勃萊作品

董繼平

羅伯特·勃萊（Robert Bly，1926- ），20世紀(jì)美國(guó)后現(xiàn)代主義詩(shī)歌流派“新超現(xiàn)實(shí)主義”（又稱“深度意象”）的領(lǐng)袖人物，散文詩(shī)大師。他從50年代開(kāi)始發(fā)表詩(shī)作，迄今已出版《雪地里的寧?kù)o》《身體周圍的光》《穿黑衣的人轉(zhuǎn)身》《從兩個(gè)世界愛(ài)一個(gè)女人》《早晨的詩(shī)》《我的判決是一千年的歡樂(lè)》《對(duì)著驢耳談話》等多卷，獲得過(guò)1968年美國(guó)全國(guó)圖書(shū)獎(jiǎng)。他提倡“客體散文詩(shī)”，其散文詩(shī)集主要有《牽?；ā贰哆@個(gè)軀體由樟木和香槐構(gòu)成》《通過(guò)死亡我喪失了什么？》等。

警告讀者

有時(shí)，在所有燕麥或小麥消失，風(fēng)把粗糙的地面吹掃干凈的時(shí)候，農(nóng)場(chǎng)的谷倉(cāng)就變得特別美麗。站在里面，我們看見(jiàn)我們周圍有一條條和一道道陽(yáng)光，穿過(guò)收縮的木板墻之間的縫隙射進(jìn)來(lái)。于是在一首關(guān)于囚禁的詩(shī)里，一個(gè)人看見(jiàn)一點(diǎn)光芒。

然而有多少鳥(niǎo)兒在這些谷倉(cāng)里投入羅網(wǎng)而死去了。鳥(niǎo)兒，一次次振翅飛上墻壁，卻又墜落回來(lái)。出路就在老鼠進(jìn)入又離開(kāi)之處，然而老鼠洞在低低的地面上。如果，作者，通過(guò)把陽(yáng)光展示在墻上，而不給焦慮驚慌的黑鳥(niǎo)許諾一條出路，那么要小心一些！

我對(duì)讀者說(shuō)，要當(dāng)心。熱愛(ài)光明的詩(shī)篇的讀者可能會(huì)躬身坐在角落里，他們的胃里已經(jīng)四天未曾進(jìn)食，光芒衰落，目光變得呆滯……他們的結(jié)局可能就像一堆羽毛，以及開(kāi)闊的木地板上的一個(gè)顱骨……

WARNING TO THE READER

Sometimes farm granaries become especially beautiful when all the oats or wheat are gone， and wind has swept the rough floor clean. Standing inside， we see around us， coming in through the cracks between shrunken wall boards， bands or strips of sunlight. So in a poem about imprisonment， one sees a little light.

But how many birds have died trapped in these granaries. The bird， seeing freedom in the light， flutters up the walls and falls back again and again. The way out is where the rats enter and leave; but the rats hole is low to the floor. Writers， be careful then by showing the sunlight on the walls not to promise the anxious and panicky blackbirds a way out！

I say to the reader， beware. Readers who love poems of light may sit hunched in the corner with nothing in their gizzards for four days， light failing， the eyes glazed ……

They may end as a mound of feathers and a skull on the open boardwood floor ……

樹(shù) 樁

我們幾乎走過(guò)的樹(shù)樁容易被忽視。然而，一旦被注意到，它就栩栩如生，就像一頭身軀被射掉的大象的腿。低矮的壁壘依然存留，它們上上下下的樹(shù)皮被雨水浸泡得松弛，露出一段光滑的銀白木頭，手指摸起來(lái)很粗糙，如同在醫(yī)院反省數(shù)周那樣崎嶇不平。很顯然，大鋸并沒(méi)有割斷一切，塔尖佇立在低矮的塔樓上，就像被違背的誓言。常春藤爬了進(jìn)來(lái)，落下的綠色之針讓那低矮的塔樓似乎歡快。

在這樹(shù)樁上面，別的樹(shù)繼續(xù)生長(zhǎng)，擴(kuò)展到空中。葡萄藤攀爬樹(shù)干，爬向光芒。然而，生活中有某種不知道怎樣攀爬的東西，它清楚，在它周圍，那能夠幫助它爬上去的一切都死了，或者不可靠。我垂下眼睛，與別的人一起繼續(xù)走向那堡壘。

THESTUMP

The stump we almost walked past is easily overlooked. But it is vivid when noticed， and resembles an elephants leg with the body shot off. The short walls still left， their bark loosened here and there by rain， show a wood sleek and silvery， which feels rough to the fingers， uneven as weeks of hospital introspection. Its clear that the big saw did not sever all; and spires stand on its low tower， resembling broken vows. Ivy has crept in; and fallen green needles make the low tower seem gay.

Above the stump other trees go on growing， expanding into the air. Vines climb trunks toward light. But there is something in life that doesnt know how to climb; it is sure everything around it that could help it to go upward is dead， or unreliable. I drop my eyes， and walk on with the others to the Fort.

一片地衣

這片干枯的地衣依附在緬因州的一塊巖石側(cè)邊，為了得到它，我不得不彎腰，雙膝蹲伏，在巖石側(cè)邊把手伸下去。它擁有那從空中俯瞰到的智利黑色沙漠的連綿不絕。

這片地衣，看起來(lái)就像一塊公牛皮，在托爾①的一場(chǎng)黑暗的暴風(fēng)雨中被四處吹動(dòng)，叭噠地?fù)鋭?dòng)著，越過(guò)拉斯維加斯附近的道路，翻轉(zhuǎn)又翻轉(zhuǎn)，滾動(dòng)之際恐嚇著兔子和狐貍。它的邊緣上翻或下翻。

顯然，有什么東西如今正在掉出這個(gè)花杯，仿佛它干枯的子宮不能容納它曾經(jīng)容納過(guò)的東西。有什么東西正在掉出來(lái)，仿佛那黑色之物移動(dòng)了，仿佛那干枯之物將出現(xiàn)，已經(jīng)出現(xiàn)，我們?yōu)l臨被那黑色的干枯所滾過(guò)的危險(xiǎn)——那黑色的干枯在黑色的干枯之夜里是無(wú)形的。

這地衣容易脫落，沒(méi)有深深依附。當(dāng)我們把它翻轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)來(lái)，我們就知道它所愿意擁有的唯一東西就是足夠的水，帶著你穿過(guò)半年的時(shí)光。

當(dāng)偷了毯子的竊賊回家，他把偷來(lái)的毯子扔在房間一角。如果他疊起毯子，那又有誰(shuí)來(lái)將它展開(kāi)呢？

注：①北歐神話中的雷神。

A PIECE OF LICHEN

This piece of dried lichen was clinging to a rockside in Maine， and I had to bend over， crouching on my knees， reach down over the side of the rock， to get it. It has the consistency of black Chilean deserts seen from the air.

The lichen piece looks like an ox-skin blown about in a dark Thor storm， flopping across the roads near Las Vegas， turning over and over， frightening rabbits and foxes as it rolls. Its edges turn up or under.

Its clear that something is falling out of this chalice now， as if its dried womb cannot contain what it once contained. Something is falling out as if the black one has made a move， as if the dry one will appear， has appeared， and we are in danger of being rolled over by black dryness—invisible in the dry black nights.

The lichen came away easily， was not deeply attached. When we turn it over， we know what its like to have only enough water to carry you through hall of the year.

When the thief who has stolen the blanket arrives back home， he throws the stolen

Blanket down in a comer of his room. If he folds he blanket， who is there to unfold it？

蘆葦根筑成的鳥(niǎo)巢

在大海沖擊巖石的時(shí)候，這巢穴白得就像被拋起來(lái)的浪沫！它半透明，就像維多利亞式門(mén)上面的那些陰沉的橫窗，就像熱情的護(hù)士的頭發(fā)那樣漩動(dòng)，在克里米亞①病房中的長(zhǎng)夜之后，顯得灰白，糾纏。它是被創(chuàng)造而又被遺忘的東西，就像在我們漂浮，接近那我們將再生、陶醉又發(fā)黑的海岸的時(shí)候，我們將完全遺忘自己在墳?zāi)怪械纳睢?/p>

注：①烏克蘭南部伸入黑海的半島。

A BIRD'S NEST MADE OF WHITE REED FIBER

The nest is white as the foam thrown up when the sea hits rocks！ It is translucent as those cloudy transoms above Victorian doors， and swirled as the hair of those intense nurses， gray and tangled after long nights in the Crimean wards. It is something made and then forgotten， like our own lives that we will entirely forget in the grave， when we are floating， nearing the shore where we will be reborn， ecstatic and black.