西川的诗 译 / Lucas Klein
重读博尔赫斯诗歌
——给Anne
这精确的陈述出自全部混乱的过去
这纯净的力量，像水笼头滴水的节奏
注释出历史的缺失
我因触及星光而将黑夜留给大地
黑夜舔着大地的裂纹：那分岔的记忆
无人是一个人，乌有之乡是一个地方
一个无人在乌有之乡写下这些
需要我在阴影中辨认的诗句
我放弃在尘世中寻找作者，抬头望见
一个图书管理员，懒散地，仅仅为了生计
而维护着书籍和宇宙的秩序
Re-reading Borges' Poetry
—for Anne
The precision of this statement emerges from the chaos of the past
this pure force, like the rhythm a dripping faucet
annotates the aporia of history
touching starlight I leave night to the earth
night that licks the earth’s crevices: that forked memory
No Man is a man, No Where is a place
a No Man in No Where has written these
lines I must decipher in the shadows
I give up scouring the world of dust for the author, and lift my head to see
a librarian, negligently, just for his livelihood
preserving the order of the universe and books
黄昏三章
1
云阵带着尘土从高高的塔吊上飘过
俄罗斯风格的建筑门厅高大，飞进乌鸦
夕阳重复一遍；它是美的，与梦想契合
霞光铺在街上请不要挽起袖子擦洗
请不要，请不要问我为什么
离开晨光
一个消失在众人之中的家伙
大家都在寻找着他
祝他万事如意
2
缓缓的歌声飞出小教堂的彩窗
心灵的边缘一带远景荒凉
这是秋天的第八个黄昏
松鸡拔着羽毛，青春隔河相望
一柄刮胡刀传到了儿子的手上
望见群山，望见群山下的家园
抬高灵魂的位置
望见生命的最后一站
当久逝的歌声重又传来，红色的波斯菊
在远方聚首，犹如内心的景色
被众鸟的合唱队再度点燃
这时你望见群山的第一片落叶
啊，秋天的大地向晚
在城市的尽头展开旷野
在旷野的尽头矗立群山
在迎向群山的高处
楼顶的窗子或大桥拱起的桥面
阳光抚摸着逝者的手
他们白色的身影在轻颤
而你的骨头是凉的，在盛大的阴影内
凉风巳吹刮了多年
3
大风吹来的傍晚，门窗动荡
在迎面而来的秋天
我望见异样的塔楼、灯光和广场
似乎这个傍晚我只是偶然碰上
偶然的人群跑过草地，偶然的心境
聆听一个盲人的偶然的琴音
大风吹来的傍晚灵魂动荡
多少面孔争相浮现，又急忙躲藏
唯有鸽子乳白色的胸脯在风中闪光
我聆听着一曲
来自心灵深处的音乐
服从它的指引，在黑暗中缅想
作为一种光线，我们就是历史
这一页已经翻过
我写下了尽善尽美的诗篇
我养育了尽善尽美的孩子
Three Chapters on Dusk
1
Clouds send dust drifting off the high-up cranes
crows fly into the immense Russian vestibule
the setting sun repeats itself: beauty, it is in concert with dreams
morning rays unfold against the street, please don’t roll up your sleeves to scrub it away
please, please do not ask me why
I am leaving the light of dawn
someone disappears in a crowd
everyone looks for him
to wish him the best
a gradual tune flies out the chapel’s stained window
around psyche’s edges a desolate prospect
this is the eighth dawn of autumn
a grouse plucks its feathers, lovers gaze across the river
a razor passed to the hand of a son
2
Look to the mountains, look to the houses under the mountains
look to life’s last station
when the long-deceased song passes on again and red Persian asters
assemble in the distance, like a chorus of birds
reigniting an internal landscape
you will look to the first leaf falling in the mountains
oh, the land of autumn growing late
plains push out from the edge of the city
mountains lift up at the edge of the plains
in the heights greeting mountains —
skylights or arching bridge floors —
sunlight caresses the hand of the dead
their white shadows quiver
and your bones are cold; within the grand shadows
a cold wind has been blowing for years
3
Evening blown in on the wind, rattling windows and doors
in a headwind of autumn
I see aberrant turrets, lamps, and squares
like I’d only happened on this evening
a happening of people running through a meadow, a happenstance mindset
hearing a blind man’s haphazard fiddle
evening blown in on the wind rattling souls
how many faces vie to appear, then hurry away hiding
only a pigeon milk white breast glimmers in the wind
I hear music
coming from the psyche’s depths
submitting to its guidance, recollecting in the dark
a ray of light, we become history
that page has been turned
I will write a poem of perfect beauty
I will raise a child of perfect goodness
停 电
突然停电，使我确信
我生活在一个发展中国家
一个有人在月光下读书的国家
一个废除了科举考试的国家
突然停电，使我听见
小楼上的风铃声、猫的脚步声
远方转动的马达嘎然而止
身边的电池收音机还在歌唱
只要一停电，时间便迅速回转：
小饭铺里点起了蜡烛
那吞吃着乌鸦肉的胖子发现
树权上的乌鸦越聚越多
而眼前这一片漆黑呀
多像海水澎湃的子宫
一位母亲把自己吊上房梁
每一个房间都有其特殊的气味
停电，我摸到一只拖鞋
但我叨念着：“火柴，别藏了！”
在烛光里，我看到自己
巨大、无言的影子投映在墙上
Power Outage
A sudden power outage, and I’m convinced
A sudden power outage, and I’m convinced
I live in a developing nation
a nation where people read by moonlight
a nation that abolished imperial exams
a sudden power outage, and I hear
wind chimes and a cat’s footbeats upstairs
in the distance an engine stops with a thud
the battery-powered radio beside me still singing
once the power’s out, time turns back quickly:
candles light up the eateries
the fat kid gobbling on crow meat notices
crows gathering on tree limbs
and the pitch blackness before me
just like a seaswell womb
a mother hangs herself from rafters
each room its own special odor
Power Outage. I touch a slipper
but mutter: “Quit hiding, matches!”
In the candlelight, I see my own
great big wordless shadow cast upon the wall
农妇说话
A Farm Woman
Speaks
冬天到了，风把此地刷得光亮。
让孩子喝了鱼肉菜汤，
让他们看出沉闷的窗口
一声残酷的咳嗽使树剧烈摇摆。
我们再也经不起歉年，
油地毯看起来像烂熟香蕉——
在上面来回踱步也没用。
树整日轰轰作响，叶子惊惶
紧抓着门廊。夜色四合前
通常留意不到这些噪音，
一旦醒来定会发誓，海啸
正在侵袭内陆；难熬的惊慌
一闪而过，让你醒觉
自己身在何处，这里的庄稼
被冰霜烧尽了，牛群
吃的是粟米秆草，我们
对三个孩子的关爱和一点点钱
都沉没在这里了；在这几年来
天气最坏的季节里，早晨的牧草
铺满厚厚的玻璃碎——
早上，我见他把门推倒，任由门
躺着。月亮也融化了。风
从喜鹊带出泡泡劈啪
把乌鸦的嘎嘎声放在餐盘上。
他穿着靴子，蹒跚走向牲口棚，
脖子拖挂着几个煤油锡罐。
无花果树紧捏大地，鼓起
跟腱。栅栏松松垮垮歪向两旁。
现在他有时仍会向我求欢。
趁我在柿色柴火旁昏昏欲睡时，
只有他把臂弯伸过来抱我时，
那几枚火焰才像击不倒的旗帜。
格列 • 麦拿伦 Greg McLaren的诗
译 / 宋子江
一间屋
A House
一团黑暗笼罩着屋子
在窗边透出的灯光上
紧抓着房檐。
我们驾车离开
你的旧车，车门喀喇
让寒冷潜入车厢
夜是一个广阔的空间
闯入一切事物
你停车，嘎吱
铲上路边碎石
回头望向山后
柔光，河流坐入
低洼处。我们后悔去
那座安静的城市。几年来
你希望到城里找哥哥
但他从未现身。
你向我讲解，祖母家前
蓝花楹的淡紫，还有屋后
栅栏外桉树林的灰绿。
我渴望，嗯，一间屋
我走去后花园
厌倦了写下又一封
家书。天空广阔
太阳低挂树间
地平线染上了
蓝花楹的瘀伤色。
车门开了又关
邻家的灯亮了。
A House
I see a darkness above the houses,
above the light at their windows
catching in the eaves.
We are driving away
in your old car, its rattling door
letting the cold in.
The night is a wide space,
entering everything.
You stop, we crunch on gravel
by the side of a road,
looking back at the soft glow
behind the hills and the dips
the river sits in. We regret
the quiet city. For years
you’d hoped to find your brother there.
He never showed.
You explained the mauves and grey-greens
of your grandmother’s jacaranda
and the gum-forest past her back fence.
I am longing, I think, for a house.
I go out into its back yard,
tired of writing another
letter home. The sun is low
in the flat sky, between the trees.
The horizon takes on the colour
of bruised jacaranda flowers.
A car door opens and closes,
a light goes on in the house next door.
莱斯 • 马雷 Les Murray的诗
译 / 宋子江
Rainwater Tank
Empty rings when tapped give tongue,
rings that are tense with water talk:
as he sounds them, ring by rung,
Joe Mitchell’s reddened knuckles walk.
The cattledog’s head sinks down a notch
and another notch; beside the tank,
and Mitchell’s boy, with an old jack-plane,
lifts mustaches from a plank.
From the puddle that the tank has dripped
hens peck glimmerings and uptilt
their heads to shape the quickness down;
petunias live on what gets spilt.
The tankstand spider adds a spittle
thread to her portrait of her soul.
Pencil-grey and stacked like shillings
out of a banker’s paper roll
stands the tank, roof-water drinker.
The downpipe stares drought into it.
Briefly the kitchen tap turns on
then off. But the tank says Debit, Debit.
十五岁诗画像
It Allows a Portrait
in Line Scan
at Fifteen
他还保留着一口“火星腔”，常年说话只用短句
他已不再以拥抱来缓和敌意。它渐渐允许他拥有爱意
它不允许适可而止。焦虑肯定存在，让他尖叫，让他破门而出，疯狂奔跑
他像机械人，有不苟言笑的力量和独特的声调
焦虑仍使他在家中奔跑，夜里独自大笑或咕咕地叫
他能读懂关于新西兰土地和人口的书，但对日常生活的话题一窍不通
“阿诺施瓦辛格是演员。他不会真的是机械人吧？是吗？爸爸。”
他就活在四十亩范围内，与动植物作伴，还一度绘画这里的景物
他把这个地球的沃壤分布图背得滚瓜烂熟，还能徒手把它画出来
他说谎时，只会惊慌地叫“对不起对不起不是我！”，防止对别人、对自己发起冲突
如果他经常跑出家门，肯定是去了蔬果贩子那里参拜叠起的水果了
他最喜欢的国家是乌克兰：几乎整个国家都是肥沃的土壤
他一边笑，一边爬到弗洛伊德派的心理医生身上，
医生告诉我们“雪柜型”家长导致子女患上自闭症
别人叫他笑，他会挂出一幅标准的露齿笑容
他早就不看自然主义电影了，因为那是大人的影片
“如果他们是坏人，警察会送他们去医院。”他其实在说自己
有时他把家里的农场画到中国或巴厘岛的稻米梯田上
玩越狱余生时，他会以三倍于成人的速度跑到警察局咆哮
只有动画片才适合他看，有《谁陷害了兔子罗杰》就什么都行
他会把对他说的只言片语当成教导，把它们一遍一遍地念
他参拜水果时，如果你让他吃，他会尖叫起来，仿佛水果有毒
一次单词对话：“灰机”“对！飞机。说得真好！”“灰机”
他什么也没有忘记，还准确地记得经历的特质他还要裁定：“盗窃真的让人那么生气吗？和谋杀一样吗？”
他以瞥视来认路，而不是细心地观望，但他从未迷路
他只吃果仁和干果时，说话已是十万火急的信号
他熟知所有家禽种类和所有爱尔兰郡县
他开始说话，然后喋喋不休，最后沉默。收回几年来所说的话
当他牵起你的手，他是要使用这个多功能工具
他是一块映出愤怒的镜子，会放大身边的怒气，又用怒气把它平息
它仍不让他吃新鲜水果，不让他喝带果肉的果汁
寒天夜里，他会跑去水塘里游泳。它对寒冷毫无规则可言
雷声会把他吓到，他会大叫“它：愤气！”仿佛在解释
他把鸡蛋打到面包上，然后烤着吃。交流关于土壤的知识会被称作“地说”
他活在客观的世界，只有他说面瘫离我而去了，我会才相信
“别说！”他八岁时，不让我们说“自闭”二字
开起找女朋友的玩笑，会让他露出惧色，闭起耳朵
有时，他会把我们的农场画到美国中西部的耕地上
“妈，看眼睛！”意思是，他真的需要关注，但不喜欢主动看你
他为人公正，友善，只是有时有点嫉妒。一丁点嫉妒却是一种解放
他划水，滚地，走几英里。多年来，他奔跑时都不会放松左臂
“我要聪明起来！”想到未来，他很害怕。“我要聪明起来！”
It Allows a Portrait in Line Scan at Fifteen
He retains a slight ‘Martian’ accent, from the years of single phrases.
He no longer hugs to disarm. It is gradually allowing him affection.
It does not allow proportion. Distress is absolute,
shrieking, and runs him at frantic speed through crashing doors.
He likes cyborgs. Their taciturn power, with his intonation.
It still runs him around the house, alone in the dark, cooing and laughing.
He can read about soils, populations and New Zealand. On neutral topics he’s illiterate.
Arnie Schwarzenegger is an actor. He isn’t a cyborg really, is he, Dad?
He lives on forty acres, with animals and trees, and used to draw it continually.
He knows the map of Earth’s fertile soils, and can draw it freehand.
He can only lie in a panicked shout SorrySorryIdidn’tdoit! warding off conflict with
others and himself.
When he ran away constantly it was to the greengrocers to worship stacked fruit.
His favourite country was the Ukraine: it is nearly all deep fertile soil.
Giggling, he climbed all over the dim Freudian psychiatrist who told us how autism resulted from
‘refrigerator’ parents.
When asked to smile, he photographs a rictus-smile on his face.
It long forbade all naturalistic films. They were Adult movies.
If they (that is, he) are bad the police will put them in hospital.
He sometimes drew the farm amid Chinese or Balinese rice terraces.
When a runaway, he made uproar in the police station, playing at three times adult speed.
Only animated films were proper. Who Framed Roger Rabbit then authorised the rest.
Phrases spoken to him he would take as teaching, and repeat.
When he worshipped fruit, he screamed as if poisoned when it was fed to him.
A one-word first conversation: Blane.— Yes! Plane, that’s right, baby!— Blane.
He has forgotten nothing, and remembers the precise quality of experiences.
It requires rulings: Is stealing very playing up, as bad as murder?
He counts at a glance, not looking. And he has never been lost.
When he ate only nuts and dried fruit, words were for dire emergencies.
He knows all the breeds of fowls, and the counties of Ireland.
He’d begun to talk, then resumed to babble, and silence. It withdrew speech for years.
When he took your hand, it was to work it, as a multi-purpose tool.
He is anger’s mirror, and magnifies any near him, raging it down.
It still won’t allow him fresh fruit, or orange juice with bits in it.
He swam in the midwinter dam at night. It had no rules about cold.
He was terrified of thunder and finally cried as if in explanation It—angry!
He grilled an egg he’d broken into bread. Exchanges of soil-knowledge are called landtalking.
He lives in objectivity. I was sure Bell’s palsy would leave my face only when he said it had begun to.
Don’t say word! when he was eight forbade the word ‘autistic’ in his presence.
Bantering questions about girlfriends cause a terrified look and blocked ears.
He sometimes centred the farm in a furrowed American Midwest.
Eye contact, Mum! means he truly wants attention. It dislikes I-contact.
He is equitable and kind, and only ever a little
jealous. It was a relief when that little arrived.
He surfs, bowls, walks for miles. For many years he
hasn’t trailed his left arm while running.
I gotta get smart! looking terrified into the years. I gotta get smart!