Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 173
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am to appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it was bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed---I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine—
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece in purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
30 September 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第173首
生日礼物
这是什么，在这面纱下，丑陋还是美丽？
它波光闪闪，有乳房吗？有锋刃吗？
我肯定它很独特，我肯定它正是我所求之物。
当我静静地埋头做饭，我能感到它在看，感到它在思索。
“这就是我要为之出面争取的那个？
这就是被选中的那人，有黑洞洞的眼窝和一道伤疤？
用量杯量面粉，去掉多余的，
谨守着标准，标准，标准。
就是这个人去迎接天使报喜？
我的上帝，真是好笑！”
但它熠熠闪光，并不停止，我想它想要我。
它就是骨头架子或一只珍珠纽扣，我也不会介意。
今年，我反正并没指望要什么礼物。
说到底，我活着，仅仅是靠一场意外。
那一次，任何可能的方式，都能兴冲冲地自杀。
现在，有这些面纱，像帘子一样熠熠闪光，
一月的窗上挂着精细的缎子，
白得像婴儿的被单，闪烁着死的气息。哦，象牙！
那肯定是一只长牙，一只幽灵柱。
难道你看不出，我并不在乎它是什么，
难道你会不给我？
别不好意思——我不介意它是否很小。
别那么小器，再大我也有受得住。
那我们就近坐下吧，各守一边，赏玩那闪光，
它的光泽、它镜子般的特质。
让我们对着它举行最后的晚餐，像一只医院托盘。
我晓得你为何不把它送给我，
你心惊胆战，
怕这世界会随着一声尖叫腾起，而你的头也会随之而去，
一张有浮雕的铜盾牌，一件古董，
你曾孙们的奇珍异宝。
不要战战兢兢，没那么了不得。
我只会收下它，静静走开。
你甚至不会听到我打开，不会有纸的嚓嚓声，
不会有扔掉的丝带，不会有那最后一声惊喜。
我想你不值得我花这么多心思。
可你从来不懂那些面纱怎么谋害我的日子。
对你来说，它们只是些透明纸，清净的空气。
但是，我的上帝，云朵也像棉花啊。
它们如军队集结。它们是一氧化碳。
我舒服地，舒服地，吸着，
将那些看不见的、数以万计的几乎确凿的
尘埃，填进我的脉管，将岁月勾销出我的生命。
你为这个日子穿上了银色套装。哦，计算器——
你有没有可能放手，让事情过去，不折不扣？
你必须将每一片都盖上紫色的印戳吗？
你必须手刃你能杀的一切？
这是我今天想要的惟一，只有你才能给我。
它就站在我的窗口，像天空一样恢弘。
它从我的床单中呼吸，那冷酷的死亡中心，
破裂的生活在那里凝结，僵化成历史。
别让它随着邮件而来，手指连着手指。
别让它口头传来，等到它全部传到，
恐怕我已是六十老太，麻木得用不了。
尽管放下那面纱，面纱，面纱。
假如是死亡，
我也会欣赏它深沉的重力，它永恒的眼睛。
我会知道你用心严肃。
那么就会有一种尊严，就会有一次生日。
那刀子就不会雕刻，而是切入，
纯粹而利落，像婴儿的啼哭。
宇宙，从我身侧一掠而过。
1962年9月30日
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