.
Deep down there in a garden, between these towers, children are playing
See-saw, and they rise and fall.
The trees closer to the wall look like dark green hassocks, in the refreshing breeze
Heaving, and I can’t help wondering
Whether they are springy enough to cushion a heavy fallen object.
June 26, 2009
醒来，已是中午
醒来，已是中午，四下无人，中午融着中午
一片静寂，丰盛的明亮将一切都穿透得疏松，虚幻了
餐桌上有一顶小小的帐篷，旁边，冷水杯
腰上贴一片纸，微微翘起了边
“应约喝茶，顺便逛街，晚餐前回来
做了乌冬面，在罩子下，午餐热一下吃”
签名处，一只简笔画的小鸟，两眼瞪成了红心
这是实在的，我用拇指和食指捏着，轻轻地搓
这种兰花暗纹的记事贴，鹅绒黄的优质
书写纸，令人感到某种柔和光线下带电的抚摸
打开音响，蒙特威尔第的牧歌令我逐渐远离自己的身体
我还停留在CD时代，需要盒子包装的实在手感
赤脚，感受地面的裸，脚心冷冷地提醒我，此刻我还在我这儿
儿子半敞的房门上挂着一块松树牌子，一只钢盔人
如那张I Want You海报，喊道“私人领地，侵入必罚”
假期，他去做义工，教书法，我去过那儿一次
那些终于群居的老人，在转到临终关怀中心之前
愿意与任何外来的人做任何事，说任何话
令我难受的，不是他们的字写得哆哆嗦嗦
而是他们非佛非道，留恋生活
而必须认命，人，活着活着就活成了过渡
窗外，阳光令人眼疼；楼下，小花园陷在高塔的谷底
几个孩子在玩跷跷板，此起彼伏
最靠近墙壁的那一排树，像一只只墨绿的垫子，在微微的风中
它们轻轻地涌动，令我有点迷惑
它们是否有足够的弹性承受一件高楼坠下的重物
2009年6月26日
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Plath: Daddy
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 183
Daddy
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time------
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the dear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You------
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two------
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
12 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第183首
老爸
你不行了，不行了，再也
不行了，你这只黑鞋，
我在里面活了三十年，
像一只脚，苍白而可怜，
几乎不敢呼吸或打个喷嚏。
老爸，我早该杀掉你。
可你死了，我也没得到机会——
沉如大理石，装着上帝的大袋子，
恐怖的雕像，有一只大得像
旧金山海豹的灰脚趾，
一个脑袋插在畸形的大西洋中，
向那里的蔚蓝倾注着豆绿，
在美丽的瑙塞特港外那片水域。
我曾时常祈祷把你重新找到。
哦，你。
操一口德国腔，住波兰小镇，
它已被战争的压路机碾平，
被战争，战争，战争。
而它的名字实在平常。
我的波兰友人
说这地名有一两打之多。
所以我永远说不清楚
你去过哪里，根在何处，
我永远没法追问。
舌头在嘴里卡住。
卡死在带刺的铁丝网里。
吾，吾，吾，吾，
我的话难以成句。
我认为每个德国佬都是你。
而那语言很下流
一辆火车头，火车头
在欻欻声中把我当犹太人发落。
被送往达豪，奥斯威辛或倍尔森。
我说话开始像犹太人。
我想我很可能就是犹太人。
维也纳的清啤，蒂洛尔的积雪
并不那么真实与纯正。
我母系祖先有个吉普赛，我的好运有点怪，
加上我算命用的塔罗牌，我的塔罗牌
我可能真有点犹太血。
我对你一直战战兢兢，
你的纳粹空军，你的军官腔调。
胡子修剪齐整
湛蓝的亚利安眼睛。
装甲兵，装甲兵，哦，你——
不是上帝而是个纳粹党徽，
黑得不会让一丝蓝天穿越。
每个女人都崇拜一个法西斯，
靴子印在脸上，畜生一样
有一副像你这畜生的心肠。
老爸，你站在黑板前，
我有你这张照片，你在上面，
一道裂痕留在下巴而不是脚上，
但你还是与魔鬼相当，绝对
与那黑衣人旗鼓相当，
他把我那娇嫩的红心撕咬成两块。
他们埋藏你时，我才十岁。
我二十岁时试图一死了之，
向你回归，回归，回归。
哪怕回去的只是白骨一堆。
但他们把我从闷口袋中弄醒，
用胶水把我粘在一起。
然后我明白了该做什么。
我以你做出一个模型，
一个黑衣人带着《我的奋斗》的表情，
以及对于拷刑台和拧螺丝的热衷。
我进而说出：我愿意，我愿意。
因此，老爸，我终于完了。
那黑色的电话断在了根部，
声音怎么爬也爬不过去。
我若杀掉一人，我也就杀了两条性命——
那条吸血僵尸，他谎冒你的名，
吸我的血已有一年，
七个年头了，如果你真想知道。
老爸，现在你尽可躺平了。
一根尖木桩插在你又肥又黑的心脏
你，村民们从来就不曾喜欢。
在你上面，他们又跺脚又跳舞，
就是你，他们一直都很清楚。
老爸，老爸，你这混蛋，我算完了。
1962年10月12日
很久以前写的札记
No. 183
Daddy
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time------
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the dear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You------
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two------
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
12 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第183首
老爸
你不行了，不行了，再也
不行了，你这只黑鞋，
我在里面活了三十年，
像一只脚，苍白而可怜，
几乎不敢呼吸或打个喷嚏。
老爸，我早该杀掉你。
可你死了，我也没得到机会——
沉如大理石，装着上帝的大袋子，
恐怖的雕像，有一只大得像
旧金山海豹的灰脚趾，
一个脑袋插在畸形的大西洋中，
向那里的蔚蓝倾注着豆绿，
在美丽的瑙塞特港外那片水域。
我曾时常祈祷把你重新找到。
哦，你。
操一口德国腔，住波兰小镇，
它已被战争的压路机碾平，
被战争，战争，战争。
而它的名字实在平常。
我的波兰友人
说这地名有一两打之多。
所以我永远说不清楚
你去过哪里，根在何处，
我永远没法追问。
舌头在嘴里卡住。
卡死在带刺的铁丝网里。
吾，吾，吾，吾，
我的话难以成句。
我认为每个德国佬都是你。
而那语言很下流
一辆火车头，火车头
在欻欻声中把我当犹太人发落。
被送往达豪，奥斯威辛或倍尔森。
我说话开始像犹太人。
我想我很可能就是犹太人。
维也纳的清啤，蒂洛尔的积雪
并不那么真实与纯正。
我母系祖先有个吉普赛，我的好运有点怪，
加上我算命用的塔罗牌，我的塔罗牌
我可能真有点犹太血。
我对你一直战战兢兢，
你的纳粹空军，你的军官腔调。
胡子修剪齐整
湛蓝的亚利安眼睛。
装甲兵，装甲兵，哦，你——
不是上帝而是个纳粹党徽，
黑得不会让一丝蓝天穿越。
每个女人都崇拜一个法西斯，
靴子印在脸上，畜生一样
有一副像你这畜生的心肠。
老爸，你站在黑板前，
我有你这张照片，你在上面，
一道裂痕留在下巴而不是脚上，
但你还是与魔鬼相当，绝对
与那黑衣人旗鼓相当，
他把我那娇嫩的红心撕咬成两块。
他们埋藏你时，我才十岁。
我二十岁时试图一死了之，
向你回归，回归，回归。
哪怕回去的只是白骨一堆。
但他们把我从闷口袋中弄醒，
用胶水把我粘在一起。
然后我明白了该做什么。
我以你做出一个模型，
一个黑衣人带着《我的奋斗》的表情，
以及对于拷刑台和拧螺丝的热衷。
我进而说出：我愿意，我愿意。
因此，老爸，我终于完了。
那黑色的电话断在了根部，
声音怎么爬也爬不过去。
我若杀掉一人，我也就杀了两条性命——
那条吸血僵尸，他谎冒你的名，
吸我的血已有一年，
七个年头了，如果你真想知道。
老爸，现在你尽可躺平了。
一根尖木桩插在你又肥又黑的心脏
你，村民们从来就不曾喜欢。
在你上面，他们又跺脚又跳舞，
就是你，他们一直都很清楚。
老爸，老爸，你这混蛋，我算完了。
1962年10月12日
很久以前写的札记
说给《老爸》的话
女诗人普拉斯的父亲Otto原本是波斯顿大学的生物学兼德语教授，对蜜蜂的研究在当时非常著名，著有《大黄蜂及其生活方式》。他的个性固执刚愎，这导致他本来可以医治的糖尿病引发并发症，脚趾上的一个小伤口导致截肢，并终于导致他的死亡；当时诗人才8岁，还有一个弟弟。这使得她后来曾怨恨父亲，产生过她父亲故意要抛弃他们的想法。早在1951年或者1952年的时候（诗人生于1932年），她就写过一首题为《挽歌》的Villanelle，按这种19行诗的格式所要求，其中的第一行“蜜蜂的刺针带走我的父亲The sting of bees took away my father”在后面又重复三次。1959年诗人连续写了两首从蜜蜂角度写父亲的诗，《诗全集》的第103首题为《伊勒克特拉走在杜鹃小径》（Electra on Azalea Path），Electra便是那个杀母复仇的恋父者，而杜鹃小径则是诗人父亲安葬的那排坟墓的小路的名字；第104首题为《养蜂人之女》，蜂群中的大师maestro of the bees这个普拉斯词汇就出现在这首诗中；现在这个词汇已多少含有一丝色情意味，具体地说应该是指利用性魅力/能力而在女人堆中如鱼得水。她从小对能随便抓着蜜蜂而不被蜇的父亲非常崇拜，这种兴趣使得她在1962年学会了养蜂，并写出了一组绝对属于其代表作的五首蜜蜂诗。所以休斯被蜜蜂蜇这样的事她不仅写信给母亲时详加叙述，而且还变成一个非常有意味的意象入诗。另外，“黑衣人”这个意象也很重要，不仅仅是其父亲，也是其丈夫；诗集中第106首《黑衣人》这首诗则是根据休斯站在她童年生活过的海边时的情景写出来的，她父亲死后，她离开了海边的幸福生活。在一篇回忆文章中她如此写道：“我父亲过世，我们搬到内地。从此，我生活中的那九年像封存在一只瓶子中的小船一样——美丽、不可触及、废弃了，一个优美的、飞翔的白色神话。”
《老爸》是普拉斯最出名的一首诗，也是最难翻译的一首诗（尽管中文起码有四五个铅印译文，但是都不是很尽人意，当然译文总是译文，丧失是可以理解的，引起误解肯定是失败的）。与她早期诗中的格律的严谨相比，这首诗更多的隐含的是语义上的严谨，例如，shoe/boot，bag/sack，foot/root这些词不仅运用于诗歌中的主人公和受话人（如果地下有知，弗洛伊德读到这只鞋子和靴子的意象一定满脸坏笑），而且每个词的含义还都有变化和发展，典型的如与说话相关的词以及被动的鞋子中的脚这一意象发展到在死人坟墓上跳舞践踏的脚。还有更难翻译的词的多义/含混与口吻的不确定/不稳定性。确实，诗人本来对她父亲的态度就很矛盾，如果再在诗歌中加入虚构（这当然不可避免，正如诗人自己所言），情况就更加复杂。要想再现从第一行You do not do, you do not do就已经具有的催眠似的（儿歌）节奏和不断重复的长音[u:]已经很难，更不必说考虑do的含混多义。我的翻译如果押韵则在各节押同一个韵，这样似乎有点像儿歌或者诗人特别喜欢的limerick（通俗的五行押韵AABBA打油诗），其实这首诗本身就可以当成limerick来读。听普拉斯本人朗诵这首诗的时候，似乎可以感受到其语气后隐藏着一种嘲弄甚至自嘲。
中间部分的这两行至关重要：And I said I do, I do. / So daddy, I'm finally through. 这两行上承第一行You do not do, you do not do，下启最后一行I'm through。按普拉斯自己的解释，这首诗是以一位有恋父情结的女儿的口吻写的，第一行的do显然与中间And I said I do（我在婚礼上说“我愿意”）相一致；在翻译这个I do, I do的时候，我用“行啊，我愿意”表示和第一行的“不行”来对应，至于“不行”的其他可能含义（如性能力方面的）则需要联系下文的其他措辞/阐释来理解。女儿对老爸的崇拜对应着每一个女人对法西斯的崇拜，他们组成了一种施虐受虐关系，诗歌中反复出现的身体部位的意象甚至会令读者产生某种窥淫感，这也可说是她作为女性主义意识浓厚的一个证明（不要忘了她另一篇著名的弥漫着脱衣舞女式的挑衅挑逗意味的诗篇《女拉扎路》）；尽管施虐男主角热衷于“上刑折磨rack”和“拧螺丝screw”（读者应该明白这两个字的俚语含义分别还是床以及性交的粗俗说法），所以受虐者仍然说“我愿意”；然而在他死后或者抛弃她后（死了的他是她老爸，抛弃她的那个“他”是休斯，当然不管是谁都一样）她只会不快乐。但是“老爸，我（自豪地/坚韧地）终于熬到头了”；但是“老爸，我（无奈地）总算想通了”；或者，但是“老爸，（可怜的）我还是完蛋了”（这些都是I am through的意义）。她所崇拜的诗人小说家D. H. 劳伦斯曾不无自豪地将他的诗集取名为《瞧！我们挺过来了！Look! We Have Come Through》；读者也许明白这诗集可说是劳伦斯顶着人们的指责写的情诗集。另外，普拉斯女儿Freda（诗人、艺术家）的名字也部分因为劳伦斯的情人/妻子叫Freda，她写的回忆录《说给风的话》激发我这篇短文如此取题；当然下面这些话就权当着诗歌主人公（persona）的内心独白吧，也就是《说给〈老爸〉的话》了。儿歌的节奏从某种意义上按时这一主人公似乎仍然受羁于恋父情结，所以她似乎分不清丈夫和父亲的界限，也不知道自己到底是否成年。是否可以说杀死父亲就是那个必要的成年仪式initiation？这一仪式本身不正是一个驱魔仪式exorcism？
她说给她死去的老爸：
尽管按说你不是魔鬼，因为你的脚趾是分开的，但你的死归因于脚趾的伤，你还是相当于魔鬼（你死时我还小，就会这么推理），这与那个使我心碎的男人有什么区别，都在吸我的血（现在我大了，便这样推理），所以要用木头扎进你这吸血僵尸的心脏，完成这个“驱魔仪式”（但是我并没有动手）；而村民们一直就知道是你，所以当村民们把你“做”了的时候，我除了骂一句“你这杂种”外便无话可说了，这首诗也就这么结束了吧；所以当村民们把你“做”了，我于是骂你一句“你这杂种”，就当是我了结了与你的一切（你与我之间的电话线早已连根断了，就好像你的阳具拔出了我的身体）（through的另一种俚语含义：玩到手了也玩完了，through with a girl/woman）；当村民们把你“做”了，我骂你又有何用，我本想“向你回归，回归，回归 ”，可是“现在你（他妈的）尽可高枕无忧了（you can lie back now）”，而我却完了（through），我已穷途末路、到了尽头。当村民们把你“做”了，我也在其中，现在仪式也结束了（through）。
唉，老爸，你是上帝也好，魔鬼也罢，我崇拜你，你死了，抛下我一人，本来想跟你去的，但是村民们“用胶水把我粘成一块/此后我明白应该如何”，“于是，老爸，我终于想通了”。我以你为模型找了一个男人，可是他妈的他“把我那娇嫩的红心撕咬成两块”，而且还竟然假冒你的模样，穿黑衣裳，整个一个不死的吸血僵尸，“他声称是你”；他背着我搞女人“已有一年”，玩弄我的一片痴情长达“七年”；有一天，那个不下蛋的母鸡，她的子宫就像大理石一样（《诗全集》第168首《另一个人》，指休斯的情妇阿霞Assia Wevill，当时据说她不能生育；她在普拉斯死后的第六年带着她和休斯所生的女儿秀拉一同自杀），“她痛恨 / 有个宝宝”，还粗着嗓子说她是一个男人（《诗全集》第207首《恐怖的东西》），要找我的男人，听得我真感到恶心，就好像电话里流出了淤泥一样（《诗全集》第169首《电话上的只言片语，意外听到》），我一气之下就把那电话线连根拔断（我跟他也因此断绝了感情牵连）；他们丑事暴露了，村里人（我周围的朋友）也看不过去，“他们一直都很清楚”（但像我这样的偷情男人的老婆永远是最后才知道实情），所以他们把他给做了；我知道杀了他也就是杀了你，尽管“现在你尽可高枕无忧”了，僵尸真的死了，尽管我也挺过来了，但我还是要骂你（心里空虚得毕竟难受啊，《诗全集》第172首《无父的儿子》中我只能对咿呀学语的儿子这样惺惺相惜说：“不久，你就会感到一种缺失/ 在你身边疯长，像一棵树/ 一个死树，褪了颜色/ …… 但现在你还不能言语/ 而我也爱着你的愚笨）。我知道只有杀了你才能杀了他，否则僵尸就不会死，到了这一步，你倒是死而瞑目“高枕无忧”了，我的一生却他妈的完了。
骂完了，咒完了，我也消气了，日子总得过下去，让我将您的生命延续。“老爸，您安息吧，我已经挺过来了”（“瞧，我还得承认我是爱你的”）。我这首很特别的爱情诗你会读懂吗？
女诗人普拉斯的父亲Otto原本是波斯顿大学的生物学兼德语教授，对蜜蜂的研究在当时非常著名，著有《大黄蜂及其生活方式》。他的个性固执刚愎，这导致他本来可以医治的糖尿病引发并发症，脚趾上的一个小伤口导致截肢，并终于导致他的死亡；当时诗人才8岁，还有一个弟弟。这使得她后来曾怨恨父亲，产生过她父亲故意要抛弃他们的想法。早在1951年或者1952年的时候（诗人生于1932年），她就写过一首题为《挽歌》的Villanelle，按这种19行诗的格式所要求，其中的第一行“蜜蜂的刺针带走我的父亲The sting of bees took away my father”在后面又重复三次。1959年诗人连续写了两首从蜜蜂角度写父亲的诗，《诗全集》的第103首题为《伊勒克特拉走在杜鹃小径》（Electra on Azalea Path），Electra便是那个杀母复仇的恋父者，而杜鹃小径则是诗人父亲安葬的那排坟墓的小路的名字；第104首题为《养蜂人之女》，蜂群中的大师maestro of the bees这个普拉斯词汇就出现在这首诗中；现在这个词汇已多少含有一丝色情意味，具体地说应该是指利用性魅力/能力而在女人堆中如鱼得水。她从小对能随便抓着蜜蜂而不被蜇的父亲非常崇拜，这种兴趣使得她在1962年学会了养蜂，并写出了一组绝对属于其代表作的五首蜜蜂诗。所以休斯被蜜蜂蜇这样的事她不仅写信给母亲时详加叙述，而且还变成一个非常有意味的意象入诗。另外，“黑衣人”这个意象也很重要，不仅仅是其父亲，也是其丈夫；诗集中第106首《黑衣人》这首诗则是根据休斯站在她童年生活过的海边时的情景写出来的，她父亲死后，她离开了海边的幸福生活。在一篇回忆文章中她如此写道：“我父亲过世，我们搬到内地。从此，我生活中的那九年像封存在一只瓶子中的小船一样——美丽、不可触及、废弃了，一个优美的、飞翔的白色神话。”
《老爸》是普拉斯最出名的一首诗，也是最难翻译的一首诗（尽管中文起码有四五个铅印译文，但是都不是很尽人意，当然译文总是译文，丧失是可以理解的，引起误解肯定是失败的）。与她早期诗中的格律的严谨相比，这首诗更多的隐含的是语义上的严谨，例如，shoe/boot，bag/sack，foot/root这些词不仅运用于诗歌中的主人公和受话人（如果地下有知，弗洛伊德读到这只鞋子和靴子的意象一定满脸坏笑），而且每个词的含义还都有变化和发展，典型的如与说话相关的词以及被动的鞋子中的脚这一意象发展到在死人坟墓上跳舞践踏的脚。还有更难翻译的词的多义/含混与口吻的不确定/不稳定性。确实，诗人本来对她父亲的态度就很矛盾，如果再在诗歌中加入虚构（这当然不可避免，正如诗人自己所言），情况就更加复杂。要想再现从第一行You do not do, you do not do就已经具有的催眠似的（儿歌）节奏和不断重复的长音[u:]已经很难，更不必说考虑do的含混多义。我的翻译如果押韵则在各节押同一个韵，这样似乎有点像儿歌或者诗人特别喜欢的limerick（通俗的五行押韵AABBA打油诗），其实这首诗本身就可以当成limerick来读。听普拉斯本人朗诵这首诗的时候，似乎可以感受到其语气后隐藏着一种嘲弄甚至自嘲。
中间部分的这两行至关重要：And I said I do, I do. / So daddy, I'm finally through. 这两行上承第一行You do not do, you do not do，下启最后一行I'm through。按普拉斯自己的解释，这首诗是以一位有恋父情结的女儿的口吻写的，第一行的do显然与中间And I said I do（我在婚礼上说“我愿意”）相一致；在翻译这个I do, I do的时候，我用“行啊，我愿意”表示和第一行的“不行”来对应，至于“不行”的其他可能含义（如性能力方面的）则需要联系下文的其他措辞/阐释来理解。女儿对老爸的崇拜对应着每一个女人对法西斯的崇拜，他们组成了一种施虐受虐关系，诗歌中反复出现的身体部位的意象甚至会令读者产生某种窥淫感，这也可说是她作为女性主义意识浓厚的一个证明（不要忘了她另一篇著名的弥漫着脱衣舞女式的挑衅挑逗意味的诗篇《女拉扎路》）；尽管施虐男主角热衷于“上刑折磨rack”和“拧螺丝screw”（读者应该明白这两个字的俚语含义分别还是床以及性交的粗俗说法），所以受虐者仍然说“我愿意”；然而在他死后或者抛弃她后（死了的他是她老爸，抛弃她的那个“他”是休斯，当然不管是谁都一样）她只会不快乐。但是“老爸，我（自豪地/坚韧地）终于熬到头了”；但是“老爸，我（无奈地）总算想通了”；或者，但是“老爸，（可怜的）我还是完蛋了”（这些都是I am through的意义）。她所崇拜的诗人小说家D. H. 劳伦斯曾不无自豪地将他的诗集取名为《瞧！我们挺过来了！Look! We Have Come Through》；读者也许明白这诗集可说是劳伦斯顶着人们的指责写的情诗集。另外，普拉斯女儿Freda（诗人、艺术家）的名字也部分因为劳伦斯的情人/妻子叫Freda，她写的回忆录《说给风的话》激发我这篇短文如此取题；当然下面这些话就权当着诗歌主人公（persona）的内心独白吧，也就是《说给〈老爸〉的话》了。儿歌的节奏从某种意义上按时这一主人公似乎仍然受羁于恋父情结，所以她似乎分不清丈夫和父亲的界限，也不知道自己到底是否成年。是否可以说杀死父亲就是那个必要的成年仪式initiation？这一仪式本身不正是一个驱魔仪式exorcism？
她说给她死去的老爸：
尽管按说你不是魔鬼，因为你的脚趾是分开的，但你的死归因于脚趾的伤，你还是相当于魔鬼（你死时我还小，就会这么推理），这与那个使我心碎的男人有什么区别，都在吸我的血（现在我大了，便这样推理），所以要用木头扎进你这吸血僵尸的心脏，完成这个“驱魔仪式”（但是我并没有动手）；而村民们一直就知道是你，所以当村民们把你“做”了的时候，我除了骂一句“你这杂种”外便无话可说了，这首诗也就这么结束了吧；所以当村民们把你“做”了，我于是骂你一句“你这杂种”，就当是我了结了与你的一切（你与我之间的电话线早已连根断了，就好像你的阳具拔出了我的身体）（through的另一种俚语含义：玩到手了也玩完了，through with a girl/woman）；当村民们把你“做”了，我骂你又有何用，我本想“向你回归，回归，回归 ”，可是“现在你（他妈的）尽可高枕无忧了（you can lie back now）”，而我却完了（through），我已穷途末路、到了尽头。当村民们把你“做”了，我也在其中，现在仪式也结束了（through）。
唉，老爸，你是上帝也好，魔鬼也罢，我崇拜你，你死了，抛下我一人，本来想跟你去的，但是村民们“用胶水把我粘成一块/此后我明白应该如何”，“于是，老爸，我终于想通了”。我以你为模型找了一个男人，可是他妈的他“把我那娇嫩的红心撕咬成两块”，而且还竟然假冒你的模样，穿黑衣裳，整个一个不死的吸血僵尸，“他声称是你”；他背着我搞女人“已有一年”，玩弄我的一片痴情长达“七年”；有一天，那个不下蛋的母鸡，她的子宫就像大理石一样（《诗全集》第168首《另一个人》，指休斯的情妇阿霞Assia Wevill，当时据说她不能生育；她在普拉斯死后的第六年带着她和休斯所生的女儿秀拉一同自杀），“她痛恨 / 有个宝宝”，还粗着嗓子说她是一个男人（《诗全集》第207首《恐怖的东西》），要找我的男人，听得我真感到恶心，就好像电话里流出了淤泥一样（《诗全集》第169首《电话上的只言片语，意外听到》），我一气之下就把那电话线连根拔断（我跟他也因此断绝了感情牵连）；他们丑事暴露了，村里人（我周围的朋友）也看不过去，“他们一直都很清楚”（但像我这样的偷情男人的老婆永远是最后才知道实情），所以他们把他给做了；我知道杀了他也就是杀了你，尽管“现在你尽可高枕无忧”了，僵尸真的死了，尽管我也挺过来了，但我还是要骂你（心里空虚得毕竟难受啊，《诗全集》第172首《无父的儿子》中我只能对咿呀学语的儿子这样惺惺相惜说：“不久，你就会感到一种缺失/ 在你身边疯长，像一棵树/ 一个死树，褪了颜色/ …… 但现在你还不能言语/ 而我也爱着你的愚笨）。我知道只有杀了你才能杀了他，否则僵尸就不会死，到了这一步，你倒是死而瞑目“高枕无忧”了，我的一生却他妈的完了。
骂完了，咒完了，我也消气了，日子总得过下去，让我将您的生命延续。“老爸，您安息吧，我已经挺过来了”（“瞧，我还得承认我是爱你的”）。我这首很特别的爱情诗你会读懂吗？
Fan Jinghua: Life Is Less Than A Dream
Life Is Less Than A Dream
Trudging along like van Gogh’s shoes
Toward the shifting crest of liquid sand
Without water from the start
His two legs mortised into a body of log
Set themselves on as stiff twin compasses
Still whereas the world is moving
And moving against the still world
Clouds floating in the azure sky
Changing shapes to entice hallucinations
Of an island as a heavenly yacht
This is another day without eve
Toward the dazzling doom
Oh, if only this is a tired dream
After making too intense love
June 22, 2009
人生不如梦
他跋涉着，像梵高的鞋子
向那流沙的移动峰冠
从起点就没有下过雨
两条腿插入身体的榫头
发动自己如僵直的圆规
世界运转而他静止
他移动则世界静止
云朵浮在杳蓝的空中
变换着形状诱引他
幻视到岛屿如游艇轻摇
又是一个没有前夜也没有黄昏的一日
走尽它，就更加接近那眩目的末日
多么希望这只是一场疲倦的梦
因为爱得太凶
2009年6月22日
Trudging along like van Gogh’s shoes
Toward the shifting crest of liquid sand
Without water from the start
His two legs mortised into a body of log
Set themselves on as stiff twin compasses
Still whereas the world is moving
And moving against the still world
Clouds floating in the azure sky
Changing shapes to entice hallucinations
Of an island as a heavenly yacht
This is another day without eve
Toward the dazzling doom
Oh, if only this is a tired dream
After making too intense love
June 22, 2009
人生不如梦
他跋涉着，像梵高的鞋子
向那流沙的移动峰冠
从起点就没有下过雨
两条腿插入身体的榫头
发动自己如僵直的圆规
世界运转而他静止
他移动则世界静止
云朵浮在杳蓝的空中
变换着形状诱引他
幻视到岛屿如游艇轻摇
又是一个没有前夜也没有黄昏的一日
走尽它，就更加接近那眩目的末日
多么希望这只是一场疲倦的梦
因为爱得太凶
2009年6月22日
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Plath: Medusa
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No.184
Medusa
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head---God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and sucking.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralysing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
16 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第184首
美杜莎
石头口塞形成陆地之痰，在它
之外，眼睛滚过白色棍棒，
耳朵聚拢大海断续的涛声，
你，收容着你没有神经的头颅——上帝的球，
仁慈的晶体。
你的狗腿子们
在我脊骨的阴影中播撒他们狂热的细胞，
像一颗颗心涌过，
最中心的红斑，
追逐着回头浪，涌向最近的离岸点，
拖着耶稣的长发。
我自问，我逃过吗？
我的心思蜿蜒伸向你，
脐带如老藤壶，大西洋电缆，
似乎依靠维修竟也保持了难以置信的状态。
不管怎么说，你总在那里，
我电话线终端颤悠悠的呼吸，
一弯海水冲洗
我的测水杆，水光粼粼，满心感激，
抚摸，吮吸。
我没有呼叫你。
根本就没有电召你。
即便如此，尽管如此，
你还是隔海送来一团蒸汽，
肥腻、血红，一只胎盘
令蹬脚挣扎的情侣瘫痪。
眼镜蛇的光
将气息从倒挂金钟的血红花朵里
挤掉。我，已无法喘气，
死透了、没钱了，
曝光过度了，像X光一样。
你以为你是谁？
圣餐饼？水母玛利亚？
你的身体我一口也不会咬，
我住在你这瓶子里，
可怖的梵蒂冈。
那热烘烘的咸味真令我恶心。
你的祝福，太监一样绿，
对我的罪孽嘶嘶吐芯。
滚开，滚开，鳗鱼似的触须！
你我之间没有任何瓜葛。
1962年10月16日
No.184
Medusa
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head---God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and sucking.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralysing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
16 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第184首
美杜莎
石头口塞形成陆地之痰，在它
之外，眼睛滚过白色棍棒，
耳朵聚拢大海断续的涛声，
你，收容着你没有神经的头颅——上帝的球，
仁慈的晶体。
你的狗腿子们
在我脊骨的阴影中播撒他们狂热的细胞，
像一颗颗心涌过，
最中心的红斑，
追逐着回头浪，涌向最近的离岸点，
拖着耶稣的长发。
我自问，我逃过吗？
我的心思蜿蜒伸向你，
脐带如老藤壶，大西洋电缆，
似乎依靠维修竟也保持了难以置信的状态。
不管怎么说，你总在那里，
我电话线终端颤悠悠的呼吸，
一弯海水冲洗
我的测水杆，水光粼粼，满心感激，
抚摸，吮吸。
我没有呼叫你。
根本就没有电召你。
即便如此，尽管如此，
你还是隔海送来一团蒸汽，
肥腻、血红，一只胎盘
令蹬脚挣扎的情侣瘫痪。
眼镜蛇的光
将气息从倒挂金钟的血红花朵里
挤掉。我，已无法喘气，
死透了、没钱了，
曝光过度了，像X光一样。
你以为你是谁？
圣餐饼？水母玛利亚？
你的身体我一口也不会咬，
我住在你这瓶子里，
可怖的梵蒂冈。
那热烘烘的咸味真令我恶心。
你的祝福，太监一样绿，
对我的罪孽嘶嘶吐芯。
滚开，滚开，鳗鱼似的触须！
你我之间没有任何瓜葛。
1962年10月16日
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Ling Xi: Since Early Morning My Breasts
从凌晨开始，乳房就有些精神失常
Since early morning, my breasts have been a little mentally disordered
by Ling Xi 凌曦 tr. Fan Jinghua
1
冷静，牛奶仅次于书桌硬度
左手执杯，右手书写一个地点
一座玻璃城堡，从三月四月五月延展
六月，长出一株小草
接着一丛紫色小花，一个蚂蚁窝
草原，露水，从昨晚习惯
逆向而眠，掐灭头顶那一盏灯
地平线依然善用曲线表达臀部光滑的阴影
风，一身灰土，窜进午后
抿紧嘴唇，将一口痰暗暗吞咽
我突然失去幻觉，青春黑屏
四只利爪，在季节的胸脯上，肆意纵横
我的小兽，突然止步
气喘，掏出一块三生石，扔进夜色中央
惊醒，我的乳房
一边遭虫蛀
一边潮声上涨
I
Calm, milk is only a little bit less hard than the desk
A mug in my left hand, the right hand is writing a place name
A castle of glass, which expands from March, April and May
To June when a small grass grows
Succeeded by a cluster of purple flowers, a hill of ants
From last night, the prairie, with dews, falls into the habit of
Sleeping backward, pinching off the lamp overhead
While the horizon is still good at using curves to express
The glossy shade of buttocks
The wind wears dusty overalls, scuttle into the afternoon
Lips clammed, and swallow down a mouthful of spittle
Suddenly, I lose illusions, my youth blank-screened
And four claws set loose their furrows on the breasts of the season
My small beast comes to a sudden halt
Gasps, takes out a three-life stone and throw it into the depth of night
Startling awake my breasts
One worm-infested
One swelling with wave-sounds
2
睡着之前，本想流泪
也无所谓，你不可能再回来
二十年之后，同样情形
走了，你头也不回
看我，今晚
横陈卧床，绝对隐秘，且喧哗
一棵音乐之树，撑开荫凉
大大小小，都是我的，一树木瓜，青皮，结实
西红柿绝对不是我的双乳
左转，半圈，稍稍停顿，右转，半圈
使劲一拧，一个又一个
音符在果浆中凝结，乳白，仍然挣扎
无助，一只飞蛾，飞来飞去
我早就飞不动了
泪水是北方的一条河，凌汛已过
背过脸去，随手一抹，双乳骄傲地，烂掉
II
Before falling asleep, I had planned to weep
But it did not matter much. You could not return again
After twenty years, the same will happen
You go away, without even turning your head
Look here! Tonight, I lie
Spreading across the bed, a supreme mystery, loud
Like a tree of music, opening its shade
Bid and small, all are mine, a treeful of papayas, green-skinned, stout
Tomatoes are definitely not up to my breasts
Anticlockwise for half a circle, pause, and clockwise, for half a circle
Pinch sharply, one and another
Music notes curdle in the whey, milky-white, still struggling
Helplessly, a moth, flying back and forth
I have grown too tired to fly any longer
I cry like a river of the northern country, after the ice run is over
And I turn aside, wiping my face. My breasts begin rotting, proudly
3
醒来，突然惊惶失措，乳房不见了
它不在电子邮箱，不在播客，也不在紫衣聊天室
乳房全挂在木瓜树上
一个乳房，熟透，嘭，掉下草丛
一只蜗牛，一只蚂蚁
甚至一只癞蛤蟆，都不动声色，美梦继续
无关紧要，木瓜多肉多汁多子多孙
今晚，跟天空商量交换
月亮挤进我的床
另一只乳房，高高挂天上
III
Startled awake, I was seized by a terror, my breasts gone
Not in my email box, not in the podcast, not in the purple-clothed chatroom either
They are hung on the papaya tree
One, ripe to its full, pom, drops onto the grass
Not a snail, not an ant
Not even a toad is frightened, and sweet dreams resume
It doesn’t matter. A papaya is fleshy and juicy, a symbol of fertility
Tonight, I will bargain for bartering
The moon squeezes onto my bed
The other breast of mine will hang high in the sky
4
上楼下楼，每天
经过院子，看那棵木瓜
它的孩子从时光的大门跑出来
一个个搂紧它的脖颈
终于低头
用惭愧的思想妒忌生命真实的饱满
IV
Going upstairs and downstairs, everyday
I pass by the yard, seeing the children of the papaya tree
Running out of the gate of time
They cling to its neck, one after another
Finally I lower my head, with a guilty heart
Pouring jealousy over the concrete plumpness of life
5
39岁的乳房，越来越慌乱
左岸，滞留青春期，右岸，逼近更年期
塞入饥渴的泡沫，或高弹力塑胶，一时汹涌，又随即被验钞机识破
V
39-year-old breasts are growing palpably flustered
The left bank lingers on youth, the right approaching climacteric age
Implants of hungry foams or silicone gel render them billowy
But instantly they are seen through by a currency detector
About the author
Ling Xi, born in 1970 into a family of Dong nationality in Guangxi Province, has been doing all sorts of odd jobs since she left a Miao nationality high school in 1989. She began writing poetry only in recent few years after she got a relatively stable job in a pesticide factory.
Since early morning, my breasts have been a little mentally disordered
by Ling Xi 凌曦 tr. Fan Jinghua
1
冷静，牛奶仅次于书桌硬度
左手执杯，右手书写一个地点
一座玻璃城堡，从三月四月五月延展
六月，长出一株小草
接着一丛紫色小花，一个蚂蚁窝
草原，露水，从昨晚习惯
逆向而眠，掐灭头顶那一盏灯
地平线依然善用曲线表达臀部光滑的阴影
风，一身灰土，窜进午后
抿紧嘴唇，将一口痰暗暗吞咽
我突然失去幻觉，青春黑屏
四只利爪，在季节的胸脯上，肆意纵横
我的小兽，突然止步
气喘，掏出一块三生石，扔进夜色中央
惊醒，我的乳房
一边遭虫蛀
一边潮声上涨
I
Calm, milk is only a little bit less hard than the desk
A mug in my left hand, the right hand is writing a place name
A castle of glass, which expands from March, April and May
To June when a small grass grows
Succeeded by a cluster of purple flowers, a hill of ants
From last night, the prairie, with dews, falls into the habit of
Sleeping backward, pinching off the lamp overhead
While the horizon is still good at using curves to express
The glossy shade of buttocks
The wind wears dusty overalls, scuttle into the afternoon
Lips clammed, and swallow down a mouthful of spittle
Suddenly, I lose illusions, my youth blank-screened
And four claws set loose their furrows on the breasts of the season
My small beast comes to a sudden halt
Gasps, takes out a three-life stone and throw it into the depth of night
Startling awake my breasts
One worm-infested
One swelling with wave-sounds
2
睡着之前，本想流泪
也无所谓，你不可能再回来
二十年之后，同样情形
走了，你头也不回
看我，今晚
横陈卧床，绝对隐秘，且喧哗
一棵音乐之树，撑开荫凉
大大小小，都是我的，一树木瓜，青皮，结实
西红柿绝对不是我的双乳
左转，半圈，稍稍停顿，右转，半圈
使劲一拧，一个又一个
音符在果浆中凝结，乳白，仍然挣扎
无助，一只飞蛾，飞来飞去
我早就飞不动了
泪水是北方的一条河，凌汛已过
背过脸去，随手一抹，双乳骄傲地，烂掉
II
Before falling asleep, I had planned to weep
But it did not matter much. You could not return again
After twenty years, the same will happen
You go away, without even turning your head
Look here! Tonight, I lie
Spreading across the bed, a supreme mystery, loud
Like a tree of music, opening its shade
Bid and small, all are mine, a treeful of papayas, green-skinned, stout
Tomatoes are definitely not up to my breasts
Anticlockwise for half a circle, pause, and clockwise, for half a circle
Pinch sharply, one and another
Music notes curdle in the whey, milky-white, still struggling
Helplessly, a moth, flying back and forth
I have grown too tired to fly any longer
I cry like a river of the northern country, after the ice run is over
And I turn aside, wiping my face. My breasts begin rotting, proudly
3
醒来，突然惊惶失措，乳房不见了
它不在电子邮箱，不在播客，也不在紫衣聊天室
乳房全挂在木瓜树上
一个乳房，熟透，嘭，掉下草丛
一只蜗牛，一只蚂蚁
甚至一只癞蛤蟆，都不动声色，美梦继续
无关紧要，木瓜多肉多汁多子多孙
今晚，跟天空商量交换
月亮挤进我的床
另一只乳房，高高挂天上
III
Startled awake, I was seized by a terror, my breasts gone
Not in my email box, not in the podcast, not in the purple-clothed chatroom either
They are hung on the papaya tree
One, ripe to its full, pom, drops onto the grass
Not a snail, not an ant
Not even a toad is frightened, and sweet dreams resume
It doesn’t matter. A papaya is fleshy and juicy, a symbol of fertility
Tonight, I will bargain for bartering
The moon squeezes onto my bed
The other breast of mine will hang high in the sky
4
上楼下楼，每天
经过院子，看那棵木瓜
它的孩子从时光的大门跑出来
一个个搂紧它的脖颈
终于低头
用惭愧的思想妒忌生命真实的饱满
IV
Going upstairs and downstairs, everyday
I pass by the yard, seeing the children of the papaya tree
Running out of the gate of time
They cling to its neck, one after another
Finally I lower my head, with a guilty heart
Pouring jealousy over the concrete plumpness of life
5
39岁的乳房，越来越慌乱
左岸，滞留青春期，右岸，逼近更年期
塞入饥渴的泡沫，或高弹力塑胶，一时汹涌，又随即被验钞机识破
V
39-year-old breasts are growing palpably flustered
The left bank lingers on youth, the right approaching climacteric age
Implants of hungry foams or silicone gel render them billowy
But instantly they are seen through by a currency detector
About the author
Ling Xi, born in 1970 into a family of Dong nationality in Guangxi Province, has been doing all sorts of odd jobs since she left a Miao nationality high school in 1989. She began writing poetry only in recent few years after she got a relatively stable job in a pesticide factory.
凌曦，1970年生于广西一个侗族家庭，1989年高中毕业后，开始打工。先后做过代课老师、饭店服务员、竹篾编织工，几年前来到如今这家小型农药厂做工，相对稳定，开始写诗。
Plath: The Jailer
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 185
The Jailer
My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?
I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.
Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.
O little gimlets---
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He has been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.
The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.
All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armor of fakery,
His high cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety---
Hung, starved, burned, hooked.
I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems, is the impossibility.
That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?
17 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第185首
狱卒
我夜里的盗汗，为你的早餐盘涂油。
蓝雾的布告依旧，树木依旧，
墓碑依旧，都被轮子旋转到位。
那就是他所能搞出来的一切？
钥匙的锒铛声？
我一直被灌药、强奸。
七个钟头，我健康的心智被击倒，
在黑麻袋中昏睡，
放松，胎儿或猫，
他色梦的杠杆。
某种东西不见了。
我的安眠胶囊，红色的、蓝色的齐柏林飞艇
从令人恐惧的高度将我抛下。
硬壳碎了，
我铺展在群鸟的喙前。
啊，小手钻啊——
这薄纸似的日子已是千疮百孔！
他一直用香烟头烫我，
假装我是长着粉红爪子的女黑人。
我是我自己。这还不够。
高烧，在我的头发间滴注，变硬。
我的肋骨显了出来。我吃了什么？
谎言和微笑。
肯定，天空不是那种颜色，
肯定，青草应该会泛起涟漪。
我整天地将烧剩的火柴杆粘成教堂，
全身心地梦想着另外某个人。
而他，因为这破坏行为，
伤害我，他
装配着伪装的甲胄，
以及健忘症的高度冷漠的面具。
我怎么到了这里？
刑期不定的犯人，
我的死法五花八门——
吊死、饿死、烧死、钩死。
我想象他
痿得像遥远的雷，
我在他的阴影里已吃完我的幽灵配额。
愿他死去或远走。
这，看来绝无可能。
这不受影响。如果没有高烧
供它吞食，黑暗能做什么？
如果没有眼睛
供它宰割，光线能做什么？如果没有我，
他又能做什么、做什么、做什么？
1962 年10月17日
No. 185
The Jailer
My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?
I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.
Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.
O little gimlets---
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He has been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.
The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.
All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armor of fakery,
His high cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety---
Hung, starved, burned, hooked.
I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems, is the impossibility.
That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?
17 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第185首
狱卒
我夜里的盗汗，为你的早餐盘涂油。
蓝雾的布告依旧，树木依旧，
墓碑依旧，都被轮子旋转到位。
那就是他所能搞出来的一切？
钥匙的锒铛声？
我一直被灌药、强奸。
七个钟头，我健康的心智被击倒，
在黑麻袋中昏睡，
放松，胎儿或猫，
他色梦的杠杆。
某种东西不见了。
我的安眠胶囊，红色的、蓝色的齐柏林飞艇
从令人恐惧的高度将我抛下。
硬壳碎了，
我铺展在群鸟的喙前。
啊，小手钻啊——
这薄纸似的日子已是千疮百孔！
他一直用香烟头烫我，
假装我是长着粉红爪子的女黑人。
我是我自己。这还不够。
高烧，在我的头发间滴注，变硬。
我的肋骨显了出来。我吃了什么？
谎言和微笑。
肯定，天空不是那种颜色，
肯定，青草应该会泛起涟漪。
我整天地将烧剩的火柴杆粘成教堂，
全身心地梦想着另外某个人。
而他，因为这破坏行为，
伤害我，他
装配着伪装的甲胄，
以及健忘症的高度冷漠的面具。
我怎么到了这里？
刑期不定的犯人，
我的死法五花八门——
吊死、饿死、烧死、钩死。
我想象他
痿得像遥远的雷，
我在他的阴影里已吃完我的幽灵配额。
愿他死去或远走。
这，看来绝无可能。
这不受影响。如果没有高烧
供它吞食，黑暗能做什么？
如果没有眼睛
供它宰割，光线能做什么？如果没有我，
他又能做什么、做什么、做什么？
1962 年10月17日
Thursday, June 25, 2009
xiaomaxian: Dedication & Island
Two Poems by Xiaomaxian
Dedication
by Xiaomaxian tr. Fan Jinghua
I’ll give you my hair threads
To tie up
Your darkness
And give you a long time of separation—
I want to take
Between my feverish lips
The short-lived happiness
Of giddiness…the whirling of fallen leaves
Then, our mornings will be
Saturated with the fragrance of ginkgo
Our night is of peppermint
During the afternoon when the sun is fierce
We lie
Occasionally on the grains of gold
We are light for each other
June 22, 2009
献诗
小玛仙
我给你发丝
系住你的
黑暗
给你长久的离别——
我想用热烈的嘴唇
含住那些
瞬间的幸福
眩晕感……是树叶在摇晃
我们的早晨
会充满银杏树的味道
夜晚是薄荷的
在太阳凶猛的午后
我们偶尔躺在
金粒子上，我们是彼此的光
2009.6.22
Notes: This is a lovely love poem. In ancient China, as in the West, a lock of hair is the token for love, especially a keepsake for separated lovers. Here, the poet writes in the tradition, and yet the hair is for her beloved to tie up the low spirits, so that their long separation can become also something she gives out (otherwise it will be hard to endure). It seems that when separation is inevitable, she will take it as something cherishable too, like the hair. The word “threads” in Chinese is homonymic to “thinking (missing)” and has ubiquitously been used in classical poetry.
Island
by Xiaomaxian tr. Fan Jinghua
At this moment, moonlight pounces upon your heels
From your study to the courtyard
You light a cigarette
(Beauty dissolves like fragrance and sinks like jade, cruelly…
Ashes fly and smoke thins away)
Your lighter clinks
Shutting off all the light. At this moment
You are an island—in the night
Perhaps in what you see. You dive, you emerge.
June 24, 2009
岛屿
小玛仙
从你的书房到庭院，月光在此时扑向
经过的地方
你点燃一根烟
（香消玉损般美，残忍……灰飞烟灭）
火机嗒的一声轻响
关闭所有的光亮。此刻
你如一座孤岛——在夜晚
或许在你所见物中，你的沉浮。
2009.6.24
Dedication
by Xiaomaxian tr. Fan Jinghua
I’ll give you my hair threads
To tie up
Your darkness
And give you a long time of separation—
I want to take
Between my feverish lips
The short-lived happiness
Of giddiness…the whirling of fallen leaves
Then, our mornings will be
Saturated with the fragrance of ginkgo
Our night is of peppermint
During the afternoon when the sun is fierce
We lie
Occasionally on the grains of gold
We are light for each other
June 22, 2009
献诗
小玛仙
我给你发丝
系住你的
黑暗
给你长久的离别——
我想用热烈的嘴唇
含住那些
瞬间的幸福
眩晕感……是树叶在摇晃
我们的早晨
会充满银杏树的味道
夜晚是薄荷的
在太阳凶猛的午后
我们偶尔躺在
金粒子上，我们是彼此的光
2009.6.22
Notes: This is a lovely love poem. In ancient China, as in the West, a lock of hair is the token for love, especially a keepsake for separated lovers. Here, the poet writes in the tradition, and yet the hair is for her beloved to tie up the low spirits, so that their long separation can become also something she gives out (otherwise it will be hard to endure). It seems that when separation is inevitable, she will take it as something cherishable too, like the hair. The word “threads” in Chinese is homonymic to “thinking (missing)” and has ubiquitously been used in classical poetry.
Island
by Xiaomaxian tr. Fan Jinghua
At this moment, moonlight pounces upon your heels
From your study to the courtyard
You light a cigarette
(Beauty dissolves like fragrance and sinks like jade, cruelly…
Ashes fly and smoke thins away)
Your lighter clinks
Shutting off all the light. At this moment
You are an island—in the night
Perhaps in what you see. You dive, you emerge.
June 24, 2009
岛屿
小玛仙
从你的书房到庭院，月光在此时扑向
经过的地方
你点燃一根烟
（香消玉损般美，残忍……灰飞烟灭）
火机嗒的一声轻响
关闭所有的光亮。此刻
你如一座孤岛——在夜晚
或许在你所见物中，你的沉浮。
2009.6.24
Plath: Lesbos
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 186
Lesbos
Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors---
Stage curtains, a widow's frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child---look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear---
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her,
The bastard's a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He's a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.
Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venomous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: 'Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.'
You acted, acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.
O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood big, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your cloggy husband. He went on.
Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. 'Every woman's a whore.
I can't communicate.'
I see your cute décor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.
Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
18 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第186首
莱斯波思岛
厨房中的阴毒！
土豆发咝咝声。
整个是一场好莱坞，没窗子，
荧光灯畏缩着，一明一灭，像难忍的偏头痛，
羞答答的报纸为门跳脱衣舞——
舞台幕布，寡妇的卷毛。
而我，亲爱的，是个病态说谎者，
我的孩子——看她，脸朝下趴在地板上，
断了线的小木偶，踢着脚就不见了——
她怎么就精神分裂了，
脸，又红又白，惊恐，
你在窗外那水泥井里
戳她的小猫，
它们在那里面拉撒、呕吐、惨叫，可她听不到。
你说你受不了她，
那野种是个女孩。
你，弄爆了你的输送管，像一只破收音机，
清除掉嗓音和历史，新事物的
噪音，静电似的。
你说我应该淹死小猫。那味道受不了！
你说我应该淹死女儿。
如果她两岁就发疯，十岁就会抹脖子。
那婴孩，胖胖的蜗牛，
从桔黄色油毡布的闪亮糖块上微笑。
你可以吃了他。一个男孩。
你说你丈夫对你真是没半点用处。
他那犹太妈妈护着他美妙的性，好像那是珍珠。
你有一个孩子，我有一双。
我真该坐在康沃尔之外的岩石上，梳弄我的长发。
我该穿虎纹裤，应该来一场外遇。
我们真该在另一生相遇，相逢于半空，
只是你和我。
此时，可闻到肥肉与小孩大便的臭味。
我麻木而沉重，因为最后那片安眠药。
煮炒的油烟、地狱的油烟
浮在我们头上，两个吐毒液的对头，
我们的骨头、我们的发。
我称你为孤儿，孤儿。你病了。
太阳给你带来溃疡，风带来结核，
曾经，你很美丽。
在纽约，在好莱坞，男人们说“完了？
哇，宝贝，你是稀有的宝”。
你装啊，装啊，装出惊颤。
阳痿的丈夫耷拉着出去喝杯咖啡。
我试图留住他，
一根留给闪电的旧柱子，
酸性洗澡水，你身上落下几张苍天。
他拖着脚走下塑料卵石的小丘，
鞭打手推车。那些闪光是蓝色的。
那些蓝色闪光满溢，
爆裂如石英碎成一百万粒。
哦，珠宝！哦，多么贵重！
那夜的月亮
将它嗜血的大块头
病兽
拖向码头的灯火。
然后，回归正常，
冷硬、分散、苍白。
鱼鳞的光泽，在沙上，吓得我要死。
我们不停地捡，一把一把地，爱着它，
摆弄它，好像是面团，黑白混血的身体，
丝滑的粗砂粉。
一条狗叼起你粘乎乎的丈夫。他自谋出路。
现在我沉默，恨
涌到脖子，
又浓又稠。
我不说话。
我将冷硬的土豆装包，犹如高档衣服，
我将小孩都装包，
我将病猫也装包。
哦，装酸的花瓶啊，
你满满的都是爱。你知道你很什么。
他在面向大海敞开的门边
抱紧他的球和链条，
那儿，海水驶入，白的，黑的，
然后又吐出去。
你每天都要将他灌满心灵之物，像一只水罐。
你精疲力竭。
你的嗓音成为我的耳环，
扑闪、吮吸，嗜血的蝙蝠。
确实如此，如此这般。
你从门后偷窥，悲哀的
丑婆娘。“女人都是妓。
我无法说得明白”。
我看得出你可爱的妆饰
紧贴着你，像婴儿的小拳头
或者一只海葵，大海
甜心，盗窃癖。
我还是生的。
我说我可能要回来。
你知道谎言是为了什么。
就是在你的禅宗天堂我们也不会相遇。
1962年10月18日
No. 186
Lesbos
Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors---
Stage curtains, a widow's frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child---look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear---
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her,
The bastard's a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He's a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.
Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venomous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: 'Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.'
You acted, acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.
O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood big, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your cloggy husband. He went on.
Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. 'Every woman's a whore.
I can't communicate.'
I see your cute décor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.
Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
18 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第186首
莱斯波思岛
厨房中的阴毒！
土豆发咝咝声。
整个是一场好莱坞，没窗子，
荧光灯畏缩着，一明一灭，像难忍的偏头痛，
羞答答的报纸为门跳脱衣舞——
舞台幕布，寡妇的卷毛。
而我，亲爱的，是个病态说谎者，
我的孩子——看她，脸朝下趴在地板上，
断了线的小木偶，踢着脚就不见了——
她怎么就精神分裂了，
脸，又红又白，惊恐，
你在窗外那水泥井里
戳她的小猫，
它们在那里面拉撒、呕吐、惨叫，可她听不到。
你说你受不了她，
那野种是个女孩。
你，弄爆了你的输送管，像一只破收音机，
清除掉嗓音和历史，新事物的
噪音，静电似的。
你说我应该淹死小猫。那味道受不了！
你说我应该淹死女儿。
如果她两岁就发疯，十岁就会抹脖子。
那婴孩，胖胖的蜗牛，
从桔黄色油毡布的闪亮糖块上微笑。
你可以吃了他。一个男孩。
你说你丈夫对你真是没半点用处。
他那犹太妈妈护着他美妙的性，好像那是珍珠。
你有一个孩子，我有一双。
我真该坐在康沃尔之外的岩石上，梳弄我的长发。
我该穿虎纹裤，应该来一场外遇。
我们真该在另一生相遇，相逢于半空，
只是你和我。
此时，可闻到肥肉与小孩大便的臭味。
我麻木而沉重，因为最后那片安眠药。
煮炒的油烟、地狱的油烟
浮在我们头上，两个吐毒液的对头，
我们的骨头、我们的发。
我称你为孤儿，孤儿。你病了。
太阳给你带来溃疡，风带来结核，
曾经，你很美丽。
在纽约，在好莱坞，男人们说“完了？
哇，宝贝，你是稀有的宝”。
你装啊，装啊，装出惊颤。
阳痿的丈夫耷拉着出去喝杯咖啡。
我试图留住他，
一根留给闪电的旧柱子，
酸性洗澡水，你身上落下几张苍天。
他拖着脚走下塑料卵石的小丘，
鞭打手推车。那些闪光是蓝色的。
那些蓝色闪光满溢，
爆裂如石英碎成一百万粒。
哦，珠宝！哦，多么贵重！
那夜的月亮
将它嗜血的大块头
病兽
拖向码头的灯火。
然后，回归正常，
冷硬、分散、苍白。
鱼鳞的光泽，在沙上，吓得我要死。
我们不停地捡，一把一把地，爱着它，
摆弄它，好像是面团，黑白混血的身体，
丝滑的粗砂粉。
一条狗叼起你粘乎乎的丈夫。他自谋出路。
现在我沉默，恨
涌到脖子，
又浓又稠。
我不说话。
我将冷硬的土豆装包，犹如高档衣服，
我将小孩都装包，
我将病猫也装包。
哦，装酸的花瓶啊，
你满满的都是爱。你知道你很什么。
他在面向大海敞开的门边
抱紧他的球和链条，
那儿，海水驶入，白的，黑的，
然后又吐出去。
你每天都要将他灌满心灵之物，像一只水罐。
你精疲力竭。
你的嗓音成为我的耳环，
扑闪、吮吸，嗜血的蝙蝠。
确实如此，如此这般。
你从门后偷窥，悲哀的
丑婆娘。“女人都是妓。
我无法说得明白”。
我看得出你可爱的妆饰
紧贴着你，像婴儿的小拳头
或者一只海葵，大海
甜心，盗窃癖。
我还是生的。
我说我可能要回来。
你知道谎言是为了什么。
就是在你的禅宗天堂我们也不会相遇。
1962年10月18日
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Realness of Supreme Fiction
Realness of Supreme Fiction
For X
Like a should-be secret
My good is good as I should be
The same as the bad that takes me
As imaginations
The boneless hardenable tentacles
They stretch out for the drops of hope
You leave behind in the dark
The mammal buds sensitive to touch
Occasionally burgeon on the foreshore
Like painter’s mussels tonguing out
A fleshy crescent and tangy foams
This sight saddens me up and proud
My heart is a yellow aquiferous jade
And warm or cold, the bubble of water won't spill
June 23, 2009
最虚的实情
For X
像理应的秘密一样
我好得理所当然
亦如那些占居我的坏
想象
无骨而刚的触角
伸向你留在暗中的希望
那几颗向触性哺乳动物的幼苗
偶然在海岸线上
好像露出月牙形柔软的蚌
吐着带腥味的泡沫
我为此悲哀起来
高傲地心酸
像一块含水的黄玉
冷或暖，那体液都不会溅出
2009年6月23日
For X
Like a should-be secret
My good is good as I should be
The same as the bad that takes me
As imaginations
The boneless hardenable tentacles
They stretch out for the drops of hope
You leave behind in the dark
The mammal buds sensitive to touch
Occasionally burgeon on the foreshore
Like painter’s mussels tonguing out
A fleshy crescent and tangy foams
This sight saddens me up and proud
My heart is a yellow aquiferous jade
And warm or cold, the bubble of water won't spill
June 23, 2009
最虚的实情
For X
像理应的秘密一样
我好得理所当然
亦如那些占居我的坏
想象
无骨而刚的触角
伸向你留在暗中的希望
那几颗向触性哺乳动物的幼苗
偶然在海岸线上
好像露出月牙形柔软的蚌
吐着带腥味的泡沫
我为此悲哀起来
高傲地心酸
像一块含水的黄玉
冷或暖，那体液都不会溅出
2009年6月23日
Monday, June 22, 2009
Plath: Stopped Dead
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 187
Stopped Dead
A squeal of brakes.
Or is it a birth cry?
And here we are, hung out over the dead drop
Uncle, pants factory Fatso, millionaire.
And you out cold beside me in your chair.
The wheels, two rubber grubs, bite their sweet tails.
Is that Spain down there?
Red and yellow, two passionate hot metals
Writhing and sighing, what sort of a scenery is it?
It isn't England, it isn't France, it isn't Ireland.
It's violent. We're here on a visit,
With a goddam baby screaming off somewhere.
There's always a bloody baby in the air.
I'd call it a sunset, but
Whoever heard a sunset yowl like that?
You are sunk in your seven chins, still as a ham.
Who do you think I am,
Uncle, uncle?
Sad Hamlet, with a knife?
Where do you stash your life?
Is it a penny, a pearl---
Your soul, your soul?
I'll carry it off like a rich pretty girl,
Simply open the door and step out of the car
And live in Gibraltar on air, on air.
19 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第187首
未遂之死
刹车的尖啸。
或是初生的啼哭？
我们已至此，悬吊在外，下面是那跌落到死的
叔叔，裤子工厂的胖子，百万富翁。
而你在我身边的椅子上，比冷还要冷。
车轮，两只橡胶苦工，咬自己的甜尾巴。
那边下去，就是西班牙？
红、黄，两块激情的热金属
扭动、叹息，这算是怎样的风景？
不是英格兰，不是法兰西，不是爱尔兰。
这是暴力。我们来这儿，游客而已，
而一个讨厌的婴孩在某处干嚎。
我该称之为落日，可是
有谁听到落日像那样尖叫？
你陷进你的七个下巴，安静如火腿。
叔叔，你以为我
是谁，叔叔？
悲伤的带刀子的哈姆雷特？
你将你的人生藏在哪儿？
那是一个便士，一颗珍珠——
你的灵、你的魂？
我要灭了它，像灭掉一个漂亮的富家女，
打开门，下车，简简单单，
然后活在直布罗陀，吸食空气，空气。
1962年10月19日
No. 187
Stopped Dead
A squeal of brakes.
Or is it a birth cry?
And here we are, hung out over the dead drop
Uncle, pants factory Fatso, millionaire.
And you out cold beside me in your chair.
The wheels, two rubber grubs, bite their sweet tails.
Is that Spain down there?
Red and yellow, two passionate hot metals
Writhing and sighing, what sort of a scenery is it?
It isn't England, it isn't France, it isn't Ireland.
It's violent. We're here on a visit,
With a goddam baby screaming off somewhere.
There's always a bloody baby in the air.
I'd call it a sunset, but
Whoever heard a sunset yowl like that?
You are sunk in your seven chins, still as a ham.
Who do you think I am,
Uncle, uncle?
Sad Hamlet, with a knife?
Where do you stash your life?
Is it a penny, a pearl---
Your soul, your soul?
I'll carry it off like a rich pretty girl,
Simply open the door and step out of the car
And live in Gibraltar on air, on air.
19 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第187首
未遂之死
刹车的尖啸。
或是初生的啼哭？
我们已至此，悬吊在外，下面是那跌落到死的
叔叔，裤子工厂的胖子，百万富翁。
而你在我身边的椅子上，比冷还要冷。
车轮，两只橡胶苦工，咬自己的甜尾巴。
那边下去，就是西班牙？
红、黄，两块激情的热金属
扭动、叹息，这算是怎样的风景？
不是英格兰，不是法兰西，不是爱尔兰。
这是暴力。我们来这儿，游客而已，
而一个讨厌的婴孩在某处干嚎。
我该称之为落日，可是
有谁听到落日像那样尖叫？
你陷进你的七个下巴，安静如火腿。
叔叔，你以为我
是谁，叔叔？
悲伤的带刀子的哈姆雷特？
你将你的人生藏在哪儿？
那是一个便士，一颗珍珠——
你的灵、你的魂？
我要灭了它，像灭掉一个漂亮的富家女，
打开门，下车，简简单单，
然后活在直布罗陀，吸食空气，空气。
1962年10月19日
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Shoes
Shoes
I
On the wedding day, a girl is carried from her mother’s home by the husband,
Over the threshold to the waiting sedan.
Her shoes will be changed with a new pair prepared by her in-laws
Before she steps away on the new path of life. The old shoes
Become her mother’s souvenir, and once she is gone, she is a guest to her parents.
A widow takes off her old shoes and throws them away
At the outskirt of the village by the river,
For no one will keep her broken life except for the running water.
A woman in an affair is called a broken shoe; the more men she has,
The more broken she is. Once broken, such a shoe can never be amended.
I have never been explained why a woman is so closely associated with shoes.
II
In my sophomore year, I read of Freud, excited over
The claim that a shoe is a metaphor for the vessel of sex.
The next year, I read of Plath’s “Daddy” in which the father became a shoe
For the daughter to live, and her difficulty to breathe in it shows
That it must be a boot, a metamorphosis of something that grows into the legs;
Otherwise, it could have been a punt on the river Cam.
The most powerful swear I’ve ever heard is also about a shoe,
When an almost grown-up girl threatened another, fully grown-up:
"If you get me really irritated, I’ll kick into your pussy
And take it out as a reed-woven sandal."
This may prove that anger can be a real creative power.
III
My mother used to warn me against picking up any type of footwear,
Saying that will bring extremely bad luck;
The real implication, I understand years later, is
One who picks up the shoes of a dead will be led away,
Out of his life-course or his mind.
She also warns me against stepping into another’s footprints,
For the one who did not make his own way forward would go blind early.
Even when walking on thick snow, I had to shovel with my feet
Some snow into the holes, so that I was walking on my own footsteps.
My mother’s warnings have shaped me
Into a slow walker and a careful looker on the road.
June 20, 2009
鞋子
一
正日，丈夫抱着女子越过她娘家的门槛
向那空着的轿子
进轿子前，她要脱掉鞋，换上婆家人准备的新鞋
走人生的新路，那双旧鞋成为她妈妈的留念
此去之后，她只是娘家的客人
一个寡妇再嫁时，在村头脱去鞋子，扔
在小河边，除了流水，没有人会捡起一个人破残的生活
一个通奸的女人被称为破鞋，男人越多，她就越破，
一旦破了，就再也无法修补
从没有人告诉我为何女人总与鞋子紧密联系在一起
二
大学二年级，有一天我读到弗洛伊德，兴奋地发现
鞋子是性之容器的暗喻
次年，我读到了普拉斯在《老爸》中将她父亲写成一只鞋子
她作为女儿在里面活憋气
所以我相信她要写的是一只紧裹着腿的黑色高筒皮靴
否则那将是一只平底船，戏水于剑河
我听过的最有力的咒骂也与鞋子有关
一个近乎成人的女孩威胁另一个更显成人的女孩
说：如果你把我真的惹毛了，我一脚踢进你的腿裆
把它拔出来当毛窝子穿
这也许能证明，愤怒真是一种强大的创造力
三
我母亲过去常常警告我，千万不要捡别人丢弃的鞋子
说那会给我带来极大的厄运
我后来知道了那真正的含义是，沾上死人的鞋子
就会被那个鬼引开活人之路，生怪病或者发疯
她还警告我，走路不可套着别人的脚印
那样不走自己的路就会早早瞎掉
所以甚至在大雪的路上，我每走一步
都要用脚跟向那些脚印踢进一些雪，垫高一些
如此一来，我的脚就踩在自己的脚印上
母亲的这些警示令我成为一个细心而平缓的步行者
2009年6月20日
注：毛窝子，用芦苇花编成的有沿草鞋，主要是苏北里下河一代冬日御寒的鞋类；通常，毛窝子专指平底草鞋，适用于干爽天或者室内穿着。另有一种则是编织在木屐上的，也有地方称为毛窝子，但是通称木屐或者高木屐。
I
On the wedding day, a girl is carried from her mother’s home by the husband,
Over the threshold to the waiting sedan.
Her shoes will be changed with a new pair prepared by her in-laws
Before she steps away on the new path of life. The old shoes
Become her mother’s souvenir, and once she is gone, she is a guest to her parents.
A widow takes off her old shoes and throws them away
At the outskirt of the village by the river,
For no one will keep her broken life except for the running water.
A woman in an affair is called a broken shoe; the more men she has,
The more broken she is. Once broken, such a shoe can never be amended.
I have never been explained why a woman is so closely associated with shoes.
II
In my sophomore year, I read of Freud, excited over
The claim that a shoe is a metaphor for the vessel of sex.
The next year, I read of Plath’s “Daddy” in which the father became a shoe
For the daughter to live, and her difficulty to breathe in it shows
That it must be a boot, a metamorphosis of something that grows into the legs;
Otherwise, it could have been a punt on the river Cam.
The most powerful swear I’ve ever heard is also about a shoe,
When an almost grown-up girl threatened another, fully grown-up:
"If you get me really irritated, I’ll kick into your pussy
And take it out as a reed-woven sandal."
This may prove that anger can be a real creative power.
III
My mother used to warn me against picking up any type of footwear,
Saying that will bring extremely bad luck;
The real implication, I understand years later, is
One who picks up the shoes of a dead will be led away,
Out of his life-course or his mind.
She also warns me against stepping into another’s footprints,
For the one who did not make his own way forward would go blind early.
Even when walking on thick snow, I had to shovel with my feet
Some snow into the holes, so that I was walking on my own footsteps.
My mother’s warnings have shaped me
Into a slow walker and a careful looker on the road.
June 20, 2009
鞋子
一
正日，丈夫抱着女子越过她娘家的门槛
向那空着的轿子
进轿子前，她要脱掉鞋，换上婆家人准备的新鞋
走人生的新路，那双旧鞋成为她妈妈的留念
此去之后，她只是娘家的客人
一个寡妇再嫁时，在村头脱去鞋子，扔
在小河边，除了流水，没有人会捡起一个人破残的生活
一个通奸的女人被称为破鞋，男人越多，她就越破，
一旦破了，就再也无法修补
从没有人告诉我为何女人总与鞋子紧密联系在一起
二
大学二年级，有一天我读到弗洛伊德，兴奋地发现
鞋子是性之容器的暗喻
次年，我读到了普拉斯在《老爸》中将她父亲写成一只鞋子
她作为女儿在里面活憋气
所以我相信她要写的是一只紧裹着腿的黑色高筒皮靴
否则那将是一只平底船，戏水于剑河
我听过的最有力的咒骂也与鞋子有关
一个近乎成人的女孩威胁另一个更显成人的女孩
说：如果你把我真的惹毛了，我一脚踢进你的腿裆
把它拔出来当毛窝子穿
这也许能证明，愤怒真是一种强大的创造力
三
我母亲过去常常警告我，千万不要捡别人丢弃的鞋子
说那会给我带来极大的厄运
我后来知道了那真正的含义是，沾上死人的鞋子
就会被那个鬼引开活人之路，生怪病或者发疯
她还警告我，走路不可套着别人的脚印
那样不走自己的路就会早早瞎掉
所以甚至在大雪的路上，我每走一步
都要用脚跟向那些脚印踢进一些雪，垫高一些
如此一来，我的脚就踩在自己的脚印上
母亲的这些警示令我成为一个细心而平缓的步行者
2009年6月20日
注：毛窝子，用芦苇花编成的有沿草鞋，主要是苏北里下河一代冬日御寒的鞋类；通常，毛窝子专指平底草鞋，适用于干爽天或者室内穿着。另有一种则是编织在木屐上的，也有地方称为毛窝子，但是通称木屐或者高木屐。
Plath: Fever 103°
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 188
Fever 103°
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern------
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise------
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)------
To Paradise.
20 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第188首
高烧103°
纯洁？意味什么？
地狱之舌
钝滞，钝滞如钝滞肥硕的
地狱犬塞勃鲁的三重舌，
它守在那门前抽喘。无力
舔净
打摆子的肌腱，罪孽啊，罪孽。
火绒干嚎。
捻灭的蜡烛
散不尽的味道！
爱啊，爱，低走的烟绕起我，
就像伊莎朵拉的围巾，我陷入恐惧，
怕其中一条会缠进车轮、缠死。
如此阴沉的黄烟
制造它们自己的元素。不会升腾，
而是绕着地球滚涌，
呛死衰老的、恭顺的，
将虚弱的
保温箱婴儿呛死在摇篮，
惨白的兰花
在空中悬挂它的悬空花园，
恶魔似的金钱豹！
辐射令它变白，
一个钟头内把它杀掉。
在奸夫淫妇身上涂油，
如广岛的灰烬，并且啃噬。
罪孽啊。罪孽。
亲爱的，整夜里
我一直明灭不定，关，开，关，开。
床单越发沉重犹如色鬼的亲嘴。
整整三天。整整三夜。
柠檬水，鸡肉
汁，汁水令我作呕。
我太纯洁，你不配，谁都不配。
你的身体
伤害我，正如这世界伤害上帝。我是一只灯笼——
头，是用日本纸
做的月亮，皮，是锤薄的金，
精细无比、昂贵无比。
难道我的热度不令你骇怕。还有我的光。
我是一朵巨大的山茶，自在自为，
熠熠生辉，闪烁明灭，红潮迭起。
我想我正离地而去，
我想我会飞升——
炽热的金属珠链飞起，而我，爱啊，我
是纯乙炔的
处女，
被玫瑰守护、
被亲吻、小天使、
以及这些粉色事物意指的一切。
但不是你，不是他，
不是他，也不是他，
（我重重自我在消融，妓女的旧衬裙）——
升向天堂。
1962年10月20日
No. 188
Fever 103°
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern------
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise------
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)------
To Paradise.
20 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第188首
高烧103°
纯洁？意味什么？
地狱之舌
钝滞，钝滞如钝滞肥硕的
地狱犬塞勃鲁的三重舌，
它守在那门前抽喘。无力
舔净
打摆子的肌腱，罪孽啊，罪孽。
火绒干嚎。
捻灭的蜡烛
散不尽的味道！
爱啊，爱，低走的烟绕起我，
就像伊莎朵拉的围巾，我陷入恐惧，
怕其中一条会缠进车轮、缠死。
如此阴沉的黄烟
制造它们自己的元素。不会升腾，
而是绕着地球滚涌，
呛死衰老的、恭顺的，
将虚弱的
保温箱婴儿呛死在摇篮，
惨白的兰花
在空中悬挂它的悬空花园，
恶魔似的金钱豹！
辐射令它变白，
一个钟头内把它杀掉。
在奸夫淫妇身上涂油，
如广岛的灰烬，并且啃噬。
罪孽啊。罪孽。
亲爱的，整夜里
我一直明灭不定，关，开，关，开。
床单越发沉重犹如色鬼的亲嘴。
整整三天。整整三夜。
柠檬水，鸡肉
汁，汁水令我作呕。
我太纯洁，你不配，谁都不配。
你的身体
伤害我，正如这世界伤害上帝。我是一只灯笼——
头，是用日本纸
做的月亮，皮，是锤薄的金，
精细无比、昂贵无比。
难道我的热度不令你骇怕。还有我的光。
我是一朵巨大的山茶，自在自为，
熠熠生辉，闪烁明灭，红潮迭起。
我想我正离地而去，
我想我会飞升——
炽热的金属珠链飞起，而我，爱啊，我
是纯乙炔的
处女，
被玫瑰守护、
被亲吻、小天使、
以及这些粉色事物意指的一切。
但不是你，不是他，
不是他，也不是他，
（我重重自我在消融，妓女的旧衬裙）——
升向天堂。
1962年10月20日
Plath: Amnesiac
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 189
Amnesiac
No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,
The little toy wife---
Erased, sigh, sigh.
Four babies and a cocker!
Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor
Tuck him in.
Old happenings
Peel from his skin.
Down the drain with all of it!
Hugging his pillow
Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,
He dreams of a new one---
Barren, the lot are barren!
And of another color.
How they'll travel, travel, travel, scenery
Sparking off their brother-sister rears
A comet tail!
And money the sperm fluid of it all.
One nurse brings in
A green drink, one a blue.
They rise on either side of him like stars.
The two drinks flame and foam.
O sister, mother, wife,
Sweet Lethe is my life.
I am never, never, never coming home!
21 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第189首
遗忘症患
没用，没用，现在，乞求“认出来！”
对如此美丽的空白，除了抹顺它，别无它法。
名字、房子、车钥匙，
那小巧的玩具老婆——
抹掉了，叹息，叹息。
四个婴孩和一只长耳猎犬！
蠕虫大小的护士和一名细微的医生
把他塞进褶缝。
陈旧的事
从他皮肤上剥落。
沿着排水管一泻无余！
他抱着枕头
就像那是他从不敢碰的红头姐姐，
他梦到了一个新人——
不育，整个一帮都不育！
而且是另一种颜色。
看她们那样穿行、穿行、穿行，风景
火花在他们的姐弟屁股后闪放
一条彗星尾巴！
金钱精液流兑换了一切。
一名护士带来
一份绿色的饮料，一份蓝色。
它们在他两边如星星升起。
两份饮料冒热焰，冒泡沫。
哦，姐姐，母亲，爱妻，
甜美的忘川是我的生活。
我永远、永远、永远也不回家！
1962年10月21日
No. 189
Amnesiac
No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,
The little toy wife---
Erased, sigh, sigh.
Four babies and a cocker!
Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor
Tuck him in.
Old happenings
Peel from his skin.
Down the drain with all of it!
Hugging his pillow
Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,
He dreams of a new one---
Barren, the lot are barren!
And of another color.
How they'll travel, travel, travel, scenery
Sparking off their brother-sister rears
A comet tail!
And money the sperm fluid of it all.
One nurse brings in
A green drink, one a blue.
They rise on either side of him like stars.
The two drinks flame and foam.
O sister, mother, wife,
Sweet Lethe is my life.
I am never, never, never coming home!
21 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第189首
遗忘症患
没用，没用，现在，乞求“认出来！”
对如此美丽的空白，除了抹顺它，别无它法。
名字、房子、车钥匙，
那小巧的玩具老婆——
抹掉了，叹息，叹息。
四个婴孩和一只长耳猎犬！
蠕虫大小的护士和一名细微的医生
把他塞进褶缝。
陈旧的事
从他皮肤上剥落。
沿着排水管一泻无余！
他抱着枕头
就像那是他从不敢碰的红头姐姐，
他梦到了一个新人——
不育，整个一帮都不育！
而且是另一种颜色。
看她们那样穿行、穿行、穿行，风景
火花在他们的姐弟屁股后闪放
一条彗星尾巴！
金钱精液流兑换了一切。
一名护士带来
一份绿色的饮料，一份蓝色。
它们在他两边如星星升起。
两份饮料冒热焰，冒泡沫。
哦，姐姐，母亲，爱妻，
甜美的忘川是我的生活。
我永远、永远、永远也不回家！
1962年10月21日
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Plath: Lyonnesse
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 190
Lyonnesse
No use whistling for Lyonnesse!
Sea-cold, sea-cold it certainly is.
Take a look at the white, high berg on his forehead---
There's where it sunk.
The blue, green,
Gray, indeterminate gilt
Sea of his eyes washing over it
And a round bubble
Popping upward from the mouths of bells
People and cows.
The Lyonians had always thought
Heaven would be something else,
But with the same faces,
The same places ...
It was not a shock---
The clear, green, quite breathable atmosphere,
Cold grits underfoot,
And the spidery water-dazzle on field and street.
It never occurred that they had been forgot,
That the big God
Had lazily closed one eye and let them slip
Over the English cliff and under so much history!
They did not see him smile,
Turn, like an animal,
In his cage of ether, his cage of stars.
He'd had so many wars!
The white gape of his mind was the real Tabula Rasa.
21 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第190首
里昂尼斯
怎么吹哨也唤不起里昂尼斯！
它真的只是一汪海水，冷，冷。
看一眼他额头矗立的白色冰山——
那是它沉陷的地方。
幽蓝、碧绿、
灰暗、不定的镀金
海水在他眼中，漫过它，
一只圆形的泡
从钟的口中啪地升起，
人、奶牛。
里昂尼斯人一直以为
天堂是另一种东西，
不过有着相同的面目、
相同的地方……
不会令人震惊——
那清澈、碧绿、沁人肺腑的大气，
脚下凉凉的砂砾，
田野和街道上蛛网般闪光的水。
从没人想到这一切会被遗忘，
那个大神
竟会懒洋洋地闭起一只眼睛，任由它们
从英格兰的悬崖滑落，进入久远历史之下！
他们不曾见过他微笑、转身，
像一只动物
在它以太的笼子、星辰的笼子。
他已参与了那么多战事！
脑子的白色哈欠可谓是真正的心灵白板。
1962年10月21日
No. 190
Lyonnesse
No use whistling for Lyonnesse!
Sea-cold, sea-cold it certainly is.
Take a look at the white, high berg on his forehead---
There's where it sunk.
The blue, green,
Gray, indeterminate gilt
Sea of his eyes washing over it
And a round bubble
Popping upward from the mouths of bells
People and cows.
The Lyonians had always thought
Heaven would be something else,
But with the same faces,
The same places ...
It was not a shock---
The clear, green, quite breathable atmosphere,
Cold grits underfoot,
And the spidery water-dazzle on field and street.
It never occurred that they had been forgot,
That the big God
Had lazily closed one eye and let them slip
Over the English cliff and under so much history!
They did not see him smile,
Turn, like an animal,
In his cage of ether, his cage of stars.
He'd had so many wars!
The white gape of his mind was the real Tabula Rasa.
21 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第190首
里昂尼斯
怎么吹哨也唤不起里昂尼斯！
它真的只是一汪海水，冷，冷。
看一眼他额头矗立的白色冰山——
那是它沉陷的地方。
幽蓝、碧绿、
灰暗、不定的镀金
海水在他眼中，漫过它，
一只圆形的泡
从钟的口中啪地升起，
人、奶牛。
里昂尼斯人一直以为
天堂是另一种东西，
不过有着相同的面目、
相同的地方……
不会令人震惊——
那清澈、碧绿、沁人肺腑的大气，
脚下凉凉的砂砾，
田野和街道上蛛网般闪光的水。
从没人想到这一切会被遗忘，
那个大神
竟会懒洋洋地闭起一只眼睛，任由它们
从英格兰的悬崖滑落，进入久远历史之下！
他们不曾见过他微笑、转身，
像一只动物
在它以太的笼子、星辰的笼子。
他已参与了那么多战事！
脑子的白色哈欠可谓是真正的心灵白板。
1962年10月21日
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Fan Jinghua: And the ship kept going...
And the ship kept going…
To Hart Crane
The goblet, half-emptied with wine and salty wind, was left on the rail by a lifesaver,
marking where you fell over like a sword, and the ship kept going…
You waved a stop hand to the monolithic white building, gone and determined
as an irretrievable wreck, but the roles you’d stopped acting are still onstage,
your haunting lines sparkling a repertoire of players;
Now in a tipsy-topsy penthouse on a distant sea bed, you dance
with your grandma and all the women acquaintances,
to the gentle blue sound against the small sky roof that wakes no human voices.
June 18, 2009
Note: I am reminded by George's posting in his blog and write this poem. Crane has been one of my favorite poets.
而船继续航行……
致哈特- 克莱恩
那酒杯，半空，装着酒与咸涩的风，留在船舷上，救生圈旁，
标注你翻身坠落之处，如一把剑，而船继续航行……
对庞大的舷上建筑挥了挥空手，你去了，就决然而去，再不会被人寻回的沉船，
而你不再扮演的角色仍在台上，台词的阴魂刺激着一批又一批倡优的灵感；
在海床上摇摇欲坠的亭子间里，你拉着你外婆和所有相识的女眷
跳舞，小小的天窗上蓝色的细声醉人，那绝非人类所能制造。
2009年6月18日
To Hart Crane
The goblet, half-emptied with wine and salty wind, was left on the rail by a lifesaver,
marking where you fell over like a sword, and the ship kept going…
You waved a stop hand to the monolithic white building, gone and determined
as an irretrievable wreck, but the roles you’d stopped acting are still onstage,
your haunting lines sparkling a repertoire of players;
Now in a tipsy-topsy penthouse on a distant sea bed, you dance
with your grandma and all the women acquaintances,
to the gentle blue sound against the small sky roof that wakes no human voices.
June 18, 2009
Note: I am reminded by George's posting in his blog and write this poem. Crane has been one of my favorite poets.
而船继续航行……
致哈特- 克莱恩
那酒杯，半空，装着酒与咸涩的风，留在船舷上，救生圈旁，
标注你翻身坠落之处，如一把剑，而船继续航行……
对庞大的舷上建筑挥了挥空手，你去了，就决然而去，再不会被人寻回的沉船，
而你不再扮演的角色仍在台上，台词的阴魂刺激着一批又一批倡优的灵感；
在海床上摇摇欲坠的亭子间里，你拉着你外婆和所有相识的女眷
跳舞，小小的天窗上蓝色的细声醉人，那绝非人类所能制造。
2009年6月18日
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Fan Jinghua: When The Great Dam Was Built
When The Great Dam Was Built
What can be sieved through the coarse beach of time has never flowed,
And we've ventured there repeatedly, felt the wet with our body, but cannot draw up a drop of it.
On the banks, countless stiff necks are collectively lubricated, turning the entire world askew.
When the liquid overflows, our desire is curbed,
For our arms are locked behind, lips sutured, and we can only stamp, watching the sky.
June 16, 2006
万里长坝初筑时
会被时间沙滩筛漏掉的，就从未流淌过，
我们一次一次前去，体会那潮湿，却无法汲取一滴。
岸边，无数僵硬的颈子被集体加注润滑油，拧着整个世界。
而当液体漫溢，我们的欲望只能收敛；
我们的手臂被反扣，双唇缝合，我们惟有跺脚，望天。
2009年6月16日
What can be sieved through the coarse beach of time has never flowed,
And we've ventured there repeatedly, felt the wet with our body, but cannot draw up a drop of it.
On the banks, countless stiff necks are collectively lubricated, turning the entire world askew.
When the liquid overflows, our desire is curbed,
For our arms are locked behind, lips sutured, and we can only stamp, watching the sky.
June 16, 2006
万里长坝初筑时
会被时间沙滩筛漏掉的，就从未流淌过，
我们一次一次前去，体会那潮湿，却无法汲取一滴。
岸边，无数僵硬的颈子被集体加注润滑油，拧着整个世界。
而当液体漫溢，我们的欲望只能收敛；
我们的手臂被反扣，双唇缝合，我们惟有跺脚，望天。
2009年6月16日
Monday, June 15, 2009
Plath: Cut
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 191
Cut
For Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill-----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.
A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump----
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.
24 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第191首
割伤
致苏珊 ٠ 奥尼尔 ٠ 柔伊
真令人心惊——
拇指代替了洋葱。
顶端几乎掉了，
除了铰链似的
一点皮，
像帽子一样翻起，
死白的。
接着是红色的长毛绒。
小小的朝圣者，
印第安人已削了你的头皮。
你火鸡肉垂的
地毯
从心中直接卷起。
我踏在上面，
抓紧了这瓶粉红的
泡沫饮料。
这真是，一场庆典。
从一道缝隙间
跑出百万名士兵，
红装英国兵，每个都是。
你支持哪一边？
哦，我的
小矮人，我病了。
我已服下一颗药，清除
那淡淡的
薄纸般的感觉。
破坏者，
神风敢死队——
血渍沾在你的
三K党纱布上，
俄罗斯头巾上，
变黑，暗淡，而当你那
卷成球形的
心泵
抵着它沉默的
小水车时，
你腾跃而起——
受陷的老兵，
肮脏的女孩，
拇指树桩。
1962年10月24日
No. 191
Cut
For Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill-----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.
A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump----
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.
24 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第191首
割伤
致苏珊 ٠ 奥尼尔 ٠ 柔伊
真令人心惊——
拇指代替了洋葱。
顶端几乎掉了，
除了铰链似的
一点皮，
像帽子一样翻起，
死白的。
接着是红色的长毛绒。
小小的朝圣者，
印第安人已削了你的头皮。
你火鸡肉垂的
地毯
从心中直接卷起。
我踏在上面，
抓紧了这瓶粉红的
泡沫饮料。
这真是，一场庆典。
从一道缝隙间
跑出百万名士兵，
红装英国兵，每个都是。
你支持哪一边？
哦，我的
小矮人，我病了。
我已服下一颗药，清除
那淡淡的
薄纸般的感觉。
破坏者，
神风敢死队——
血渍沾在你的
三K党纱布上，
俄罗斯头巾上，
变黑，暗淡，而当你那
卷成球形的
心泵
抵着它沉默的
小水车时，
你腾跃而起——
受陷的老兵，
肮脏的女孩，
拇指树桩。
1962年10月24日
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Two Butterflies’ Flight through a Concrete Aqueduct Pipe
Two Butterflies’ Flight from a Rapeseed Field into a Concrete Aqueduct Pipe
by Fan Jinghua
When flying, the two butterflies begin to forget about all their initial schemes
Caterpillars are waiting at the other end of the concrete pipe for their arrival
From the darkness of non-depth, they put tiny compound eyes on their foreheads
Their wings on the buoyancy of time, the quicksilver of pulses measuring the breadth
In the narrow pipe, the only reliable is
The thickening horror and round exit lurking like the morning star
Echoes, belong to them alone, and spur them on
The by-product of wing-fluttering burdens them with the polar storm of El Niño
They took this route to escape from the eyed scars and tongueless wails of aspens
But they also leave behind the rapeseed flowers, dandelions and the season of folk airs
They drop fluorescent powder from the wings on their trail, for an impossible return
It crystallizes on the bed into pearls and on the sky into diamonds
In the dark water of nothing, one butterfly feels the wavelets of the other’s wingbeats
They are like two white fish, uttering dark bubbles
Silent breaths speak out: separation conceives by itself a new way of perception
Our selves are interchangeable, so we know each of us knows each other…
Caterpillars follow the dimly-lit broken road to their once home
Where they find a patch of spongy dirt, and the butterflies are already perfected
Perfection has no history, no memory, like cocoons falling onto the ground with twigs
This is the final joining, after which the earth begins its inner fermentation
June 10, 2009
蝴蝶从油菜地飞进水泥管渡槽的完美旅程
飞出的过程中，那两只蝴蝶终于忘却一切预设
毛毛虫缩着头在管子的另一端，等着它们迎光而来
来自没有深浅的阴暗，它们将小小的复眼顶在额头
翅膀，体验着时间的浮力，脉搏的水银柱，测量着翩跹的幅度
狭窄的管道中，惟一可信的
是浓密的恐慌和圆圆的出口，犹如那颗启明星
回响，只属于它们，也将它们催赶
这是翅膀震动的副产品，也令它们背负着极地的异常风暴而不知
认准这个方向，就能躲避白杨长着眼珠的疤痕和没有舌头的恸哭
而它们也将油菜、蒲公英和哼小调的季节抛在身后
为了不可能的归途，它们沿途丢下荧光粉
落在床上是珍珠，飘到天上是钻石
这虚幻的黑水中，一只蝴蝶感到另一只游过的波动，习习的
像两条白鱼，它们扇出黑色的气泡
沉默的气息，说：相隔，单体孕育另一种感知方式
我们互为自己，所以知己，感到彼此感到彼此感到彼此……
沿着那条微光之路，毛毛虫回到曾经的家
一片松软的土壤，而蝴蝶已经完美
完美，没有历史、没有记忆，如茧囊随秃枝掉到地上
最后的融入，之后是大地的微动
2009年6月10日
by Fan Jinghua
When flying, the two butterflies begin to forget about all their initial schemes
Caterpillars are waiting at the other end of the concrete pipe for their arrival
From the darkness of non-depth, they put tiny compound eyes on their foreheads
Their wings on the buoyancy of time, the quicksilver of pulses measuring the breadth
In the narrow pipe, the only reliable is
The thickening horror and round exit lurking like the morning star
Echoes, belong to them alone, and spur them on
The by-product of wing-fluttering burdens them with the polar storm of El Niño
They took this route to escape from the eyed scars and tongueless wails of aspens
But they also leave behind the rapeseed flowers, dandelions and the season of folk airs
They drop fluorescent powder from the wings on their trail, for an impossible return
It crystallizes on the bed into pearls and on the sky into diamonds
In the dark water of nothing, one butterfly feels the wavelets of the other’s wingbeats
They are like two white fish, uttering dark bubbles
Silent breaths speak out: separation conceives by itself a new way of perception
Our selves are interchangeable, so we know each of us knows each other…
Caterpillars follow the dimly-lit broken road to their once home
Where they find a patch of spongy dirt, and the butterflies are already perfected
Perfection has no history, no memory, like cocoons falling onto the ground with twigs
This is the final joining, after which the earth begins its inner fermentation
June 10, 2009
蝴蝶从油菜地飞进水泥管渡槽的完美旅程
飞出的过程中，那两只蝴蝶终于忘却一切预设
毛毛虫缩着头在管子的另一端，等着它们迎光而来
来自没有深浅的阴暗，它们将小小的复眼顶在额头
翅膀，体验着时间的浮力，脉搏的水银柱，测量着翩跹的幅度
狭窄的管道中，惟一可信的
是浓密的恐慌和圆圆的出口，犹如那颗启明星
回响，只属于它们，也将它们催赶
这是翅膀震动的副产品，也令它们背负着极地的异常风暴而不知
认准这个方向，就能躲避白杨长着眼珠的疤痕和没有舌头的恸哭
而它们也将油菜、蒲公英和哼小调的季节抛在身后
为了不可能的归途，它们沿途丢下荧光粉
落在床上是珍珠，飘到天上是钻石
这虚幻的黑水中，一只蝴蝶感到另一只游过的波动，习习的
像两条白鱼，它们扇出黑色的气泡
沉默的气息，说：相隔，单体孕育另一种感知方式
我们互为自己，所以知己，感到彼此感到彼此感到彼此……
沿着那条微光之路，毛毛虫回到曾经的家
一片松软的土壤，而蝴蝶已经完美
完美，没有历史、没有记忆，如茧囊随秃枝掉到地上
最后的融入，之后是大地的微动
2009年6月10日
DU Mu: Driving Through the Mountains
Driving through the Mountains
DU Mu (803-852 Tang Dynasty)
A steep path winds up into the cold rocky mountains,
There, buried deep in the clouds are people’s homes.
I stop my carriage to enjoy the maple woods gilded at dusk,
And flusher than the March flowers are these frosted leaves.
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注释
山mountain 行tour
杜牧(803-852)
远far 上up 寒cold 山mountain 石stone 径path 斜slant
白white 云cloud 深deep 处place 有there is 人human 家home
停stop 车cart 坐because 爱love 枫maple 林woods 晚night, dusk
霜frost 叶leave 红red 于more 二second 月month 花flower
Chinese Original 中文原文
山行
杜牧(803-852)
远上寒山石径斜，白云深处有人家。
停车坐爱枫林晚，霜叶红于二月花。
A rewriting and back-translation 改写与回译
A View of the Autumn Mountain
A stony trail winds like a white vine,
Grows narrower and narrower among trees
And disappears into the chilly hills
Where clouds heave over the scattering of village houses.
Looking at this sloping road, bewildered at dusk,
I stop my cart by a terrace, alone with my pony,
And find the maple leaves gilded by the afterglow
Appear flusher and fleshier than the early spring flowers.
秋日山景
一条石头小径如一根白藤
蜿蜒，进入树林，越来越窄，
直至消失在寒气逼人的山中。
那儿，云朵在散落的村舍上方涌动。
看着眼前的下坡路，一时茫然，
我索性停车，独自与马儿
站在这平台上，看枫叶披着晚霞，
比早春的花儿更加红艳丰腴。
DU Mu (803-852 Tang Dynasty)
A steep path winds up into the cold rocky mountains,
There, buried deep in the clouds are people’s homes.
I stop my carriage to enjoy the maple woods gilded at dusk,
And flusher than the March flowers are these frosted leaves.
Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注释
山mountain 行tour
杜牧(803-852)
远far 上up 寒cold 山mountain 石stone 径path 斜slant
白white 云cloud 深deep 处place 有there is 人human 家home
停stop 车cart 坐because 爱love 枫maple 林woods 晚night, dusk
霜frost 叶leave 红red 于more 二second 月month 花flower
Chinese Original 中文原文
山行
杜牧(803-852)
远上寒山石径斜，白云深处有人家。
停车坐爱枫林晚，霜叶红于二月花。
A rewriting and back-translation 改写与回译
A View of the Autumn Mountain
A stony trail winds like a white vine,
Grows narrower and narrower among trees
And disappears into the chilly hills
Where clouds heave over the scattering of village houses.
Looking at this sloping road, bewildered at dusk,
I stop my cart by a terrace, alone with my pony,
And find the maple leaves gilded by the afterglow
Appear flusher and fleshier than the early spring flowers.
秋日山景
一条石头小径如一根白藤
蜿蜒，进入树林，越来越窄，
直至消失在寒气逼人的山中。
那儿，云朵在散落的村舍上方涌动。
看着眼前的下坡路，一时茫然，
我索性停车，独自与马儿
站在这平台上，看枫叶披着晚霞，
比早春的花儿更加红艳丰腴。
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Plath: By Candlelight
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 192
By Candlelight
This is winter, this is night, small love--
A sort of black horsehair,
A rough, dumb country stuff
Steeled with the sheen
Of what green stars can make it to our gate.
I hold you on my arm.
It is very late.
The dull bells tongue the hour.
The mirror floats us at one candle power.
This is the fluid in which we meet each other,
This haloey radiance that seems to breathe
And lets our shadows wither
Only to blow
Them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
One match scratch makes you real.
At first the candle will not bloom at all--
It snuffs its bud
To almost nothing, to a dull blue dud.
I hold my breath until you creak to life,
Balled hedgehog,
Small and cross. The yellow knife
Grows tall. You clutch your bars.
My singing makes you roar.
I rock you like a boat
Across the Indian carpet, the cold floor,
While the brass man
Kneels, back bent, as best he can
Hefting his white pillar with the light
That keeps the sky at bay,
The sack of black! It is everywhere, tight, tight!
He is yours, the little brassy Atlas--
Poor heirloom, all you have,
At his heels a pile of five brass cannonballs,
No child, no wife.
Five balls! Five bright brass balls!
To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.
24 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第192首
烛光下
这是冬季。夜晚。微弱的爱——
一种黑色的马毛，
一种粗糙、无语的乡下土产
镀上钢的闪光，
这光被绿星星折射到我们的大门。
我，一只手臂兜着你。
夜很深了。
暗淡的钟声运舌报时。
镜子仅凭一支烛光之力便将我们浮起。
我们就在它的液体中相遇，
这光晕的辉映似在呼吸，
令我们的影子枯萎，
结果却一送气
将它们再次吹大，暴怒的巨人映在墙上。
火柴一擦就令你真实。
一开始，蜡烛拒不开花——
它吸气，蓓蕾
几近于无，化为黯淡的蓝色哑弹。
我屏息，直到你嘶嘶地冒出生气，
蜷成球的豪猪，
小，乖戾。黄色小刀
逐渐长高。你紧抓床栏杆。
我的哼唱引你呼叫。
我把你当作小船轻摇，
穿过印地安地毯、冰凉的地板，
而那小铜人跪着，
弯着脊背，竭尽全力
扛起他白色的柱子，以灯光
将天空逼到一边。
一大袋的漆黑！无处不在，收紧，收紧！
他属于你了，这小小的铜质擎天神——
寒碜的传家宝，你拥有的一切，
在他脚下，五只铜炮弹摞成一堆，
无子，无妻。
五只球而已！五只亮锃锃的铜球！
拿来玩耍，我心爱的，在天塌下来时。
1962年10月24日
No. 192
By Candlelight
This is winter, this is night, small love--
A sort of black horsehair,
A rough, dumb country stuff
Steeled with the sheen
Of what green stars can make it to our gate.
I hold you on my arm.
It is very late.
The dull bells tongue the hour.
The mirror floats us at one candle power.
This is the fluid in which we meet each other,
This haloey radiance that seems to breathe
And lets our shadows wither
Only to blow
Them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
One match scratch makes you real.
At first the candle will not bloom at all--
It snuffs its bud
To almost nothing, to a dull blue dud.
I hold my breath until you creak to life,
Balled hedgehog,
Small and cross. The yellow knife
Grows tall. You clutch your bars.
My singing makes you roar.
I rock you like a boat
Across the Indian carpet, the cold floor,
While the brass man
Kneels, back bent, as best he can
Hefting his white pillar with the light
That keeps the sky at bay,
The sack of black! It is everywhere, tight, tight!
He is yours, the little brassy Atlas--
Poor heirloom, all you have,
At his heels a pile of five brass cannonballs,
No child, no wife.
Five balls! Five bright brass balls!
To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.
24 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第192首
烛光下
这是冬季。夜晚。微弱的爱——
一种黑色的马毛，
一种粗糙、无语的乡下土产
镀上钢的闪光，
这光被绿星星折射到我们的大门。
我，一只手臂兜着你。
夜很深了。
暗淡的钟声运舌报时。
镜子仅凭一支烛光之力便将我们浮起。
我们就在它的液体中相遇，
这光晕的辉映似在呼吸，
令我们的影子枯萎，
结果却一送气
将它们再次吹大，暴怒的巨人映在墙上。
火柴一擦就令你真实。
一开始，蜡烛拒不开花——
它吸气，蓓蕾
几近于无，化为黯淡的蓝色哑弹。
我屏息，直到你嘶嘶地冒出生气，
蜷成球的豪猪，
小，乖戾。黄色小刀
逐渐长高。你紧抓床栏杆。
我的哼唱引你呼叫。
我把你当作小船轻摇，
穿过印地安地毯、冰凉的地板，
而那小铜人跪着，
弯着脊背，竭尽全力
扛起他白色的柱子，以灯光
将天空逼到一边。
一大袋的漆黑！无处不在，收紧，收紧！
他属于你了，这小小的铜质擎天神——
寒碜的传家宝，你拥有的一切，
在他脚下，五只铜炮弹摞成一堆，
无子，无妻。
五只球而已！五只亮锃锃的铜球！
拿来玩耍，我心爱的，在天塌下来时。
1962年10月24日
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Ling Xi: Morning Song
Morning Song
Ling Xi
Bell sounds, snuggling by a sopping body, fall into sleep
Flat peach trees count the babies of spring
That are arranging themselves between tomorrow and bird nests
Chinaberries raise a season of pale purple heads, by broad roads
Under a white magnolia a dog lips its toes, lazily
I find among tender green leaves
A face, so clear
It’s a newly-shed cicada giving its first song
晨歌
凌曦
Ling Xi
Bell sounds, snuggling by a sopping body, fall into sleep
Flat peach trees count the babies of spring
That are arranging themselves between tomorrow and bird nests
Chinaberries raise a season of pale purple heads, by broad roads
Under a white magnolia a dog lips its toes, lazily
I find among tender green leaves
A face, so clear
It’s a newly-shed cicada giving its first song
晨歌
凌曦
钟声，紧挨湿淋淋的身体沉睡
扁桃树，细数春天的婴儿
排列，明天与鸟巢之间
苦楝树捧出一季浅紫色花朵，道路广阔
玉兰树底，一只小狗懒懒舔着脚趾头
我从青嫩的叶片中
找出一张脸，清晰
知了刚刚蜕壳，发出最初的鸣唱
About the author
I believe this author has never been known or read by anyone. The author is a woman of nearly forty years old from a minority nationality of Dong village in Guangxi in the Southwest China. She had finished high school education before doing various odd jobs in the nearby towns and cities. Due to lack of relevant skills, she did mostly hard manual work besides waitressing. Only for the recent four years when she finds a relatively secured job in a small pesticide factory can she find time writing poems. Apparently, she can find no one to talk about poetry with, and no one around her could understand her words. Looking back at her hardship, she has nothing to complain; instead, she finds it a blessing that she could finally write, without any interference. She is very shy of talking about poetry with me, insisting that she only wanted to keep a journal-like stuff. I can understand her, and my interpretation of the following poem in Chinese was meant to be a way of analyzing, for her sake, so that she could find what is strong in the poem.
She has been following my blog for a while, and then finds in my blog the number of my Messenger. So she approaches me, asking to be listed as a friend. It was already well past mid-night, when I accepted her request. My usual practice is to allow others to be listed by asking a what-you-are question. Usually, I will get an answer of “a stranger who likes your writing,” which I interpret as “I’d rather be anonymous.” However, as my info is there on the blog, therefore I usually think that others should at least give a basic self-introduction before I could make them my friends. But, this does not usually happen. Therefore, after a couple of weeks of non-communication, they will be deleted from my contact list. When I asked her this question, assuming that she had already been off-line, she replied. It turned out that she had just returned from her night shift. So we talked for a while, and I found her quite outgoing and sincere. Perhaps because there are only a few years between us, we carried on talking, quite at ease.
A few days later, she showed me a couple of poems. I found her a natural poet or a born poet, although I could find some cliche or clumsily phrased lines. This poem I find especially good.
这首诗是作者一首叫做《凌晨的幸福》中的第二首，由于其第一首写的是凌晨三点多，而这首诗歌中的时间不明朗，或者说跳跃得比较大，因此，我无法判断这首诗到底写的是什么时间。
第一行说的是钟声与沉睡的身体，而后面的场景基本上是白天的，因此我们可以说这里的钟声可能是户外的钟声（当然也有可能是室内的）。户外有钟声，应该是早晨了，作者在这个时候醒着，或者感到钟声紧贴着身体，这种感受是一种身体的感动。感官的感，导致身体的动。这是一个人能够进入体察的关键，不是用语言的夸张或表述。身体对于外界的回应，无论多么细微，都是一种切入本质的感动。
在这样的一种身体与外物交融的状态下，诗歌中的感受者开始“看到”了外部世界的虚实之景。我说的“看到”，还是一种感受，只是借助了视觉。从第二行开始的四行，全都是视觉描述。虚实与远近错落有致。第二行中，扁桃是春天的婴儿，然而我们不知道这是扁桃在数还是那个隐匿的眼睛或者心之眼在数；数，因为要有一个顺序，因此也就是一种排列，但是巧妙的是，作者说那排列是向着未来的，也就是排列在明天和鸟巢之间。作者已经从此刻看到了未来，而这又回应了春天的婴儿这个意象，多么令人欣喜的明天。似乎是为了赞美这种美好，苦楝树献上一树的花，而且指向一条宽广的道路。起码在我的农村老家，苦楝树是和贫苦联系着的。如果说到这儿，这首诗中似乎还少点什么，那么就是生物；于是有了眼下的活生生的生命：懒懒的小狗。它恬静的，自我的，“舔着脚趾头”。
最后三行，诗歌中的我终于明确了自己观看者的身份。我在青嫩的叶片中看到了一张蜕变出来的脸，一张催发生命的雨后，新生命的诞生，知了爬到树上唱出自己的歌声。
这首诗中的我如此洒脱，心境如此净洁清新。
最后说说我对这个作者的了解。这位作者至今毫无人知，还没有人读过。我认识她是因为她看到我的博客上有QQ号码，然后加了我。我在半夜登陆的时候，答应了加入好友的请求，然后像惯常一样，问一句您是谁。以为也许会在几日之后得到一个“一个陌生人”的回答，然后就再也不会联系的了；通常，我将那样的回答读成一个暗示：“你没有必了解更多”。结果，往往是过不了一两周，就会被删除。然而，她回了话，在深夜两点多钟：原来，她是下了夜班不久。因此我们就聊了起来，这是一个天真诚挚且直率的女子。从其后的了解中得到如下一些基本信息。她是一个侗族女，十多年前从广西的一个苗族高中毕业后，就一直孤身四处漂泊打工，由于没有职业培训或相关技能，基本上都是在做体力活，大概做得比较多的是餐馆服务员，而目前在一个私人的小农药厂做工。因为在这家工厂做了三四年了，因此才有点安稳的感觉，所以终于能够偶尔写一些诗了。
从她的经历来看，她的生活中显然是很少有人谈论诗歌的，甚至连阅读的可能都很少。我看了她不少诗歌，很多都写得很不错。我自然也看出她的弱点和不足，但这首诗写得几近完美。我努力不带个人情感地评读诗歌，不会因为作者的身份而影响我对于诗歌的判断。这首诗起码从表面上看不出与作者生活场景有什么直接联系，它不是现实生活的直接反映，然而我看到的却是作者的精神和心态，也正是这一点使得这首诗具有了构成诗歌本质的东西。
2009年6月7日夜
扁桃树，细数春天的婴儿
排列，明天与鸟巢之间
苦楝树捧出一季浅紫色花朵，道路广阔
玉兰树底，一只小狗懒懒舔着脚趾头
我从青嫩的叶片中
找出一张脸，清晰
知了刚刚蜕壳，发出最初的鸣唱
About the author
I believe this author has never been known or read by anyone. The author is a woman of nearly forty years old from a minority nationality of Dong village in Guangxi in the Southwest China. She had finished high school education before doing various odd jobs in the nearby towns and cities. Due to lack of relevant skills, she did mostly hard manual work besides waitressing. Only for the recent four years when she finds a relatively secured job in a small pesticide factory can she find time writing poems. Apparently, she can find no one to talk about poetry with, and no one around her could understand her words. Looking back at her hardship, she has nothing to complain; instead, she finds it a blessing that she could finally write, without any interference. She is very shy of talking about poetry with me, insisting that she only wanted to keep a journal-like stuff. I can understand her, and my interpretation of the following poem in Chinese was meant to be a way of analyzing, for her sake, so that she could find what is strong in the poem.
She has been following my blog for a while, and then finds in my blog the number of my Messenger. So she approaches me, asking to be listed as a friend. It was already well past mid-night, when I accepted her request. My usual practice is to allow others to be listed by asking a what-you-are question. Usually, I will get an answer of “a stranger who likes your writing,” which I interpret as “I’d rather be anonymous.” However, as my info is there on the blog, therefore I usually think that others should at least give a basic self-introduction before I could make them my friends. But, this does not usually happen. Therefore, after a couple of weeks of non-communication, they will be deleted from my contact list. When I asked her this question, assuming that she had already been off-line, she replied. It turned out that she had just returned from her night shift. So we talked for a while, and I found her quite outgoing and sincere. Perhaps because there are only a few years between us, we carried on talking, quite at ease.
A few days later, she showed me a couple of poems. I found her a natural poet or a born poet, although I could find some cliche or clumsily phrased lines. This poem I find especially good.
这首诗是作者一首叫做《凌晨的幸福》中的第二首，由于其第一首写的是凌晨三点多，而这首诗歌中的时间不明朗，或者说跳跃得比较大，因此，我无法判断这首诗到底写的是什么时间。
第一行说的是钟声与沉睡的身体，而后面的场景基本上是白天的，因此我们可以说这里的钟声可能是户外的钟声（当然也有可能是室内的）。户外有钟声，应该是早晨了，作者在这个时候醒着，或者感到钟声紧贴着身体，这种感受是一种身体的感动。感官的感，导致身体的动。这是一个人能够进入体察的关键，不是用语言的夸张或表述。身体对于外界的回应，无论多么细微，都是一种切入本质的感动。
在这样的一种身体与外物交融的状态下，诗歌中的感受者开始“看到”了外部世界的虚实之景。我说的“看到”，还是一种感受，只是借助了视觉。从第二行开始的四行，全都是视觉描述。虚实与远近错落有致。第二行中，扁桃是春天的婴儿，然而我们不知道这是扁桃在数还是那个隐匿的眼睛或者心之眼在数；数，因为要有一个顺序，因此也就是一种排列，但是巧妙的是，作者说那排列是向着未来的，也就是排列在明天和鸟巢之间。作者已经从此刻看到了未来，而这又回应了春天的婴儿这个意象，多么令人欣喜的明天。似乎是为了赞美这种美好，苦楝树献上一树的花，而且指向一条宽广的道路。起码在我的农村老家，苦楝树是和贫苦联系着的。如果说到这儿，这首诗中似乎还少点什么，那么就是生物；于是有了眼下的活生生的生命：懒懒的小狗。它恬静的，自我的，“舔着脚趾头”。
最后三行，诗歌中的我终于明确了自己观看者的身份。我在青嫩的叶片中看到了一张蜕变出来的脸，一张催发生命的雨后，新生命的诞生，知了爬到树上唱出自己的歌声。
这首诗中的我如此洒脱，心境如此净洁清新。
最后说说我对这个作者的了解。这位作者至今毫无人知，还没有人读过。我认识她是因为她看到我的博客上有QQ号码，然后加了我。我在半夜登陆的时候，答应了加入好友的请求，然后像惯常一样，问一句您是谁。以为也许会在几日之后得到一个“一个陌生人”的回答，然后就再也不会联系的了；通常，我将那样的回答读成一个暗示：“你没有必了解更多”。结果，往往是过不了一两周，就会被删除。然而，她回了话，在深夜两点多钟：原来，她是下了夜班不久。因此我们就聊了起来，这是一个天真诚挚且直率的女子。从其后的了解中得到如下一些基本信息。她是一个侗族女，十多年前从广西的一个苗族高中毕业后，就一直孤身四处漂泊打工，由于没有职业培训或相关技能，基本上都是在做体力活，大概做得比较多的是餐馆服务员，而目前在一个私人的小农药厂做工。因为在这家工厂做了三四年了，因此才有点安稳的感觉，所以终于能够偶尔写一些诗了。
从她的经历来看，她的生活中显然是很少有人谈论诗歌的，甚至连阅读的可能都很少。我看了她不少诗歌，很多都写得很不错。我自然也看出她的弱点和不足，但这首诗写得几近完美。我努力不带个人情感地评读诗歌，不会因为作者的身份而影响我对于诗歌的判断。这首诗起码从表面上看不出与作者生活场景有什么直接联系，它不是现实生活的直接反映，然而我看到的却是作者的精神和心态，也正是这一点使得这首诗具有了构成诗歌本质的东西。
2009年6月7日夜
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Fan Jinghua: In A Park
In a Park
On a flaccid afternoon lawn, a pile of boredom grovels
By a black log, and a broken file of rolled-up leaves
Swaggers along, like paper money for the dead dears
Leading a wind invisible to living eyes.
Two stones moon in this barren expanse, like Aphrodite
Lying prone and half-buried, two shards from an egg.
The Greek relic, with watermarks over years.
Their jade-white solid is the only pivot of this world.
My eyes flick on and off, looking direct and askance, left and right,
Dry windshield wipers, slashing and suturing,
And the butterfly hinge of joy and guilt flutter its wings.
Toward dusk, the home-bound grow impressionistic,
And behind them, my thoughts are rising like ancient cooking smoke,
Erotic from the hearth of my heart.
June 8-9, 2009
公园印象
午后疲软的草坪，一堆厌倦趴在
一截黑色的树断旁，卷起的叶子
大摇大摆地滚过，像一串断线的纸钱
引领着活人看不见的风
两块石头隆起如爱神俯伏在这片贫瘠中，
双臀被掩埋了大半，露出蛋的瓷片
这古希腊的残留，带着岁月的水锈
那玉色的圆润坚实是这世界惟一的枢轴
我的眼睛开，关，正视，侧目，左，右
干涩的刮雨器，撕裂，缝合
喜悦与耻愧的蝴蝶铰链扑动两瓣翅膀
向晚，归家人柔和成印象派了
而在他们身后，我的色意正如古老的炊烟
渐起于心的炉膛
2009年6月8-9日
On a flaccid afternoon lawn, a pile of boredom grovels
By a black log, and a broken file of rolled-up leaves
Swaggers along, like paper money for the dead dears
Leading a wind invisible to living eyes.
Two stones moon in this barren expanse, like Aphrodite
Lying prone and half-buried, two shards from an egg.
The Greek relic, with watermarks over years.
Their jade-white solid is the only pivot of this world.
My eyes flick on and off, looking direct and askance, left and right,
Dry windshield wipers, slashing and suturing,
And the butterfly hinge of joy and guilt flutter its wings.
Toward dusk, the home-bound grow impressionistic,
And behind them, my thoughts are rising like ancient cooking smoke,
Erotic from the hearth of my heart.
June 8-9, 2009
公园印象
午后疲软的草坪，一堆厌倦趴在
一截黑色的树断旁，卷起的叶子
大摇大摆地滚过，像一串断线的纸钱
引领着活人看不见的风
两块石头隆起如爱神俯伏在这片贫瘠中，
双臀被掩埋了大半，露出蛋的瓷片
这古希腊的残留，带着岁月的水锈
那玉色的圆润坚实是这世界惟一的枢轴
我的眼睛开，关，正视，侧目，左，右
干涩的刮雨器，撕裂，缝合
喜悦与耻愧的蝴蝶铰链扑动两瓣翅膀
向晚，归家人柔和成印象派了
而在他们身后，我的色意正如古老的炊烟
渐起于心的炉膛
2009年6月8-9日
Monday, June 8, 2009
Plath: The Tour
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 193
The Tour
O maiden aunt, you have come to call.
Do step into the hall!
With your bold
Gecko, the little flick!
All cogs, weird sparkle and every cog solid gold.
And I in slippers and housedress with no lipstick!
And you want to be shown about!
Yes, yes, this is my address.
Not a patch on your place, I guess, with the Javanese
Geese and the monkey trees.
It's a bit burnt-out,
A bit of a wild machine, a bit of a mess!
O I shouldn't put my finger in that
Auntie, it might bite!
That's my frost box, no cat,
Though it looks like a cat, with its fluffy stuff, pure white.
You should see the objects it makes!
Millions of needly glass cakes!
Fine for the migraine or the bellyache. And this
Is where I kept the furnace,
Each coal a hot cross-stitch---a lovely light!
It simply exploded one night,
It went up in smoke.
And that's why I have no hair, auntie, that's why I choke
Off and on, as if I just had to retch.
Coal gas is ghastly stuff.
Here's a spot I thought you'd love---
Morning Glory Pool!
The blue's a jewel.
It boils for forty hours at a stretch.
O I shouldn't dip my hankie in, it hurts!
Last summer, my God, last summer
It ate seven maids and a plumber
And returned them steamed and pressed and stiff as shirts.
I am bitter? I'm averse?
Here's your specs, dear, here's your purse.
Toddle on home to tea now in your flat hat.
It'll be lemon tea for me,
Lemon tea and earwig biscuits---creepy-creepy.
You'd not want that.
Toddle on home, before the weather's worse.
Toddle on home, and don't trip on the nurse!---
She may be bald, she may have no eyes,
But auntie, she's awfully nice.
She's pink, she's a born midwife---
She can bring the dead to life
With her wiggly fingers and for a very small fee.
Well I hope you've enjoyed it, auntie!
Toddle on home to tea!
25 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第193首
巡视
希薇娅- 普拉斯
哦，独身姑姑，欢迎您登门！
快请到客厅！
带着你那明晃晃的
小壁虎装饰！
那些小齿轮，奇怪的闪光，一枚枚实在的金。
可我却还穿着拖鞋和休闲装，也没涂口红！
你要转转，看看我的家？
好的，好的，这是我的裙子。
我想，比不了你住处的一块补丁吧，
我的没有爪哇野鹅与猴子树。
穿得有点破旧了，
有点像破机器，乱七八糟的一堆！
哦，我不该把手指放进那里，
姑姑，它会咬人的！
那是我的霜盒子，没有猫，
不过看起来真像一只猫，毛绒绒的，纯白。
你真该看看它能制造些什么！
数百万只如针的玻璃蛋糕！
对偏头痛和腹痛很有效。而炉子
就被我藏在这里，
每块炭火都是一个十字针脚——多可爱的灯！
就那么在一个夜里爆炸。
随着烟升腾消散。
所以我才没有头发，姑姑，所以我呛了嗓子，
咳来咳去，好像刚刚呕吐。
煤烟是可怕的东西。
我一直想这才是你喜欢的一角——
牵牛花坛！
那蓝色的是宝贝啊。
它一口气能沸腾四十小时。
哦，我不该将手帕浸进去的，很疼！
去年夏天，啊，天啊，去年夏天，
它吃了七个佣人和一个管道工，
然后吐出来，就像蒸汽、熨烫、浆过的衬衫。
我刻薄？总和别人过不去？
这是你的眼镜，亲爱的，这是你的手袋。
您遛回家喝茶去吧，戴上您的宽边帽。
给我柠檬茶就好，
柠檬茶配蠼螋型饼干——咕叽咕叽像虫爬。
你不会要的。
您遛回家去吧，天气越来越糟了。
您遛回家去吧，可不要踩着保姆！——
虽说她是秃头，虽说她没有眼睛，
但是，姑姑，她真是个好人。
脸色粉红，天生就是一个接生婆——
她能把死亡还原为生命，
仅凭那颤抖的手指，而且收费极低。
嗯，但愿这一趟你很愉快，姑姑！
您遛回家喝茶去吧。
1962年10月25日
No. 193
The Tour
O maiden aunt, you have come to call.
Do step into the hall!
With your bold
Gecko, the little flick!
All cogs, weird sparkle and every cog solid gold.
And I in slippers and housedress with no lipstick!
And you want to be shown about!
Yes, yes, this is my address.
Not a patch on your place, I guess, with the Javanese
Geese and the monkey trees.
It's a bit burnt-out,
A bit of a wild machine, a bit of a mess!
O I shouldn't put my finger in that
Auntie, it might bite!
That's my frost box, no cat,
Though it looks like a cat, with its fluffy stuff, pure white.
You should see the objects it makes!
Millions of needly glass cakes!
Fine for the migraine or the bellyache. And this
Is where I kept the furnace,
Each coal a hot cross-stitch---a lovely light!
It simply exploded one night,
It went up in smoke.
And that's why I have no hair, auntie, that's why I choke
Off and on, as if I just had to retch.
Coal gas is ghastly stuff.
Here's a spot I thought you'd love---
Morning Glory Pool!
The blue's a jewel.
It boils for forty hours at a stretch.
O I shouldn't dip my hankie in, it hurts!
Last summer, my God, last summer
It ate seven maids and a plumber
And returned them steamed and pressed and stiff as shirts.
I am bitter? I'm averse?
Here's your specs, dear, here's your purse.
Toddle on home to tea now in your flat hat.
It'll be lemon tea for me,
Lemon tea and earwig biscuits---creepy-creepy.
You'd not want that.
Toddle on home, before the weather's worse.
Toddle on home, and don't trip on the nurse!---
She may be bald, she may have no eyes,
But auntie, she's awfully nice.
She's pink, she's a born midwife---
She can bring the dead to life
With her wiggly fingers and for a very small fee.
Well I hope you've enjoyed it, auntie!
Toddle on home to tea!
25 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第193首
巡视
希薇娅- 普拉斯
哦，独身姑姑，欢迎您登门！
快请到客厅！
带着你那明晃晃的
小壁虎装饰！
那些小齿轮，奇怪的闪光，一枚枚实在的金。
可我却还穿着拖鞋和休闲装，也没涂口红！
你要转转，看看我的家？
好的，好的，这是我的裙子。
我想，比不了你住处的一块补丁吧，
我的没有爪哇野鹅与猴子树。
穿得有点破旧了，
有点像破机器，乱七八糟的一堆！
哦，我不该把手指放进那里，
姑姑，它会咬人的！
那是我的霜盒子，没有猫，
不过看起来真像一只猫，毛绒绒的，纯白。
你真该看看它能制造些什么！
数百万只如针的玻璃蛋糕！
对偏头痛和腹痛很有效。而炉子
就被我藏在这里，
每块炭火都是一个十字针脚——多可爱的灯！
就那么在一个夜里爆炸。
随着烟升腾消散。
所以我才没有头发，姑姑，所以我呛了嗓子，
咳来咳去，好像刚刚呕吐。
煤烟是可怕的东西。
我一直想这才是你喜欢的一角——
牵牛花坛！
那蓝色的是宝贝啊。
它一口气能沸腾四十小时。
哦，我不该将手帕浸进去的，很疼！
去年夏天，啊，天啊，去年夏天，
它吃了七个佣人和一个管道工，
然后吐出来，就像蒸汽、熨烫、浆过的衬衫。
我刻薄？总和别人过不去？
这是你的眼镜，亲爱的，这是你的手袋。
您遛回家喝茶去吧，戴上您的宽边帽。
给我柠檬茶就好，
柠檬茶配蠼螋型饼干——咕叽咕叽像虫爬。
你不会要的。
您遛回家去吧，天气越来越糟了。
您遛回家去吧，可不要踩着保姆！——
虽说她是秃头，虽说她没有眼睛，
但是，姑姑，她真是个好人。
脸色粉红，天生就是一个接生婆——
她能把死亡还原为生命，
仅凭那颤抖的手指，而且收费极低。
嗯，但愿这一趟你很愉快，姑姑！
您遛回家喝茶去吧。
1962年10月25日
Saturday, June 6, 2009
YU Xiang: Two Poems
Two Poems by YU Xiang 宇向诗二首
Half-Poems
by YU Xiang tr. FAN Jinghua
Every so often I write half-poems.
I never intend to finish them.
A finished poem
can neither bring on a death
nor bring in a life—
why do I still write?
A finished poem
might be taken away by people acquainted or unacquainted,
snatched away by people who might love you or whom you are sick of.
Half-poems are owned only by the self.
半首诗
宇向
时不时的，我写半首诗
我从来不打算把它们写完
一首诗
不能带我去死
也不能让我以此为生
我写它干什么
一首诗
会被认识的或不相干的人拿走
被爱你的或你厌倦的人拿走
半首诗是留给自己的
Weather Forecast, August 17th
by YU Xiang tr. FAN Jinghua
Good evening, everyone!
Now the weather forecast for tonight
and tomorrow:
from 23 pm to 3 am that is early morning
two snakes copulating
in darkness will descend on Riverhead Street.
As they usually tail burglarizing assassins
residents are advised to keep their doors and windows shut tight;
meanwhile Fantasia Impromptu will dance with winds
as W-shaped lightnings strike.
Net browsers are warned against the retrorse hourly speed
at longitude 40 degrees east and latitude 117.9 degrees north,
and they should avoid the post-feminist current.
Besides, temperature will continue falling till morning,
maidenhead diorthosis
and male genitalia regenesic tonic
will creep southward along the central seams of the papers
with the cold front from Siberia which will
become stationary and linger over Fountain Square.
Also expected is a short whirl of meteor shower,
so please be informed of the danger of love;
otherwise, happiness will give you a real rough time.
Thus goes the weather forecast of today,
Thank you for being with us. Cheerio.
8月17 日天气预报
宇向
各位观众，大家好！
现在向您播报今夜和
明天的天气状况：
23点至凌晨3点左右
两条在黑暗中
交媾的蛇将降临泺源大街,
它们经常尾随刺客入室
请该街的住户关好门窗，
同时《幻想即兴》会随风起舞，
并伴有W形闪电。
请大家上网时注意东经40，
北纬117.9的逆向时速，
一定避开后现代女权思潮。
另外，明晨气温将继续下降，
处女膜修补术、
男性生殖器二次发育液
将同西伯利亚寒流一起
从报纸中缝向偏南方向移动，
并在泉城广场上空停留，
短时有流星雨，
提醒大家注意防范爱情,
不然幸福会令你吃尽苦头。
今天的天气预报播送完了，
谢谢收看。
Half-Poems
by YU Xiang tr. FAN Jinghua
Every so often I write half-poems.
I never intend to finish them.
A finished poem
can neither bring on a death
nor bring in a life—
why do I still write?
A finished poem
might be taken away by people acquainted or unacquainted,
snatched away by people who might love you or whom you are sick of.
Half-poems are owned only by the self.
半首诗
宇向
时不时的，我写半首诗
我从来不打算把它们写完
一首诗
不能带我去死
也不能让我以此为生
我写它干什么
一首诗
会被认识的或不相干的人拿走
被爱你的或你厌倦的人拿走
半首诗是留给自己的
Weather Forecast, August 17th
by YU Xiang tr. FAN Jinghua
Good evening, everyone!
Now the weather forecast for tonight
and tomorrow:
from 23 pm to 3 am that is early morning
two snakes copulating
in darkness will descend on Riverhead Street.
As they usually tail burglarizing assassins
residents are advised to keep their doors and windows shut tight;
meanwhile Fantasia Impromptu will dance with winds
as W-shaped lightnings strike.
Net browsers are warned against the retrorse hourly speed
at longitude 40 degrees east and latitude 117.9 degrees north,
and they should avoid the post-feminist current.
Besides, temperature will continue falling till morning,
maidenhead diorthosis
and male genitalia regenesic tonic
will creep southward along the central seams of the papers
with the cold front from Siberia which will
become stationary and linger over Fountain Square.
Also expected is a short whirl of meteor shower,
so please be informed of the danger of love;
otherwise, happiness will give you a real rough time.
Thus goes the weather forecast of today,
Thank you for being with us. Cheerio.
8月17 日天气预报
宇向
各位观众，大家好！
现在向您播报今夜和
明天的天气状况：
23点至凌晨3点左右
两条在黑暗中
交媾的蛇将降临泺源大街,
它们经常尾随刺客入室
请该街的住户关好门窗，
同时《幻想即兴》会随风起舞，
并伴有W形闪电。
请大家上网时注意东经40，
北纬117.9的逆向时速，
一定避开后现代女权思潮。
另外，明晨气温将继续下降，
处女膜修补术、
男性生殖器二次发育液
将同西伯利亚寒流一起
从报纸中缝向偏南方向移动，
并在泉城广场上空停留，
短时有流星雨，
提醒大家注意防范爱情,
不然幸福会令你吃尽苦头。
今天的天气预报播送完了，
谢谢收看。
Friday, June 5, 2009
Sylvia Path Interview with Peter Orr in 1962
西尔维亚•普拉斯访谈
Sylvia Path Interview with Peter Orr in 1962
Sylvia Path Interview with Peter Orr in 1962
ORR: Sylvia, what started you writing poetry?
PLATH: I don't know what started me, I just wrote it from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
沃尔：西尔维亚，是什么触发你写诗的？
普拉斯：我倒是不知道什么触发我的，我只是从很小的时候就开始写了。我想我打小喜欢童谣，又觉得我能够作出同样的东西。我写了我的第一首诗，第一首发表的诗歌时，我才八岁半。那首诗登在《波斯顿旅行者报》上，自那以后，我觉得我就多少算个职业性的了。
ORR: What sort of thing did you write about when you began?
PLATH: Nature, I think: birds, bees, spring, fall, all those subjects which are absolute gifts to the person who doesn't have any interior experience to write about. I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
沃尔：你开始写的时候都写些什么？
普拉斯：我想是大自然吧：鸟啦、蜜蜂啦、春去秋来等等，一个没有任何内在经历可写的人所具有的天赋主题。我想，春天的来临、头顶的星星、初雪飘落等等是儿童、年轻诗人的天赋题材吧。
ORR: Now, jumping the years, can you say, are there any themes which particularly attract you as a poet, things that you feel you would like to write about?
PLATH: Perhaps this is an American thing: I've been very excited by what I feel is the new breakthrough that came with, say, Robert Lowell's Life Studies, this intense breakthrough into very serious, very personal, emotional experience which I feel has been partly taboo. Robert Lowell's poems about his experience in a mental hospital, for example, interested me very much. These peculiar, private and taboo subjects, I feel, have been explored in recent American poetry. I think particularly the poetess Ann Sexton, who writes about her experiences as a mother, as a mother who has had a nervous breakdown, is an extremely emotional and feeling young woman and her poems are wonderfully craftsman4ike poems and yet they have a kind of emotional and psychological depth which I think is something perhaps quite new, quite exciting.
沃尔：现在，时隔这么多年，你可以说出有什么主题特别吸引你、是你喜欢写的吗？
普拉斯：也许这是一个美国式的主题：我对于我所感到的新突破非常兴奋，这种新突破可说是罗伯特•洛威尔的《人生研究》带来的；这种强有力的突破进入了非常严肃、非常个人化的情感经验，这是我过去一直觉得是有些禁忌的。罗伯特•洛威尔关于他自己的经历，如在精神病院，令我非常感兴趣。我感到，这些特殊的、隐私的、禁忌的主题已经在最近的美国诗歌中得到挖掘。我特别想到女诗人安妮塞克斯顿，她抒写她作为一个经历过精神崩溃的母亲的经历，她是一个极具情感的敏感女人，她的诗具有令人赞叹的专业性，但却具有一种感情的心理的深度。我认为这是某种十分新、十分令人兴奋的东西。
ORR: Now you, as a poet, and as a person who straddles the Atlantic, if I can put it that way, being an American yourself...
PLATH: That's a rather awkward position, but I'll accept it!
沃尔：如今你，作为一个诗人，又是一个美国人，而且脚跨大西洋（如果我可以这么说的话）……
普拉斯：这确实是一个挺怪的位置，但是我接受！
ORR: ... on which side does your weight fall, if I can pursue the metaphor?
PLATH: Well, I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England. I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
沃尔：……你的重量向哪边倾斜呢（如果我继续套用这样的比喻）？
普拉斯：我觉得吧，从语言角度讲我是美国人，恐怕得说，我的口音是美国的，我的说话方式是美国的，这也许是我之所以现在身居英国而且将会一直在英国呆下去的原因吧。我比自己所愿望要走的路要落后大概五十年，而且我得说最能激发我的诗人都是美国人。很少有几个当代英国诗人能令我崇敬的。
ORR: Does this mean that you think contemporary English poetry is behind the times compared with American?
PLATH: No, I think it is in a bit of a strait-jacket, if I may say so. There was an essay by Alvarez, the British critic: his arguments about the dangers of gentility in England are very pertinent, very true. I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
沃尔：这是否意味着你认为当代英国诗歌比美国落后于时代呢？
普拉斯：不是，我认为这可以说是有点禁锢之故吧。英国评论家阿尔弗雷兹写过一篇文章：他关于英国的温雅的危险很是中肯、忠实。我得说我不是那么温文尔雅的，我还觉得温雅有一种扼制人的力量：那种整洁、那种令人惊异的有条不紊，在英国随处都显而易见，这也许比表面上所能显示出来的更加危险。
ORR: But don't you think, too, that there is this business of English poets who are labouring under the whole weight of something which in block capitals is called 'English Literature'?
PLATH: Yes, I couldn't agree more. I know when I was at Cambridge this appeared to me. Young women would come up to me and say 'How do you dare to write, how do you dare to publish a poem, because of the criticism, the terrible criticism, that falls upon one if one does publish?' And the criticism is not of the poem as poem. I remember being appalled when someone criticised me for beginning just like John Donne, but not quite managing to finish like John Donne, and I first felt the full weight of English Literature on me at that point. I think the whole emphasis in England, in universities, on practical criticism (but not that so much as on historical criticism, knowing what period a line comes from) this is almost paralysing. In America, in University, we read - what? - T. S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Yeats, that is where we began. Shakespeare flaunted in the background. I'm not sure I agree with this, but I think that' for the young poet, the writing poet, it is not quite so frightening to go to university in America as it is in England, for these reasons.
沃尔：但是难道你不认为英国诗人目前的所作所为也是在大写的英语文学下进行的艰苦劳作吗？
普拉斯：当然，我完全同意。我在剑桥的时候我就感觉到了。有些年轻女士会走来对我说“你怎么敢写？你怎么敢于发表？因为你一旦发表就会有批评之声、就会有可怕的批评落到你的头上。”而这批评并不是把一首诗当作诗来批评。我记得有人批评我一首诗开头倒是像邓约翰，却没能像邓约翰那样结束，我大感惊愕，那时刻我第一次感到英语文学的全副重量压在我的身上。我想，在英国、在大学对实用批评的强调（但还不至于像强调解历史批评那样，历史批评使人能了解一个阶段的历史发展线索），几乎令人智力瘫痪。在美国、在大学，我们研读些什么？——T.S.艾略特，迪伦•托马斯，叶芝，我们就从这儿开始。莎士比亚只是在背景上荣光闪闪。我不知道是否该同意这种说法，但是我认为对于年轻诗人、正在写作的诗人来说，鉴于这些原因，在美国上大学就不像在英国上大学那么可怕。
ORR: You say, Sylvia, that you consider yourself an American, but when we listen to a poem like 'Daddy', which talks about Dachau and Auschwitz and Mein Kampf, I have the impression that this is the sort of poem that a real American could not have written, because it doesn't mean so much, these names do not mean so much, on the other side of the Atlantic, do they?
PLATH: Well now, you are talking to me as a general American. In particular, my background is, may I say, German and Austrian. On one side I am a first generation American, on one side I'm second generation American, and so my concern with concentration camps and so on is uniquely intense. And then, again, I'm rather a political person as well, so I suppose that's what part of it comes from.
沃尔：西尔维亚，你说你认为自己是美国人，但是我们听你的诗，如《老爸》，它谈到达豪以及奥斯威辛和《我的奋斗》，我的感觉是，这样的诗是一个真正的美国人不可能写得出来的，因为在大西洋彼岸，这种事并不意味着什么，这些名字也无多大意义，是吧？
普拉斯：你呢，现在这样讲是把我当作一名一般的美国人。我的特别之处在于，我的背景可说是德国和奥地利的。从一方面讲，我是来美国生的第一代，从另一方面看，我是来美国生的第二代，所以我对集中营等事件的强烈关注是与众不同的。再说，我还是一个蛮政治化的人，所以我估计这也是之所以如此的部分原因吧。
ORR: And as a poet, do you have a great and keen sense of the historic?
PLATH:I am not a historian, but I find myself being more and more fascinated by history and now I find myself reading more and more about history. I am very interested in Napoleon, at the present: I'm very interested in battles, in wars, in Gallipoli, the First World War and so on, and I think that as I age I am becoming more and more historical. I certainly wasn't at all in my early twenties.
沃尔：作为一名诗人，你对历史性是否具有一种强烈敏锐的感觉？
普拉斯：我不是一个历史学者，但是我发现自己越来越对历史着迷，现在读了越来越多得历史著述。目前，我对拿破仑特别有兴趣：我对战役、战争、一战等等很感兴趣，并且我觉得随着我逐渐上年纪我会越来越有历史感。当然我二十几岁时绝不是这样的。
ORR: Do your poems tend now to come out of books rather than out of your own life?
PLATH: No, no : I would not say that at all. I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is. I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini I think that personal experience is very important, but certainly it shouldn't be a kind of shut-box and mirror looking, narcissistic experience. I believe it should be relevant, and relevant to the larger things, the bigger things such as Hiroshima and Dachau and so on.
沃尔：你现在的诗倾向于来源于书本还是来自你的个人生活？
普拉斯：不，不：我绝对不会这么说。我想我的诗直接来自我感官与情感的经验，但是我必须说，对于一根针或一把刀或任何这类东西所激发的心底的呼唤，我是不能与之共鸣的。我相信一个人应该能够控制并支配经验，甚至是最为可怕的经验如疯狂、被折磨这类经验，而且一个人应当能够以一种明察聪颖之心支配这些经验。我认为个人经验是非常重要的，但是它当然不该变成一种封闭的盒子或揽镜自顾的自恋经验。我相信它应该是有相关性的，与更大的事件相关，与广岛以及达豪等等大事相关。
ORR: And so, behind the primitive, emotional reaction there must be an intellectual discipline.
PLATH: I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
沃尔：所以在原始的情感的反映背后必须有一种理性的学科规范。
普拉斯：我强烈地感到这一点：我曾是一个学术中人、曾经犹豫是否继续在学界做下去拿一个博士、教授等头衔，我的一个侧面当然尊重所有的学科规范，只要它们不僵化。
ORR: What about writers who have influenced you, who have meant a lot to you?
PLATH: There were very few. I find it hard to trace them really. When I was at College I was stunned and astounded by the moderns, by Dylan Thomas, by Yeats, by Auden even: at one point I was absolutely wild for Auden and everything I wrote was desperately Audenesque. Now I again begin to go backwards, I begin to look to Blake, for example. And then, of course, it is presumptuous to say that one is influenced by someone like Shakespeare: one reads Shakespeare, and that is that.
沃尔：谈谈影响你的作家、对你意义重大的作家如何？
普拉斯：很少。我发现很难真正地逐一找出来。在大学时，现代派作家、迪伦•托马斯、叶芝甚至奥顿都曾令我目瞪口呆、击节叹赏：有一段时间我对奥顿绝对疯狂，那时我写的一切都无可救药地具有奥顿之风。现在我再次往回走，例如，我开始关注布莱克。另外，当然了，如果有人说受到像莎士比亚这样的人物影响，就有点不知天高地厚了：人们研读莎士比亚，如此而已。
ORR: Sylvia, one notices in reading your poems and listening to your poems that there are two qualities which emerge very quickly and clearly; one is their lucidity (and I think these two qualities have something to do one with the other), their lucidity and the impact they make on reading. Now, do you consciously design your poems to be both lucid and to be effective when they are read aloud?
PLATH: This is something I didn't do in my earlier poems. For example, my first book, The Colossus, I can't read any of the poems aloud now. I didn't write them to be read aloud. They, in fact, quite privately, bore me. These ones that I have just read, the ones that are very recent, I've got to say them, I speak them to myself, and I think that this in my own writing development is quite a new thing with me, and whatever lucidity they may have comes from the fact that I say them to myself, I say them aloud.
沃尔：西尔维亚，在阅读你的诗歌以及听你朗诵诗歌时可以发现两种特质，很快、很清晰地呈现出来；其一是它们的明晰易懂（我认为这两种特质彼此相辅相成），它们的明晰性以及对于朗读所带来的影响。你现在是否在写诗时有意识地使它们既明晰易懂又能在朗诵时产生实效？
普拉斯：这是我早期诗歌中没有做到的。例如，我的第一本诗集《巨像》，我现在连一首诗都朗读不出来。我当时不是为了朗读而写的。事实上，私下地讲，它们令我生厌。我刚刚朗读的这些诗，都是些新作，我必须朗读它们，读给我自己听；我也认为这是我写作发展过程中所出现的一种新东西，无论它们具有怎样的明晰性都源于这一事实：我读给自己听，我大声朗读它们。
ORR: Do you think this is an essential ingredient of a good poem, that it should be able to be read aloud effectively?
PLATH: Well, I do feel that now and I feel that this development of recording poems, of speaking poems at readings, of having records of poets, I think this is a wonderful thing. I'm very excited by it. In a sense, there's a return, isn't there, to the old role of the poet, which was to speak to a group of people, to come across.
沃尔：你是否认为能在朗读中产生实效，是一首好诗不可或缺的成分？
普拉斯：现在呢，我确实感到了这一点，我觉得现在这种发展，录制诗歌、朗读诗歌、给诗人出录音唱片，我觉得这是一件很棒的事。我很振奋。从某种意义上来说，这是一种回潮，不是吗？回到了诗人的古老角色，也就是向一群人诉说、传达。
ORR: Or to sing to a group?
PLATH: To sing to a group of people, exactly.
沃尔：或者说向一群人吟唱？
普拉斯：没错，向一群人吟唱。
ORR: Setting aside poetry for a moment, are there other things you would like to write, or that you have written?
PLATH: Well, I always was interested in prose. As a teenager, I published short stories. And I always wanted to write the long short story, I wanted to write a novel. Now that I have attained, shall I say, a respectable age, and have had experiences, I feel much more interested in prose, in the novel. I feel that in a novel, for example, you can get in toothbrushes and all the paraphernalia that one finds in dally life, and I find this more difficult in poetry. Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals. And I miss them! I'm a woman, I like my little Lares and Penates, I like trivia, and I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life, and so I've become very interested in novel writing as a result.
沃尔：先撇下诗歌不谈，你还想写或者已经写了什么题材？
普拉斯：我呢，一直对散文很有兴趣。十几岁时，我发表了一些短篇小说。我一直想写长一些的故事，想写一部长篇。现在我可以说自己已达到算是成熟的年纪了，也获得了一些经验，我觉得对散文、长篇小说的兴趣更加浓厚。我觉得在小说中，例如，你可以将牙刷之类在日常生活中常见的所有小什件放进去，这在诗歌中就很难。我觉得诗是一种专横的规范，你得在那么一个小的空间中深入那么远，你必须牺牲掉所有的边角材料。而我丢不下它们！我是一个女人，我喜欢我的小财神灶神们，我喜欢琐碎小事；我发现在小说中我可以放进去更多生活，也许不是那么激越的生活，但肯定是更多的生活，所以结果是我对小说非常有兴趣。
ORR: This is almost a Dr. Johnson sort of view, isn't it? What was it he said, 'There are some things that are fit for inclusion in poetry and others which are not'?
PLATH: Well, of course, as a poet I would say pouf! I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
沃尔：这可说与约翰逊博士的观点如出一辙了。他怎么说来着？“有些事情可以入诗而有些则不可”？
普拉斯：当然，作为诗人，我会说“废话！”我会说一切东西都可以入诗，但是我不能把牙刷写进诗里吧，我真的做不到！
ORR: Do you find yourself much in the company of other writers, of poets?
PLATH: I much prefer doctors, midwives, lawyers, anything but writers. I think writers and artists are the most narcissistic people. I mustn't say this, I like many of them, in fact a great many of my friends happen to be writers and artists. But I must say what I admire most is the person who masters an area of practical experience, and can teach me something. I mean, my local midwife has taught me how to keep bees. Well, she can't understand anything I write. And I find myself liking her, may I say, more than most poets. And among my friends I find people who know all about boats or know all about certain sports, or how to cut somebody open and remove an organ. I'm fascinated by this mastery of the practical. As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.
沃尔：你是否常常与其他作家、诗人同进共出？
普拉斯：我更喜欢与医生、接生婆、律师们来往，只要不是作家就行。我认为作家和艺术家都是些最自恋的人。我不该这样说，我喜欢的人有很多做这行，事实上我有许多朋友刚好是作家、艺术家。但我必须说我最钦佩的人是那种掌握某个领域的实用经验的人，是那种能够教给我某种技能的人。我的意思是，我住的地方有个产婆教会我如何养蜂。而她对我写的东西一窍不通。可我发现我很喜欢她，可说是胜过我喜欢绝大部分诗人。在我的朋友中，有的人对于船只头头是道，有的对某些体育运动无所不知，有的对如何切开一个人体除掉一个器官手到擒来。对这种实用技能的得心应手我使心折神服。作为诗人，所过的生活有点悬在半空中。我一直喜欢能教某种实用技能的人。
ORR: Is there anything else you would rather have done than writing poetry? Because this is something, obviously, which takes up a great deal of one's private life, if one's going to succeed at it. Do you ever have any lingering regrets that you didn't do something else?
PLATH: I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose. My best friends when I was young were always doctors. I used to dress up in a white gauze helmet and go round and see babies born and cadavers cut open. This fascinated me, but I could never bring myself to disciplining myself to the point where I could learn all the details that one has to learn to be a good doctor. This is the sort of opposition: somebody who deals directly with human experiences, is able to cure, to mend, to help, this sort of thing. I suppose if I have any nostalgias it's this, but I console myself because I know so many doctors. And I may say, perhaps, I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
沃尔：有没有什么事情是你比写诗更愿意做的呢？因为这显然是件耗费一个人很多私人生活的事儿，要是她想成功的话。你是否有某种行业没能做，所以有些遗憾不时浮现？
普拉斯：我想如果要我做其它哪一行，我愿意做医生。恐怕这是与作家南辕北辙的一种行业。我年轻时最好的朋友都是些医生。我曾时常穿上白大褂，全身罩好，到处走，看孩子出世，看尸体解剖。这一切令我着迷，但是我总是不能给自己上规矩，学会所有细节以便成为一个出色的医生。这是一种鱼与熊掌的对立：某个能直接面对人类经验的人，能够治疗、修补、帮助，就是这等事。我想，要说我有什么念念不忘的事，就该是这个了，但是我自我安慰说自己认识许多医生。也许我可以说，我写医生比我当医生更感到快意一些。
ORR: But basically this thing, the writing of poetry, is something which has been a great satisfaction to you in your life, is it?
PLATH: Oh, satisfaction! I don't think I could live without it. It's like water or bread, or something absolutely essential to me. I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem, when I'm writing one. Having written one, then you fall away very rapidly from having been a poet to becoming a sort of poet in rest, which isn't the same thing at all. But I think the actual experience of writing a poem is a magnificent one.
沃尔：但是从根本上说，写诗这样的事给你的生活带来一份很大的满足感，不是吗？
普拉斯：哦，满足！不写诗我恐怕没法活下去。它对我就好像面包与水，或者某种绝对本质的东西。当我写好了一首诗、当我正在写一首诗的时候，我感到自己绝对充盈。完成一首诗后，你便会从一个诗人的状态急速下滑成诗人的休息状态，这是完全不同的状态。但我还是认为写诗的实际经验是一种妙不可言的经验。
译自The Poet Speaks: Interviews with Contemporary Poets
London: Routledge (1966)
译按：这次访谈是普拉斯给BBC录她的最新作品后进行的。当时录的诗包括：捕兔器(The Rabbit Catcher)、精灵爱丽儿(Ariel)、十月的罂粟花(Poppies in October)、申请人(The Applicant)、女拉撒路(Lady Lazarus)、秘密(A Secret)、割伤(Cut)、未遂之死(Stopped Dead)、尼克与烛台(Nick and the Candlestick)、水母美杜莎(Medusa)、深闺(Purdah)、生日礼物(A Birthday Present)、遗忘病患(Amnesiac)、老爸(Daddy)、高烧103度(Fever 103°)。
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