Plath: The Swarm

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 179

　　　The Swarm

Somebody is shooting at something in our town—
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are they shooting at?

It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The hump of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off

In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm balls and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.

It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.

The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!

The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.

How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.

The man with gray hands smiles—
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'

Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
　　　　　　　　　　　　7 October 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第179首

　　　蜂群

有人正在我们小镇射猎什么——
沉闷的枪声响彻周日的街道。
妒忌能大开血戒，
它能制造黑色玫瑰。
他们瞄准何人射击？

他们拔刀，正式冲着你，
在滑铁卢、滑铁卢，拿破仑，
爱尔巴岛隆起于你低矮的脊背，
雪，排列起它灿灿的刀叉
一批接着一批，说着“嘘！”

嘘！这些是你对弈的象棋人，
静悄悄的象牙像。
泥泞在喉咙里蠕动，
法国军靴踏脚的石块。
俄罗斯镀金的粉红穹顶熔化在贪婪的

熔炉中，漂浮而去。浮云，浮云。
于是蜂群聚成一团，溃逃
至七十呎上空，躲进一株黑松。
必须将那团射落。砰！砰！
子弹闷哑，被当成了雷声。

蜂群以为那是上帝的声音，
赦免了喙、爪、狞笑，
那狗，黄背的，一只负重的狗，
盯着象牙似的骨头狞笑，
正如那狗群、狗群，正如每个人。

蜜蜂已经飞得那么远。七十呎高！
俄罗斯、波兰、还有德意志！
和缓的山丘、古老依旧的一片片
紫红田野，皱缩成一枚便士，
旋转着跌落河流，一条河已被跨越。

蜜蜂们争执不休，黑压压的一大团，
一只飞舞的豪猪，满身硬刺。
那个双手灰色的男人站在蜂窝下，
那是蜜蜂的梦，那蜂房式车站，
火车坚贞地沿着钢铁拱洞

出站，进站，这个国家不会终结。
砰！砰！它们应声而落
分崩离析，落向一簇常青藤。
先遣军、战车骁勇、无敌之师就这样了结！
一块红色破布，拿破仑！

最后一枚胜利勋章。
群蜂被击败，进了竖起的草帽中。
爱尔巴岛，啊，海洋上的气泡！
元帅、司令与上将的白色胸像
蠕虫似地爬进壁龛。

这具有怎样的指导意义！
喑哑的身体标着杠杠，
披着母亲法兰西的装饰布，踏上海盗刑罚的木板条
落入一座新的陵墓，
一座象牙宫殿，一株分叉的松树。

灰色双手的男人微笑了——
生意人的笑，充满浓烈的功利。
那根本不是手，
而是石棉容器。
砰！砰！“它们可能会杀了我。”

蜂蛰大如绘画图钉！
似乎蜜蜂也有尊严的观念，
一种倔强的黑色心智。
拿破仑满意了，对一切都满意了。
哦，欧洲！哦，大量的蜂蜜！
　　　　　　　1962年10月7日