不分行短詩五首
【美】馬克·斯特蘭德? ? ? ? 陳子弘 譯
1.? 何處不是遠方
我或許來自高原，也或是來自低地，我記不起到底是哪個。我或許來自城市, 但我更不知道是哪國哪城。我或許來自別人來自過要不然是只有我來自過的某城近郊。誰知？誰來定是下雨還是出太陽？誰記得？他們說邊境出事，但哪個邊境無人知曉。他們正談及的酒店, 你在那忘帶行李箱也無啥所謂, 另有一個還會等著你, 寬敞, 正適合你。
譯注：高原，原文high country一般指美國北卡羅來納州卡羅來納高原地區(qū)； 低地，原文low country一般指美國南卡羅來納州沿海低地地區(qū)
2. 詩人被深埋的憂郁
他依然還年輕的某個夏天，站在窗前，他遙想她們?nèi)チ撕畏?，那些臨海而坐的女人，邊看海，邊等著永不會到來的東西，風(fēng)輕拂她們肌膚，松散的發(fā)絲掠過她們紅唇。她們從哪個季節(jié)開始墮落？從哪里拋卻良善誤入歧途？之前很久，他就看到她們靚麗而孤單，閑散卻沉重，上演著希望渺茫的悲情故事。此即某夏，他游蕩進奇異之夜，游蕩進黑暗海洋，仿佛頭次披露心跡，但他披露的是黑暗，他得到的是夜晚。
3. 歲月悠悠以后
朦朦輕霧、繁星不現(xiàn)、海洋氣息的殘跡，那個漫步的孤獨身影，一小股激浪般的危險圍著轉(zhuǎn)很不要臉，弄懂自家要干什么要成什么之前很久已經(jīng)服軟，現(xiàn)如今，他的手伸出一如要問候未來，他走近我，細(xì)數(shù)話中微妙之處。而我看見了他，我過世已久的叔叔，在突如其來的陽光下偉岸而金光閃閃，他預(yù)言要與歲月同壽，與我同在，并說這是我的期待。
4. 落日時的神傷
忙碌一天空蕩蕩的心回到家中?？帐幨幍男某丝仗撝械目瞻讋e無其它。掃清余燼耗費心力，徒勞的努力不堪重負(fù)?？仗撝纳n白，無力而且未老先衰，又如何緊隨初心發(fā)動。但這掙扎如泥牛入海?？帐幨幍男挠羞`內(nèi)心的命令。它獨坐幽篁，白日夢, 空虛增長。
5. 無人明白何為已知
一男一女就在火車上。男的說：“我們要去某個地方？我不想，這次不這樣。已經(jīng)是下個世紀(jì)，看看我們在何方。何處是它鄉(xiāng)。告訴我，格溫多琳，我們登車時，為什么我們不知會有如今？” “振作點哦，”格溫多琳說?；疖嚧┻^白雪皚皚無際的平川；不會有一個城鎮(zhèn)等待它到來，不會有一個城鎮(zhèn)悲戚它的離去。它只是繼續(xù)行進，它以夢一般的腳步在蒼茫大地滑行為目的，發(fā)出悲傷的呼嘯，這呼嘯在寒冷中慢慢消耗。
譯自斯特蘭德詩集《幾乎看不見》Strand, Mark - Almost Invisible (2012, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group）
【詩人簡介】馬克·斯特蘭德(Mark Strand，1934年4月11日-2014年11月29日) 是加拿大出生的美國詩人, 散文家和翻譯家。他于1990年被美國國會圖書館任命為桂冠詩人, 并于2004年獲得了華萊士史蒂文斯獎。2005年他任哥倫比亞大學(xué)英語和比較文學(xué)教授, 直到2014年去世。他通常被歸為新超現(xiàn)實主義陣營，該陣營還有詹姆斯·迪基、默溫、高爾韋·金內(nèi)爾、唐納德·霍爾、查爾斯·西米奇和約翰·海恩斯等詩人。這個流派普遍受到西班牙和拉美超現(xiàn)實主義的影響，竭力擺脫思想意識的控制，深入挖掘潛意識領(lǐng)域，富有夢幻色彩，而夢幻作為清醒和睡眠的中介，既不受理性機制的審查，又可以感知夢的全部過程，記錄下意識與無意識、內(nèi)在世界與外在世界的交流與對照，因而可以最大程度地使精神的隱喻活動得到解放。
“本譯文及所附英文原文僅供個人研習(xí)、欣賞語言之用，謝絕任何轉(zhuǎn)載及用于任何商業(yè)用途。本譯文所涉法律后果均由本人承擔(dān)。本人同意簡書平臺在接獲有關(guān)著作權(quán)人的通知后，刪除文章?！?/b>
Anywhere Could Be Somewhere
I might have come from the high country, or maybe the low country, I don’t recall which. I might have come from the city, but what city in what country is beyond me. I might have come from the outskirts of a city from which others have come or maybe a city from which only I have come. Who’s to know? Who’s to decide if it rained or the sun was out? Who’s to remember? They say things are happening at the border, but nobody knows which border. They talk of a hotel there, where it doesn’t matter if you forgot your suitcase, another will be waiting, big enough, and just for you.
The Buried Melancholy of the Poet
One summer when he was still young he stood at the window and wondered where they had gone, those women who sat by the ocean, watching, waiting for something that would never arrive, the wind light against their skin, sending loose strands of hair across their lips. From what season had they fallen, from what idea of grace had they strayed? It was long since he had seen them in their lonely splendor, heavy in their idleness, enacting the sad story of hope abandoned. This was the summer he wandered out into the miraculous night, into the sea of dark, as if for the first time, to shed his own light, but what he shed was the dark, what he found was the night.
Ever So Many Hundred Years Hence
Down the milky corridors of fog, starless scenery, the rubble of ocean’s breath, that lone figure strolling, gathering about him without shame a small flood of damages, concessions to a frailty which was his long before he knew what he must do or what he must be, and now, with his hand outstretched as if to greet the future, he comes close and pours out to me the subtlety of his meaning and I see him, my long-lost uncle, great and golden in the sudden sunlight, who predicted that he would reach over the years and be with me and that I would be waiting.
Exhaustion at Sunset
The empty heart comes home from a busy day at the office. And what is the empty heart to do but empty itself of emptiness. Sweeping out the unsweepable takes an effort of mind, the fruitless exertion of faculties already burdened. Poor empty heart, old before its time, how it struggles to do what the mind tells it to do. But the struggle comes to nothing. The empty heart cannot do what the mind commands. It sits in the dark, daydreams, and the emptiness grows.
Nobody Knows What Is Known
A man and a woman were on a train. The man said, “Are we going someplace? I don’t think so, not this time. This is already the next century, and look where we are. Nowhere. Tell me, Gwendolyn, when we boarded the train, why hadn’t we known this day would come?” “Snap out of it,” Gwendolyn said. The train was crossing an endless, snow-covered plain; no town awaited its arrival, no town lamented its departure. It simply kept going, and that was its purpose—to slither dreamlike over blank stretches of country, issuing sorrowful wails that would slowly fade in the cold.
From Strand, Mark - Almost Invisible (2012, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group）
www.aaknopf.com/poetry
