画像
我母亲从未饶恕过我父亲
的自杀，
特别是在那样尴尬的时候
在一个公园里，
那春天
当我等着出世。
她把他的名字锁
在她最深的柜子里
不让他出来，
虽然我能听到他砰砰捶响。
当我从阁楼下来
手里拿着一帧蜡笔画像
一个宽唇的陌生人
胡子耀武扬威
眼睛深褐而镇定，
她把它撕成片片
没说一句话
且重重掴我。
今年六十四岁了
我还能感到
颊上的灼痛。
The Portrait
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
画家
他的画一年比一年阴沉。
它们填满了墙壁，填满了房间；
终于填满了他的世界––
除了他的自我陶醉。
当声音消歇，他便跑去听
莫扎特沙沙作响的灵魂
不停地旋转。
来来去去，来来去去，
他踱着涂满颜料
转一次身便缩小一点的地板，
困在他庞大的虚空里，
对着他的仇敌吼叫。
最后他手里拿着一把刀
在他浮夸的风景画框间
为自己砍开一个出口。
一线天真无邪的光，
从他破碎了的宇宙罅隙
倾注而入。
The Artist
His paintings grew darker every year.
They filled the walls, they filled the room;
eventually they filled his world––
all but the ravishment.
When voices faded, he would rush to hear
the scratched soul of Mozart
endlessly in gyre.
Back and forth, back and forth,
he paced the paint-smeared floor,
diminishing in size each time he turned,
trapped in his monumental void,
raving against his adversaries.
At last he took a knife in his hand
and slashed an exit for himself
between the frames of his tall scenery.
Through the holes of his tattered universe
the first innocence and the light
came pouring in.
康尼兹(Stanley Kunitz, 1905-2006) ，生于麻萨诸塞州，在哈佛大学受过教育，在哥伦比亚及耶鲁等大学教过书。曾到苏联及波兰当过文化交流学者。主编过耶鲁年轻诗人丛书。担任过国会图书馆的诗顾问(2000年美国桂冠诗人)。1959年得普立兹奖。翻译过苏联诗人叶夫图申科等人的诗。对于形式，他比同代的大部分诗人更热狂。在他的诗里，我们能察觉到一种白热的抽象感性，有如现代雕塑家用坚硬的金属，塑造出优美的形象，奇突地跃向纯粹之境，不容你不正视。
[ 本帖最后由 美国非马 于 2016-10-13 06:03 编辑 ]
