诗歌翻译:Louise Glück – October

摘要

十月

露易丝·格丽克《十月》

October

Louise Glück

 

1.

 

Is it winter again, is it cold again,

didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,

didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted

 

didn’t the night end,

didn’t the melting ice

flood the narrow gutters

 

wasn’t my body

rescued, wasn’t it safe

 

didn’t the scar form, invisible

above the injury

 

terror and cold,

didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden

harrowed and planted –

 

I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,

in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,

didn’t vines climb the south wall

 

I can’t hear your voice

for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground

 

I no longer care

what sound it makes

 

when was I silenced, when did it first seem

pointless to describe that sound

 

what it sounds like can’t change what it is –

 

didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth

safe when it was planted

 

didn’t we plant the seeds,

weren’t we necessary to the earth,

 

the vines, were they harvested?

 

2.

 

Summer after summer has ended,

balm after violence:

it does me no good

to be good to me now;

violence has changed me.

 

Daybreak. The low hills shine

ochre and fire, even the fields shine.

I know what I see; sun that could be

the August sun, returning

everything that was taken away –

 

You hear this voice? This is my mind’s voice;

you can’t touch my body now.

It has changed once, it has hardened,

don’t ask it to respond again.

 

A day like a day in summer.

Exceptionally still. The long shadows of the maples

nearly mauve on the gravel paths.

And in the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer.

 

It does me no good; violence has changed me.

My body has grown cold like the stripped fields;

now there is only my mind, cautious and wary,

with the sense it is being tested.

 

Once more, the sun rises as it rose in summer;

bounty, balm after violence.

Balm after the leaves have changed, after the fields

have been harvested and turned.

 

Tell me this is the future,

I won’t believe you.

Tell me I’m living,

I won’t believe you.

 

3.

 

Snow had fallen. I remember

music from an open window.

 

Come to me, said the world.

This is not to say

it spoke in exact sentences

but that I perceived beauty in this manner.

 

Sunrise. A film of moisture

on each living thing. Pools of cold light

formed in the gutters.

 

I stood

at the doorway,

ridiculous as it now seems.

 

What others found in art,

I found in nature. What others found

in human love, I found in nature.

Very simple. But there was no voice there.

 

Winter was over. In the thawed dirt,

bits of green were showing.

 

Come to me, said the world. I was standing

in my wool coat at a kind of bright portal –

I can finally say

long ago; it gives me considerable pleasure. Beauty

the healer, the teacher –

 

death cannot harm me

more than you have harmed me,

my beloved life.

 

4.

 

The light has changed;

middle C is tuned darker now.

And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.

 

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.

The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

 

The songs have changed; the unspeakable

has entered them.

 

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says

I am reborn.

 

Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.

This is the present, an allegory of waste.

 

So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:

the ideal burns in you like a fever.

Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

 

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.

They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.

They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

 

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly

in anticipation of silence.

The ear gets used to them.

The eye gets used to disappearances.

 

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

 

A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind;

it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.

 

How privileged you are, to be passionately

clinging to what you love;

the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

 

Maestoso, doloroso:

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us.

Surely it is a privilege to approach the end

still believing in something.

 

5.

 

It is true there is not enough beauty in the world.

It is also true that I am not competent to restore it.

Neither is there candor, and here I may be of some use.

 

I am

at work, though I am silent.

 

The bland

 

misery of the world

bounds us on either side, an alley

 

lined with trees; we are

 

companions here, not speaking,

each with his own thoughts;

 

behind the trees, iron

gates of the private houses,

the shuttered rooms

 

somehow deserted, abandoned,

 

as though it were the artist’s

duty to create

hope, but out of what? what?

 

the word itself

false, a device to refute

perception – At the intersection,

 

ornamental lights of the season.

 

I was young here. Riding

the subway with my small book

as though to defend myself against

 

the same world:

 

you are not alone,

the poem said,

in the dark tunnel.

 

6.

 

The brightness of the day becomes

the brightness of the night;

the fire becomes the mirror.

 

My friend the earth is bitter; I think

sunlight has failed her.

Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.

 

Between herself and the sun,

something has ended.

She wants, now, to be left alone;

I think we must give up

turning to her for affirmation.

 

Above the fields,

above the roofs of the village houses,

the brilliance that made all life possible

becomes the cold stars.

 

Lie still and watch:

they give nothing but ask nothing.

 

From within the earth’s

bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness

 

my friend the moon rises:

she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?

十月

露易丝·格丽克

 

1

 

又是冬天吗,又冷了吗,

弗兰克不是刚刚在冰上摔跤了吗,

他不是伤愈了吗,春天的种子不是播下了吗

 

夜不是结束了吗,

融化的冰

不是涨满了小水沟吗

 

我的身体

不是得救了吗,它不是安全了吗

 

那伤痕不是形成了吗,无形的恐惧和寒冷,

它们不是刚刚结束吗,后园

不是耙过又播种了吗——

 

我记起大地的模样,红色,黏稠,

绷直成行,种子不是播下了吗,

葡萄藤不是爬上南墙了吗

 

我听不到你的声音

因为风在吼叫,在裸露的地面上空呼啸着

 

我不再关心

它发出什么声音

 

什么时候我默不作声,什么时候

描述那声音开始显得毫无意义

 

它听起来像什么,并不能改变它是什么——

 

夜不是结束了吗,大地

当它被种植,不是安全了吗

 

我们不是播下种子了吗,

我们不是必需的吗,对于大地,

 

葡萄,它们收获了吗?

 

2

 

一个又一个夏天结束了,

安慰,在暴力之后:

如今要待我好

对我并没有益处;

暴力已经改变了我。

 

黎明。小山闪耀着

赭色和火,甚至田地也闪耀着。

我知道我看到了什么;太阳,那可能是

八月的太阳,正在归还

曾被带走的一切——

 

你听到这个声音了吗?这是我心灵的声音;

如今你不能触摸我的身体。

它已经改变过一次,它已经僵硬,

不要请求它再次回应。

 

像夏日的一日。

出奇地安静。枫树长长的树荫

在砾石小路上近乎紫色。

而夜晚,温暖。像夏夜的一夜。

 

这对我并没有益处;暴力已经改变了我。

我的身体已变冷,像清理一空的田地;

此刻只有我的心智,谨慎而机警,

感觉到它正被检验。

 

又一次,太阳升起,像往常在夏天升起一样;

慷慨,安慰,在暴力之后。

安慰,在树叶改变之后,在田地

收割、翻耕之后。

 

告诉我这是未来,

我不会相信你的话。

告诉我我还活着,

我不会相信你的话。

 

3

 

雪已落下。我回忆起

一扇敞开的窗子里传出的音乐。

 

快来啊,世界喊道。

这不是说

它就讲了这样的句子

而是我以这种方式体察到了美。

 

太阳初升。一层水汽

在每样有生命的事物上。一洼洼冷光

在沟槽处积聚成形。

 

我站立

在那门口,

如今看起来多么荒谬。

 

别人在艺术中发现的,

我在自然中发现。别人

在人类之爱中发现的,我在自然中发现。

非常简单。但那儿没有声音。

 

冬天结束。解冻的泥土里,

几簇绿色才露出来。

 

快来啊,世界喊道。那时我穿着羊毛上衣

站在某个明亮的入口处——

如今我终于能说

很久以前;这给了我相当大的快乐。美

这位诊师,这位导师——

 

死亡也不能伤害我

像你已经伤害我这么深,

我心爱的生活。

 

4

 

光已经改变;

此刻,中央C音变得黯淡。

而早晨的歌曲已经反复排练。

 

这是秋天的光,不是春天的光。

秋天的光:你将不被赦免。

 

歌曲已经改变;那无法言说的

已经进入他们中间。

 

这是秋天的光,不是那正说着

我要再生的光。

 

不是春天的曙光:我曾奋斗,我曾忍受,我曾被拯救。

这是现在,无用之物的寓言。

 

多少事物都已改变。而仍然,你是幸运的:

理想像发热般在你身上燃烧。

或者不像发热,像又一颗心脏。

 

歌曲已经改变,但实际上它们仍然相当美丽。

它们被集中在一个更小的空间、心灵的空间里。

它们变暗,此刻,带着悲哀和苦闷。

 

而仍然,音符反复出现。奇特地盘旋

期待着寂静。

耳朵逐渐习惯了它们。

眼睛逐渐习惯了它们的消逝。

 

你将不被赦免,你所爱的也不被赦免。

 

风儿来了又去,拆散心灵;

它在苏醒里留下一种奇怪的清晰。

 

你是怎样地被恩典,仍然激情地

执着于你的所爱;

希望的代价并没有将你摧毁。

 

庄严的,感伤的:

这是秋天的光;它已经转向我们。

确实,这是一种恩典:接近尾声

但仍有所信。

 

5

 

世界上没有足够的美,这是真的。

我没有能力将它修复,这也是真的。

到处都没有坦诚,而我在这里也许有些作用。

 

我正在工作,虽然我沉默。

 

这乏味的

世界的痛苦

把我们各自束缚在一边,一条小径

 

树木成行;我们

 

在这儿是同伴,但不说话,

每个人都有他自己的思想;

 

树林后面,

是私人住宅的铁门,

紧闭的房间

 

莫名地被废弃,荒凉,

 

仿佛,艺术家的职责

是创造希望,

但拿什么创造?拿什么?

 

词语自身

虚假,一种反驳感知的

装置——在十字路口,

 

季节的装饰灯。

 

那时我还年轻。乘地铁,

带着我的小书

似乎能护卫自己,防御

 

这同一个世界:

 

你并不孤独,

诗歌说,

在黑暗的隧道里。

 

6

 

白天的光亮变成了

黑夜的光亮;

火变成了镜子。

 

我的朋友大地凄苦不堪;我想

阳光已经辜负了她。

凄苦还是厌倦,这很难说。

 

在她自己与太阳之间,

某种东西已经结束。

现在,她渴望单独留下;

我想我们必须放弃

向她寻求证词。在田地上空,

 

在农家屋顶上空,

那光芒,曾让所有生命成为可能,

如今成了寒冷的群星。

 

静静躺下观察:

它们无可给予,无所索取。

 

从大地

凄苦耻辱、寒冷荒凉的内部

 

我的朋友月亮升起:

她今夜美丽,但她什么时候不美丽?

 

(柳向阳、范静哗 译)

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  • 版权声明 本文源自 英文巴士, 整理 发表于 2020年10月9日21:07:08