玛丽·奥利弗诗40首（上）:停歇在凌霄花上的蜂雀
策兰 2019-10-05
玛丽•奥利弗(Mary Oliver, 1935-)，1935年9月10日生于美国俄亥俄州，13岁开始写诗，1962年玛丽前往伦敦，任职于移动影院有限公司和莎士比亚剧场。回到美国，定居普林斯顿。她的诗歌赢得了多项奖项，其中包括国家图书奖和普利策诗歌奖（1984年）。主要诗集有：《夜晚的旅行者》（The Night Traveler，1978），《美国原貌》（American Primitive， 1983），《灯光的屋宇》（House of Light，1990），《新诗选》（New and Selected Poems，1992），《白松：诗和散文诗》（White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems，1994）等。
黑水塘
雨下了一整夜
黑水塘沸腾的水平静下来。
我掬了一捧。慢慢
饮下。它的味道
像石头，叶子，火。它把寒冷
灌进我体内，惊醒了骨头。我听见他们
在我身体深处，窃窃私语
哦，这转瞬即逝的美妙之物
究竟是什么？
At Blackwater Pond
by Mary Oliver
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?
天鹅
你是否也看见它，整夜，漂浮在黑暗的河上？
你是否看见它在早晨，飞入银亮的空气——
一束白色的花，
丝绸与亚麻的一阵完美抖动，当它
将头藏进翅膀中；一道雪堤，一片开满百合的坡岸，
它黑色的喙咬紧了空气？
你是否听见它，笛声和哨音
一种尖锐而深沉的音乐——像雨拍打着树——像一片瀑布
冲下黑色的岩石？
你是否看见它，最后，就在云层下——
滑过天空的一个白十字架，它的脚
像黑色的叶子，它的翅膀像河面上伸展的光？
在你心里，是否感受到它如何化归万物？
而你最终领会了，美是为了什么？
并改变了你的生活？
The Swan
by Mary Oliver
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
鱼
我捉住的
第一条鱼，
不愿安静地
躺在提桶中，
而是拼命拍打着，大口喘气，
显得
惊慌失措，
在缓慢倾泻的
彩虹中，
它死了。后来
我剖开它的身体，将肉
和骨头分开，
吃掉了它。现在，海
在我身体里：我是鱼，鱼
在我里面闪闪发光；我们
正在上升，紧紧缠绕着，将要
掉回海中。摆脱痛苦，
和痛苦，和更多的痛苦，
我们喂养这个狂热的阴谋，我们被这个秘密
所滋养。
The Fish
by Mary Oliver
The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.
刀
当红尾鸟
巨大的翅膀拍打水面，
然后，飞上嶙峋的
灰色岩壁，
是什么
正
穿透我的心，
如同最薄的刀片。
它无关于
鸟，而是关于
石头
沉默，并促使
某种事物
一闪而过的方式。
有时
当我这样安静地坐着，
我生命的全部梦想
和全部非凡的时刻，
似乎要离开，
从我身上溜出去。
于是，我想象，我将不再移动。
此时，
鹰至少已飞了
五英里，
无论谁偶然抬头去看
都会头昏眼花。
我感到晕眩。但那
不是刀。
它是陡峭、盲目而厚实的
石头墙，
不含一点希望，
或者一个未满足的欲望，
海绵般吸收并反射着
太阳之火，
它如此明亮，
仿佛已存在了几个世纪。
Knife
by Mary Oliver
Something
just now
moved through my heart
like the thinnest of blades
as that red-tail pumped
once with its great wings
and flew above the gray, cracked
rock wall.
It wasn"t
about the bird, it was
something about the way
stone stays
mute and put, whatever
goes flashing by.
Sometimes,
when I sit like this, quiet,
all the dreams of my blood
and all outrageous divisions of time
seem ready to leave,
to slide out of me.
Then, I imagine, I would never move.
By now
the hawk has flown five miles
at least,
dazzling whoever else has happened
to look up.
I was dazzled. But that
wasn"t the knife.
It was the sheer, dense wall
of blind stone
without a pinch of hope
or a single unfulfilled desire
sponging up and reflecting,
so brilliantly,
as it has for centuries,
the sun"s fire.
野鹅
你不必善良。
不必跪行
一百英里，穿过荒凉的忏悔。
你只要让你温柔的身体
爱它所爱的。
告诉我，你的绝望，而我将告诉你我的。
同时世界继续。
同时太阳和雨清澈的鹅卵石
正在穿越风景，
越过大草原，幽深的树林，
山脉和河流。
同时野鹅，在洁净蔚蓝的高空，
正再次飞回家乡。
无论你是谁，无论多么孤独，
世界为你提供了想象，
召唤你，像野鹅那样，严厉并充满激情——
反复宣告
你在万物中的位置。
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
桌上的蜂蜜
它用柔软无形的
花的精魂，填满你，它滴成
一根头发似的细线，你跟随它
从蜂蜜罐到桌子
到门外，到地上，
它不断变稠，
变深，变宽，经过
松树枝，潮湿的大石头，
山猫和熊的爪印，进入了
森林深处，你
匆匆放倒一些树，剥掉树皮，
你漂浮着，并吞下淌着蜂蜜的蜂巢，
树屑，被压碎的蜜蜂……一种味道
由失去的一切所构成，在其中，失去的一切又被找回。
Honey At The Table
by Mary Oliver
It fills you with the soft
essence of vanished flowers, it becomes
a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow
from the honey pot over the table
and out the door and over the ground,
and all the while it thickens,
grows deeper and wilder, edged
with pine boughs and wet boulders,
pawprints of bobcat and bear, until
deep in the forest you
shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark,
you float into and swallow the dripping combs,
bits of the tree, crushed bees - - - a taste
composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found.
音乐
我将一些细芦管
绑在一起，刻上
气孔，吹奏出一种音乐
使你呆立
如受电击，然后
跟随着，当我漫步，一点点
长出
斜眼睛和粗糙的毛发，我的脚
踏着岩石，长出
坚硬的羊角，而你
跟在后面，沉溺在
音乐中，取下
头上的银发夹
匆匆地，脱掉
衣服。
我不记得
这发生在哪里，但是我想
它是夏末，万物
充满火焰，孕育着果实
不做其他事，
也不抵抗，
只是躺着，像一片黑暗的水域
在月亮的引力下，
颠簸不休。
在城市野蛮的优雅中
我曾散步
在旅店大厅
并听见这种音乐，在
闭紧的门后。
你以为心灵
可以被解释吗？你以为身体
是皂荚树的
一根枝条，
追逐水，
对着太阳隆起，
颤抖着，当它感到
善，进入了
白色的花中？
或者你以为有一种
音乐，一种特定的旋律
点亮身体
迟钝的荒原——
一种兴奋
而难以解释的选择？
哈，好吧，总之，无论是不是
夏末，或是不是
发生在我们身上，它只是
一场梦，我没有
变成柔软的山羊神。你也没有像那样
奔跑着到来。
你说呢？
Music
by Mary Oliver
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can"t remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn"t,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
太阳
在你的生命中
可曾见过
比太阳的旅程
更精彩的
事物，
每天傍晚，
它悠闲地，
向着地平线飘落
隐入云层或山峦，
或微波荡漾的大海，
然后消失了——
它再次从黑暗中
滑出，
每个早晨，
在世界的另一边，
像一朵红花
浮在神圣的油中向上流动，
说，初夏的一个早晨，
隔着其完美的帝国距离——
你可曾感受到
如此疯狂的爱——
难道你认为，在什么地方，在什么语言中，
一个词可能激起
巨浪似的快乐
充满你，
如同太阳
升起，
如同它温暖你
当你站在那儿，
两手空空——
或者你
已从这个世界转身离去——
或者你
已变得疯狂
为权力，
为物质？
The Sun
by Mary Oliver
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
在森林中沉睡
我想大地记得我，
她那么温柔地接纳我，
整理好她的黑裙子，她的口袋中
装满青苔和种子。
我沉沉睡去，就像河床上的一块石头，
在我和星星的白色火焰之间，空无一物
只有我的思想，它们像飞蛾一样
轻轻漂浮在完美之树的枝叶间。
整夜，我听见这个小王国
在我周围呼吸，昆虫，
和鸟儿们，在黑暗中工作。
整夜，我沉浮起落，如同在水中，
挣扎于一种明亮的光。直到清晨，
我在一些更好的事物中
至少消失了十二次。
Sleeping In The Forest
by Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
诗（灵魂喜欢伪装……）
灵魂
喜欢装扮成这个样子：
十个手指，
十个脚趾，
肩膀，以及其余部分
在晚上
是世界的黑色枝条，
在早上
是世界的
蓝色枝条。
当然，它可以浮动，
但是更愿
垂挂着重物。
空气般的无形之物，
它需要
肉体的隐喻，
肢体和欲望，
海洋般的流体，
它需要肉体的世界，
本能
想象力
时间黑暗的拥抱，
甜蜜
和实在性，
需要被理解，
燃烧出
更纯粹的光
无人在那里——
因此它进入我们——
早晨
在野蛮的安逸中闪耀
如一道闪电；
夜晚
点亮肉体深刻而奇异的
沉溺
如一颗星。
Poem (The spirit likes to dress up...)
by Mary Oliver
The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,
shoulders, and all the rest
at night
in the black branches,
in the morning
in the blue branches
of the world.
It could float, of course,
but would rather
plumb rough matter.
Airy and shapeless thing,
it needs
the metaphor of the body,
lime and appetite,
the oceanic fluids;
it needs the body"s world,
instinct
and imagination
and the dark hug of time,
sweetness
and tangibility,
to be understood,
to be more than pure light
that burns
where no one is --
so it enters us --
in the morning
shines from brute comfort
like a stitch of lightning;
and at night
lights up the deep and wondrous
drownings of the body
like a star.
白鹭
在道路
被堵塞了的地方，
我踏过暗淡的叶子，
坠落的枝条，
以及盘根错节的猫藤，
继续向前。最后
我的胳膊
被荆棘
划伤，很快
蚊子们
围着我，闷热
伤痛，我感到
天旋地转，
这是我
到达池塘的经过：
黑暗而空虚
惟有一管被水泡白的
芦苇
躺在远处的岸边
当我正看着那里时，
水面突然荡起波纹
三只白鹭——
一束
白色的火焰！
即使半睡半醒，它们
对这个造就了它们的世界
也如此信任——
倾斜着飞过水面，
安静，确定，
借助它们的信仰法则
而不是逻辑，
它们温柔地张开
翅膀，滑过
每一件黑暗的事物。
Egrets
by Mary Oliver
Where the path closed
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier,
I kept going. Finally
I could not
save my arms
from thorns; soon
the mosquitoes
smelled me, hot
and wounded, and came
wheeling and whining.
And that"s how I came
to the edge of the pond:
black and empty
except for a spindle
of bleached reeds
at the far shore
which, as I looked,
wrinkled suddenly
into three egrets - - -
a shower
of white fire!
Even half-asleep they had
such faith in the world
that had made them - - -
tilting through the water,
unruffled, sure,
by the laws
of their faith not logic,
they opened their wings
softly and stepped
over every dark thing.
嘲鸟
今天早晨
绿色的田野上
有两只嘲鸟
正在空中
纺织
它们歌声的
白丝带。
除了倾听
我没有
更好的事去做。
我这样说时
很严肃。
很久以前，
希腊，
有一对老夫妇
为两个
陌生人
打开门，
发现
根本不是人，
而是神。
这是我喜爱的故事——
这对老人
没有什么能给予
除了他们殷勤的
意愿——
但是仅此一点
神就爱他们
并祝福他们——
当他们升离
肉身，
像无数水珠
从一个喷泉中升起，
光
照进农舍的
每一处角落，
这对老人，
颤抖着领受，
弯下身躯——
但是他们仍然什么也不求
除了他们已经拥有的
困难生活。
神微笑着，拍动巨大的翅膀，
消失了。
这个早晨
无论我假设
这个故事发生在哪里——
无论我所说的是什么
我将要做的是——
我正站在
田野的边缘——
匆匆
穿越自己的灵魂，
打开它黑暗的门——
我探出头来；
我正在倾听。
Mockingbirds
by Mary Oliver
This morning
two mockingbirds
in the green field
were spinning and tossing
the white ribbons
of their songs
into the air.
I had nothing
better to do
than listen.
I mean this
seriously.
In Greece,
a long time ago,
an old couple
opened their door
to two strangers
who were,
it soon appeared,
not men at all,
but gods.
It is my favorite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing to give
but their willingness
to be attentive--
but for this alone
the gods loved them
and blessed them--
when they rose
out of their mortal bodies,
like a million particles of water
from a fountain,
the light
swept into all the corners
of the cottage,
and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--
but still they asked for nothing
but the difficult life
which they had already.
And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.
Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--
whatever it was I said
I would be doing--
I was standing
at the edge of the field--
I was hurrying
through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--
I was leaning out;
I was listening.
开花
四月
池塘像黑色的花
开放了，
月亮
游在每一朵花中；
处处
都着了火：青蛙叫喊着
它们的欲望，
它们的满足。我们
知道：时间
向我们砸来，像一把
铁锄头，死亡
是一种瘫软状态。我们
渴望：死亡之前的
欢乐，湿地的
夜晚——其他的一切
都能等，惟有
发自肉体的
冲动
不能等。我们
知道：我们浓于
血——我们大于
我们的饥饿，而
我们属于
月亮，当池塘
开放，当火
在我们之间燃烧，我们
深深梦想
赶紧
进入黑色的花瓣
进入火，
进入时间粉碎的夜晚
进入另一个人的身体。
Blossom
by Mary Oliver
In April
the ponds open
like black blossoms,
the moon
swims in every one;
there’s fire
everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
their satisfaction. What
we know: that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: joy
before death, nights
in the swale - everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know: we are more
than blood - we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered
into the body of another.
八月
当黑莓饱满地
挂在林中，挂在不属于任何人的
莓枝上，我整天
晃悠在高高的
枝条下，什么也不
想，只是伸出
我被划破的胳膊，把夏日的黑蜜
塞进
嘴中；整天，我的身体
顺其自然。在流过的
幽暗溪水中，有我
生命的厚爪，张扬在
黑色的钟型浆果和枝叶间；还有
这欢乐的语言。
August
by Mary Oliver
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
秋歌
又一年将尽，处处留下了
气味浓郁的残余：藤蔓，落叶，
吃剩的果实在阴影中
腐烂，消融，
撤离这个夏天的
孤岛，这个此刻，无处可寻。
除了腐烂，在脚下，
在不可知的
黑暗神秘的地下城堡中——根和带壳的种子
和水的渗透。当时间的轮盘
艰难地转动，我试图记住
这些，譬如，当秋天
终于闪现，喧闹着，像我们那样渴望
停驻——明亮的景物变换更替，在这转瞬即逝的
草场中，万物如何
进入永恒。
Fall Song
by Mary Oliver
Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back
from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere
except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle
of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This
I try to remember when time"s measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.
百合
一夜又一夜
黑暗
笼罩了百合的
脸，
轻轻地
关闭了
它的五面墙，
它的
花蜜袋，
以及它的芬芳，
它心满意足地
站在
花园里，
并不安静地睡去，
而是
用百合的语言，
说着一些
我们无法听见的私语，
尤其是
一丝风也没有时，
它的唇
守口如瓶，
它的语调
那么隐秘——
或者，它
什么也没说
只是站在那儿，
带着植物
和圣人似的
耐心，
直到整个地球转了一圈，
银色的月亮
变成金色的太阳——
百合仿佛对此了然于心，
它自己，难道不正是
最完美的祈祷？
The Lily
by Mary Oliver
Night after night
darkness
enters the face
of the lily
which, lightly,
closes its five walls
around itself,
and its purse
of honey,
and its fragrance,
and is content
to stand there
in the garden,
not quite sleeping,
and, maybe,
saying in lily language
some small words
we can’t hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere,
its lips
are so secret,
its tongue
is so hidden –
or, maybe,
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience
of vegetables
and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon
becomes the golden sun –
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isn’t it,
the perfect prayer?
停歇在凌霄花上的蜂雀
谁不爱
玫瑰，谁
不爱黑暗池塘中
小天鹅一般
漂浮的
睡莲，
以及，热烈开放的
凌霄花呢。
蜂雀飞来，
像一个小小的绿色天使，
将棕黑的舌头
浸泡在幸福中——
谁不希望
和它小马达似的心灵一起
轻快地跳动
像舒伯特那样
歌唱
眼睛
四处观望，像阿尔勒的梵高那样
心醉神迷？
看！几乎整个世界
都在等待
或回忆——
几乎整个世界都处于
我们不在其中的时刻，
我们尚未出生，或已死去——
一束缓慢燃烧的火
与我们所有聋哑、疯狂而盲目的兄妹们
一起呆在地底
他们
甚至不再记得
自己的幸福——
看！我们将
如同苍白、冰凉的
石头，永远
存在。
Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
by Mary Oliver
Who doesn’t love
roses, and who
doesn’t love the lilies
of the black ponds
floating like flocks
of tiny swans,
and of course, the flaming
trumpet vine
where the hummingbird comes
like a small green angel, to soak
his dark tongue
in happiness -
and who doesn’t want
to live with the brisk
motor of his heart
singing
like a Schubert
and his eyes
working and working like those days of rapture,
by Van Gogh in Arles?
Look! for most of the world
is waiting
or remembering -
most of the world is time
when we’re not here,
not born yet, or died -
a slow fire
under the earth with all
our dumb wild blind cousins
who also
can’t even remember anymore
their own happiness -
Look! and then we will be
like the pale cool
stones, that last almost
forever.
叶子姑妈
因为需要，我创造了她——
这个伟大的姑妈像山胡桃树一样黑
名叫亮叶子，或者浮云
或者夜美人。
我在叶子中呼喊，亲爱的姑妈，
她就会站起来，像池塘中一根古旧的木头，
用一种只有我们俩才懂的语言，低声
吩咐我跟随，
我们将去旅行
像快乐的鸟儿一样
离开灰尘扑扑的小镇，一旦进入树林
她就把我们俩变成某种更敏捷的动物——
两只黑脚狐狸，
两条绿丝带似的蛇，
两条闪光的鱼——我们将整天旅行。
夜晚来临时，她离开我，让我回到自己的家
和家人呆在一起，
他们心地善良，却像木头一样顽固
从不流浪。而她，
是羽毛和白桦树皮缠绕成的一团
像雨一样盘旋着，又
飘回来
将黎明的光
播撒在飞舞的蛾翅上，
或者，像一只负鼠，懒散地呆在谷仓；
或者，悬挂在凝练的月光下，
像一枚耀眼的大奖章，
这个深刻的梦想，这个我需要的朋友，
这个老妇人，是用叶子做成的。
Aunt Leaf
by Mary Oliver
Needing one, I invented her -
the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.
Dear aunt, I"d call into the leaves,
and she"d rise up, like an old log in a pool,
and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
the word that meant follow,
and we"d travel
cheerful as birds
out of the dusty town and into the trees
where she would change us both into something quicker -
two foxes with black feet,
two snakes green as ribbons,
two shimmering fish - and all day we"d travel.
At day"s end she"d leave me back at my own door
with the rest of my family,
who were kind, but solid as wood
and rarely wandered. While she,
old twist of feathers and birch bark,
would walk in circles wide as rain and then
float back
scattering the rags of twilight
on fluttering moth wings;
or she"d slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;
or she"d hang in the milky moonlight
burning like a medallion,
this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
this old woman made out of leaves
一
蚊子如此渺小，
毁灭它无需费一点力气。
每一片叶子，以及匆匆来去的黑蚂蚁，
同样如此。
这么多生命，这么多命运！
每天早晨，我轻轻走着，眼睛扫视
低处的池塘和松树林。
在鼻涕虫爬向它的盛宴之前，
在松针簌簌地落下之前，
在迅疾而有益的雨中，
即使只有短短数小时，蘑菇，也会繁殖
许多，许多，许多
组成一个世界！
于是我想起那个古老的观念：独特的
才是永恒的。
一只杯子，万物在其中旋转着
变回大海和天空的颜色。
想象它！
必定是一只明亮的杯子！
那一刻
没有风掠过你的肩膀，
你凝视着它，
你在它里面，
你自己亲切的脸，你自己的眼睛。
而风，不顾及你，只是掠过。
轻抚着蚂蚁，蚊子，叶子，
以及你所知道的其他一切！
大海多么蓝，天空多么蓝，
万物多么蓝，多么微小，万物皆可以救赎，包括你，
包括你的眼睛，包括你的想象。
One
by Mary Oliver
The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
So many lives, so many fortunes!
Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
before the slug creeps to the feast,
before the pine needles hustle down
under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.
How many, how many, how many
make up a world!
And then I think of that old idea: the singular
and the eternal.
One cup, in which everything is swirled
back to the color of the sea and sky.
Imagine it!
A shining cup, surely!
In the moment in which there is no wind
over your shoulder,
you stare down into it,
and there you are,
your own darling face, your own eyes.
And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
and you know what else!
How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
even your eyes, even your imagination.
家信
她给我寄来蓝松鸦，霜，
星星，以及此刻正升起在贫瘠山巅的
秋月的消息。
她轻描淡写地提及寒冷，痛苦，
并罗列出已经丧失的东西。
读到这里，我的生活显得艰难而缓慢，
我读到生机勃勃的瓜
堆在门边，篮子里装满
茴香，迷迭香和莳萝，
而所有无法采集，或隐藏在叶子中的
那些，她只能任其变黑并落下。
读到这里，我的生活显得艰难而陌生，
我读到她的兴奋，每当
星星升起，霜降下来，蓝松鸦唱起歌。
荒芜的岁月没有改变
她聪明而热情的心；
她知道人们总是
计划自己的生活，却难以实现。
如果她哭泣，她不会告诉我。
我抚摸着她的名字；
我叠好信，站起来，
倾倒信封，从里面飘出了
玻璃苣，忍冬，芸香的碎片。
A Letter from Home
by Mary Oliver
She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.
I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.
沉迷
整个夏天
我漫步于田野，
在每个清晨，
每一场雨中，
田野变得深邃
充满种子和花，
以及闪烁不定的
耀眼的光环——
如同苍白的火焰，它们升起
又熄灭，
丰盈而美——
这就是田野的全部——
而我
至少有一两次，
感到自己飞起来了，
我的鞋子
突然碰到种子的顶端，
丝绸一般柔滑的蓝色空气——
听，
它热情地
召唤我，
使我迷茫，
剥去我的外壳
再为我穿上欢乐的衣裳——
我不再需要什么，
只是沉迷于这闪亮的一刻，
沉迷于这不合逻辑的失重——
它是否是你所爱之物的
完美形式——
属于一首古老的德国歌曲——
或者某个人——
或者就是地球自身的黑色丝线，
沉重，带电。
在可爱心智的边缘，展开
如此狂野而盲目的翅膀。
The Rapture
by Mary Oliver
All summer
I wandered the fields
that were thickening
every morning,
every rainfall,
with weeds and blossoms,
with the long loops
of the shimmering, and the extravagant-
pale as flames they rose
and fell back,
replete and beautiful-
that was all there was-
and I too
once or twice, at least,
felt myself rising,
my boots
touching suddenly the tops of the weeds,
the blue and silky air-
listen,
passion did it,
called me forth,
addled me,
stripped me clean
then covered me with the cloth of happiness-
I think there is no other prize,
only rapture the gleaming,
rapture the illogical the weightless-
whether it be for the perfect shapeliness
of something you love-
like an old German song-
or of someone-
or the dark floss of the earth itself,
heavy and electric.
At the edge of sweet sanity open
such wild, blind wings.
夏日
谁创造了世界？
谁创造了天鹅，和黑熊？
谁创造了蚱蜢？
蚱蜢，我指的是——
跳出草丛的这一只，
正在我手中吃糖的这一只，
正在来回而不是上下移动她的颚——
正在用她巨大而复杂的眼睛四处张望的这一只。
现在她抬起柔弱的前臂，彻底洗净她的脸。
现在她张开翅膀，飞走了。
我不能确定祷告是什么。
我只知道如何专注，如何躺进
草里，如何跪在草中，
如何偷懒并享受幸福，如何在田野闲逛，
这是我整天所做的事。
告诉我，我还应该做什么？
一切最终不都死去了，而且很快？
告诉我，你打算做什么
用你疯狂而宝贵的一生？
The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don"t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn"t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
以上全部诗歌由倪志娟翻译