Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(3)
On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things------
Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk
Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,
I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,
And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man: his red ribs,
The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye—
A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room
An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.
Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（三）
宾馆阳台上，有些物件光闪闪的。
物件，物件——
钢管做的轮椅，铝制的拐杖。
如此咸涩的甜味。我为何要走到
防波堤的另一边？堤坝叮满了藤壶。
我不是洁白而周到的护士，
我不是一脸微笑。
这些孩子在追逐着什么，带着钩爪，大呼小叫，
可我的心太小，兜不了他们可怕的过错。
这是一个男人的侧身：他的红肋骨，
神经像树木般迸发，而这是手术师：
一只镜子般的眼睛——
知识的一个侧面。
在某个房间的条纹床垫上，
一个老头正在消亡。
他老妻的哭泣于事无补。
它们哪去了？镇眼石，那黄色的贵重物，
以及舌头，那灰烬的蓝宝石。
(4)
A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.
It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;
They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.
This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit
Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?
They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking: goodbye, goodbye.
Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.
It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,
The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.
（四）
一张结婚蛋糕的脸，围着纸的荷叶花边。
现在，他多么高人一等。
就像借身于圣人。
戴无沿帽的护士，不再那么漂亮了；
她们在枯黄，像被碰过了的栀子花。
床，已从墙边卷起。
这便是所谓的完整了。真可怕。
他穿睡衣还是晚装？
在浆洗过的床单下，他那粉化的喙
撑着，苍白得不堪一击了。
他们用一本书顶住他的下巴，等它僵硬，
他们折起他的双手，它们摆动着：别了，别了。
现在，清洗了的床单在阳光下飘，
枕套开始有了香味。
这是一种福分，一种福分：
那皂色的橡木长棺，
好奇的抬棺人，还有那生涩的日期
将自己铭刻成银色，平静得令人惊叹。
(5)
The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,
The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife—
Blunt, practical boats
Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house
One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.
This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions
Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather—
The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.
They are flying off into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,
Marble façades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place.
（五）
阴沉的天空低垂，群山如一顷碧海，
一波叠起一波，向远处滚涌，掩藏着山中的峡谷，
那妻子的情愫在谷中摇曳——
峡谷，如粗拙而实用的船，
满载着衣衫、帽子、瓷器和嫁出去的女儿。
石屋的客厅里，
一道帘子从敞开的窗里飘闪着，
飘闪，泻出一支可怜的烛光。
这是那个死者的舌头：牢记啊，牢记。
现在，他已远去了，他的行为
萦回在他周围，如起居室的家具，如室内背景。
当蜡黄色在聚集——
双手的蜡黄、邻居似的面孔的蜡黄、
飞扬的彩虹得意洋洋的蜡黄。
它们飞去了，飞向虚无：牢记我们。
记忆空荡荡的长凳俯瞰碑石，
大理石立面有蓝色纹理，水仙花装满了几个果冻杯。
这边，如此之美：这是令人驻留之地。
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