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痖弦《深渊》英译

2014-08-27    来源:en84    【      美国外教 在线口语培训

深渊

痖弦

我要生存,除此无他;同时我发现了他的不快。
——沙特

孩子们常在你的发茨间迷失
春天最初的激流,藏在你荒芜的瞳孔背后
一部分岁月呼喊着。肉体展开黑夜的节庆。
在有毒的月光中,在血的三角洲,
所有的灵魂蛇立起来,扑向一个垂在十字架上的
憔悴的额头。
我们用铁丝网煮熟麦子。我们活着。
穿过广告牌悲哀的韵律,穿过水门汀肮脏的阴影,
穿过从肋骨的牢狱里释放的灵魂,
哈里路亚!我们活着。走路、咳嗽、辩论,
厚着脸皮占地球的一部分。
没有甚么现在正在死去,
今天的云抄袭昨天的云。

在三月我听到樱桃的吆喝。
很多舌头,摇出了春天的堕落。而青蝇在啃她的脸,
旗袍叉从某种小腿间摆荡;且渴望人去读她,
去进入她体内工作。而除了死与这个,
没有甚么是一定的。生存是风,生存是打谷场的声音,
生存是,向她们——爱被人膈肢的——
倒出整个夏季的欲望。

在夜晚床在各处深深陷落。一种走在碎玻璃上
害热病的光底声响。一种被逼迫的农具的忙乱的耕作。
一种桃色的肉之翻译,一种用吻拼成的
可怖的语言;一种血与血的初识,一种火焰,一种疲倦!
一种猛力推开她的姿态
在夜晚,在那波里床在各处陷落。

在我影子的尽头坐着一个女人。她哭泣,
婴儿在蛇莓子与虎耳草之间埋下……
第二天我们又同去看云、发笑、饮梅子汁,
在舞池中把剩下的人格跳尽。
哈里路亚!我仍活着。双肩抬着头,
抬着存在与不存在,
抬着一副穿裤子的脸。

下回不知轮到谁;许是教堂鼠,许是天色。
我们是远远地告别了久久痛恨的脐带。
接吻挂在嘴上,宗教印在脸上,
我们背负着各人的棺盖闲荡!
而你是风、是鸟、是天色、是没有出口的河。
是站起来的尸灰,诗未埋葬的死。

没有人把我们拔出地球以外去。闭上双眼去看生活。
耶稣,你可听见他脑中林莽茁长的喃喃之声?
有人在甜菜田下面敲打,有人在桃金娘下……
当一些颜面像蜥蜴般变色,激流怎能为
倒影造像?当他们的眼珠粘在
历史最黑的那几页上?

而你不是甚么;
不是把手杖击断在时代的脸上,
不是把曙光缠在头上跳舞的人。
在这没有肩膀的城市,你底书第三天便会被捣烂再去作纸。
你以夜色洗脸,你同影子决斗,
你吃遗产、吃妆奁、吃死者们小小的呐喊,
你从屋子里走出来,又走进去,搓着手……
你不是甚么。
要怎样才能给跳蚤的腿子加大力量?
在喉管中注射音乐,令盲者饮尽辉芒!
这是荒诞的;在西班牙
人们连一枚下等的婚饼也不投给他!
而我们为一切服丧。花费一个早晨去摸他的衣角。
后来他的名字便写在风上,写在旗上。
后来他便抛给我们
他吃剩下来的生活。

去看,去假装发愁,去闻时间的腐味
我们再也懒于知道,我们是谁。
工作,散步,向坏人致敬,微笑和不朽。
他们是握紧格言的人!
这是日子的颜面;所有的疮口呻吟,裙子下藏满病菌。
都会,天秤,纸的月亮,电杆木的言语,
(今天的告示贴在昨天告示上)
冷血的太阳不时发着颤
在两个夜夹着的
苍白的深渊之间。

岁月,猫脸的岁月,
岁月,紧贴在手腕上,打着旗语的岁月。
在鼠哭的夜晚,早已被杀的人再被杀掉。
他们用墓草打着领结,把齿缝间的主祷文嚼烂。
没有头颅真会上升,在众星之中,
在灿烂的血中洗他的荆冠。
当一年五季的第十三月,天堂是在下面。

而我们为去年的灯蛾立碑。我们活着。
把种籽播在掌心,双乳间挤出月光,
——这层层叠得围你自转的黑夜都有你一份,
妖娆而美丽,她们是你的。
一朵花、一壶酒、一床调笑、一个日期。

这是深渊,在枕褥之间,挽联般苍白。
这是嫩脸蛋的姐儿们,这是窗,这是镜,这是小小的粉盒。
这是笑,这是血,这是待人解开的丝带!
那一夜壁上的玛丽亚像剩下一个空框,她逃走,
找忘川的水去洗涤她听到的羞辱。
而这是老故事,像走马灯;官能,官能,官能!
当早晨我挽着满篮子的罪恶沿街叫卖,
太阳刺麦芒在我眼中。
哈里路亚!我仍活着。
工作、散步、向坏人致敬,微笑和不朽。
为生存而生存,为看云而看云,
厚着脸皮占地球的一部分……
在刚果河边一辆雪橇停在那里;
没有人知道它为何滑得那样远,
没人知道的一辆雪橇停在那里。

Abyss

Ya Xian

“I want to live, nothing else. At the same time I’ve discovered
discontent.”
—Jean-Paul Sartre
Children often lose their way in your hair,
The first spring torrent, hidden behind your barren pupils.
Fragments of time shout. The body displays a carnival of the night.
In the venomous moonlight, in the delta of blood,
All souls stand erect, and pounce on the haggard face
Drooping on the cross.

This is absurd. In Spain
People wouldn’t even throw him a cheap wedding cookie!
Yet we observed mourning for all, spent the whole morning to touch a corner of his shirt.
Later his name was written on the wind, on a banner.
Later he cast us
Leftover life.

Go look, fake sadness, go smell putrid Time;
We are too lazy to know who we are.
Work, take a walk, salute the wicked, smile, and be immortal—
They are the ones who cling to mottos.
This is the face of the day; all the wounds whimper, teeming viruses hide beneath the skirts.
Metropolis, scales, paper moon, mutterings of power lines,
(Today’s notice pasted over yesterday’s notice)
The anemic sun trembles now and then
In the pale abyss
Sandwiched between two nights.

Time, Time with a cat’s face,
Time, strapped to the wrist, semaphoring.
On a rat-wailing night, those killed long ago are killed again.
They make bow ties with cemetery grass, grind the Our Father to a pulp between their teeth.
No head will rise among the stars,
Or cleanse the crown of thorns with gleaming blood.
In the thirteenth month of the fifth season, heaven lies below.

And we build monuments to honor the moths of yesteryear. We are alive.
We cook oatmeal with barbed wire. We are alive.
Walk through billboards’ sad rhythms, through squalid shadows on the cement,
Through the souls released from prisons of ribs.
Hallelujah! we are alive. We walk, cough, debate,
Shamelessly occupy a corner of the earth.
Not much is dying at the moment,
Today’s clouds plagiarize from yesterday’s.

In March I hear cherries hawking.
Many tongues shake loose the debauched Spring. Blue flies nibble at her face;
Her legs swish between the high slits of the cheongsam; she longs for someone to read her,
To go inside her body to do work. Except for this and death,
Nothing is certain. Living is a wind, living is the sound on the threshing ground,
Living is a pouring out at them—women who love being tickled—
Of the desires of an entire summer.

In the night beds sag everywhere. The sound of feverish light
Walking on broken glass, a confused tilling by coerced farm implements,
A translation of peach-colored flesh, a horrible language
Pieced together with kisses, a first meeting of blood with blood, a flame, a fatigue,
A gesture of pushing her away.
In the night beds sag everywhere in Naples.

At the end of my shadow sits a woman. She is weeping,
A baby is buried between Indian strawberry and Aaron’s Beard. . . .
The next day we go watch the clouds, laugh, drink plum juice,
And dance away the remnants of our integrity on the dance floor.
Hallelujah! I am still alive. Two shoulders carry a head,
Carry existence and nonexistence,
Carry a face wearing a pair of trousers.

Whose turn is it next time? I wonder. Perhaps the church rat’s, perhaps the sky’s.
Long ago we said good-bye to the much-hated umbilical cord.
Kisses imprinted on the mouth, religion on our faces,
We each carry our coffin as we wander about.
And you are the wind, the birds, clouds in the sky, a river without end,
You are ashes standing erect, death not yet buried.

Nobody can pluck us up from the earth. We see life with our eyes closed.
Jesus, do you hear the thriving jungles humming in his brain?
Somebody is drumming under the sugar-beet field, somebody is drumming under the myrtles . . .
When some faces change color like chameleons, how can rapids
Retain reflections? When their eyeballs stick to
The darkest pages of history!

And you are nothing.
You do not break your cane on the face of the age,
You do not dance with dawn wrapped around your head.
In this shoulderless city, your book is pulped on the third day to make paper.
You wash your face with night sky, you duel with your shadow,
You live on inheritance, on dowry, on the faint cries of the dead,
You walk out of the house, then walk back in, rubbing your hands. . . .
You are nothing.

How can you make the legs of a flea stronger?
Inject music into a mute’s throat, or let blind people drink up the light?
You plant seeds on the palm of your hand, squeeze moonlight from a woman’s breasts
—You are part of the dark night revolving around you,
Bewitchingly beautiful, they are yours.
A flower, a jug of wine, a bed of seduction, a calendar day.

This is an abyss, between the pillows and the sheets, as pale as an obituary couplet.
This is a tender-faced gal, this is a window, a mirror, a tiny powder compact.
This is laughter, this is blood, this is a satin bow waiting to be untied.
That night Maria on the wall ran away and left behind an empty picture frame;

She went to look for the Styx to wash away the shames she had heard.
But this is an old story, like a carousel lantern: senses, senses, senses!
In the morning when I hawk a basketful of sins on the street,
The sun pierces my eyes with spikes of wheat.
Hallelujah! I am still alive.
I work, take a walk, salute the wicked, smile, and am immortal
I live for living’s sake, watch clouds for the sake of watching clouds.
Shamelessly I occupy a corner of the earth. . . .
By the Congo River lies a sleigh;
Nobody knows how it slid that far.
A sleigh that nobody knows lies there.

(Michelle Yeh 译)



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