约翰·伯恩赛德三首
约翰·伯恩赛德三首
忧郁
许多时候就是这样
那个酒吧服务员穿行到后面
撇下我一个人
有电台在低语
在玻璃杯掩映的某处
—我到了爱的尽头—
就像车流慢下来
而消失
这一切如此突然
在下午三点
夜晚已经开始
晦暗
渐生
到十点钟，我会走在
联合街上
也可能穿过商业路
在一阵暴雨中
而每个路人
都是你
就是你
之后是别人
麦田
遂约翰·纳什
没什么事物，能保留
小时候的样子，那时我们必须学习
对象和颜色的名称
而目光却能巡视一片田地
喜欢随便哪一堆的谷物
是如何变得孤单
-不是因为阴影，不是因为日光
可是，象孩子故事书中的火绒
那么柔和，停顿的世界围绕
一点火光而活力焕发：那现世的亲切
暗淡如同一个等待的狙击手
透过布满锋利铁丝网和沟壑的院落
去捕捉的火焰
稀薄如同从小礼拜堂的门缝中落下的光
所以，一切，似乎
都复活了
不是时光一现，不是疏离当下
而一直
和我们看到的夜晚一样
一切都是他者，一切归于历史：
人从坟墓中爬上来
身披硫磺
火柴划出的一簇光，
惨白了他的双手
思凯丽
如果夏天是对话
那么冬天就是沉思
或者像是今夜：雨下在林间
在我们家和邻舍农场的半路上，
一只迷路的母羊，在铁丝栅栏间
等着黎明；
和我现在一样
期待着迥异的事物：
一条从旷野涌入的思路
一种音乐，多余，虚空，似诗篇
或者象一个问题，没人会想得到
直到风儿提醒他的皮肤
那天空下的天空，梦中的草地，
千顷的故土，唯有星星数得清
Blues
It’s moments like this
when the barman goes through the back
and leaves me alone
a radio whispering
somewhere amongst the glasses
- I’m through with love -
the way the traffic slows
to nothing
how all of a sudden
at three in the afternoon
the evening’s already begun
a nascent
dimming.
By ten I’ll be walking away
on Union Street
or crossing Commercial Road
in a gust of rain
and everyone who passes
will be you
or almost you
before it’s someone else.
Cornfield
after John Nash
Nothing is as it was
in childhood, when we had to learn the names
of objects and colours,
and yet the eye can navigate a field,
loving the way a random stook of corn
is orphaned
- not by shadows; not by light -
but softly, like the tinder in a children’s
story-book, the stalled world raised to life
around a spark: that tenderness in presence,
pale as the flame a sniper waits to catch
across the yards of razor-wire and ditching;
thin as the light that falls from chapel doors,
so everything, it seems,
is resurrected;
not for a moment, not in the sway of the now,
but always,
as the evening we can see
is all the others, all of history:
the man climbing up from the tomb
in a mantle of sulphur,
the struck match whiting his hands
in a blister of light.
Over Kellie
If summer is conversation,
then winter is thought;
or so it seems tonight: rain in the trees
and, halfway between our house
and the neighbour’s farm,
a lost ewe in the fence-wire
waits for dawn;
as I am waiting now,
for something new:
a way of thinking come in from the fields;
a music, spare and empty as a psalm,
or like a question no one thinks to ask
until the wind remembers on his skin,
a sky beneath the sky, the dreaming grass,
acres of homeland, measured out in stars.
忧郁
许多时候就是这样
那个酒吧服务员穿行到后面
撇下我一个人
有电台在低语
在玻璃杯掩映的某处
—我到了爱的尽头—
就像车流慢下来
而消失
这一切如此突然
在下午三点
夜晚已经开始
晦暗
渐生
到十点钟，我会走在
联合街上
也可能穿过商业路
在一阵暴雨中
而每个路人
都是你
就是你
之后是别人
麦田
遂约翰·纳什
没什么事物，能保留
小时候的样子，那时我们必须学习
对象和颜色的名称
而目光却能巡视一片田地
喜欢随便哪一堆的谷物
是如何变得孤单
-不是因为阴影，不是因为日光
可是，象孩子故事书中的火绒
那么柔和，停顿的世界围绕
一点火光而活力焕发：那现世的亲切
暗淡如同一个等待的狙击手
透过布满锋利铁丝网和沟壑的院落
去捕捉的火焰
稀薄如同从小礼拜堂的门缝中落下的光
所以，一切，似乎
都复活了
不是时光一现，不是疏离当下
而一直
和我们看到的夜晚一样
一切都是他者，一切归于历史：
人从坟墓中爬上来
身披硫磺
火柴划出的一簇光，
惨白了他的双手
思凯丽
如果夏天是对话
那么冬天就是沉思
或者像是今夜：雨下在林间
在我们家和邻舍农场的半路上，
一只迷路的母羊，在铁丝栅栏间
等着黎明；
和我现在一样
期待着迥异的事物：
一条从旷野涌入的思路
一种音乐，多余，虚空，似诗篇
或者象一个问题，没人会想得到
直到风儿提醒他的皮肤
那天空下的天空，梦中的草地，
千顷的故土，唯有星星数得清
Blues
It’s moments like this
when the barman goes through the back
and leaves me alone
a radio whispering
somewhere amongst the glasses
- I’m through with love -
the way the traffic slows
to nothing
how all of a sudden
at three in the afternoon
the evening’s already begun
a nascent
dimming.
By ten I’ll be walking away
on Union Street
or crossing Commercial Road
in a gust of rain
and everyone who passes
will be you
or almost you
before it’s someone else.
Cornfield
after John Nash
Nothing is as it was
in childhood, when we had to learn the names
of objects and colours,
and yet the eye can navigate a field,
loving the way a random stook of corn
is orphaned
- not by shadows; not by light -
but softly, like the tinder in a children’s
story-book, the stalled world raised to life
around a spark: that tenderness in presence,
pale as the flame a sniper waits to catch
across the yards of razor-wire and ditching;
thin as the light that falls from chapel doors,
so everything, it seems,
is resurrected;
not for a moment, not in the sway of the now,
but always,
as the evening we can see
is all the others, all of history:
the man climbing up from the tomb
in a mantle of sulphur,
the struck match whiting his hands
in a blister of light.
Over Kellie
If summer is conversation,
then winter is thought;
or so it seems tonight: rain in the trees
and, halfway between our house
and the neighbour’s farm,
a lost ewe in the fence-wire
waits for dawn;
as I am waiting now,
for something new:
a way of thinking come in from the fields;
a music, spare and empty as a psalm,
or like a question no one thinks to ask
until the wind remembers on his skin,
a sky beneath the sky, the dreaming grass,
acres of homeland, measured out in stars.
