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主题 : 安妮·塞克斯顿(ANNE·SEXTON)诗选译
级别: 一年级

0楼  发表于: 2015-04-07   主页: http://site.douban.com/212372/

安妮·塞克斯顿(ANNE·SEXTON)诗选译

管理提醒: 本帖被 姜海舟 执行取消置顶操作(2016-07-03)
目录:
《你,马丁医生》
《好先生:这些树林》
《来自荣耀生活的俯冲》
《音乐向我游回》
《星夜》


你,马丁医生

你,马丁医生,散步
从早餐到疯狂。八月下旬,
我快速穿过消毒的过道
那里,动弹的死人们仍在谈论要
迫使他们的骨骼反抗药剂的
效力。而我,是今年夏季旅馆的女王
或者死亡茎秆上大笑的

蜜蜂。我们站成虚线,
等候他们打开门,在晚餐冰冷的
门口将我们清点。说着陈词滥调,
我们穿上微笑的罩衫向肉汁移动。
我们排着队咀嚼,我们的碟子
刮擦,如学校粉笔的

哀号。这里没有刀
割破你的喉咙。整个上午
我都在做鹿皮鞋。起初我的手
一直摊开,让它们曾工作的
生命放松。现在我试着
收回它们,每根愤怒的手指,命令
我去修补另一个将在明天坏掉的

东西。当然,我爱你;
你斜倚在塑料天空上,
我们的社区之神,所有狐狸的王子。
杰克带的断冠是新制的。你的第三只眼
在我们中间穿梭,点亮隔离的盒子,
我们在那里面睡觉或哭泣。

这里,我们是一群大孩子。
在这最好的病房,所有人中
我长得最高。你的生意是人,
你视察这精神病院,带着个神示般的
眼睛在我们巢穴。在大厅外,
对讲电话呼叫着你。在狡猾孩子们的
牵引下,你打转,他们倒下去

如严寒里生命的洪水。
而我们着了魔般自说自话,
嘈杂并孤独。我是我所有被遗忘的
罪恶的女王。难道我还在迷失?
曾经我是美丽的。现在我是我自己,
清点着这排和那排的鹿皮鞋,
它们正在沉默的架子上等候。
                              ——《去拜蒂厄姆精神病院中途返回》1960


好先生:这些树林

这世上,一个人只需闭上眼转个圈就会晕眩….只有当我们晕眩…我们就开始发现我们自己
——梭罗,《瓦尔登湖》

好先生:这是个我们
八九岁①时就玩过的老游戏。
有时在缅因州下游的岛上,
八月下旬,当冷雾从海上吹来,
丁格利•戴尔②和爷爷村舍间的
那片森林就变得雪白和诡异。
那情形就好像每颗松树都是一根根
我们从不认识的褐色杆子;好像白天
被重新排进了黑夜,蝙蝠在太阳下飞舞。
这是个你转个圈就知道自己晕眩的把戏;
就知道乌鸦的号角正在黑暗里哭叫,
就知道晚餐再也不会到来,海岸的
厄运叫喊,来自远处浮标的铃声,
在说:你的保姆已经走了。哦,*****③,
小船摇翻了。然后你死了。
转个圈,闭紧眼,脑子里有观念。

好先生:我也晕了,和你一样,
我已经闭上眼转了两个圈,
当树林是白的,我夜晚的心看见
如此诡异的事发生,没听说过,也不真实。
而睁开眼,我自然不敢看
——这世人嘲笑的内在模样——
我还在这片树林里寻找,在葡萄和荆棘间,
我突然明白没什么比我更糟。
                                  ——《去拜蒂厄姆精神病院中途返回》1960

译注:
① 原文直译为八岁和十岁,此处翻译为了生动而意译为八九岁。
② Dingley Dell 丁格利•戴尔。狄更斯在小说《匹克威克外传》中写有丁格利•戴尔庄园。
③ 原文为法语,Mademoiselle 法语,“*****”。此处表现了一种讽刺养尊处优的口吻。


来自荣耀生活的俯冲

整日,我们注视着海鸥
在醒目的天空高处
骑风驰的过山车。
在那里,
在整个神圣的蓝色世界,
它们尖叫在陆地的切片处。

现在,如孩童般,
我们带着一包
剩下的小面包,
从岩石凸起攀援而下,
在石头上轻轻的分食它们,
留下六块面包皮给年轻的王者。

独处的注视者鹰隼般飞来,
突然跃起,
骑着当下的饥饿之轮
张开如丝般雕花的羽毛
擦着水面,出现。

又来了
从拍浪上滑翔而过。
带来了它的族群,如空气里
下坠的羽翅之城。
它们在等待,每只都如木制假鸟
或像鸽子般温柔,亦或
如可爱舒心的鸭子:
直到一只突然出击,移动利箭般的鸟喙
划破空气。它得到了面包。

这个世界充满了它们,
野兽的世界,
为了一块面包屑岩石而相互戳刺,
仅有四只抢得面包,
然后荡过格罗斯特
飞去天空的高处。
哦,看它们怎么
减轻吞了伙伴面包屑的
咸腥的肚皮。


音乐向我游回

等等,先生。哪里是回家的路?
她们关掉灯,
黑暗走进角落。
这个房间没有标牌,
四个妇女,年过八十,
穿着花格衣裳。

啦啦啦,哦,音乐向我游回,
我能感受到她们演奏的曲调
在留给我的夜晚,
在这小山上的私人会所。

想象一下。收音机在演奏着,
每个人都在这狂欢着。
我喜欢这样,围成圆圈跳舞。
音乐从感官里溢了出来
更好玩的是,
音乐看上去比我还多。
我是说这一切回想起来更美好;
当想起在这的第一个夜晚。

是在冷得让人窒息的十一月,
连星星都被冻在了夜空,
月亮十分明亮,
光线从窗栏中穿过来附上我
脑子里响起了歌声,
让我忘记了一切。

早上八点,她们把我锁在椅子上,
毫无迹象表明会这样。
只有收音机仍在打着节拍,
这歌比我记得还多。
哦,啦啦啦,
音乐向我游了回来。
晚上我曾来过,曾跳了一圈舞,
曾并不害怕。
是不是,先生?


星夜

那并不能阻挡我极度的渴求——我会说出这个词——宗教。于是,在夜晚我走出去,画星星。
                                                                                ——摘自文森特• 梵高给他弟弟的信

这个小镇并不存在
除了一颗黑发的树
站立如溺亡在炎热天空里的女人
小镇沉默。夜晚带着十一颗星星沸腾。
哦,星夜星夜!我多愿
就这么死去。

夜空旋转。它们如此鲜活。
甚至月亮也在橙色烙印中鼓起,
从眼中,挤出孩子们,如一个神。
古老的隐匿之蛇吞噬群星。
哦,星夜星夜!我多愿
就这么死去。

进入那奔走的夜之巨兽
被那巨龙吸尽,从我的生命
剥离,没有痕迹
没有腹部
没有哭喊
                     ——All My Pretty Ones , Houghton, 1962.《我所有的美丽》1962.
译注:该诗是对梵高绘画作品《星夜》的描写。


附原文:

YOU, DOCTOR MARTIN

You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the door and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore. Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.


KIND SIR: THESE WOODS  

For a man needs only to be turned around once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost. . . . Not till we are lost . . . do we begin to find ourselves.
                                                             Thoreau, Walden

Kind Sir: This is an old game
that we played when we were eight and ten.
Sometimes on The Island, in down Maine,
in late August, when the cold fog blew in
off the ocean, the forest between Dingley Dell
and grandfather’s cottage grew white and strange.
It was as if every pine tree were a brown pole
we did not know; as if day had rearranged
into night and bats flew in sun. It was a trick
to turn around once and know you were lost;
knowing the crow’s horn was crying in the dark,
knowing that supper would never come, that the coast’s
cry of doom from that far away bell buoy’s bell
said your nursemaid is gone. O Mademoiselle,
the rowboat rocked over. Then you were dead.
Turn around once, eyes tight, the thought in your head.

Kind Sir: Lost and of your same kind
I have turned around twice with my eyes sealed
and the woods were white and my night mind
saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal.
And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course
to look — this inward look that society scorns —
Still, I search in these woods and find nothing worse
than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns.

(written in February 1959, from To Bedlam and Part Way back, 1960)


Torn Down From Glory Daily

All day we watched the gulls
striking the top of the sky
and riding the blown roller coaster.
Up there
godding the whole blue world
and shrieking at a snip of land.

Now, like children,
we climb down humps of rock
with a bag of dinner rolls,
left over,
and spread them gently on stone,
leaving six crusts for an early king.

A single watcher comes hawking in,
rides the current round its hunger
and hangs
carved in silk
until it throbs up suddenly,
out, and one inch over water;

to come again
smoothing over the slap tide.
To come bringing its flock, like a city
of wings that fall from the air.
They wait, each like a wooden decoy
or soft like a pigeon or
a sweet snug duck:
until one moves, moves that dart-beak
breaking over. It has the bread.

The world is full of them,
a world of beasts
thrusting for one rock.
Just four scoop out the bread
and go swinging over Gloucester
to the top of the sky.
Oh see how
they cushion their fishy bellies
with a brother's crumb.


Music Swims Back to Me

Wait Mister. Which way is home?  
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.  
There are no sign posts in this room,  
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.

La la la, Oh music swims back to me  
and I can feel the tune they played  
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.

Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.  
Music pours over the sense  
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.

It was the strangled cold of November;  
even the stars were strapped in the sky  
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me  
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.

They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.  
and there are no signs to tell the way,  
just the radio beating to itself  
and the song that remembers  
more than I. Oh, la la la,  
this music swims back to me.  
The night I came I danced a circle  
and was not afraid.
Mister?



The Starry Night

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
            ——All My Pretty Ones , Houghton, 1962.
级别: 总版主

1楼  发表于: 2015-04-07   主页: http://blog.sina.com.cn/u/1147554082
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