馬克·斯特蘭德

本欄主持：遠 行

早，中，晚

一

這清晨的綠色，這形成的天氣，我的眉毛尚未也永遠不會，被這神明的微風梳理。

那么的清晰，至少對于我。然而昨天我覺察有什么在漂浮，進出于云霧，像只鳥，也像個人，黑色套裝，手臂伸展。

我想這個跡象可能表明，我一直是錯的。

然后，我醒來，未來的影子投到我的床上，在外面液體廢墟的海上，也在水邊大廈的軀殼上。

一個急速的陰霾吹入，吹倒了樹木，刮平了原野。我躺在床上，希望它會過去。這可能就是一直等待的時機。

二

不管星圖告訴過我們觀察什么，或地圖說我們會找到什么，我們毫無準備地迎接我們的發(fā)現(xiàn)。

我們跋涉，遠離無影的中午的深處，同時一陣襲來的風睡上枝杈，而枯葉轉(zhuǎn)為街上的浮塵。

城市之光，長長的、夏天的閑暇，不再屬于我們；為我們而來的，至關(guān)重要的，很久以后，將存于墳?zāi)?，像它們現(xiàn)在一樣偉大，不曾接近終點，也沒有遠離我們的起點。

三

夜晚的粉紅與紫色退去，奇異的熱度灼燒著我們的皮膚，直到我們?nèi)胨?，漂移到我們希望的永遠遙不可及的深處——那里沒有炫耀，在那里發(fā)生的一切似乎都是為了永存。

我們流汗，懇求按時釋放到即將來臨的一天，思想里唯恐不會到達，而被迫遺忘、漂移于午夜的海面上。每一千年，望見一艘船舶，或一只天鵝，或一個沉溺的泳者，他的想象力比他的命運更持久，他游泳是為了證明，不只針對某人，他的生活是多么的虛偽。

我們的杰作是個人生活——給朱爾斯

一

是不是有些事物順水而下，遠離于我們——一些羞怯的事件；一些落在深處的、隱秘的光；尚不希望被發(fā)現(xiàn)的、悲傷的源泉？

我們?yōu)楹我诤?？難道不希望將世界這表皮粗糙的瓷具鑄造成彩虹，并以此填充空茫？為何還要尋求？

二

現(xiàn)在，當畏懼與悲痛的擁戴者，推動他們濕淋淋的駁船上下海灘，讓我們吃我們的比目魚，啜飲這美麗、白色的波那酒。

誠然，光線是人造的，我們穿著也不考究。那又怎樣，我們喜歡這里。我們喜歡臨近田野上的公牛，我們喜歡風聲在草地上吹過。你低聲說話的樣子，我們深夜的外出……為何要為其他而活？我們的杰作，是個人生活。

三

站在逡巡天鵝與無瑕恒星之間的碼頭，呼吸著夜晚的空氣。當快樂的時刻深入, 樂趣的消失也似乎逐漸開始，它的塵染的美麗，只能是原本面目的美麗。維持它長一點的時間, 當它離去的時候，我相信我們自己的順利通道, 穿越等級的間隔，危機流向普通，使我們每次更困倦一些, 遠離經(jīng)驗一些，在過去，這把握、俘獲了我們許多時辰。

沿著蜿蜒的公路駕駛回到家中，大海撞擊著懸崖，桌子上一杯威士忌，打開著的書與疑問，全天的回報等候在熟睡的門檻……

2010.1.25 譯

Morning, Noon, and Night

by Mark Strand

I

And the morning green, and the buildup weather, and my brows

Have no been brushed, and never will be,by the breezes of divinity.

That much is clear, at least to me, but yesterday I noticed

Something floating in and out of clouds,something like a bird,

But also like a man, black-suited, with his arm outspread.

And I thought this could be a sign that I’ve been wrong. Then I woke,

And on my bed the shadow of the future fell, and on the liquid ruins

Of the sea outside, and on the shells of buildings at the water’s edge.

A rapid overcast blew in, bending trees and fl attening fi elds. I stayed in bed,

Hoping it would pass. What might have been still waited for its chance.

II

Whatever the star charts told us to watch for or the maps

Said we would find, nothing prepared us for what we discovered.

We toiled away in the shadowless depths of noon,

While an alien wind slept in the branches,and dead leaves

Turned to dust in the streets. Cities of light,long summers

Of leisure, were not to be ours; for to come as we had, long after

It mattered, to live among tombs, great as they are,

Was to be no nearer the end, no farther from where we began.

III

These nights of pinks and purples vanishing, of freakish heat

That stokes our skin until we fall asleep and stray to places

We hoped would always be beyond our reach—the deeps

Where nothing flourishes, where everything that happens seems

To be for keeps. We sweat, and plead to be released

Into the coming day on time, and panic at the thought

Of never getting there and being forced to drift forgotten

Of a midnight sea where every thousand years a ship is sighted, or a swan,

Or a drowned swimmer whose imagination has outlived his fate, and who swims

To prove, to no one in particular, how false his life had been.

Our Masterpieces Is the Private Life

by Mark Strand

For Jules

I

Is there something down by the water keeping itself from us,

Some shy event, some secret of the light that falls upon the deep,

Some source of sorrow that does not wish to be discovered yet?

Why should we care? Doesn’t desire cast its

rainbows over the coarse porcelain

Of the world’s skin and with its measures fi ll the

air? Why look for more?

II

And now, while the advocates of awfulness and sorrow

Push their dripping barge up and down the beach, let’s eat

Our brill, and sip this beautiful white Beaune.

True, the light is artif i cial, and we are not well-dressed.

So what. We like it here. We like the bullocks in the fi eld next door,

We like the sound of wind passing over grass. The way you speak,

In that low voice, our late night disclosures……why live

For anything else? Our masterpiece is the private life.

III

Standing on the quay between the Roving Swan and the Star Immaculate,

Breathing the night air as the moment of pleasure taken

In pleasure vanishing seems to grow, its self-soiling

Beauty, which can only be what it was,sustaining itself

A little longer in its going, I think of our own smooth passage

Through the graded partitions, the crises that bleed

Into the ordinary, leaving us a little more tired each time,

A little more distant from the experiences,which, in the old days,

Held us captive for hours. The drive along the winding road

Back to the house, the sea pounding against the cliffs,

The glass of whiskey on the table, the open book, the questions,

All the day’s rewards waiting at the doors of sleep……