康塞爾作品

瑪麗·A·康塞爾（Mary A. Koncel），美國詩人。生于芝加哥。先后在哥倫比亞學(xué)院和馬薩諸塞大學(xué)攻讀文學(xué)，畢業(yè)后做過多種工作，還受聘于史密斯學(xué)院，擔(dān)任其文學(xué)創(chuàng)作顧問。她長期從事散文詩創(chuàng)作，作品廣泛發(fā)表在北美各種文刊，被收入多種經(jīng)典散文詩選集，結(jié)集的散文詩集有《更靠近白天》《你可以把一切都告訴馬》《最后一個(gè)金發(fā)女郎》等。她對(duì)馬很有研究，因此她在作品中多以超現(xiàn)實(shí)甚至荒誕的手法來描寫馬及其它動(dòng)物。她還曾獲得過馬薩諸塞州頒發(fā)的文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)。

當(dāng)嬰孩閱讀《 亡靈書 》①

我們無法阻止他們。我們說：“嬰孩們，別翻動(dòng)書頁?！钡麄?cè)噲D打探每一個(gè)詞語，粘住每一個(gè)書角，直到那里變得柔軟，黏糊糊的。我們說：“嬰孩們，看看這里吧——這里有小熊維尼②、跳跳虎③，一只飄過紅色和白色矮牽?；ㄆ缘牡弁醯??！眿牒儾焕砦覀?，亂擠成一堆，口水流遍了書封。他們最喜歡圖畫——同時(shí)喜歡樹、人和毛發(fā)蓬松的狗，還喜歡爭分奪秒地穿越崎嶇巖石的漫漫長途跋涉。我們?cè)噲D讓嬰孩們分神，便逗撓他們櫻桃色的圓下巴，但他們根本不為所動(dòng)。他們的手指、眼睛、嘴巴，每一個(gè)部位都如此之小卻又不為所動(dòng)。有時(shí)候，我們認(rèn)為嬰孩們可能不屬于我們。我們可以要求他們，但我們害怕。夜里，這些嬰孩并不睡覺，我們聽見他們?cè)跇巧系膵雰捍蚕旅鎿u動(dòng)，那本書則猶如另一篇禱文放在他們之間。我們不知道應(yīng)該去呼喚誰。

注：①古埃及的宗教性詩文集，反映了古埃及人的宗教信仰、風(fēng)俗習(xí)慣以及征服自然的愿望。②③均為動(dòng)畫形象。

WHEN THE BABIES READ THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

We can’t stop them. We say，“Babies，don’t turn the page.” But they try to sound out every word，gum each corner until it’s soft and sticky. We say，“Babies，look here——Winnie the Pooh，Tigger，a monarch butterfly wafting over a bed of red and white petunias.” The babies ignore us. They huddle together，drool across the cover. They like the pictures best——trees，man and shaggy dog together，the long，rocky trek against time. We try to distract the babies，tickle their round cherry chins，but they’re relentless. Their fingers，eyes，mouths，every bit of them so little but relentless. Sometimes we think the babies might not be ours. We could ask them，but we’re afraid. The babies don’t sleep at night. We hear them rocking upstairs beneath the crib，the book held between them like another prayer. We don’t know who to call.

鋼絲繩上的伊曼紐爾

在這個(gè)小小的角落，雪花飄得比最后一群燕子還高，風(fēng)敲打櫻桃樹，仿佛那些樹是廉價(jià)的鐵皮鼓。但在1200英里開外的南方，在這座大城市，一個(gè)人坐在鋼絲繩上，吃著奶酪三明治，看那用皮帶別在腰間的電視。

他名叫伊曼紐爾，在人行道和煙蒂、割草機(jī)和盆栽棕櫚之上600英尺處，他不再是有一打凸形扳手和一個(gè)困倦的金發(fā)妻子的男人，他是一個(gè)在鋼絲繩上的人。

我了解真相。今天，當(dāng)又一輪冬天連續(xù)猛搗我的前門，不斷說著“你、你、你”之際，我再次戰(zhàn)栗，我知道這個(gè)人害怕大地。我確信這一點(diǎn)，因?yàn)槲掖_信天空和湖泊可以凍結(jié)在一起，確信二月像雜種狗緊隨一月而來，還確信這個(gè)人也在睡夢(mèng)中戰(zhàn)栗過。

伊曼紐爾把一個(gè)個(gè)飛吻拋給下面的人群。“這是一個(gè)夢(mèng)，”他告訴他們，“一個(gè)真正的、普通的男子漢的夢(mèng)?！彼D(zhuǎn)身，不再面對(duì)那吃力地越過地平線的太陽，他挺直雙肩，揮舞兩根手指，仿佛那兩根手指就是他的旗幟。

他在那上面很安全。然而在整個(gè)大地上，人們正在退縮——他們裹著厚厚的衣物，擠在一起，想起越來越高的伊曼紐爾，他那捕獲昨夜群星的微雨的赤裸胸膛?！耙谅~爾，堅(jiān)持下去吧，”我們通過恰當(dāng)攥緊的拳頭而低語?！皥?jiān)持下去?！?/p>

EMANUEL ON THE TIGHTROPE

In this small corner，snow drifts higher than the last flock of swallows，and the wind beats cherry trees as if they were cheap tin drums. But 1200 miles south，in the big city，a man sits on a tightrope，eating cheese sandwiches and watching a television strapped to his wrist.

His name is Emanuel，and，600 feet above sidewalks and cigarette butts，lawn mowers and potted palms，he’s no longer a man with a dozen lug wrenches and a weary blonde wife. He’s the man on the tightrope.

I know the truth. Today，as I shiver again while another round of winter pounds on my front door，repeating，“you，you，you，” I know that this man is afraid of the earth. I am sure of this as I am sure that sky and lake can freeze together，that February follows January like a well-trained mutt，and that this man too has shuddered in his sleep.

Emanuel blows kisses to the crowd below.“It’s a dream，”he tells them，“the dream of a real，everyday man.”He turns away from the sun that drags itself across the horizon，straightens his shoulders，and waves two fingers as if they were his flag.

Up there，he is safe. Yet all over the earth，people are shrinking back. Wrapped and huddled，they think of Emanuel growing taller，his bare chest catching last night’s drizzle of stars.“Hold on，Emanuel，”we whisper through our clenched right fists.“Hold on.”

如果不恰當(dāng)?shù)墓匪趬災(zāi)股?/p>

那始終是最小的墳?zāi)梗陆诰虻膲災(zāi)?，狹窄得僅僅足夠最后一個(gè)小男孩容身的墳?zāi)?。那只不恰?dāng)?shù)墓繁寂埽崧勚竭^印有車轍的土豆地和砂礫路。在脆弱的夜晚，在不情愿的樹木背對(duì)背地蹲坐、不加裝飾的夜晚，那只不恰當(dāng)?shù)墓防@著圈、大張著嘴喘氣，會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)這里，躺下來，從鼻子到尾巴蜷縮成一團(tuán)，然后開始做起每只狗都應(yīng)該做的夢(mèng)。那個(gè)穿著黃色條紋襯衣的男孩，那個(gè)有一捧樹莓的金發(fā)男孩，他的那只乖巧又善良的狗就在他身邊。

IF THE INAPPROPRIATE DOG SLEEPS ON A GRAVE

It’s always the littlest grave. The freshly dug one. The one just narrow enough for the last little boy. The inappropriate dog runs，sniffs across rutted potato fields and gravel roads. On brittle nights，on nights when reluctant trees hunker back to back，unadorned. Circling，panting wide-mouthed，the inappropriate dog will find it，lie down，curling nose to tail before beginning the dream that should every dog should dream. The boy in a striped yellow shirt. The boy with a handful of raspberries，blonde hair and his good，good dog beside him.