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