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