| [size=+1]伊丽莎白·毕肖普三首 宁玉[size=-1]  发表于：2008.01.09 18:30 |
失眠 伊丽莎白·毕肖普 月亮从梳妆台的镜子里 望出千万里 （或许带着自诩， 但她从不，永不微笑） 远离梦，或者 她也许是睡在白天。 在荒凉的宇宙边， 她对它说见鬼去吧， 她会找到一汪水， 或者一面镜子，逡巡。 那么将心事卷成一个蛛网 把它投入井中 投入那倒转的世界 左就是由， 影子其实是身体， 我们整夜无眠， 天堂浅俗而大海 深远，你爱我。 Insomnia Elizabeth Bishop The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at herself, but she never, never smiles) far and away beyond sleep, or perhaps she's a daytime sleeper. By the Universe deserted, she'd tell it to go to hell, and she'd find a body of water, or a mirror, on which to dwell. So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well into that world inverted where left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me. 谈话 内心的骚动 不停地问着问题。 然后它停止开始回答 用同一种声调。 没有人能分得清其中的区别。 不知不觉，这些谈话开始 然后感知卷入 下意识地。 然后就没有了选择， 就没有了意义； 直到一个名字 和它所有的内涵一致。 Conversation Elizabeth Bishop The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions. And then it stops and undertakes to answer in the same tone of voice. No one could tell the difference. Uninnocent, these conversations start, and then engage the senses, only half-meaning to. And then there is no choice, and then there is no sense; until a name and all its connotation are the same. 惊起的五点钟 尚未破晓 不知名的鸟停在他惯常呆的树枝上 隔壁的小狗在睡中叫着 询问般地，只那么一次。 或许鸟儿在他的熟睡中也同样 问询，一次两次，轻颤宛转的 提问——或许那是 白日自个儿回答了他们 直接，明了。 无边的清晨，迟缓，谨慎； 灰色的光线，从一侧 让每一根裸露的树枝， 每一根细枝发亮， 创造了另一棵枝脉晶亮的树…… 鸟儿还呆在那里。他好象要打哈欠。 黑色的小狗在他的院子里跑 他的主人发了声，斥责， “你真该害臊！” 他做了什么？ 他欢快地上窜下跳； 他在落叶中绕着圈奔突。 显然，他毫无羞耻。 他和鸟儿知道一切都被答复， 一切都被照料， 无须再次提问。 ——昨日这样轻巧地被带进今天！ （我发现几乎不能捧起的昨日。） Five Flights Up by Elizabeth Bishop Still dark. The unknown bird sits on his usual branch. The little dog next door barks in his sleep inquiringly, just once. Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires once or twice, quavering. Questions---if that is what they are--- answered directly, simply, by day itself. Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins... The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn. The little black dog runs in his yard. His owner's voice arises, stern, "You ought to be ashamed!" What has he done? He bounces cheerfully up and down; he rushes in circles in the fallen leaves. Obviously, he has no sense of shame. He and the bird know everything is answered, all taken care of, no need to ask again. ---Yesterday brought to today so lightly! (A yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.) 转自诗生活翻译论坛 |
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