Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 153
The Moon and the Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky—
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness—
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.
22 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第153首
月亮与紫杉
这是心智的光，冷，飘忽。
心智的树都是黑的。光，是蓝的。
青草将哀伤卸在我脚下，似乎我就是上帝，
刺扎着我的足踝，低诉它们的谦卑。
灵性的袅袅的雾霭居住在这个地方，
与我的屋子仅有一排墓石相隔。
我实在看不出还有什么地方可去。
月亮绝非一扇门。它自身便是一张脸，
像指关节一样白，而且不安到了极点。
它拖着大海，像拖着一宗黑暗的罪行；它很安静，
有着彻底绝望的圆型哈欠。我住在这儿。
每个礼拜天，钟声两次震惊天空——
八只巨大的舌头确认着耶稣复活。
到最后，它们肃穆洪亮地念出自己的名字。
那株紫杉直指夜空，呈现哥特式形状。
眼睛沿树向上，便会发现那轮月亮。
月亮是我母亲。她不像玛丽亚那样甜美。
她的蓝罩衣释放出小蝙蝠和猫头鹰。
我多么愿意相信温情——
那张模拟像的脸，因为烛光竟也和蔼，
还特别对我垂下它温柔的眼睛。
我已在堕落之途走得很远。云正在绽放
蓝色与神秘的花朵，挡住了星星的脸。
教堂内，圣人们将会全身蓝色，
借助脆弱的双脚，漂浮于冷冷的长椅之上，
他们的手与脸，因神圣而僵硬。
这一切，月亮什么都没看见。她是光秃的，野生的。
而紫杉的信息是一片玄黑——玄黑和沉默。
1961年10月22日
Showing posts with label 普拉斯. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 普拉斯. Show all posts
Friday, February 4, 2011
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Plath: Mirror
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 154
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
23 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第154首
镜子
我，银质，精确。绝无先入之见。
无论看到什么，我都立即吞下，
原封不动，不因爱憎喜恶而蒙上雾气。
我并非残忍，只不过实话实说——
一个小神的眼睛，四角方正。
大多数时间，我沉思默想着对面的墙。
它是粉红的，有褐斑。我已盯着它很久了，
以为那是我心地的一部分。但它会闪动。
人脸和黑暗再三再四地将我们分隔。
如今我是一潭湖水。一个女人弯身就我，
搜遍我的幅员，查证她自己究竟是什么。
然后，她转向那些说谎者、蜡烛或月亮。
我看到她的后背，忠实地将它呈现。
她对我报以泪水，以及双手的激愤。
我对她至关重要。她来来往往。
每个清晨总是她的脸取代那片黑暗。
在我深处她已淹没一个少女，而自我深处
一位老妇日复一日向她浮现，像一条可怕的鱼。
1961年10月23日
No. 154
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
23 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第154首
镜子
我，银质，精确。绝无先入之见。
无论看到什么，我都立即吞下，
原封不动，不因爱憎喜恶而蒙上雾气。
我并非残忍，只不过实话实说——
一个小神的眼睛，四角方正。
大多数时间，我沉思默想着对面的墙。
它是粉红的，有褐斑。我已盯着它很久了，
以为那是我心地的一部分。但它会闪动。
人脸和黑暗再三再四地将我们分隔。
如今我是一潭湖水。一个女人弯身就我，
搜遍我的幅员，查证她自己究竟是什么。
然后，她转向那些说谎者、蜡烛或月亮。
我看到她的后背，忠实地将它呈现。
她对我报以泪水，以及双手的激愤。
我对她至关重要。她来来往往。
每个清晨总是她的脸取代那片黑暗。
在我深处她已淹没一个少女，而自我深处
一位老妇日复一日向她浮现，像一条可怕的鱼。
1961年10月23日
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Plath: The Babysitters
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 155
The Babysitters
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.
We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
In the two huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.
When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,
I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
And the seven-year-old wouldn't go out unless his jersey stripes
Matched the stripes of his socks.
O it was richness!---eleven rooms and a yacht
With a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
And a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.
But I didn't know how to cook, and babies depressed me.
Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
With triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.
When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
They left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, 'for protection',
And a small Dalmatian.
In your house, the main house, you were better off.
You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
And a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.
I remember you playing 'Ja Da' in a pink piqué dress
On the gameroom piano, when the 'big people' were out,
And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green-shaded lamp.
The cook had one wall eye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.
On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
Till she was fired.
O what has come over us, my sister!
On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
We lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups' icebox
And rented an old green boat. I rowed. You read
Aloud, crosslegged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.
So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted—
A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing,
But ten years dead.
The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.
29 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第155首
陪玩保姆
已有十年，自从我们划船去儿童岛。
中午，太阳的火焰垂落在马宝岬的水面。
那个夏天，我们带墨镜遮住眼睛。
我们总是在哭，两个被利用了的姐妹，在给我们的空房间，
在斯沃姆斯科的两栋漂亮的白色豪宅。
当那个英国甜心来了，那奶白的肌肤，涂雅得丽化妆品，
我就得和小孩睡在一间，那实在太短的小床，
那七岁的小东西绝不出门，除非他的条纹运动衫
有配套的条纹棉袜。
哦，那就是富有！——十一个房间，一条游艇，
抛光的红木台阶一直通到海里，
还有随船侍者懂得如何给蛋糕装饰六彩糖霜。
可我还不会烹饪，小孩令我沮丧。
每夜，我都恶毒地写日记，手指通红，
熨斗的三角形伤痕，因为熨烫细小的褶饰和花式袖口。
当那爱运动的老婆与她的医生老公去周游，
他们借来一个女佣陪我，叫做埃伦，说是“为了保护”，
还留下一条花斑狗。
在你那家，那个主宅，你比我好过。
你有玫瑰园，待客小屋，很像样的小药房，
还有厨子和女佣，你也知道酒柜的钥匙。
我记得“大人”出去的时候，你穿着粉红色
单珠地裙子，在游艺室那架钢琴上演奏佳答爵士，
而女佣抽着烟，在绿色灯罩下撞桌球。
厨子有一只眼角膜白斑，睡不着觉，她很是紧张。
她从爱尔兰来，试用，烤焦了一炉又一炉糕点，
终于被炒掉。
哦，我们怎会有如此遭遇，我的姐妹！
我们哭着闹着才得到一天休息，
两人提着甜味火腿和菠萝，装在成人们的冰盒里，
租了一条绿色旧船，我划，你盘腿
坐在船尾座位上，高声朗读《蛇蝎世代》。
我们就这么颠簸着去了小岛。那儿已人去楼空——
一个长廊，入口吱吱作响，内部死寂一片，
一切早已停止，可怕，犹如一幅照片，拍的笑脸
已经死了十年。
海鸥放肆地俯冲而来，似乎它们拥有一切。
我们捡起浮木小棍，赶走它们，
然后一步一步走下陡峭的海滩岩床，进入水中。
我们撩起水，说话。浓浓的盐分逼着我们上岸。
可我仍看见我们漂浮在那儿，彼此不分——两只软木玩偶。
我们穿过了怎样的锁孔，那关闭的是什么门？
青草的影子慢慢移动，犹如一面钟的指针，
而我们挥手，招呼，从两个相对的大陆。
一切都已发生。
1961年10月29日
No. 155
The Babysitters
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
That summer we wore black glasses to hide our eyes.
We were always crying, in our spare rooms, little put-upon sisters,
In the two huge, white, handsome houses in Swampscott.
When the sweetheart from England appeared, with her cream skin and Yardley cosmetics,
I had to sleep in the same room with the baby on a too-short cot,
And the seven-year-old wouldn't go out unless his jersey stripes
Matched the stripes of his socks.
O it was richness!---eleven rooms and a yacht
With a polished mahogany stair to let into the water
And a cabin boy who could decorate cakes in six-colored frosting.
But I didn't know how to cook, and babies depressed me.
Nights, I wrote in my diary spitefully, my fingers red
With triangular scorch marks from ironing tiny ruchings and puffed sleeves.
When the sporty wife and her doctor husband went on one of their cruises
They left me a borrowed maid named Ellen, 'for protection',
And a small Dalmatian.
In your house, the main house, you were better off.
You had a rose garden and a guest cottage and a model apothecary shop
And a cook and a maid, and knew about the key to the bourbon.
I remember you playing 'Ja Da' in a pink piqué dress
On the gameroom piano, when the 'big people' were out,
And the maid smoked and shot pool under a green-shaded lamp.
The cook had one wall eye and couldn't sleep, she was so nervous.
On trial, from Ireland, she burned batch after batch of cookies
Till she was fired.
O what has come over us, my sister!
On that day-off the two of us cried so hard to get
We lifted a sugared ham and a pineapple from the grownups' icebox
And rented an old green boat. I rowed. You read
Aloud, crosslegged on the stern seat, from the Generation of Vipers.
So we bobbed out to the island. It was deserted—
A gallery of creaking porches and still interiors,
Stopped and awful as a photograph of somebody laughing,
But ten years dead.
The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.
29 October 1961
普拉斯《诗全编》
第155首
陪玩保姆
已有十年，自从我们划船去儿童岛。
中午，太阳的火焰垂落在马宝岬的水面。
那个夏天，我们带墨镜遮住眼睛。
我们总是在哭，两个被利用了的姐妹，在给我们的空房间，
在斯沃姆斯科的两栋漂亮的白色豪宅。
当那个英国甜心来了，那奶白的肌肤，涂雅得丽化妆品，
我就得和小孩睡在一间，那实在太短的小床，
那七岁的小东西绝不出门，除非他的条纹运动衫
有配套的条纹棉袜。
哦，那就是富有！——十一个房间，一条游艇，
抛光的红木台阶一直通到海里，
还有随船侍者懂得如何给蛋糕装饰六彩糖霜。
可我还不会烹饪，小孩令我沮丧。
每夜，我都恶毒地写日记，手指通红，
熨斗的三角形伤痕，因为熨烫细小的褶饰和花式袖口。
当那爱运动的老婆与她的医生老公去周游，
他们借来一个女佣陪我，叫做埃伦，说是“为了保护”，
还留下一条花斑狗。
在你那家，那个主宅，你比我好过。
你有玫瑰园，待客小屋，很像样的小药房，
还有厨子和女佣，你也知道酒柜的钥匙。
我记得“大人”出去的时候，你穿着粉红色
单珠地裙子，在游艺室那架钢琴上演奏佳答爵士，
而女佣抽着烟，在绿色灯罩下撞桌球。
厨子有一只眼角膜白斑，睡不着觉，她很是紧张。
她从爱尔兰来，试用，烤焦了一炉又一炉糕点，
终于被炒掉。
哦，我们怎会有如此遭遇，我的姐妹！
我们哭着闹着才得到一天休息，
两人提着甜味火腿和菠萝，装在成人们的冰盒里，
租了一条绿色旧船，我划，你盘腿
坐在船尾座位上，高声朗读《蛇蝎世代》。
我们就这么颠簸着去了小岛。那儿已人去楼空——
一个长廊，入口吱吱作响，内部死寂一片，
一切早已停止，可怕，犹如一幅照片，拍的笑脸
已经死了十年。
海鸥放肆地俯冲而来，似乎它们拥有一切。
我们捡起浮木小棍，赶走它们，
然后一步一步走下陡峭的海滩岩床，进入水中。
我们撩起水，说话。浓浓的盐分逼着我们上岸。
可我仍看见我们漂浮在那儿，彼此不分——两只软木玩偶。
我们穿过了怎样的锁孔，那关闭的是什么门？
青草的影子慢慢移动，犹如一面钟的指针，
而我们挥手，招呼，从两个相对的大陆。
一切都已发生。
1961年10月29日
Friday, September 24, 2010
Plath: New Year on Dartmoor
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 156
New Year on Dartmoor
This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第156首
达特穆尔高原的新年
这是新：每一道小屏障
都罩在玻璃中，花哨而奇特，
以圣人的假嗓子，闪烁，玎玲。只是
你不知道该如何应付那突然的溜滑，
那盲目、可怕、难以触及的白色倾斜。
你所知的言词，无法将它征服。
大象、车轮或者鞋子，也征服不了。
我们来，也只是看看。你新来初到，
还不能要到玻璃帽下面的那个世界。
Was SP so alienated when she got there and was forced to reflect on her own "newness"? How similar is the glass-wrapping (and the glass hat) with the bell jar and/or the "untouchable" snowscape in a childhood gadget?
No. 156
New Year on Dartmoor
This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第156首
达特穆尔高原的新年
这是新：每一道小屏障
都罩在玻璃中，花哨而奇特，
以圣人的假嗓子，闪烁，玎玲。只是
你不知道该如何应付那突然的溜滑，
那盲目、可怕、难以触及的白色倾斜。
你所知的言词，无法将它征服。
大象、车轮或者鞋子，也征服不了。
我们来，也只是看看。你新来初到，
还不能要到玻璃帽下面的那个世界。
Was SP so alienated when she got there and was forced to reflect on her own "newness"? How similar is the glass-wrapping (and the glass hat) with the bell jar and/or the "untouchable" snowscape in a childhood gadget?
Monday, November 30, 2009
Plath: Little Fugue
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No.158
Little Fugue
The yew's black fingers wag;
Cold clouds go over.
So the deaf and dumb
Signal the blind, and are ignored.
I like black statements.
The featurelessness of that cloud, now!
White as an eye all over!
The eye of the blind pianist
At my table on the ship.
He felt for his food.
His fingers had the noses of weasels.
I couldn't stop looking.
He could hear Beethoven:
Black yew, white cloud,
The horrific complications.
Finger-traps---a tumult of keys.
Empty and silly as plates,
So the blind smile.
I envy the big noises,
The yew hedge of the Grosse Fuge.
Deafness is something else.
Such a dark funnel, my father!
I see your voice
Black and leafy, as in my childhood,
A yew hedge of orders,
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
Dead men cry from it.
I am guilty of nothing.
The yew my Christ, then.
Is it not as tortured?
And you, during the Great War
In the California delicatessen
Lopping the sausages!
They color my sleep,
Red, mottled, like cut necks.
There was a silence!
Great silence of another order.
I was seven, I knew nothing.
The world occurred.
You had one leg, and a Prussian mind.
Now similar clouds
Are spreading their vacuous sheets.
Do you say nothing?
I am lame in the memory.
I remember a blue eye,
A briefcase of tangerines.
This was a man, then!
Death opened, like a black tree, blackly.
I survive the while,
Arranging my morning.
These are my fingers, this my baby.
The clouds are a marriage dress, of that pallor.
2 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第158首
小赋格
紫杉的黑手指摇摆着；
冷冷的云朵从上方行走。
聋子和哑巴就这样
给瞎子发出信号，但都被忽视。
我喜欢黑色的申述。
此刻，那云的特征——无！
白得像一只全白的眼！
船上，盲钢琴师的眼睛
在我的桌子上。
他摸着食物，
手指有黄鼠狼的鼻子。
我无法不盯着看。
他能够听懂贝多芬：
黑色紫杉，白色的云，
令人悚然的蕴意。
手指的陷阱——琴键的骚乱。
空，愚蠢，像盘子，
所以那瞎子笑了。
我羡慕那些盛大的噪音，
《大赋格》的紫杉树篱。
耳聋，是另一回事。
一支暗黑的烟囱，我的父亲！
我看见了你的嗓音，
黑的，长了很多树叶，和我童年时一样，
等级严明的紫杉树篱，
哥特式的，野蛮的，纯粹德国人。
那儿传来死人的哭叫。
没有事令我有犯罪感。
那么，紫杉是我的基督。
它不也同样经受折磨？
而你，当世界大战时，
却在加州的熟食店，
剁着香肠！
它们为我的梦着色，
红色，杂色，像砍断的脖子。
一片死寂！
另一种等级的巨大死寂。
我当年七岁，懵懂无知。
世界生发。
你有一条腿，以及一个普鲁士头脑。
现在，相似的云朵
正在铺展它们茫然的床单。
你什么也没说吧？
在记忆中，我瘸腿。
我记得一只蓝眼睛，
一公文包的金橘。
那么，这是一个男人！
黑黑地，死亡打开，像一株黑树。
我挺过了这段时光，
安排着我的清晨。
这些是我的手指，这是我的小孩。
云朵是一件婚纱，有那种苍白。
1962年4月2日
No.158
Little Fugue
The yew's black fingers wag;
Cold clouds go over.
So the deaf and dumb
Signal the blind, and are ignored.
I like black statements.
The featurelessness of that cloud, now!
White as an eye all over!
The eye of the blind pianist
At my table on the ship.
He felt for his food.
His fingers had the noses of weasels.
I couldn't stop looking.
He could hear Beethoven:
Black yew, white cloud,
The horrific complications.
Finger-traps---a tumult of keys.
Empty and silly as plates,
So the blind smile.
I envy the big noises,
The yew hedge of the Grosse Fuge.
Deafness is something else.
Such a dark funnel, my father!
I see your voice
Black and leafy, as in my childhood,
A yew hedge of orders,
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
Dead men cry from it.
I am guilty of nothing.
The yew my Christ, then.
Is it not as tortured?
And you, during the Great War
In the California delicatessen
Lopping the sausages!
They color my sleep,
Red, mottled, like cut necks.
There was a silence!
Great silence of another order.
I was seven, I knew nothing.
The world occurred.
You had one leg, and a Prussian mind.
Now similar clouds
Are spreading their vacuous sheets.
Do you say nothing?
I am lame in the memory.
I remember a blue eye,
A briefcase of tangerines.
This was a man, then!
Death opened, like a black tree, blackly.
I survive the while,
Arranging my morning.
These are my fingers, this my baby.
The clouds are a marriage dress, of that pallor.
2 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第158首
小赋格
紫杉的黑手指摇摆着；
冷冷的云朵从上方行走。
聋子和哑巴就这样
给瞎子发出信号，但都被忽视。
我喜欢黑色的申述。
此刻，那云的特征——无！
白得像一只全白的眼！
船上，盲钢琴师的眼睛
在我的桌子上。
他摸着食物，
手指有黄鼠狼的鼻子。
我无法不盯着看。
他能够听懂贝多芬：
黑色紫杉，白色的云，
令人悚然的蕴意。
手指的陷阱——琴键的骚乱。
空，愚蠢，像盘子，
所以那瞎子笑了。
我羡慕那些盛大的噪音，
《大赋格》的紫杉树篱。
耳聋，是另一回事。
一支暗黑的烟囱，我的父亲！
我看见了你的嗓音，
黑的，长了很多树叶，和我童年时一样，
等级严明的紫杉树篱，
哥特式的，野蛮的，纯粹德国人。
那儿传来死人的哭叫。
没有事令我有犯罪感。
那么，紫杉是我的基督。
它不也同样经受折磨？
而你，当世界大战时，
却在加州的熟食店，
剁着香肠！
它们为我的梦着色，
红色，杂色，像砍断的脖子。
一片死寂！
另一种等级的巨大死寂。
我当年七岁，懵懂无知。
世界生发。
你有一条腿，以及一个普鲁士头脑。
现在，相似的云朵
正在铺展它们茫然的床单。
你什么也没说吧？
在记忆中，我瘸腿。
我记得一只蓝眼睛，
一公文包的金橘。
那么，这是一个男人！
黑黑地，死亡打开，像一株黑树。
我挺过了这段时光，
安排着我的清晨。
这些是我的手指，这是我的小孩。
云朵是一件婚纱，有那种苍白。
1962年4月2日
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Plath: An Appearance
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 159
An Appearance
The smile of iceboxes annihilates me.
Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one!
I hear her great heart purr.
From her lips ampersands and percent signs
Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals
Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions?
I wear white cuffs, I bow.
Is this love then, this red material
Issuing from the steel needle that flies so blindingly?
It will make little dresses and coats,
It will cover a dynasty.
How her body opens and shuts—
A Swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges!
O heart, such disorganization!
The stars are flashing like terrible numerals.
ABC, her eyelids say.
4 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第159首
外貌
冷藏箱的微笑毁灭我。
我至爱的人，脉管里有如此的蓝血流！
我听到她强劲的心跳的呼哧声。
百分比与并且的符号，从她的唇间
蹦出，像亲吻一样。
她的心灵是星期一：道德
自我洗涤，自我呈现。
我该怎样去理解这些矛盾？
我衣领袖口有白卷边，我弯着腰。
那么，这是爱吗？这种红色材料
从飞得令人目眩的钢针中流出来。
它将会缝制小衣裳和外套，
它将会覆盖一个朝代。
看她的身体展开又闭合——
一只瑞士手表，用珠宝焊接！
哦，心啊，怎会如此紊乱！
星星闪现着，像可怕的数字。
ABC，她的眼帘说道。
1962年4月4日
No. 159
An Appearance
The smile of iceboxes annihilates me.
Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one!
I hear her great heart purr.
From her lips ampersands and percent signs
Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals
Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions?
I wear white cuffs, I bow.
Is this love then, this red material
Issuing from the steel needle that flies so blindingly?
It will make little dresses and coats,
It will cover a dynasty.
How her body opens and shuts—
A Swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges!
O heart, such disorganization!
The stars are flashing like terrible numerals.
ABC, her eyelids say.
4 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第159首
外貌
冷藏箱的微笑毁灭我。
我至爱的人，脉管里有如此的蓝血流！
我听到她强劲的心跳的呼哧声。
百分比与并且的符号，从她的唇间
蹦出，像亲吻一样。
她的心灵是星期一：道德
自我洗涤，自我呈现。
我该怎样去理解这些矛盾？
我衣领袖口有白卷边，我弯着腰。
那么，这是爱吗？这种红色材料
从飞得令人目眩的钢针中流出来。
它将会缝制小衣裳和外套，
它将会覆盖一个朝代。
看她的身体展开又闭合——
一只瑞士手表，用珠宝焊接！
哦，心啊，怎会如此紊乱！
星星闪现着，像可怕的数字。
ABC，她的眼帘说道。
1962年4月4日
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Plath: Crossing the Water
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 160
Crossing the Water
Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.
A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.
Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;
Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.
4 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第160首
渡水
黑的湖，黑的船，两个黑的剪纸人。
在此汲水的黑树，哪里去了？
它们的阴影肯定盖住加拿大。
一缕幽光透过水的花朵滤出。
它们的叶子不愿我们匆匆划过。
它们圆圆的，平平的，满腹幽暗的劝告。
冷冷的世界因船桨而晃动。
黑的精灵在我们内心，在鱼的内心。
一截树棍举起苍白的，告别的手；
星星开放在睡莲丛中。
难道你没因这些毫无表情的水妖而失明？
这沉默，来自被惊呆了的生灵。
1962年4月4日
No. 160
Crossing the Water
Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.
A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.
Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;
Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.
4 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第160首
渡水
黑的湖，黑的船，两个黑的剪纸人。
在此汲水的黑树，哪里去了？
它们的阴影肯定盖住加拿大。
一缕幽光透过水的花朵滤出。
它们的叶子不愿我们匆匆划过。
它们圆圆的，平平的，满腹幽暗的劝告。
冷冷的世界因船桨而晃动。
黑的精灵在我们内心，在鱼的内心。
一截树棍举起苍白的，告别的手；
星星开放在睡莲丛中。
难道你没因这些毫无表情的水妖而失明？
这沉默，来自被惊呆了的生灵。
1962年4月4日
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Plath: Among the Narcissi
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 161
Among the Narcissi
Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks,
Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi.
He is recuperating from something on the lung.
The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing:
It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy
Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks.
There is a dignity to this; there is a formality--
The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending.
They bow and stand: they suffer such attacks!
And the octogenarian loves the little flocks.
He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing.
The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.
5 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第161首
水仙丛中
敏捷，扭曲，灰暗如三月的树枝，
珀西身穿蓝色的水手尼夹克，弯着腰，在水仙丛中。
他在休养，肺部长了东西。
水仙花也弯着腰，对着某个庞然大物：
它不停地对这片绿山上的星星说话，珀西
在这儿调养他缝合的苦头，来回散步。
对待这一切，有一种尊严；一种礼仪——
鲜花栩栩如生，如绷带，而这男人在修补。
它们弯了腰，又站直：承受这许多侵袭！
而八十高龄的人，爱着这些小小的群聚。
他很忧伤；凌厉的风考验着他的呼吸。
水仙花抬眼一瞥，孩子似地，很快，苍白。
1962年4月5日
No. 161
Among the Narcissi
Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks,
Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi.
He is recuperating from something on the lung.
The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing:
It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy
Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks.
There is a dignity to this; there is a formality--
The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending.
They bow and stand: they suffer such attacks!
And the octogenarian loves the little flocks.
He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing.
The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.
5 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第161首
水仙丛中
敏捷，扭曲，灰暗如三月的树枝，
珀西身穿蓝色的水手尼夹克，弯着腰，在水仙丛中。
他在休养，肺部长了东西。
水仙花也弯着腰，对着某个庞然大物：
它不停地对这片绿山上的星星说话，珀西
在这儿调养他缝合的苦头，来回散步。
对待这一切，有一种尊严；一种礼仪——
鲜花栩栩如生，如绷带，而这男人在修补。
它们弯了腰，又站直：承受这许多侵袭！
而八十高龄的人，爱着这些小小的群聚。
他很忧伤；凌厉的风考验着他的呼吸。
水仙花抬眼一瞥，孩子似地，很快，苍白。
1962年4月5日
Friday, October 30, 2009
Plath: Pheasant
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 162
Pheasant
You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.
I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.
That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The tail-track, on the snow in our court—
The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.
But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill—green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!
It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,
Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
7 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第162首
野鸡
你说你会在今天早晨将它杀掉。
不要杀吧。它至今仍令我震惊，
那奇怪的黑头顶上的突起，缓步
穿过榆树山上没人修剪的草坪。
拥有一只野鸡，算是有点特别，
哪怕只是供人参观。
我不信什么神秘主义：它也并非
如我所想象的那样拥有灵魂。
那只是在于它的元素。
那赋予它一种君王的威严，一种权利。
去年冬天，它大脚的印记，
尾巴的痕迹，在我们院子的雪上——
它的惊艳，带着那样的苍白，
映衬着麻雀与八哥交叉飞过的阴影。
这不正是它的难得么？它确实难得。
但一打之数还是值得拥有，
一百只，在那座小山上——有绿有红，
走来又走去：一种优美的生灵！
它有那么美妙的身形，如此生动。
它是一只小小的丰饶角。
它扑闪着收起翅膀，有叶子的褐色，嘹亮，
栖息在榆树上，怡然自得。
它在水仙丛中晒太阳。
我傻兮兮地侵入。放过它，放过它。
1962年4月7日
No. 162
Pheasant
You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.
I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.
That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The tail-track, on the snow in our court—
The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.
But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill—green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!
It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,
Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
7 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第162首
野鸡
你说你会在今天早晨将它杀掉。
不要杀吧。它至今仍令我震惊，
那奇怪的黑头顶上的突起，缓步
穿过榆树山上没人修剪的草坪。
拥有一只野鸡，算是有点特别，
哪怕只是供人参观。
我不信什么神秘主义：它也并非
如我所想象的那样拥有灵魂。
那只是在于它的元素。
那赋予它一种君王的威严，一种权利。
去年冬天，它大脚的印记，
尾巴的痕迹，在我们院子的雪上——
它的惊艳，带着那样的苍白，
映衬着麻雀与八哥交叉飞过的阴影。
这不正是它的难得么？它确实难得。
但一打之数还是值得拥有，
一百只，在那座小山上——有绿有红，
走来又走去：一种优美的生灵！
它有那么美妙的身形，如此生动。
它是一只小小的丰饶角。
它扑闪着收起翅膀，有叶子的褐色，嘹亮，
栖息在榆树上，怡然自得。
它在水仙丛中晒太阳。
我傻兮兮地侵入。放过它，放过它。
1962年4月7日
Monday, October 26, 2009
Plath: Elm
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 163
Elm
For Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—
Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
19 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第163首
榆树
——致茹丝•芬莱特
我了解那底部，她说。我以巨大的主根了解它：
那是你的恐惧所在。
我不怕它：我已去过。
你在我深处听到的可是大海，
以及它的不满？
或是虚空之声，你的疯狂？
爱是一个影子。
你撒着谎，哭喊着穷追不舍。
听啊：它的蹄声。它已经跑开，像一匹马。
我也将彻夜这样奔腾，狂野地，
直到你的头化为石头，枕头化为一方小小的赛马场，
回响，回响。
或者，我应给你带来毒药的声音？
它现在化作雨了，这巨大的静寂。
这就是它的果实：锡白色，像砒霜。
我已饱经日落的暴行。
我红色的丝
烤焦到根部，燃烧，竖起，一只铁丝的手。
现在，我断成碎片，棍棒似地飞散出去。
如此暴力的风
不会容忍旁观：我必须尖叫。
月亮也绝不仁慈：她会拖住我，
残酷地，因为她不育。
她的辐射灼伤了我。或许，是我不放过她。
我放她走了。我放走了她，
萎缩了，干瘪了，像经过了彻底的手术。
你的恶梦占有了我，也馈赠我。
我被一种啼哭附了身。
它夜夜扑闪而出，
以它的钩爪，寻找值得一爱的东西。
这黑暗的东西睡在我的体内，
吓得我魂不附体；
我整天都感到它轻柔的羽毛似的转动，它的恶毒。
云朵飘过，云朵疏散。
那些一去不回的苍白，都是爱的面孔吗？
我心神不宁，是否因为这一切？
我无力承受更多知识。
这是什么，这张充满杀机
被树枝掐住的脸，是什么？——
它毒蛇的酸液嘶嘶有声。
它僵化着意志。这些孤立的、迟缓的缺陷
能够致命，致命，致命。
1962年4月19日
No. 163
Elm
For Ruth Fainlight
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—
Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
19 April 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第163首
榆树
——致茹丝•芬莱特
我了解那底部，她说。我以巨大的主根了解它：
那是你的恐惧所在。
我不怕它：我已去过。
你在我深处听到的可是大海，
以及它的不满？
或是虚空之声，你的疯狂？
爱是一个影子。
你撒着谎，哭喊着穷追不舍。
听啊：它的蹄声。它已经跑开，像一匹马。
我也将彻夜这样奔腾，狂野地，
直到你的头化为石头，枕头化为一方小小的赛马场，
回响，回响。
或者，我应给你带来毒药的声音？
它现在化作雨了，这巨大的静寂。
这就是它的果实：锡白色，像砒霜。
我已饱经日落的暴行。
我红色的丝
烤焦到根部，燃烧，竖起，一只铁丝的手。
现在，我断成碎片，棍棒似地飞散出去。
如此暴力的风
不会容忍旁观：我必须尖叫。
月亮也绝不仁慈：她会拖住我，
残酷地，因为她不育。
她的辐射灼伤了我。或许，是我不放过她。
我放她走了。我放走了她，
萎缩了，干瘪了，像经过了彻底的手术。
你的恶梦占有了我，也馈赠我。
我被一种啼哭附了身。
它夜夜扑闪而出，
以它的钩爪，寻找值得一爱的东西。
这黑暗的东西睡在我的体内，
吓得我魂不附体；
我整天都感到它轻柔的羽毛似的转动，它的恶毒。
云朵飘过，云朵疏散。
那些一去不回的苍白，都是爱的面孔吗？
我心神不宁，是否因为这一切？
我无力承受更多知识。
这是什么，这张充满杀机
被树枝掐住的脸，是什么？——
它毒蛇的酸液嘶嘶有声。
它僵化着意志。这些孤立的、迟缓的缺陷
能够致命，致命，致命。
1962年4月19日
Monday, October 19, 2009
Plath: The Rabbit Catcher
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 164
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves--
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship--
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第164首
捕兔器
它是力量之所在——
风，以我飘乱的头发，堵我的嘴，
撕开我的声音，而大海
用它的光击瞎了我，死者的生命
在海中卷开，铺展，像油一样。
我尝过荆豆的恶毒，
它的黑色荚果，
那黄色蜡烛花给临死者涂抹的油。
它们有一种效率，一种雄伟的美，
并且铺张恣纵，就像折磨。
只有一个地方可去。
文火煨，加了香料，
小径都变窄，进了那个窟窿。
诱捕器几乎都隐去了面目——
所有的零，关闭着虚空，
缩紧，如分娩的阵痛。
尖叫的缺失
在大热天制造一个窟窿，一个空档。
玻璃似的光，是一堵清澈的墙，
灌木沉静。
我感到一种凝滞的忙碌，一个意图。
我感到双手捧着茶缸，迟钝而生硬，
围握着这白瓷。
而它们等啊，等着他，那些小小的死！
它们像情人一样等他。令他兴奋。
而我们，我们也有一层关系——
绷紧的线牵着我们，
木栓插得很深，难以拔起，还有一种指环似的心思，
滑落，套紧在某个极快的东西上，
那一紧缩也杀死了我。
1962年5月21日
No. 164
The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves--
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship--
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第164首
捕兔器
它是力量之所在——
风，以我飘乱的头发，堵我的嘴，
撕开我的声音，而大海
用它的光击瞎了我，死者的生命
在海中卷开，铺展，像油一样。
我尝过荆豆的恶毒，
它的黑色荚果，
那黄色蜡烛花给临死者涂抹的油。
它们有一种效率，一种雄伟的美，
并且铺张恣纵，就像折磨。
只有一个地方可去。
文火煨，加了香料，
小径都变窄，进了那个窟窿。
诱捕器几乎都隐去了面目——
所有的零，关闭着虚空，
缩紧，如分娩的阵痛。
尖叫的缺失
在大热天制造一个窟窿，一个空档。
玻璃似的光，是一堵清澈的墙，
灌木沉静。
我感到一种凝滞的忙碌，一个意图。
我感到双手捧着茶缸，迟钝而生硬，
围握着这白瓷。
而它们等啊，等着他，那些小小的死！
它们像情人一样等他。令他兴奋。
而我们，我们也有一层关系——
绷紧的线牵着我们，
木栓插得很深，难以拔起，还有一种指环似的心思，
滑落，套紧在某个极快的东西上，
那一紧缩也杀死了我。
1962年5月21日
Monday, October 12, 2009
Plath: Event
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 165
Event
How the elements solidify!—
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
Back to back. I hear an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
Then there are the stars---ineradicable, hard.
One touch: it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.
Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第165首
事件
元素这般凝聚！——
月光，这白垩的绝壁，
它的裂缝之间躺着我们，
背对着背。我听到一声猫头鹰的哀叫
从它冷冷的靛蓝中传来。
难忍的元音扎入我心底。
白色摇篮中，孩子翻着身，叹息，
此刻正张着嘴，乞求着。
他的小脸映刻在痛苦的红木上。
而又有星星纷呈——抹不掉，坚硬。
一碰：它便焚烧，病倒。
我不能看你的眼睛。
在苹果花冻结了夜晚之地，
我在指环中绕圈子，
古老缺陷的槽沟，很深，很苦。
爱情到不了这里。
黑色缺口自我暴露。
在对面的嘴唇上，
白色小生灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
1962年5月21日
Diary 070521
We Touch Like Cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸
写了一首诗，写了一篇日记，突然又想到普拉斯的一首诗，于是在写这个日记。这首诗叫做Event《事件》，其中有这样的句子：
爱情不可能来到这里。
暗黑的缺口彰显了自身。
在对面的嘴唇上
娇小的白色精灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也同样弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗正在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
原文：
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
两个无法相爱的人，彼此之间的爱犹如消失在黑洞一般的空隙中。而那曾有的在嘴唇上蠕动的生机（爱意）如今犹如小肉虫（小蛆）。关键的是，她觉得似乎面对着正在流走的黑暗（也就是之前的黑色距离中的物质），感到那融化的黑暗也融化了自己的肢体（“我的四肢，同样地，也弃我而去”）。而她却无法说出到底是谁到底为何（“是谁肢解了我们？”）。我不知道她是否有一种反思？
我写自己的那首诗时，美国一个画家的一幅画在脑子里。怀斯Andrew Wyeth的Christina's World《克里斯蒂娜的世界》，描述的是一个残疾姑娘，怅望着阳光普照的山坡顶上的房屋。
我想到的关键却是，如何接近一个残疾人。而这里的残疾实际上更是一种心灵状态。这是一种很悖论的说法。心中有爱，因此残疾的世界也可以充满感恩之心。然而，之所以残疾，却又是因为爱的未能满足。
普拉斯说的是：We touch like cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸。我们被爱情致残，然而因为有爱，所以又能克服残障。自古就有人说：爱情是一种病。如果用身体来表达，爱情就是残障。或者，如果按照另一种创世神话来说，男人女人原本是一个人，因为雌雄同体太完美了，于是被剖成两半，注定要一生寻找另一半。于是，人都是残缺的。
小时候，还听到家乡的老人讲，神造人的时候，用的是泥捏的，捏好后，放在太阳底下晒，突然下起了雷暴雨，于是神便用大扫帚扫，结果有的眼睛被戳下了，就成瞎子了，有的脸上被戳得斑斑点点，于是就变成了麻子，而有的小鸡鸡被扫掉下来，就成了女孩了。哈哈，这倒是和弗洛伊德的说法很接近了。实际上，所有的神话都将女人视为缺少了某个部件的男人。这是否说明从神话文化角度看，女人一直被认为不可以主动去爱，而男人必然因为器官的突出而采取主动呢？
昨天另一首诗的草稿中有这样的句子：
I fall into slumber and wake to the cold dampness
which my protruding limbs linger to warm
like a hen brooding a nest egg.
中文意思：
我沉入睡眠，然后醒于一片冷湿
我突出的肢体流连不去
犹如一只抱窝的母鸡焐暖了引蛋。
此刻写成中文，突然觉得不敢去睡觉了；犹如一场爱情事件是一个引蛋（养鸡人用假的鸡蛋吸引母鸡到鸡窝里下蛋）。普拉斯的《事件》或许也是如此，她也认识到了爱情不过是一只引蛋，因此她说我们像没有突出的器官一样的两个女人彼此触摸，然而这种的触摸不正是彰显了我们的缺失么？
亲爱的，我们都是瘸子。
No. 165
Event
How the elements solidify!—
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
Back to back. I hear an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
Then there are the stars---ineradicable, hard.
One touch: it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.
Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
21 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第165首
事件
元素这般凝聚！——
月光，这白垩的绝壁，
它的裂缝之间躺着我们，
背对着背。我听到一声猫头鹰的哀叫
从它冷冷的靛蓝中传来。
难忍的元音扎入我心底。
白色摇篮中，孩子翻着身，叹息，
此刻正张着嘴，乞求着。
他的小脸映刻在痛苦的红木上。
而又有星星纷呈——抹不掉，坚硬。
一碰：它便焚烧，病倒。
我不能看你的眼睛。
在苹果花冻结了夜晚之地，
我在指环中绕圈子，
古老缺陷的槽沟，很深，很苦。
爱情到不了这里。
黑色缺口自我暴露。
在对面的嘴唇上，
白色小生灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
1962年5月21日
Diary 070521
We Touch Like Cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸
写了一首诗，写了一篇日记，突然又想到普拉斯的一首诗，于是在写这个日记。这首诗叫做Event《事件》，其中有这样的句子：
爱情不可能来到这里。
暗黑的缺口彰显了自身。
在对面的嘴唇上
娇小的白色精灵在挥手，一只白色小肉虫。
我的四肢也同样弃我而去。
是谁肢解了我们？
黑暗正在融化。我们像瘸子似地触摸。
原文：
Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip
A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?
The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.
两个无法相爱的人，彼此之间的爱犹如消失在黑洞一般的空隙中。而那曾有的在嘴唇上蠕动的生机（爱意）如今犹如小肉虫（小蛆）。关键的是，她觉得似乎面对着正在流走的黑暗（也就是之前的黑色距离中的物质），感到那融化的黑暗也融化了自己的肢体（“我的四肢，同样地，也弃我而去”）。而她却无法说出到底是谁到底为何（“是谁肢解了我们？”）。我不知道她是否有一种反思？
我写自己的那首诗时，美国一个画家的一幅画在脑子里。怀斯Andrew Wyeth的Christina's World《克里斯蒂娜的世界》，描述的是一个残疾姑娘，怅望着阳光普照的山坡顶上的房屋。
我想到的关键却是，如何接近一个残疾人。而这里的残疾实际上更是一种心灵状态。这是一种很悖论的说法。心中有爱，因此残疾的世界也可以充满感恩之心。然而，之所以残疾，却又是因为爱的未能满足。
普拉斯说的是：We touch like cripples 我们像瘸子似地触摸。我们被爱情致残，然而因为有爱，所以又能克服残障。自古就有人说：爱情是一种病。如果用身体来表达，爱情就是残障。或者，如果按照另一种创世神话来说，男人女人原本是一个人，因为雌雄同体太完美了，于是被剖成两半，注定要一生寻找另一半。于是，人都是残缺的。
小时候，还听到家乡的老人讲，神造人的时候，用的是泥捏的，捏好后，放在太阳底下晒，突然下起了雷暴雨，于是神便用大扫帚扫，结果有的眼睛被戳下了，就成瞎子了，有的脸上被戳得斑斑点点，于是就变成了麻子，而有的小鸡鸡被扫掉下来，就成了女孩了。哈哈，这倒是和弗洛伊德的说法很接近了。实际上，所有的神话都将女人视为缺少了某个部件的男人。这是否说明从神话文化角度看，女人一直被认为不可以主动去爱，而男人必然因为器官的突出而采取主动呢？
昨天另一首诗的草稿中有这样的句子：
I fall into slumber and wake to the cold dampness
which my protruding limbs linger to warm
like a hen brooding a nest egg.
中文意思：
我沉入睡眠，然后醒于一片冷湿
我突出的肢体流连不去
犹如一只抱窝的母鸡焐暖了引蛋。
此刻写成中文，突然觉得不敢去睡觉了；犹如一场爱情事件是一个引蛋（养鸡人用假的鸡蛋吸引母鸡到鸡窝里下蛋）。普拉斯的《事件》或许也是如此，她也认识到了爱情不过是一只引蛋，因此她说我们像没有突出的器官一样的两个女人彼此触摸，然而这种的触摸不正是彰显了我们的缺失么？
亲爱的，我们都是瘸子。
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Plath: Apprehensions
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 166
Apprehensions
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A gray wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only a sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two gray, papery bags—
This is what I am made of, this and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietàs.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
28 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第166首
忧惧
这儿是堵白墙，天空在其上方创造自身——
无限、幽绿、绝对不可触及。
天使们游弋其中，星星也同样，漠然。
它们是我的灵媒。
太阳在这堵墙上消融，出血似地流出光。
现在是一堵灰墙，长着爪子，血迹斑斑。
难道就没门道可走出这种心境？
我脊背的旋梯，通向一口井。
这个世界里，没有树，也没有鸟，
只有一种酸涩。
这堵红墙退缩又退缩：
一只红拳头，张开又捏紧，
两只灰色的、薄纸的袋子——
我便由这一切制成，除了这一切再加上恐惧，
怕自己被压在十字架和圣殇图下用轮车推走。
一堵黑墙上，无人认识的鸟儿
旋转着头，一圈圈地，凄鸣。
它们之间，绝无永生这个话题！
冷漠的空茫逼近我们：
它们移动得很仓促。
1962年5月28日
No. 166
Apprehensions
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A gray wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only a sourness.
This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two gray, papery bags—
This is what I am made of, this and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietàs.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.
28 May 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第166首
忧惧
这儿是堵白墙，天空在其上方创造自身——
无限、幽绿、绝对不可触及。
天使们游弋其中，星星也同样，漠然。
它们是我的灵媒。
太阳在这堵墙上消融，出血似地流出光。
现在是一堵灰墙，长着爪子，血迹斑斑。
难道就没门道可走出这种心境？
我脊背的旋梯，通向一口井。
这个世界里，没有树，也没有鸟，
只有一种酸涩。
这堵红墙退缩又退缩：
一只红拳头，张开又捏紧，
两只灰色的、薄纸的袋子——
我便由这一切制成，除了这一切再加上恐惧，
怕自己被压在十字架和圣殇图下用轮车推走。
一堵黑墙上，无人认识的鸟儿
旋转着头，一圈圈地，凄鸣。
它们之间，绝无永生这个话题！
冷漠的空茫逼近我们：
它们移动得很仓促。
1962年5月28日
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Plaht: Berck-Plage 6&7
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(6)
The natural fatness of these lime leaves!—
Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church.
The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,
Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glitter of wheat and crude earth.
What is the name of that color?—
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,
Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,
Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her face like fine linen,
Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,
Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,
And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（六）
这些酸橙叶，自然的富态！——
修剪成绿球状的灌木，向教堂行进。
牧师的嗓音，在稀薄的空气中，
与尸体相遇在大门口，
对它致辞，而群山涌起丧钟的音符；
麦子的闪烁应和古朴的大地。
那种颜色有什么名字？——
太阳治愈了裂墙的旧血污，
残肢的旧血污，烧焦的心。
那寡妇带着黑色袖珍书和三个女儿，
花丛中必需的，
她把脸折叠起来，像精纺的麻布，
再不让它展开。
而天空，蠕动着弃置的笑容，
飘出一朵又一朵云。
新娘的花已耗尽了鲜气，
灵魂便是一个新娘，
幽居于静谧之所，新郎则鲜红而健忘，没有五官。
(7)
Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.
And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.
And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,
Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips
Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children
Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,
Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing—
Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.
For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.
30 June 1962
（七）
这辆车的玻璃后，
那世界嘟嘟哝哝，隔绝而雍雅。
我一身黑礼服，静默，这场聚会的一员，
挂着低档，跟在灵车后滑步。
牧师是一条船，
一块涂了柏油的布，忧戚、呆滞，
跟着棺材，而那辆花车就像一个漂亮女人，
乳房、眼帘与嘴唇的浪峰
如风暴抽打山巅。
然后，木栅隔开的庭院里，孩子们
闻到黑鞋油熔化的味道，
他们背过脸去，无言，迟缓，
眼睛睁大，盯着
一件奇妙的东西——
草地里的六顶黑色圆帽，一块菱形的木头，
还有一张裸露的嘴，鲜红而笨拙。
恍惚间，天空像血浆一般泻进那个洞穴。
毫无希望了，已彻底放弃。
1962年6月30日
原编者注：伯克海滨是诺曼底海岸的一个海滩，普拉斯曾在1961年6月去过。那儿有一所医院俯瞰大海，供伤残老兵和交通事故的受害者在沙滩上锻炼疗养。诗中提到的葬礼是指Percy Key。Key死于1962年6月，离普拉斯去伯克海滨刚好一年。
译按：Percy Key是诗人住在Devon时的隔壁邻居。他得癌症去世时诗人一直在他身边。另外有一首诗《水仙丛中》也是写他的。
第7节第7行中的“花车”是指老式葬礼上的手推车。手推车上放着棺材，棺材上堆放花圈花环，走在送葬车队的前面。
第7节第16行中的“嘴，鲜红而笨拙”：这是指墓穴。当地墓园中的土和底土都是红色的。
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(6)
The natural fatness of these lime leaves!—
Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church.
The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,
Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glitter of wheat and crude earth.
What is the name of that color?—
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,
Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,
Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her face like fine linen,
Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,
Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,
And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
（六）
这些酸橙叶，自然的富态！——
修剪成绿球状的灌木，向教堂行进。
牧师的嗓音，在稀薄的空气中，
与尸体相遇在大门口，
对它致辞，而群山涌起丧钟的音符；
麦子的闪烁应和古朴的大地。
那种颜色有什么名字？——
太阳治愈了裂墙的旧血污，
残肢的旧血污，烧焦的心。
那寡妇带着黑色袖珍书和三个女儿，
花丛中必需的，
她把脸折叠起来，像精纺的麻布，
再不让它展开。
而天空，蠕动着弃置的笑容，
飘出一朵又一朵云。
新娘的花已耗尽了鲜气，
灵魂便是一个新娘，
幽居于静谧之所，新郎则鲜红而健忘，没有五官。
(7)
Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.
And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.
And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,
Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips
Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children
Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,
Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing—
Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.
For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.
30 June 1962
（七）
这辆车的玻璃后，
那世界嘟嘟哝哝，隔绝而雍雅。
我一身黑礼服，静默，这场聚会的一员，
挂着低档，跟在灵车后滑步。
牧师是一条船，
一块涂了柏油的布，忧戚、呆滞，
跟着棺材，而那辆花车就像一个漂亮女人，
乳房、眼帘与嘴唇的浪峰
如风暴抽打山巅。
然后，木栅隔开的庭院里，孩子们
闻到黑鞋油熔化的味道，
他们背过脸去，无言，迟缓，
眼睛睁大，盯着
一件奇妙的东西——
草地里的六顶黑色圆帽，一块菱形的木头，
还有一张裸露的嘴，鲜红而笨拙。
恍惚间，天空像血浆一般泻进那个洞穴。
毫无希望了，已彻底放弃。
1962年6月30日
原编者注：伯克海滨是诺曼底海岸的一个海滩，普拉斯曾在1961年6月去过。那儿有一所医院俯瞰大海，供伤残老兵和交通事故的受害者在沙滩上锻炼疗养。诗中提到的葬礼是指Percy Key。Key死于1962年6月，离普拉斯去伯克海滨刚好一年。
译按：Percy Key是诗人住在Devon时的隔壁邻居。他得癌症去世时诗人一直在他身边。另外有一首诗《水仙丛中》也是写他的。
第7节第7行中的“花车”是指老式葬礼上的手推车。手推车上放着棺材，棺材上堆放花圈花环，走在送葬车队的前面。
第7节第16行中的“嘴，鲜红而笨拙”：这是指墓穴。当地墓园中的土和底土都是红色的。
Plath: Berck-Plage 3, 4&5
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。
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。
Plath: Berck-Plage 1&2
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(1)
This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.
Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.
Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly.
A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices
Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,
Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?
Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers
Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.
The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
一
这，便是海了，这宏大的搁置。
太阳的药膏就这么吸我的炎症。
冰冻果露有触电的颜色，被苍白的女孩
从冰柜中舀出，在烫伤的手中穿行于空气。
为什么如此安静，她们隐藏了什么？
我双腿俱全，笑盈盈地随处走动。
沙土缓波堤抑止了波振；
它延伸数哩，嗓音萎缩，
漂浮着，没有支撑，只剩原来的一半。
一排排眼睛，被这些光秃的外表灼伤，
弹去又弹回，像锚定的橡皮，伤及主人。
他戴墨镜，这还会令人吃惊吗？
他一身黑，冒充法衣，还会令人吃惊吗？
现在，他走来了，穿过鲐鱼贩子，
他们的后背排成墙壁，挡开他。
他们在搬弄那些菱形块，黑的、绿的，像是身体部件。
大海，将这一切化为晶体，
爬开，若许多条蛇，发出长长的怅然的嘶嘶声。
(2)
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dead foot,
The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,
The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hide in the dunes,
Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,
While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed—
Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.
O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....
And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material
Through a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.
（二）
这只黑靴子对谁都毫不仁慈。
它有何必要，它只是一只死人脚的灵车，
这是牧师的脚，高傲，死板，没脚趾。
他铅锤般坠入他那本书的井底，
弯曲的字符在眼前隆起，像风景。
淫荡的比基尼掩藏在沙丘中，
乳房和屁股，是糖果店里的
小小的结晶糖块，逗得光线发痒，
而一池绿水大睁着眼睛，
因为吞下的东西而呕心——
肢体、图像、尖叫。在混凝土掩体后面，
两位情侣分开了粘在一起的身体。
哦，白色的海洋陶器，
几多杯状的叹息、喉咙中有几多的盐……
旁观者，颤颤悠悠，
像一种长长的材料，拖拽着
穿过一片静止的恶毒，
而一株野草，毛茸茸的，有如下体。
No. 167
Berck-Plage
(1)
This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.
Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.
Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly.
A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices
Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,
Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?
Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers
Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.
The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.
普拉斯《诗全编》
第167首
伯克海滨
一
这，便是海了，这宏大的搁置。
太阳的药膏就这么吸我的炎症。
冰冻果露有触电的颜色，被苍白的女孩
从冰柜中舀出，在烫伤的手中穿行于空气。
为什么如此安静，她们隐藏了什么？
我双腿俱全，笑盈盈地随处走动。
沙土缓波堤抑止了波振；
它延伸数哩，嗓音萎缩，
漂浮着，没有支撑，只剩原来的一半。
一排排眼睛，被这些光秃的外表灼伤，
弹去又弹回，像锚定的橡皮，伤及主人。
他戴墨镜，这还会令人吃惊吗？
他一身黑，冒充法衣，还会令人吃惊吗？
现在，他走来了，穿过鲐鱼贩子，
他们的后背排成墙壁，挡开他。
他们在搬弄那些菱形块，黑的、绿的，像是身体部件。
大海，将这一切化为晶体，
爬开，若许多条蛇，发出长长的怅然的嘶嘶声。
(2)
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dead foot,
The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,
The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hide in the dunes,
Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,
While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed—
Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.
O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....
And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material
Through a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.
（二）
这只黑靴子对谁都毫不仁慈。
它有何必要，它只是一只死人脚的灵车，
这是牧师的脚，高傲，死板，没脚趾。
他铅锤般坠入他那本书的井底，
弯曲的字符在眼前隆起，像风景。
淫荡的比基尼掩藏在沙丘中，
乳房和屁股，是糖果店里的
小小的结晶糖块，逗得光线发痒，
而一池绿水大睁着眼睛，
因为吞下的东西而呕心——
肢体、图像、尖叫。在混凝土掩体后面，
两位情侣分开了粘在一起的身体。
哦，白色的海洋陶器，
几多杯状的叹息、喉咙中有几多的盐……
旁观者，颤颤悠悠，
像一种长长的材料，拖拽着
穿过一片静止的恶毒，
而一株野草，毛茸茸的，有如下体。
Friday, October 2, 2009
Plath: The Other
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 168
The Other
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep--
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They are not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit--
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
2 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第168首
另一个人
你回来吃了，抹着嘴唇。
我放在门阶上没人碰过的是什么——
白色的胜利女神，
从我的墙壁之间流出？
蓝色闪电，笑盈盈地，
想象着他各部位的沉重，像挂肉的钩子。
警察喜欢你，一切你都坦白。
闪亮的头发，鞋子的黑，旧塑料，
我的生活这么引人好奇吗？
就因为这一点，你才眼圈大开？
就因这一点，空气的尘粒便会消散？
它们不是空气的尘粒，是血球微粒。
打开你的手袋。那恶心的味道是什么？
是你的毛线活，匆忙之间，
自己钩住了自己。
那是你已经粘手的糖果。
我的墙上有你的头。
脐带，蓝红色，剔透，
从我腹中尖啸而出，像箭一样，而我乘着它们奔驰。
月亮的幽光啊，病着的人啊，
被盗走的良马，大理石的
子宫被通奸行径围绕。
你要到哪里去？
——你吸一口气就像吞掉好几英里。
奸情散发硫磺味，在梦中悲痛。
冷玻璃，你究竟如何
插入我的自己与自己之间。
我像猫一样乱抓。
流淌的鲜血是暗黑的果实——
一种效果，一种化妆品。
你微笑着。
不，这并不能致命。
1962年7月2日
No. 168
The Other
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep--
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They are not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit--
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
2 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第168首
另一个人
你回来吃了，抹着嘴唇。
我放在门阶上没人碰过的是什么——
白色的胜利女神，
从我的墙壁之间流出？
蓝色闪电，笑盈盈地，
想象着他各部位的沉重，像挂肉的钩子。
警察喜欢你，一切你都坦白。
闪亮的头发，鞋子的黑，旧塑料，
我的生活这么引人好奇吗？
就因为这一点，你才眼圈大开？
就因这一点，空气的尘粒便会消散？
它们不是空气的尘粒，是血球微粒。
打开你的手袋。那恶心的味道是什么？
是你的毛线活，匆忙之间，
自己钩住了自己。
那是你已经粘手的糖果。
我的墙上有你的头。
脐带，蓝红色，剔透，
从我腹中尖啸而出，像箭一样，而我乘着它们奔驰。
月亮的幽光啊，病着的人啊，
被盗走的良马，大理石的
子宫被通奸行径围绕。
你要到哪里去？
——你吸一口气就像吞掉好几英里。
奸情散发硫磺味，在梦中悲痛。
冷玻璃，你究竟如何
插入我的自己与自己之间。
我像猫一样乱抓。
流淌的鲜血是暗黑的果实——
一种效果，一种化妆品。
你微笑着。
不，这并不能致命。
1962年7月2日
Friday, September 25, 2009
Plath: Words heard, by accident, over the phone
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 169
Words heard, by accident, over the phone
O mud, mud, how fluid!—
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.
What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a listener.
Is he here?
Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel—
You are too big. They must take you back!
11 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第169首
意外听到电话上的只言片语
啊，淤泥，淤泥，多么溜滑！——
稠得像外国咖啡，带着粘乎乎的脉动。
说话呀，说话！你是谁？
那是内脏的脉动，消化物的情人。
正是他从牙缝中挤出这些音节。
这些字说的什么，说的什么？
它们像淤泥啪嗒啪嗒落下。
上帝啊，那电话台，我怎么还能擦得干净？
它们从听筒的许多小空中挤出来，它们在寻找一个听众。
他在这儿吗？
现在整个房间都嘶嘶有声，那只仪器
缩回了它的触角。
但它产的卵渗滤过了我的心。它们能繁殖。
污泥漏斗，污泥漏斗！——
你太大了。它们必须将你收回去！
1962年7月11日
Monday, September 21, 2009
Plath: Poppies in July
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 170
Poppies in July
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!--
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
20 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第170首
七月的罂粟花
小小的罂粟花，地狱的小火舌，
你于人无害？
你闪烁。我不能触摸。
我将双手置于火舌间。没烫着手。
看着你，我感到心力交瘁，
你如此闪烁，多皱而鲜红，像某张嘴的皮。
刚刚流过血的嘴。
血呼呼的小裙子！
到处是我不能触及的气味。
你的鸦片酊哪去了，那些催吐的荚果？
但愿我能流血，或者入睡！——
但愿我的嘴能像你那样委身于伤口！
要么，你的烈酒渗进我，在这玻璃荚果中，
一直变味、走气。
但没有颜色。没有颜色。
1962年7月20日
No. 170
Poppies in July
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!--
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
20 July 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第170首
七月的罂粟花
小小的罂粟花，地狱的小火舌，
你于人无害？
你闪烁。我不能触摸。
我将双手置于火舌间。没烫着手。
看着你，我感到心力交瘁，
你如此闪烁，多皱而鲜红，像某张嘴的皮。
刚刚流过血的嘴。
血呼呼的小裙子！
到处是我不能触及的气味。
你的鸦片酊哪去了，那些催吐的荚果？
但愿我能流血，或者入睡！——
但愿我的嘴能像你那样委身于伤口！
要么，你的烈酒渗进我，在这玻璃荚果中，
一直变味、走气。
但没有颜色。没有颜色。
1962年7月20日
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Plath: Burning the Letters
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 171
Burning the Letters
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket.
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in its hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.
This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles.
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.
So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me—
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say to anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in its weird blue dreams,
Involved as a foetus.
And a name with black edges
Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom—
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like—
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
13 August 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第171首
焚信
我生了火；因为厌倦
旧情书的白拳头
以及它们死亡唠叨，
我离废纸篓太近了。
我不这样它们能知道什么？
一颗接一颗，它们展开
沙粒，本来那儿有碧水似的梦
咧着嘴笑，像溃逃的汽车。
我并不机巧，
爱啊，爱，好吧，我厌倦了
纸箱，水泥色，或者卑鄙的一摞
一腔愤恨，
呆呆地，屏息守在一帮红夹克男人下面，
邮戳的眼睛和日期。
这火舌可能会轻舔慢吞，但不是慈悲：
一只玻璃盒，
我的手指可以伸进去，不过
它们已熔化，松塌，已被告知
“不可触摸”。
这儿，信的终点，
这些欢快的钩子曲意奉承，粲然微笑，微笑。
起码，那是个不错的地方，小阁楼。
起码，我不会被从表皮下串起来，
哑巴的鱼
有一只铁皮眼，
看着火光，
驶过我那介于
这个愿望与那个愿望之间的北极圈。
所以我穿着居家便服，搅起这些碳鸟。
它们比我那些无形的猫头鹰来得漂亮，
能安慰我——
升腾且飞翔，但已经瞎了。
它们会鼓翼而去，黑黑的、闪着光，会化作煤天使，
只是它们没有话要说给任何人。
这一点我已做到。
用耙子的牙齿
扬起片片像活人一样呼吸的薄纸，
将它们挥散，
落入黄色生菜与德国包菜之间，
卷进这些菜的蓝色怪梦，
像一只胚胎卷入其中。
一个带着黑边的名字
在我脚下枯萎，
蛇行兰花，
长在厌倦与根须绒毛的巢穴中——
苍白的眼睛，黑漆合成革的喉音！
温雨油润我的头发，扑灭不了任何东西。
我的脉管如树木生长。
这些狗在撕裂一只狐狸。大概也就如此吧——
一次红色的爆裂，一声惨叫，
那叫声从撕开的皮囊中尖嚣而起，不因为
那只死眼睛
以及塞满填料的表情而停止，而是进一步
映染空气，
告诉云朵的微粒、树叶以及流水，
什么叫做不朽。这才是不朽。
1962 年8月13日
No. 171
Burning the Letters
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket.
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in its hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.
This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles.
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.
So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me—
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say to anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in its weird blue dreams,
Involved as a foetus.
And a name with black edges
Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom—
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like—
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
13 August 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第171首
焚信
我生了火；因为厌倦
旧情书的白拳头
以及它们死亡唠叨，
我离废纸篓太近了。
我不这样它们能知道什么？
一颗接一颗，它们展开
沙粒，本来那儿有碧水似的梦
咧着嘴笑，像溃逃的汽车。
我并不机巧，
爱啊，爱，好吧，我厌倦了
纸箱，水泥色，或者卑鄙的一摞
一腔愤恨，
呆呆地，屏息守在一帮红夹克男人下面，
邮戳的眼睛和日期。
这火舌可能会轻舔慢吞，但不是慈悲：
一只玻璃盒，
我的手指可以伸进去，不过
它们已熔化，松塌，已被告知
“不可触摸”。
这儿，信的终点，
这些欢快的钩子曲意奉承，粲然微笑，微笑。
起码，那是个不错的地方，小阁楼。
起码，我不会被从表皮下串起来，
哑巴的鱼
有一只铁皮眼，
看着火光，
驶过我那介于
这个愿望与那个愿望之间的北极圈。
所以我穿着居家便服，搅起这些碳鸟。
它们比我那些无形的猫头鹰来得漂亮，
能安慰我——
升腾且飞翔，但已经瞎了。
它们会鼓翼而去，黑黑的、闪着光，会化作煤天使，
只是它们没有话要说给任何人。
这一点我已做到。
用耙子的牙齿
扬起片片像活人一样呼吸的薄纸，
将它们挥散，
落入黄色生菜与德国包菜之间，
卷进这些菜的蓝色怪梦，
像一只胚胎卷入其中。
一个带着黑边的名字
在我脚下枯萎，
蛇行兰花，
长在厌倦与根须绒毛的巢穴中——
苍白的眼睛，黑漆合成革的喉音！
温雨油润我的头发，扑灭不了任何东西。
我的脉管如树木生长。
这些狗在撕裂一只狐狸。大概也就如此吧——
一次红色的爆裂，一声惨叫，
那叫声从撕开的皮囊中尖嚣而起，不因为
那只死眼睛
以及塞满填料的表情而停止，而是进一步
映染空气，
告诉云朵的微粒、树叶以及流水，
什么叫做不朽。这才是不朽。
1962 年8月13日
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