玛丽•奥利弗的诗(6首)

◎呐石



呐石 /译

玛丽•奥利弗(Mary Oliver)(1935-2019),当代美国重要诗人,1935年9月10日生于俄亥俄州枫树岭,13岁开始写诗,1953年前往纽约。1955年至1956年玛丽回到俄亥俄州,就读于俄亥俄州立大学,毕业后再赴纽约。1962年玛丽前往伦敦,任职于移动影院有限公司和莎士比亚剧场。著有诗集及诗文集二十余部,曾获普利策奖、全美图书奖等多种诗歌奖项。她的诗歌多来源于自然,来源于日常生活的体验,诗行间充满了喜悦、和谐和淡淡的惆怅,其表现手法多样化,有更强大的知性与想象力。



当死神降临
 
当死神降临
好似秋天里饥饿的熊;
当死神降临,倾尽他钱包里闪亮的硬币
 
来收买我,然后啪的一声合上钱包;
当死神降临
好似麻疹水痘
 
当死神降临
好似肩胛骨之间的一座冰山,
 
我想穿过那道门,满是好奇,寻思:
它会是什么样子,那黑暗的小屋?
 
因此我把一切视为
兄弟姐妹,
我把时间只是视作一个概念,
我认为永恒是另一种可能,
 
我把每个生命看作一朵花,普通得
如同一朵野雏菊,又那么独特,
 
每个名字都是一首舒适的音乐,
如同所有的音乐一样趋于寂静,
 
每个身体都是无畏的狮子,也是大地上
弥足珍贵的东西。
 
当一切终了,我想说,这一生
我是钟情于惊奇的新娘。
我是把世界拥入怀抱的新郎。
 
当一切终了,我不想纠结于
我的生命是否特别而真实。
 
我不想看到自己叹息和恐惧,
或者据理力争。
 
我不想只是来过这个世界。
 
When Death Comes-----by Mary Oliver
 
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
 
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
 
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
 
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
 
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
 
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
 
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
 
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
 
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
 
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
 
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
 
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.



白色的花
 
昨夜
在田野里
我躺在黑暗之中
想到了死亡,
可是我却陷入沉睡,
好似在一个倾斜的巨大房间里
里面满是白色的花朵
它们整个夏天开放
在温暖的田野,
湿软而凌乱。
当我醒来时
晨曦从星子前
慢慢划过,
而我被花朵
簇拥着。
我不知道
这是怎么回事——
我不知道
是否我的身体钻进了
甜香的葡萄树下
进入了与深度睡眠
相似的东西,是否
那绿色的能量
似波浪一样起伏
把我缠绕,让我消失
在它结实的臂弯里。
我推开它们,却没有起身。
今生我从未感到如此地舒适,
或如此地难以捉摸,
或者如此华丽的虚空。
今生我从未
感觉如此地接近
那有渗透性的界线
我自己的身体在此完结
而根、茎和花朵在此
开始。
 
White Flowers-----by Mary Oliver
 
Last night
in the fields
I lay down in the darkness
to think about death,
but instead I fell asleep,
as if in a vast and sloping room
filled with those white flowers
that open all summer,
sticky and untidy,
in the warm fields.
When I woke
the morning light was just slipping
in front of the stars,
and I was covered
with blossoms.
I don’t know
how it happened—
I don’t know
if my body went diving down
under the sugary vines
in some sleep-sharpened affinity
with the depths, or whether
that green energy
rose like a wave
and curled over me, claiming me
in its husky arms.
I pushed them away, but I didn’t rise.
Never in my life had I felt so plush,
or so slippery,
or so resplendently empty.
Never in my life
had I felt myself so near
that porous line
where my own body was done with
and the roots and the stems and the flowers
began.


马伦戈

水沟里长出了金盏花。
沼泽之畔,蚊子密如纱幔
一只白鹭飞起,身披着云布。
因了这细雨,如雾,如云母粉,
大片大片枯萎的苔藓返青了。
 
假如我要死去,我愿死在
一个落雨的日子——
绵长的雨,缓慢的雨,那种没完没了的雨。
 
我希望有一个很不起眼的葬礼
此时雨不断地从天空泼洒下来,
 
送行的人必须缓慢行进,心有所思,
如同绕行在巨大沼泽的边缘。
 
Marengo-----by Mary Oliver

Out of the sump rise the marigolds.
From the rim of the marsh, muslin with mosquitoes,
rises the egret, in his cloud-cloth.
Through the soft rain, like mist, and mica,
the withered acres of moss begin again.
 
When I have to die, I would like to die
on a day of rain--
long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.
 
And I would like to have whatever little ceremony there might be
take place while the rain is shoveled and shoveled out of the sky,
 
and anyone who comes must travel, slowly and with thought,
as around the edges of the great swamp.


斯坦利•库尼茨

我经常想象他
从房子出来,像梅林
举止盛大地漫步
走过花园
那里的一切长势茂盛,
鸟儿歌唱,小蛇
躺在枝干上,只是思考
它们自己的美好生活,
那里花瓣上浮,
色彩夺目,
树木展开了它们湿漉漉的
雷鸣般的书页——
多年来每个夏天都这样。
 
现在我更多地知道
生长,腐朽,以及复生
是巨大的轮回,
知道了我对虚假的设想。
现在我看见他从房子里出来——
我看见他跪着,
砍掉病态的,多余的,
轻轻地伺弄好新的,
我知道那满足的时刻
深埋于经年的耐心——
却乐于在俗世的轮回中
那样地劳作。
 
哦,认识到它不是魔法
这对灵魂大有益处!
像我这样的人类之子
匆忙效仿——
我看见他俯身于
叶和藤蔓间
钩子一样揪住野草或别的;
我想到他在那里
耙土,修剪,扬起
大片大片的火光
在沉重得令人窒息的大地,
和狂野无形的风之间。
 
Stanley Kunitz-----by Mary Oliver
 
I used to imagine him
coming from his house, like Merlin
strolling with important gestures
through the garden
where everything grows so thickly,
where birds sing, little snakes lie
on the boughs, thinking of nothing
but their own good lives,
where petals float upward,
their colors exploding,
and trees open their moist
pages of thunder -
it has happened every summer for years.
 
But now I know more
about the great wheel of growth,
and decay, and rebirth,
and know my vision for a falsehood.
Now I see him coming from the house -
I see him on his knees,
cutting away the diseased, the superfluous,
coaxing the new,
know that the hour of fulfillment
is buried in years of patience -
yet willing to labor like that
on the mortal wheel.
 
Oh, what good it does the heart
to know it isn't magic!
Like the human child I am
I rush to imitate -
I watch him as he bends
among the leaves and vines
to hook some weed or other;
I think of him there
raking and trimming, stirring up
those sheets of fire
between the smothering weights of earth,
the wild and shapeless air.


潜鸟
 
凌晨四点钟不到,活着的狂喜
把我从睡眠中惊醒,从舒适的床铺,
起身,然后走到
另一个房间,我的书排列得
整整齐齐,漂漂亮亮。
 
它们可真神奇啊!我挑选了一本
展开来。很快
我就漫游在词汇的波浪之上
来到了思想的庙宇。
 
接着我听见
外面,真正的波浪之上,潜鸟那微弱
而完美的声音。他也醒着,
挺着沉重的脑袋,他大声鸣叫
朝着隐约的月亮,粉色的红
在东方不断膨胀,不久,
就会成为那漫长而理性的白昼。
 
房子里
依然有些暗,只有一池灯光
我就坐在这光里。
 
我没有合上书。
好久好久,我也没有继续读下去。
 
The Loon-----by Mary Oliver
 
Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive
strikes me from sleep, and I rise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where my books are lined up
in their neat and colorful rows. How
magical they are! I choose one
and open it. Soon
I have wandered in over the waves of the words
to the temple of thought.
 
And then I hear
outside, over the actual waves, the small,
perfect voice of the loon. He is also awake,
and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out
to the fading moon, to the pink flush
swelling in the east that, soon,
will become the long, reasonable day.
 
Inside the house
it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight
in which I am sitting.
 
I do not close the book.
Neither, for a long while, do I read on.


林中一眠
 
我想大地记得我,
她接纳我,那么深情,
理好她黑色的裙摆,口袋里
满是青苔和种籽。
我从未这样安眠过,似河床上的石头,
在我和星子的白色火焰之间
唯有我的思绪,它们像飞蛾一样,
轻轻地飘浮在美树的枝叶间。
整夜,我听见这些小小的王国
在我周围呼吸,昆虫
和鸟儿,夜色里干着自己的活计。
整夜,我起起伏伏,如在水中,
试图克服亮光的宿命。清晨时分,
至少有十二次
我消失在更好的事物中。
 
Sleeping In The Forest-----by Mary Oliver
 
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.


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