離任何小鎮都是二十裏。陽光
醇厚的一天，
帶着濃稠的愛的香味。
我們呆了多久？
你的身體，畢加索的綫條，
已在這高地的空氣裏漸漸幹爽。
我用我的內衣
擦幹你的背，你的臀。
時間是一頭美洲獅。
沒來由地我們就笑了，
當我觸到你的胸，
便是地鬆鼠
也暈眩了。
我不會被她的電話招去
縱然她說我愛你，
哪怕，
即使她賭咒
並發誓
除了愛衹有愛。
燈光在房間裏
均勻攤蓋住
所有東西；
連我的手臂也投不出陰影，
連它也隨光而逝。
但愛這個字——
這個字在逐漸變暗，變得
沉重而搖擺不定
並開始侵蝕
這一頁紙
你聽。
I will not go when she calls
even if she says i love you,
especially that,
even though she swears
and promises nothing
But love love.
The light in this room
covers every
thing equally;
my arm throws no shadow even,
it too is consumed with light.
But this word love—
this word grows dark,grows
heavy and shake itself
and begins to eat
through this paper.
Listen.
露臺上。從那裏我可以看見和聽見海水，
以及這些年發生在我身上的一切。
悶熱而寧靜。潮水退了。
沒有鳥歌唱。當我靠着柵欄
一隻蜘蛛網觸到了我的前額。
它絆進我頭髮裏了。沒有人能責備我轉身
走進屋子。沒有風。大海
死一樣沉寂。我把蜘蛛網挂在燈罩上。
當我的呼吸碰到它，我望着它不時地
顫動。一條精美的綫。錯綜復雜。
不久之後，不等人們發現，
我就會從這裏消失。
of the house. From there I could see and hear the water,
and everything that's happened to me all these years.
It was hot and still. The tide was out.
No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing
a cobweb touched my forehead.
It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned
and went inside. There was no wind. The sea
was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.
Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath
touches it. A fine thread. Intricate.
Before long, before anyone realizes,
I'll be gone from here.
我沒讀一本書，
除了一册叫《從莫斯科撤退》的東西，
作者是柯內科。
但是，我很快樂，
和我兄弟駕着車，
喝了一品脫“老鴉”酒。
我們也沒想着要去哪兒，
衹是駕着車。
如果我閉上眼睛一小會兒，
我就會嗚呼，但
我就能愉快地躺下來，永遠地睡在
這條路邊。
我兄弟用肘推了推我。
現在每一分鐘，都可能有事情發生。
Read a book in six months
except something called The Retreat from Moscow
by Caulaincourt
Nevertheless, I am happy
Riding in a car with my brother
and drinking from a pint of Old Crow.
We do not have any place in mind to go,
we are just driving.
If I closed my eyes for a minute
I would be lost, yet
I could gladly lie down and sleep forever
beside this road
My brother nudges me.
Any minute now, something will happen.
十月。在這陰濕，陌生的廚房裏
我端詳父親那張拘謹的年輕人的臉。
他靦腆地咧開嘴笑，一隻手拎着一串
多刺的金鱸，另一隻手
是一瓶嘉士伯啤酒。
穿着牛仔褲和粗棉布襯衫，他靠在
1934年的福特車的前擋泥板上。
他想給子孫擺出一副粗率而健壯的模樣，
耳朵上歪着一頂舊帽子。
整整一生父親都想要敢作敢為。
但眼睛出賣了他，還有他的手
鬆垮地拎着那串死鱸
和那瓶啤酒。父親，我愛你，
但我怎麽能說謝謝你？我也同樣管不住我的酒，
甚至不知道到哪裏去釣魚。
October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.
In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.
But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?
他感覺他的筆尖開始顫抖。
潮水越過砂石嚮外涌去。
但不是這樣。不，
那是因為那一刻她選擇了
不着一絲衣衫走進房間。
倦眼昏昏，一瞬間，甚至不能肯定
她在哪裏。她從前額捋了捋頭髮。
閉着眼坐在馬桶上，
頭低下。腳攤開。他從門口
看着她。也許
她還記着那天早上發生的事。
因為過了一會兒，她睜開一隻眼望着他。
並且甜蜜地笑。
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn't that. No,
it's because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead.
Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her
through the doorway. Maybe
she's remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.
端出了一塊餅。微微的蒸汽
從餅的裂縫嚮上升起。糖和香料——
肉桂——烤進了餡餅皮。
但她戴着一副墨鏡
在上午十點的
廚房裏——一切正常——
當她望着我切開
一塊，放進嘴裏，
食不知味。我女兒的廚房，
在鼕天。我叉起一塊餅，
告訴自己別管這事兒。
她說她愛他。再沒有
比這更糟糕的了。
out of the oven. A little steam rises
from the slits on top. Sugar and spice -
cinnamon - burned into the crust.
But she's wearing these dark glasses
in the kitchen at ten o'clock
in the morning - everything nice -
as she watches me break off
a piece, bring it to my mouth,
and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen,
in winter. I fork the pie in
and tell myself to stay out of it.
She says she loves him. No way
Could it be worse.
蓋在地上。太陽浮在清澈的
藍天裏。海是藍的，一片藍緑，
遠到視綫所及。
幾乎不起一絲漣漪。靜謐。我穿上衣出門
散步——在接納大自然必然的
饋贈之前不打算回來。
我走過一些蒼老的，躬着身子的樹。
穿過散落着堆積小雪的石頭的
田野。一直走，
直到懸崖。
在那裏，我凝望着大海，天空，以及
在低遠處白色沙灘上盤旋的
海鷗。一切都很可愛。一切都沐浴在純淨的
清冷的光裏。但是，和往常一樣，我的思想
開始漫遊。我不得不集中
精神去看那些我看着的東西
而不是別的什麽。我不得不告訴自己這就是
緊要的事，而不是別的。（我確實看着它，
一兩分鐘之久！）有一兩分鐘
它從往常的關於是是非非的沉思中
掙紮出來——責任，
溫柔的回憶，關於死亡的想法，以及我該如何對待
我的前妻。我希望
所有的事情這個早晨都會離開。
我每天都要忍受的事物。為了
繼續活下去我所糟踐的東西。
但是有一兩分鐘我真的忘記了
我自己以及別的一切。我知道我做到了。
因為當我轉身返回我不知道
我在哪裏。直到鳥兒從扭麯的樹上
騰空飛起。飛翔在
我需要行進的方向。
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk -- determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong -- duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.
這麽早外面幾乎還是黑的。
我在窗邊端着咖啡，
清早的平常事物
掠過我的頭腦。
突然我看到一個男孩和他的同伴
沿路走過來
投遞着報紙。
他們戴着帽子穿着毛衣，
其中一個肩上背着包。
他們是這麽快樂，
什麽話也沒說，這些孩子。
我想如果能夠，他們一定會
手輓着手。
這麽早的早晨，
他們一塊兒做這件事情。
他們走近了，慢慢地。
天空披上了曙光，
儘管月亮仍蒼白地挂在水上。
這樣的美，
死亡，雄心壯志，甚至愛，
都根本無法進入它。
快樂。它毫無預料地
來了。真的，它超越了
任何一個早晨。
So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.
小鳥聚集在食槽邊。相同的鳥兒，我想，
每天都來吃食，吵嚷。時間是，時間是，
它們叫着，相互擠撞。叫的幾乎就是時間，是的。
天空整天陰暗，風從西邊來，
不停地吹……把你的手伸給我一會兒。握在
我的手上。對了，就是這樣。緊緊握住。時間就是我們
以為時間就在我們身邊。時間是，時間是，
那些亂蓬蓬的鳥兒叫着。
他說看上去很糟事實上真的很糟
他說在一邊肺上我數到了三十二個然後
我就沒再數了
我說我很高興我不想知道
比那更多的情況了
他說你信教嗎你會不會跪在
森林的小樹叢裏讓自己祈求神助
當你來到一片瀑布
水霧吹拂在你的臉和手臂上
在那些時刻你會不會停下來祈求諒解
我說還沒有但我打算從今天起開始
他說真的很遺憾他說
我真希望能有一些別的消息給你
我說阿門而他說了些別的什麽
我沒聽懂也不知道該做些什麽
我不想要他不得不又重複一次
也不想自己不得不將它全部消化
我衹是望着他
望了一分鐘他也回望着我就在那時
我跳起來和這個人握手是他剛剛給了我
這個世上別的人不曾給過我的東西
出於強大的習慣我甚至還要感謝他
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong
你想要的嗎，即使這樣？
我得到了。
那你想要過什麽？
叫我自己親愛的，感覺自己
在這個世上被愛。
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
On the Columbia River near Vantage,
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months; my dad, Swede-
Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.
My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He lets me steer his car, teased me
about my name 'Junior,' and said
one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.
And all at length are gathered in.
--LOUISE BOGAN
By the time I came around to feeling pain
and woke up, moonlight
flooded the room. My arm lay paralyzed,
propped up like an old anchor under
your back. You were in a dream,
you said later, where you'd arrived
early for the dance. But after
a moment's anxiety you were okay
because it was really a sidewalk
sale, and the shoes you were wearing,
or not wearing, were fine for that.
"Help me," I said. And tried to hoist
my arm. But it just lay there, aching,
unable to rise on its own. Even after
you said, "What is it? What's wrong?"
it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved
by any expression of fear or amazement.
We shouted at it, and grew afraid
when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep,"
I said, and hearing those words
knew how absurd this was. But
I couldn't laugh. Somehow,
between the two of us, we managed
to raise it. This can't be my arm
is what I kept thinking as
we thumped it, squeezed it, and
prodded it back to life. Shook it
until that stinging went away.
We said a few words to each other.
I don't remember what. Whatever
reassuring things people
who love each other say to each other
given the hour and such odd
circumstance. I do remember
you remarked how it was light
enough in the room that you could see
circles under my eyes.
You said I needed more regular sleep,
and I agreed. Each of us went
to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed
on our respective sides.
Pulled the covers up. "Good night,"
you said, for the second time that night.
And fell asleep. Maybe
into that same dream, or else another.
I lay until daybreak, holding
both arms fast across my chest.
Working my fingers now and then.
While my thoughts kept circling
around and around, but always going back
where they'd started from.
That one inescapable fact: even while
we undertake this trip,
there's another, far more bizarre,
we still have to make.
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I've said that.
goodbyes. Loss ringing in their ears.
They'd been through a lot together, but now
they couldn't go another step. Besides, for him
there was someone else. Tears were falling
when a horse stepped out of the fog
into the front yard. Then another, and
another. She went outside and said,
'Where did you come from, you sweet horses?'
and moved in amongst them, weeping,
touching their flanks. The horses began
to graze in the front yard.
He made two calls: one call went straight
to he sheriff - 'someone's horses are out.'
But there was that other call, too.
Then he joined his wife in the front
yard, where they talked and murmured
to the horses together. (Whatever was
happening now was happening in another time.)
Horses cropped the grass in the yard
that night. A red emergency light
flashed as a sedan crept in out of fog.
Voices carried out of the fog.
At the end of that long night,
when they finally put their arms around
each other, their embrace was full of
passion and memory. Each recalled
the other's youth. Now something had ended,
something else rushing in to take its place.
Came the moment of leave-taking itself.
'Goodbye, go on,' she said.
And then pulling away.
Much later,
he remembered making a disastrous phone call.
One that had hung on and hung on,
a malediction. It's boiled down
to that. The rest of his life.
Malediction.
They lived in painted houses with flush toilets.
Drove cars whose year and make were recognizable.
The ones worse off were sorry and didn't work.
Their strange cars sat on blocks in dusty yards.
The years go by and everything and everyone gets replaced.
But this much is still true-I never liked work.
My goal was always to be shiftless.
I saw the merit in that.
I liked the idea of sitting in a chair in front of your house
for hours,
doing nothing but wearing a hat and drinking cola.
What's wrong with that?
Drawing on a cigarette from time to time.
Spitting.
Making things out of wood with a knife.
Where's the harm there?
Now and then calling the dogs to hunt rabbits.
Try it sometime. Once in a while hailing a fat, blond kid like me and saying,
'Don't I know you?'
Not, 'What are you going to be when you grow up?'
like clouds from his lips. He hopes no one
comes along tonight, or calls to ask for help.
Help is what he's most short on tonight.
A storm thrashes outside. Heavy seas
with gale winds from the west. The table he sits at
is, say, two cubits long and one wide.
The darkness in the room teems with insight.
Could be he'll write an adventure novel. Or else
a children's story. A play for two female characters,
one of whom is blind. Cutthroat should be coming
into the river. One thing he'll do is learn
to tie his own flies. Maybe he should give
more money to each of his surviving
family members. The ones who already expect a little
something in the mail first of each month.
Every time they write they tell him
they're coming up short. He counts heads on his fingers
and finds they're all survivng. So what
if he'd rather be remembered in the dreams of strangers?
He raises his eyes to the skylights where rain
hammers on. After a while --
who knows how long? -- his eyes ask
that they be closed. And he closes them.
But the rain keeps hammering. Is this a cloudburst?
Should he do something? Secure the house
in some way? Uncle Bo stayed married to Aunt Ruby for 47 years. Then hanged himself.
He opens his eyes again. Nothing adds up.
It all adds up. How long will this storm go on?
Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.
These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pockets of my brain.
But there's one that comes-
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
that simply holds against the current,
closing its dark mouth against
the current, closing and opening
as it holds to the current.
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I'm sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It's this and similar questions
I'm trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.