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Mark Strands Poems|马克·斯特兰德诗选

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  核心提示: 画皮译[美]马克·斯特兰德Mark Strand诗选 1 如果一个男人读懂了一首诗,他会有麻烦。2 如果一个男人和一首诗生活,他会孤独的死去。3 如果一个男人和两首诗生活,他会对其...

画皮译[]马克·斯特兰德 Mark Strand诗选

如果一个男人读懂了一首诗,
他会有麻烦。
如果一个男人和一首诗生活,
他会孤独的死去。
如果一个男人和两首诗生活,
他会对其中的一首不忠。
如果一个男人怀上一首诗,
他膝下的儿女会小于一。
如果一个男人怀上两首诗,
他膝下的儿女会小于二。
如果一个人写作时头上戴着王冠,
他会被发现。
如果一个男人写作时头上没有戴王冠,
他会一个也骗不了除了他自己。
如果一个男人对一首诗怒气冲冲,
他会被男人们耻笑。
如果一个男人不断的对一首诗发火,
他会被妇人们耻笑。
10 如果一个男人公开谴责诗歌,
他的鞋子会灌进尿液。
11 如果一个男人为权力放弃诗歌,
他会拥有许多权力。
12 如果一个男人吹嘘他的诗歌,
他会被傻瓜们爱上。
13 如果一个男人吹嘘他的诗歌并且爱上傻瓜,
他会写不下去。
14 如果一个男人因为自己的诗歌而渴望关注,
他会像月光下的一头蠢驴。
15 如果一个男人写了一首诗且在诗中赞美了一个人,
他会得到一个漂亮的情妇。
16 如果一个男人写了一首诗且在诗中将一个人夸得过火,
他会赶走他的情妇。
17 如果一个男人宣称别人的诗是他的,
他的心脏会大上一倍。
18 如果一个男人让他的诗歌光着身子的走开,
他会变得怕死。
19 如果一个男人害怕死亡,
他会被他的诗歌救下。
20 如果一个男人不怕死亡,
他或许会或许不会被他的诗歌救下。
21 如果一个男人完成了一首诗,
他会沉浸在他激情空茫的苏醒中
还会被白纸头亲个不停。
 Mark Strands Poems|马克·斯特兰德诗选


新诗歌手册

THE NEW POETRY HANDBOOK
1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.
2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.
3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.
4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.
5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.
6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.
7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.
8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.
9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.
10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.
11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.
12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.
13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.
14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.
15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.
16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.
17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.
18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.
19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.
20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.
21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.

光的到来

纵然这一切姗姗来迟:
爱的到来,光的到来。
你醒了,蜡烛也仿佛不点自明,
星星集聚,美梦涌入你的枕头,
升起一束束温馨的花香。
纵然迟到,周身的骨头照样光彩熠熠
而明日的尘埃闪耀着进入呼吸。
THE COMING OF LIGHT 
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light. 
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, 
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, 
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine 
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

我们生活的故事
1
我们正读着我们生活的故事,
发生在一个房间里。
房间望出去是一条街道。
那儿空无一人,
一点声息也没有。
树木因树叶显得沉重,
停着的汽车从不移动。
我们不停的翻着页面,企望着什么,
比如怜悯或是转机什么的,
一条黑线也许就能装订我们
或把我们阻隔。
如此一来,就仿佛
我们生活的书本全是空的。
房间里的家具一尘不变,
而每当我们的影子掠过
那些地毯就暗淡一些。
这房间几乎就是这个世界。
我们并排在沙发上坐下,
读着关于沙发的一切。
我们说那是理想。
那是个理想。
2
我们正读着我们生活的故事,
好像我们就在其中,
好像是我们写下了它。
这幻觉一次又一次的闪现。
在其中的某个章节
我后仰身子,将书本推至一边
因为书中说了
这就是我正在做的事情。
我后仰身子,开始写些关于这本书的。
我写道:我希望走出这本书。
走出我的生活进入另一种生活。
我搁下钢笔。
书说道:他搁下了钢笔
转身去看她在读什么
——有关她坠入爱河的那部分。
这书远比我们想象的正确得多。
我后仰身子去看你读些什么
——有关穿过街道的那个男人。
他们在那儿造起房子,
有一天一个男人从那里出来。
你一下爱上了他
因为你知道他永远不会造访你,
永远不会知道你正等待着。
一夜又一夜后你会说
他很像我。
我后仰身子,看见你兀自老去。
阳光照在你银白的头发上。
这地毯,这家具,
如今看上去仿佛是虚构的。
她还在阅读。
她似乎意识到了他那
无关紧要的缺席,
如同某人在完美的一天会感觉
天气是个失败者
因为它没有改变他的意识。
你眯起了你的眼。
你有种合上书本的冲动
它描述着我的反抗:
当我后仰身子时我是如何想象着
没有你的生活,如何想象着
移进另一种生活,另一本书。
它描述着你对欲望的迁就,
动机的瞬间败露
如何叫你担惊受怕。
书本描绘的远不止它的本意。
它想要将我们隔开。
3
这个早晨我醒来并且相信
比较我们生活的故事
我们的生活也不过如此。
你如果不同意,我会指出
你不同意的那部分在书中的位置。
你倒头睡去,而我开始阅读
当它们正被书写时
你曾东猜西想,
一旦它们成为故事的一部分后
你就兴致索然的那些神秘章节。
其中的一节,在一个男人的房间里
月光阴冷的衣衫罩在椅子上。
他梦着那个丢了衣衫的女人,
她坐在一个花园里,等待着。
她相信爱是一种牺牲。
这一节描述了她的死
她始终没有姓氏,
这可是那些
你无法面对她的事情中的一件。
不久以后我们发现
那个做梦的男人住在
街道对面的新房子里。
这个早晨,当你倒头睡去后
我开始翻阅书本开头的页面:
这就仿佛梦回童年,
这么多仿佛在消逝,
这么多仿佛重又回到生活。
我不知所措。
书说道:就在那会儿,那是他的书。
一顶阴冷的王冠颤微微的停在头上。
他是里外不合的暂时统治者,
为他自己的王国忧心忡忡。
4
你醒来前
我读了描述你的缺席的另一章
说你如何睡去
以此扭转你生活的进程。
当我阅读时,我为我自身的孤独感动,
领悟到我的感受常常是粗砺的
常常是某个故事失败的表达
而这可能始终不被告知。
他想要看她赤裸、脆弱的样子,
看拒绝中的她,那旧梦中
被删去的情节,那来自遥远国度的
服装与面具。
似乎他身不由己的
被拖向了失败。
再也读不下去了。
我累了我想放弃。
书本好像觉察到了。
5
只要书中完美的瞬间有那么一刻;
只要我们能在这一刻存活,
我们就会重归这本书
好像我们从未写过它,
好像我们没在其中呆过。
可是黑暗迫近书页
总是那么浩浩荡荡
而逃开的就那么一点儿。
我们读了一整天。
每个页面的翻转恰似一支蜡烛
在意识中游动。
每个瞬间犹如一个无望的因由。
只要我们能停止阅读啊。
他从来不愿读另一本书
而她始终凝望着街道。
车辆还在原地,
树木的浓荫遮盖着它们。
阴影被拖进了新房子。
兴许那个住在里面的男人,
那个她爱着的男人,正在阅读
另一个生活的故事。
一个阴冷的壁炉,一个男人坐着
给一个女人写一封信
她已将她的生活献给了爱。
倘若书中有那么一个完美的瞬间,
那会是最后的瞬间。
那本书从不讨论爱的起因。
它宣称混乱是个必需的优点。
它从不解释。它一味的暴露。
6
日子继续着。
我们学习我们的所忆。
我们望着房间深处的镜子。
我们无法忍受寂寞。
书本继续着。
他们沉静下来,不知从何开始
那必需的对话。
是词语在第一个地方规划了区域,
它们创造了孤独。
他们等待着
他们想要翻动页面,巴望着
发生点什么。
他们想偷偷的拼贴起他们的生活:
每个失败都可以原谅,因为它不可检验,
每阵疼痛都有所补偿,因为它并不真实。
他们无所事事。
7
那书本也不会幸免。
我们就是活生生的证明。
外面一片漆黑,房间里更加阴暗。
我听到你的呼吸。
你在问我我是不是累了,
如果我还想继续读下去。
是的,我累了。
是的,我还想继续读下去。
我对所有一切说:是的。
你听不到我。
他们并排坐在沙发上。
他们是些复印件,是他们先前
经历过的事物的疲倦的幻影。
他们摆出的姿态是厌倦的。
他们盯着书看
为自己的清白,以及
勉强的放弃感到恐惧。
他们并排坐在沙发上。
他们决心接受事实。
不管那是什么他们全都接受。
书必须要写
书必须要读。
他们就是这书,除了书,他们什么都不是。

THE STORY OF OUR LIVES
1
We are reading the story of our lives
which takes place in a room.
The room looks out on a street.
There is no one there,
no sound of anything.
The tress are heavy with leaves,
the parked cars never move.
We keep turning the pages, hoping for something,
something like mercy or change,
a black line that would bind us
or keep us apart.
The way it is, it would seem
the book of our lives is empty.
The furniture in the room is never shifted,
and the rugs become darker each time
our shadows pass over them.
It is almost as if the room were the world.
We sit beside each other on the couch,
reading about the couch.
We say it is ideal.
It is ideal.
2
We are reading the story of our lives,
as though we were in it,
as though we had written it.
This comes up again and again.
In one of the chapters
I lean back and push the book aside
because the book says
it is what I am doing.
I lean back and begin to write about the book.
I write that I wish to move beyond the book.
Beyond my life into another life.
I put the pen down.
The book says: "He put the pen down
and turned and watched her reading
the part about herself falling in love."
The book is more accurate than we can imagine.
I lean back and watch you read
about the man across the street.
They built a house there,
and one day a man walked out of it.
You fell in love with him
because you knew that he would never visit you,
would never know you were waiting.
Night after night you would say
that he was like me.
I lean back and watch you grow older without me.
Sunlight falls on your silver hair.
The rugs, the furniture,
seem almost imaginary now.
"She continued to read.
She seemed to consider his absence
of no special importance,
as someone on a perfect day will consider
the weather a failure
because it did not change his mind."
You narrow your eyes.
You have the impulse to close the book
which describes my resistance:
how when I lean back I imagine
my life without you, imagine moving
into another life, another book.
It describes your dependence on desire,
how the momentary disclosures
of purpose make you afraid.
The book describes much more than it should.
It wants to divide us.
3
This morning I woke and believed
there was no more to to our lives
than the story of our lives.
When you disagreed, I pointed
to the place in the book where you disagreed.
You fell back to sleep and I began to read
those mysterious parts you used to guess at
while they were being written
and lose interest in after they became
part of the story.
In one of them cold dresses of moonlight
are draped over the chairs in a man's room.
He dreams of a woman whose dresses are lost,
who sits in a garden and waits.
She believes that love is a sacrifice.
The part describes her death
and she is never named,
which is one of the things
you could not stand about her.
A little later we learn
that the dreaming man lives
in the new house across the street.
This morning after you fell back to sleep
I began to turn the pages early in the book:
it was like dreaming of childhood,
so much seemed to vanish,
so much seemed to come to life again.
I did not know what to do.
The book said: "In those moments it was his book.
A bleak crown rested uneasily on his head.
He was the brief ruler of inner and outer discord,
anxious in his own kingdom."
4
Before you woke
I read another part that described your absence
and told how you sleep to reverse
the progress of your life.
I was touched by my own loneliness as I read,
knowing that what I feel is often the crude
and unsuccessful form of a story
that may never be told.
"He wanted to see her naked and vulnerable,
to see her in the refuse, the discarded
plots of old dreams, the costumes and masks
of unattainable states.
It was as if he were drawn
irresistably to failure."
It was hard to keep reading.
I was tired and wanted to give up.
The book seemed aware of this.
It hinted at changing the subject.
I waited for you to wake not knowing
how long I waited,
and it seemed that I was no longer reading.
I heard the wind passing
like a stream of sighs
and I heard the shiver of leaves
in the trees outside the window.
It would be in the book.
Everything would be there.
I looked at your face
and I read the eyes, the nose, the mouth . . .
5
If only there were a perfect moment in the book;
if only we could live in that moment,
we could being the book again
as if we had not written it,
as if we were not in it.
But the dark approaches
to any page are too numerous
and the escapes are too narrow.
We read through the day.
Each page turning is like a candle
moving through the mind.
Each moment is like a hopeless cause.
If only we could stop reading.
"He never wanted to read another book
and she kept staring into the street.
The cars were still there,
the deep shade of trees covered them.
The shades were drawn in the new house.
Maybe the man who lived there,
the man she loved, was reading
the story of another life.
She imagine a bare parlor,
a cold fireplace, a man sitting
writing a letter to a woman
who has sacrificed her life for love."
If there were a perfect moment in the book,
it would be the last.
The book never discusses the causes of love.
It claims confusion is a necessary good.
It never explains. It only reveals.
6
The day goes on.
We study what we remember.
We look into the mirror across the room.
We cannot bear to be alone.
The book goes on.
"They became silent and did not know how to begin
the dialogue which was necessary.
It was words that created divisions in the first place,
that created loneliness.
They waited
they would turn the pages, hoping
something would happen.
They would patch up their lives in secret:
each defeat forgiven because it could not be tested,
each pain rewarded because it was unreal.
They did nothing."
7
The book will not survive.
We are the living proof of that.
It is dark outside, in the room it is darker.
I hear your breathing.
You are asking me if I am tired,
if I want to keep reading.
Yes, I am tired.
Yes, I want to keep reading.
I say yes to everything.
You cannot hear me.
"They sat beside each other on the couch.
They were the copies, the tired phantoms
of something they had been before.
The attitudes they took were jaded.
They stared into the book
and were horrified by their innocence,
their reluctance to give up.
They sat beside each other on the couch.
They were determined to accept the truth.
Whatever it was they would accept it.
The book would have to be written
and would have to be read.
They are the book and they are
nothing else.

邮 差
那是午夜。
他从人行道上走来
敲响了门。
我冲过去欢迎他。
他站在那儿哭泣,
向我挥动一封信。
他告诉我那里面装着
私人的坏消息。
他屈膝跪了下来。
原谅我!原谅我!”他恳求道。
我请他进屋。
他擦着泪眼。
他那暗蓝制服
像块墨水污渍
在我深红的睡椅上。
无助,不安,渺小,
他蜷起身子像个球
睡着了,与此同时
我以同样的笔触
为自己编织更多的书信:
你要活下去
靠着制造痛苦。
你要宽恕。
THE MAILMAN
It is midnight.
He comes up the walk
and knocks at the door.
I rush to greet him.
He stands there weeping,
shaking a letter at me.
He tells me it contains
terrible personal news.
He falls to his knees.
"Forgive me! Forgive me!" he pleads.
I ask him inside.
He wipes his eyes.
His dark blue suit
is like an inkstain
on my crimson couch.
Helpless, nervous, small,
he curls up like a ball
and sleeps while I compose
more letters to myself
in the same vein:
"You shall live
by inflicting pain.
You shall forgive."

另一个地方
我走
进了一片光
那点光
不够眩目
也不足以看清
过来的是什么
虽然我看到了
那水
那孤船
那站着的男人
他不是我认识的某人
这是另一个地方
那儿放出的光
像撒向空无的
一张网
将来的
从前
已经来过
这是那镜子
痛苦在里面沉睡
这是那国度
没人逗留

ANOTHER PLACE
I walk
into what light
there is
not enough for blindness
or clear sight
of what is to come
yet I see
the water
the single boat
the man standing
he is not someone I know
this is another place
what light there is
spreads like a net
over nothing
what is to come
has come to this
before
this is the mirror
in which pain is asleep
this is the country
nobody visits.

烧 肉
我盯着烧肉,
它切好了摆在
我的盘子里
在它上面
我用调羹浇上
胡萝卜和洋葱的汁水。
这一回我没去懊悔
时间的流逝。
我坐在一扇窗边
它注视着
建筑物上烟灰弄脏的砖块
我并不在乎我看不见
一点点活的东西——没有鸟,
没有开花的树枝,
没有一个人
在阴暗的窗玻璃后面的
那些房间里移动。
这些日子每当没什么
可以去爱,去赞美
人会显得
比屈从于食物的威力
更糟糕。
于是我弯下身
吸取
从我的盘子里
升起的水汽,我想起了
那第一次
就像这样
我品尝一块烧肉。
那是多年以前
在新斯科舍的
西伯利特;
我母亲俯身
将我的盘碟盛满
而当我吃完
重又将它添上。
我记得那肉汤,
它那蒜与芹的气味,
我把它统统蘸取
用几片面包。
而如今
我又品尝着它。
这记忆的肉块。
这滋味依旧的肉块。
我举起叉子
我吃。

POTROAST
I gaze upon the roast,
that is sliced and laid out
on my plate
and over it
I spoon the juices
of carrot and onion.
And for once I do not regret
the passage of time.
I sit by a window
that looks
on the soot-stained brick of buildings
and do not care that I see
no living thing-not a bird,
not a branch in bloom,
not a soul moving
in the rooms
behind the dark panes.
These days when there is little
to love or to praise
one could do worse
than yield
to the power of food.
So I bend
to inhale
the steam that rises
from my plate, and I think
of the first time
I tasted a roast
like this.
It was years ago
in Seabright,
Nova Scotia;
my mother leaned
over my dish and filled it
and when I finished
filled it again.
I remember the gravy,
its odor of garlic and celery,
and sopping it up
with pieces of bread.
And now
I taste it again.
The meat of memory.
The meat of no change.
I raise my fork
and I eat.

冬日诗行
告诉你自己吧
当天气转冷,灰暗从天而降
你将继续
前行,听着
同样的曲子,不必理会
在哪里找到你自己——
黑暗的穹隆里,
或是雪谷中,月亮凝望的
咯兹作响的白色下。
今夜,当天气转冷
告诉你自己吧
你所知的全属虚无
只是当你继续赶路时
骨骼奏响的曲子。有朝一日
你终会躺下,在冬日之星
小小的火焰下。
如若那样——你不能
前进或是回头,在即临的终点
你找到你自己,
告诉你自己吧
在穿过你四肢的最后的寒流中,
你爱你所是的一切。

LINES FOR WINTER
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself --
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

一首有关暴风雪的诗
来自圆顶城市的圆顶阴影,
一片雪花,一个人的一场暴风雪,轻轻的,潜入你的房间
向你坐着的椅子的扶手飘来,就在你
从书本中抬眼那一刻,它刚好停落。这便是
整个的经过。无非是个肃穆的醒悟
面对瞬间,面对注意力的起落,短促的,
时刻间的一刻,一场无花的葬礼。无非是
除了心头的闪念——这首有关暴风雪的
在你的眼前化为乌有的诗篇,将会归来,
还有多年以后,有人像此刻的你那样坐着,口中念叨:
是时候了。空气已准备好。天空已敞开了一个口子。
选自《一个人的暴风雪》
A PIECE OF THE STORM
From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's all
There was to it. No more than a solemn waking
To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly,
A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that
Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back,
That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:
"It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."
from BLIZZARD OF ONE

作者:Mark Strand 来源:网络
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