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| 2025/03/22 06:05:28瀏覽89｜回應0｜推薦2 | |
| Selected poems：馬克．斯特蘭德的《一個人的暴風雪》 書名：一個人的暴風雪 作者：馬克．斯特蘭德（Mark Strand） 譯者：桑婪 出版社：湖南文藝 出版日期：2025/01 《一個人的暴風雪》為馬克·斯特蘭德詩集《我們生活的故事》的續作，收錄斯特蘭德後半生（1980—2012）6部重要詩集，包括《詩選》《持續的生活》《黑色港灣》《一個人的暴風雪》《人與駱駝》和《近乎隱形》，輯錄逾百首佳作。 馬克·斯特蘭德，影響一代美國詩人的桂冠詩人，一生獲獎無數，其詩歌被翻譯成30多種語言。他被稱為「深沈的異化哀悼者」。他機敏、剋制，以深刻的智慧講述我們被遮蔽的生活故事：有關現代生活的孤獨、被異化、焦慮，以及面對廣闊世界時的無力感。 〈小說〉 我想起小說中人們 無辜的生命，他們知道自己會死去 但不知小說將收尾。他們與我們多麼 不同啊。此刻，月亮默然向下凝視， 穿過疏落的雲，照在沈睡的城鎮， 風將落葉吹攏， 有人——也就是我——深陷在椅子裡， 快速翻閱剩下的書頁，知道對於出租屋裡的 男人和女人，對於門上的紅燈，對於把搖曳的陰影 投在牆上的鳶尾而言，時日已無多；對於樹下 沿河列隊的士兵， 對於被送到內陸城市並將 留在那裡的傷兵而言，時日已無多； 持續多年的激戰將要結束， 其他一切也如此，除了一種 難以定義的存在，一抹痕跡，像雨夜過後 青草的芳香，或一段聲音的殘響， 它無須言說，就可以讓我們知道 不用絕望；如果結局來臨，它同樣也會過去。 FICTION I think of the innocent lives Of people in novels who know theyll die But not that the novel will end. How different they are From us. Here, the moon stares dumbly down, Through scattered clouds, onto the sleeping town, And the wind rounds up the fallen leaves, And somebody-namely me-deep in his chair, Riffles the pages left, knowing theres not Much time for the man and woman in the rented room, For the red light over the door, for the iris Tossing its shadow against the wall; not much time For the soldiers under the trees that line The river, for the wounded being hauled away To the cities of the interior where they will stay; The war that raged for years will come to a close, And so will everything else, except for a presence Hard to define, a trace, like the scent of grass After a night of rain or the remains of a voice That lets us know without spelling it out Not to despair; if the end is come, it too will pass. 〈外光派〉 儘管它簡潔、輕微，並無什麼需 長久記憶的內容，我卻仍記得它， 就好像它來自內部，來自頭腦為自我 設定的一個場景，夜復一夜，只是 為了告別，迅速而毫無預兆。陽光 在谷底流淌，照耀在這座城鎮 朝西的窗上。街道河流般發光， 樹叢、灌木和雲朵陷在流溢的光中， 沒什麼是多餘的，我們坐的沙發不是， 地毯不是，我們凝望著太空的朋友也不是。 一切浸沒在金色的火焰裡。然後菲利普 放下他的眼鏡，說：“這隻手只是 無限之手中的一隻。想像一下。” 就是這樣。天光暗淡，夜色漸深， 直到西邊天際顯露出 紫色的瘀傷，每個人都站立著 說剛剛是一場多麼美妙的日落。這是在不久前， 它不同尋常，但那時發生了別的事—— 一聲呼喊，幾乎聽不見，一點一點提高， 彷彿穿越時間來觸動我們，沒有其他事物會如此， 它如此輕微，我們可能窮盡一生也不明所以。 直到現在，我仍不清楚它到底意味著什麼。 Luminism And though it was brief, and slight, and nothing To have been held onto so long, I remember it, As if it had come from within, one of the scenes The mind sets for itself, night after night, only To part from, quickly and without warning. Sunlight Flooded the valley floor and blazed on the town’s Westward facing windows. The streets shimmered like rivers, And trees, bushes, and clouds were caught in the spill, And nothing was spared, not the couch we sat on, Nor the rugs, nor our friends, staring off into space. Everything drowned in the golden fire. Then Philip Put down his glass and said: “This hand is just one In an infinite series of hands. Imagine.” And that was it. The evening dimmed and darkened Until the western rim of the sky took on The purple look of a bruise, and everyone stood And said what a great sunset it had been. This was a while ago, And it was remarkable, but something else happened then— A cry, almost beyond our hearing, rose and rose, As if across time, to touch us as nothing else would, And so lightly we might live out our lives and not know. I had no idea what it meant until now. 〈它是什麼〉 What it was 1 想像是不可能的，不去想像 也是不可能的；它的湛藍，它投下的陰影， 向下滑落，用它自己的寒冷填滿黑暗， 它的寒冷從它自身掉落，從它掉落時 它描述的任何自身的想法中掉落；某物，微小， 一個點，一粒塵埃，一粒塵埃中的塵埃，一個無盡深遠的 微小；一首歌，但算不上一首歌，沈浸於自身的 某物，進行著的某物，洪水般湧來的一個聲音，但算不上 是聲音；它的終點，它的空白， 它柔軟的小小的空白充滿它的回聲，而後下降， 又不經意地上升，再次上升，總是如此， 總是因為，僅僅因為，曾經成為，它自己 I It was impossible to imagine, impossible Not to imagine; the blueness of it, the shadow it cast, Falling downward, filling the dark with the chill of itself, The cold of it falling out of itself, out of whatever idea Of itself it described as it fell; a something, a smallness, A dot, a speck, a speck within a speck, an endless depth Of smallness; a song, but less than a song, something drowning Into itself, something going, a flood of sound, but less Than a sound; the last of it, the blank of it, The tender small blank of it filling its echo, and falling, And rising unnoticed, and falling again, and always thus, And always because, and only because, once having been, it was... 2 它是一張椅子的開始； 它是灰色的沙發椅；它是牆，是花園，是石子路；它是荒廢的 月光照射在她頭髮上的方式。 它是那樣，它是更多。它是風撕扯著 樹木；它是雲的騷動與混亂，是灑滿 繁星的海濱。它是好像在說 如果你知道確切的時間，你將不再 要求任何事情的時刻。它是那樣。確定無疑。 它也是從未發生的事物——一個如此盈滿的時刻 以至於當它離開，如它所必須的那樣，沒有更大的悲傷 能容納它。它是時隔多年之後 仍舊沒有變化的那間屋子。它是那樣。它是她忘記 帶走的帽子，是她遺留在桌子上的筆。 它是我手上的太陽。它是太陽的熱度。它是我 坐的方式，我數時數日等待的方式。它是那樣。只是那樣。 II It was the beginning of a chair; It was the gray couch; it was the walls, The garden, the gravel road; it was the way The ruined moonlight fell across her hair. It was that, and it was more. It was the wind that tore At the trees; it was the fuss and clutter of clouds, the shore Littered with stars. It was the hour which seemed to say That if you knew what time it really was, you would not Ask for anything again. It was that. It was certainly that. It was also what never happened - a moment so full That when it went, as it had to, no grief was large enough To contain it. It was the room that appeared unchanged After so many years. It was that. It was the hat Shed forgotten to take, the pen she left on the table. It was the sun on my hand. It was the suns heat. It was the way I sat, the way I waited for hours, for days. It was that. Just that. 〈風景〉 獻給德里克·沃爾克特 就是這裡。椅子潔白。桌子發光。 有人坐在那裡，凝視著蒼白的微光。 風反復地將空氣來回搬動， 像是要清理出一個空間。“一個給我的空間。”他想。 他總是被天氣的消失吸引， 它安排著自己，因而悲痛——即使是最為私人的—— 也可以從遠處被看出。一長條的雲 與太陽在廣闊的海上懸掛，太陽 毫無特徵，在海的背後沉沒——關於這個故事的 溫和版本僅有一次被講述，但總是太晚，如果這是真的。 女侍者將他的飲料端來，他舉起它，對著 漸弱的光線，但只有那麼一會兒。 它紅色的反光染上他的襯衫。天空慢慢黑下去， 風減弱了，風景變得崇高。它紫色的席捲 似乎，在這輕易的黃昏中，不僅僅是一個 在那兒的理由，一個看見它的理由，而像是一種 快樂，好像簡單的事實就已足夠並將持續。 The View For Derek Walcott This is the place. The chairs are white. The table shines. The person sitting there stares at the waxen glow. The wind moves the air around, repeatedly, As if to clear a space. ‘A space for me, he thinks. Hes always been drawn to the weather of leavetaking, Arranging itself so that grief - even the most intimate - Might be read from a distance. A long shelf of cloud Hangs above the open sea with the sun, the sun Of no distinction, sinking behind it - a mild version Of the story that is told just once if true, and always too late. The waitress brings his drink, which he holds Against the waning light, but just for a moment. Its red reflection tints his shirt. Slowly the sky becomes darker, The wind relents, the view sublimes. The violet sweep of it Seems, in this effortless nightfall, more than a reason For being there, for seeing it, seems itself a kind Of happiness, as if that plain fact were enough and would last. 〈無題〉 關於那首滑進你口袋的詩《可愛的人》， 它這樣開始：“我不斷想到我們，超人，我們 怎樣飛來飛去地說：‘你好，我是某某，你是誰？，” 多年後你才想去讀它。但此刻 在松樹淡紫色的樹蔭下，時間 似乎剛好。紙上唯餘一種激情的塵埃 和影像的黑色殘片。她曾如此美麗， 你那時認為，那首詩也是如此。 淡紫化為灰燼。雲朵消失。她 此刻在何處？那個在她屋外站了好幾小時的 男孩在何處？他太晚才明白，在漫無目的的 時刻，有些事情總是注定要發生。 Untitled As for the poem the Adorable One slipped into your pocket, Which began, "I think continually about us, the superhuman, how We fly around saying, Hi. Im So-and-So, and who are you?" It has been years since you bothered to read it. But now In this lavender light under the shade of the pines the time Seems right. The dust of a passion, the dark crumble of images Down the page are all that remain. And she was beautiful, And the poem, you thought at the time, was equally so. The lavender turns to ash. The clouds disappear. Where Is she now? And where is that boy who stood for hours Outside her house, learning too late that something is always About to happen just at the moment it serves no purpose at all? |
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| ( 知識學習｜隨堂筆記 ) |
