Plath: Getting There

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 200

　　Getting There

How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me------
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some war or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will------
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know is destinations.
I am a letter in this slot------
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries------
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour------
Dynasty of broken arrows!

How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles------
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations------
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no still place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouched and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming------
An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in a dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces

Step to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.
　　　　　　　　　　　6 November 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第200首

　　去那儿
　　　　　　希薇娅· 普拉斯
有多远？
还有多远？
车轮运转着
巨大的猩猩内部，令我胆寒——
军火商克虏伯
可怕的脑袋，旋转的
黑枪口，冲打出
缺失之孔的声音！犹如炮弹。
我要跨越的是俄罗斯，这怎么都是战争。
我拖着身子
静悄悄地穿过一车车稻草。
现在是行贿时间。
车轮吃什么，这些车轮
固着于弧板似乎那些是神灵，
意志的银色脖套——
铁面无情。看它们多骄傲！
神灵所知的只是终点。
我是这投递孔中的信——
飞向一个名字、两只眼睛。
那儿有火吗？有面包吗？
这儿有这么多泥巴。
这是火车停靠站，护士们
忍受着龙头里的水，它的面纱、修道院里的面纱，
抚摸着伤员，
那些男人鲜血还在泵涌而出，
腿、手臂堆积
在永恒凄号的帐篷外——
一座玩偶的医院。
这些男人，这些被活塞
推挤向前的男人还剩下什么，鲜血
流入前面的里程，
下一个钟点——
断箭的王朝！

那儿有多远？
我脚上有泥巴，
浓稠、血红、滑溜溜。它是亚当之侧，
我从这大地升起，痛苦至极。
我不可能去掉掉自己，火车在蒸腾。
蒸腾、喘气，它的牙齿
随时滚轧，如魔鬼之牙。
在其尽头将有一分钟时间，
一分钟，一滴露珠。
那儿有多远？
那地方那么小，
我将要到底的地方，为何有这些障碍——
这女人的尸体，
烧焦的裙子和死亡面具，
原来有信教的人、戴花环的孩子哀悼。
而现在有爆炸声——
雷霆与枪炮。
战火在你我之间。
是否根本没有静止之处
在半空中旋转又旋转，
未经触及也无法触及。
火车拖着自己，发出尖叫——
一头动物
疯狂奔向目的地，
那个血污，
那闪光尽头的脸。
我要把伤员像虫蛹一样埋葬，
我将清点并埋葬死者。
让他们的灵魂在露水中扭动，
在我的车辙中焚香。
车厢摇动，它们便是摇篮。
而我，走出这张皮囊，
这张旧绷带、厌倦与陈旧的脸的皮囊，

走向你，从忘川的黑色车厢中走出，
纯洁得像个婴儿。
　　　　　　　　　　　1962年11月6日