英诗中译: A Simple Flame by Derek Walcott

by 云天

单纯的火焰
德里克•沃尔科特


I

依旧梦见, 依旧怀念
尤其在阴雨的清晨, 你的容颜幻化成
那些无名女学生, 那是一种惩罚
因为你有时勉强微笑
因为那微笑的唇角挂着宽恕

被姐妹们围攻, 你曾是她们
为之炫耀的战利品, 她们的指控
如荆棘把你密密包围
你究竟犯过何等大错, 又铸成过什么伤害, 安娜?

雨季负重而来
半年就已行程遥远. 它腰酸背痛
小雨疲惫地落着

在又一场战争之后
二十年过去了, 那些炮弹壳在何处?
而在我们黄铜色的季节, 在仿造的秋天
你的发丝熄灭了它的火焰
你的凝视在无数张照片里出没

时而清晰, 时而朦胧
那所有的一切, 对普遍性的求索
与天性合谋的复仇
对事物的狡黠揭示
以及每一道线条背面你的笑容
都冻结成一幅了无生机的照片

在那发丝间, 我能穿越俄罗斯的麦田
你双臂下垂, 宛若就要熟的梨
其实, 你已成为另一个故乡

你是麦田与堤堰的安娜
是稠密冬雨的安娜
是烟雾笼罩的月台与清冷列车的安娜
是在那场缺席的战争中, 沸腾车站的安娜

是从沼泽的边缘
从冷得令人颤栗的
细雨的浅滩消失的安娜
是雏形方现的最初的青绿诗篇的安娜

是此刻有着丰润玉乳的安娜
是摇曳的, 修长的火烈鸟的安娜
是水管中残留的粗砺盐巴的安娜
是浴女含笑的安娜

是黑屋里的安娜, 置身于火药弥漫的弹壳间
举起我的手在她胸前起誓
清澈的目光令人难以抗拒

你是所有的安娜, 以你身体中愤世嫉俗的站台
承受所有的别离
克里斯蒂,卡列尼娜, 骨骼粗大, 性情乖顺

这些我在小说中遇见的人物
比你更实际, 而你已被拣选
做他命定的女主角. 你知道, 你知道


II

那么, 你是谁呢?
我青春时代革命的金色搭档
我的扎辫子的, 能干的, 经验丰富的政委

你弯腰忙碌, 在蓝色的灶间里
或去晾衣裳, 或在农庄喂鸡
面朝梦幻的白桦林
杨树林, 或别的什么树

仿佛一只笔的瞳孔能捕捉到少女般的柔软
仿佛树荫和阳光在白纸上的追逐
都能够如此准确

冬雪一般陌生
初恋一般遥远
我的阿赫玛托娃!

二十年之后, 在烧焦的弹壳味中
你仍能唤我回忆”到帕斯特纳克的造访”
于是你突然间成为”麦田”一词

回响于耳畔, 在堤堰冰寒般的沉寂中
你再度俯身白菜园, 照料
一群雪白的小兔子
或从抖动的晾衣绳上取下那些围巾

如果梦是预兆
那么此刻已有生灵死去
从雪之梦, 从纸到白纸的飘飞
从逐浪的海鸥和鹭鸶
它的气息正从另一个生命中逸出. 而此刻,

你倏然老去, 白发苍苍
似白鹭, 似翻过去的一页书. 安娜, 我醒来
发觉事物会与自身分离,就象剥落的树皮

沉入雷鸣之后闪亮的寂静的
浩浩空无


III


“任何岛屿都会让你抓狂”
我早料到你会渐渐厌倦
那些大海的图象

仿佛年轻的风, 一个新娘
整天浏览海洋图册中的
贝壳与海藻

以及一切, 这群
初生的白色鹭鸶
我在一座灰色教堂的草坪上见过

像护士, 或圣餐之后的年轻修女
它们尖利的目光找到了我
就如你的明眸一般, 仅仅那一回

你就像鹭鸶
水之幽灵
你已厌倦了你的岛屿

直到最终, 你悄然起飞
没有一丝声响
你是身着护士服的新信徒

多年以后, 我想象着你
穿过林子走向某座灰色医院
一个平静的圣餐接受者
却从不”孤独”

仿佛是风, 未曾出嫁
你的信仰如折叠的亚麻布, 修女的, 护士的
现在你又因何读这个呢?

没有哪个女人应该在二十年之后
读这些迟到的诗行. 你为你的使命而奔忙, 好比蜡烛
你走入黑暗的布满伤员的

通道, 与病人结婚
结识一个丈夫, 还有痛苦
陪伴你的, 只有一群鹭鸶, 雨水

以及石砌教堂, 我记得…
还有那如白桦树般窈窕的新年处女
刚刚嫁给数滴晶莹的泪珠

就像白桦树, 她在登记处俯下身来
却无法在闪电的瞬间改换姓名
她仍将66年写成 65 年

就这样, 望着这些沉默不语
而忙碌的鹭鸶, 个个都奔忙于死者
石砌教堂, 和岩石之间

我以你的名誉写下了这首诗,当
诺言和深情都渐次凋零
你的灵魂恰似鹭鸶, 自岛上盐渍的草丛上飞起

进入另个天堂


IV

安娜答道:

我是单纯的
当年的我更加单纯
正因单纯
看上去才那么性感

可我又懂得什么呢
是这个世界,抑或这束光? 卷着泥沙的
海浪闪烁之光, 召来暗夜的
回荡着声声鸥鸣之光?

它们于我而言是简单的
在它们当中, 我不像
在你里面那样

你如此无私
爱我如爱世界
我只是个孩子, 正如
你一样, 而你带来了太多
矛盾的眼泪
我变成一个隐喻, 但
相信我, 我就如盐粒般粗糙

我回答说, 安娜,
二十年之后
一个男人已走过半生
下半生是回忆

前半生,犹疑不决
那本该发生的
却并未发生,或者
那不该发生的
却与别人发生了

一道光亮.她灼热的紧握.那些已氧化的
黄铜弹壳, 黄铜上冒着丝丝火药味
大战之后四十一年.黄铜
在黄蔓花丛中再次揩亮
透过窗外九重葛刺藤的
铁丝网, 在阳光装点的门廊上
我眺望远方晨曦之上的
袅袅硝烟, 受伤, 呆滞
当她坚决地拉过我的手, 第一次放到
她胸前易碎的薄衣上
在窒息的静寂里,她是护士
我是受伤的士兵.还有其它的
静寂,无一如此深沉. 在那之后
也曾拥有, 无一如此确定


云天 译


A Simple Flame
Derek Walcott

I

Still dreamt of, still missed,
especially on raw, rainy mornings, your face shifts
into anonymous schoolgirl faces, a punishment,
since sometimes you condescend to smile,
since at the corners of the smile there is forgiveness.
Besieged by sisters, you were a prize
of which they were too proud, circled
by the thorn thicket of their accusation,
what grave deep wrong, what wound have you brought, Anna?
The rain season comes with its load.
The half-year has travelled far. Its back hurts.
It drizzles wearily.
It is twenty years since,
after another war, the shell cases are where?
But in our brassy season, out imitation autumn,
your hair puts out its fire,
your gaze haunts innumerable photographs,
now clear, now indistinct,
all that pursuing generality,
that vengeful conspiracy with nature,
all that sly informing of objects,
and behind every line, your laugh
frozen into a lifeless photograph.
In that hair I could walk through the wheatfields of Russia,
your arms were downed and ripening pears,
for you became, in fact, another country,
you are Anna of the wheatfield and the weir,
you are Anna of the solid winter rain,
Anna of the smoky platform and the cold train,
in that war of absence, Anna of the steaming stations,
gone from the marsh edge,
from the drizzled shallows
puckering with gooseflesh,
Anna of the first green poems that startingly hardened.
of the mellowing breasts now,
Anna of the lurching, long flamingoes
of the harsh salt lingering in the thimble
of the bather's smile,
Anna of the darkened house, among the reeking shell cases,
lifting my hand and swearing us to her breast,
unbearably clear-eyed.
You are all Annas, enduring all goodbyes,
within the cynical station of your body,
Christie, Karenina, big-boned and passive,
that I found life within some novel's leaves
more real than you, already chosen
as his doomed heroine. You knew, you knew.

II
Who were you, then?
The golden partisan of my young Revolution,
my braided, practical, seasoned commissar,
your back, bent at its tasks, in the blue kitchen,
or hanging flags of laundry, feeding the farm's chicken,
against a fantasy of birches,
poplars, or whatever.
As if a pen's eye could catch that virginal litheness,
as if shade and sunlight leoparding the blank page
could be so literal,
foreign as snow,
far away as first love,
my Akhmatova!
Twenty years later, in the odour of burnt shells,
you can remind me of "A Visit to the Pasternaks,"
so that you are suddenly the word "wheat,"
falling on the ear, against the frozen silence of a weir,
again you are bending
over a cabbage garden, tending
a snowdrift of rabbits,
or pulling down the clouds from the thrumming clotheslines.
If dreams are signs,
then something died this minute,
its breath blown from a different life,
from a dream of snow, from paper
to white paper flying, gulls and herons
following this plough. And now,
you are suddenly old, white-haired,
like the herons, the turned page. Anna, I wake
to the knowledge that things sunder
from themselves, like peeling bark,
to the emptiness
of a bright silence shining after thunder.

II
Who were you, then?
The golden partisan of my young Revolution,
my braided, practical, seasoned commissar,
your back, bent at its tasks, in the blue kitchen,
or hanging flags of laundry, feeding the farm's chicken,
against a fantasy of birches,
poplars, or whatever.
As if a pen's eye could catch that virginal litheness,
as if shade and sunlight leoparding the blank page
could be so literal,
foreign as snow,
far away as first love,
my Akhmatova!
Twenty years later, in the odour of burnt shells,
you can remind me of "A Visit to the Pasternaks,"
so that you are suddenly the word "wheat,"
falling on the ear, against the frozen silence of a weir,
again you are bending
over a cabbage garden, tending
a snowdrift of rabbits,
or pulling down the clouds from the thrumming clotheslines.
If dreams are signs,
then something died this minute,
its breath blown from a different life,
from a dream of snow, from paper
to white paper flying, gulls and herons
following this plough. And now,
you are suddenly old, white-haired,
like the herons, the turned page. Anna, I wake
to the knowledge that things sunder
from themselves, like peeling bark,
to the emptiness
of a bright silence shining after thunder.

III
"Any island would drive you crazy,"
I knew you'd grow tired
of all that iconography of the sea

like the young wind, a bride
riffling daylong the oceans catalogue
of shells and algae

everything, this flock
of white, novitiate herons
I saw in the grass of a grey parish church,

like nurses, or young nuns after the communion,
their sharp eyes sought me out
as yours once, only.

And you were heron-like,
a water-haunter,
you grew bored with your island,

till, finally, you took off,
without a cry,
a novice in your nurse's uniform,

years later I imagined you
walking through trees to some gray hospital,
serene communicant
but never "lonely,"

like the wind, never to be married,
your faith like folded linen, a nun's, a nurse's,
why should you read this now?

No woman should read verses
twenty years late. You go about your calling, candle-like,
carrying yourself down a dark aisle

of wounded, married to the sick,
knowing one husband, pain,
only with the heron-flock, the rain,

the stone church, I remembered...
Besides, the slender, virginal New Year's
just married, like a birch
to a few crystal tears,

and like a birch bent at the register
who cannot, for a light's flash, change her name,
she still writes '65 for '66;

so, watching the tacit
ministering herons, each at its
work among the dead, the stone church, the stones,

I made this in your honor, when
vows and affections failing
your soul leapt like a heron sailing from the salt, island grass

into another heaven.




IV
Anna replies:

I am simple,
I was simpler then.
It was simplicity
which seemed so sensual.

What could I understand,
the world, the light? The light
in the mud-stained sea-wash,
the light in a gull's creak

letting the night in?
They were simple to me,
I was not within them as simply
as I was within you.

It was your selflessness
which loved me as the world,
I was a child, as much
as you, but you brought the tears

of too many contradictions,
I became a metaphor, but
believe me I was as unsubtle as salt.

And I answer, Anna,
twenty years after,
a man lives half of life,
the second half is memory,

the first half, hesitation
for what should have happened
but could not, or

what happened with others
when it should not.

A gleam. Her burning grip. The brass shell cases,
oxidized, the brass reeking of cordite,
forty-one years after the Great War. The gleam
of brass reburnished in the allamanda,
through the barbed wire of bougainvillea thorns
beyond the window, on the sun-chevroned porch
I watched the far cannon smoke of cloud
above the Morne, wounded, struck dumb,
as she drew my hand firmly to the firstness
of the crisp, fragile cloth across her breast,
in a locked silence, she the nurse,
I the maimed soldier. There have been
other silences, none as deep. There has since
been possession, none as sure.



zt:
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德里克·沃尔科特(1930~),德里克·沃尔科特(DerekWalcott,1930-),生于圣·卢西亚。诗人,剧作家及画家。出版过戏剧集和多种诗集。被誉为“今日英语文学中最好的诗人”(布罗斯基语)。在圣玛利大学和西印度的牙买加大学读过书,毕业后搬到特立尼达岛居住,并从此成为艺术评论家,在其作品中,探索和沉思加勒比海的历史、政治和民俗、风景,有强烈的历史感。他的诗因“具有伟大的光彩,历史的视野,献身多元文化的结果”,而获1992年诺贝尔文学奖。
2011-12-01 19:53:09