托马斯•特朗斯特罗默: 无穷尽的内向
那是一八二七年的春天，贝多芬
举起死亡的面具远航而去。
石磨旋转在欧罗巴的风车下。
野鹅向北飞行。
这里是北方，斯德哥尔摩
泳然的宫殿和茅舍。
皇家壁炉中的柴堆崩散，
如同接到立定到稍息的命令。
和平正时兴，和疫苗和马铃薯
但城市之井呼吸沉重。
枢密院的苏丹式华轿滚滚而过
如同北桥夜色中的逾越节序餐。
鹅卵石让他们颠簸不已
女教师和绅士和浪荡汉。
难以抑制的静止，告示牌上
抽烟的摩尔人。
这么多岛屿，这么努力的
用隐形的桨划向湾流！
航道已开，四月五月
以及流淌蜜汁的六月
热浪遍袭远岛。
村镇门户大开，除了一扇之外。
蛇钟的指针舔着沉默。
石制的斜面以地质的耐性反光。
是这样发生，或者几乎如此。
那是一个含混的家族传说
关于埃里克，被诅咒击倒，
穿过灵魂的子弹让他残缺不全。
他进城去，和敌人相遇
回乡时带着病痛面无血色
整个夏天都卧床不起。
墙上的工具都垂头丧气。
他醒着，听到夜蛾
毛绒绒的扑打，他月光下的同伴
他的力气退潮，他徒劳的推着
铁箍般的明日。
深处之神自深处喊出
拯救我！拯救你自己！
所有表面向内动作。
他被分拆，接着组合。
风起时野玫瑰丛
赶上逃逸的光。
未来开启 ，他看进
自旋的万花筒。
看到扑朔迷离的脸，
尚未出生的家族成员的面容。
我不小心被他的注视击中
当我在华盛顿漫游
在那些宏伟的宅舍
他们只需要每隔一根柱子承重。
火葬场风格的白色建筑
那里穷人的梦想成灰。
缓慢的下坡变得陡峭
不知不觉的成为深渊。
The Indoors is Endless
BY TOMAS TRANSTRÖMER
It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
hoists his death-mask and sails off.
The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
The wild geese are flying northwards.
Here is the north, here is Stockholm
swimming palaces and hovels.
The logs in the royal fireplace
collapse from Attention to At Ease.
Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,
but the city wells breathe heavily.
Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas
are carried by night over the North Bridge.
The cobblestones make them stagger
mamselles loafers gentlemen.
Implacably still, the sign-board
with the smoking blackamoor.
So many islands, so much rowing
with invisible oars against the current!
The channels open up, April May
and sweet honey dribbling June.
The heat reaches islands far out.
The village doors are open, except one.
The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.
The rock slopes glow with geology’s patience.
It happened like this, or almost.
It is an obscure family tale
about Erik, done down by a curse
disabled by a bullet through the soul.
He went to town, met an enemy
and sailed home sick and grey.
Keeps to his bed all that summer.
The tools on the wall are in mourning.
He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter
of night moths, his moonlight comrades.
His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain
against the iron-bound tomorrow.
And the God of the depths cries out of the depths
‘Deliver me! Deliver yourself!’
All the surface action turns inwards.
He’s taken apart, put together.
The wind rises and the wild rose bushes
catch on the fleeing light.
The future opens, he looks into
the self-rotating kaleidoscope
sees indistinct fluttering faces
family faces not yet born.
By mistake his gaze strikes me
as I walk around here in Washington
among grandiose houses where only
every second column bears weight.
White buildings in crematorium style
where the dream of the poor turns to ash.
The gentle downward slope gets steeper
and imperceptibly becomes an abyss.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181432#poem
举起死亡的面具远航而去。
石磨旋转在欧罗巴的风车下。
野鹅向北飞行。
这里是北方，斯德哥尔摩
泳然的宫殿和茅舍。
皇家壁炉中的柴堆崩散，
如同接到立定到稍息的命令。
和平正时兴，和疫苗和马铃薯
但城市之井呼吸沉重。
枢密院的苏丹式华轿滚滚而过
如同北桥夜色中的逾越节序餐。
鹅卵石让他们颠簸不已
女教师和绅士和浪荡汉。
难以抑制的静止，告示牌上
抽烟的摩尔人。
这么多岛屿，这么努力的
用隐形的桨划向湾流！
航道已开，四月五月
以及流淌蜜汁的六月
热浪遍袭远岛。
村镇门户大开，除了一扇之外。
蛇钟的指针舔着沉默。
石制的斜面以地质的耐性反光。
是这样发生，或者几乎如此。
那是一个含混的家族传说
关于埃里克，被诅咒击倒，
穿过灵魂的子弹让他残缺不全。
他进城去，和敌人相遇
回乡时带着病痛面无血色
整个夏天都卧床不起。
墙上的工具都垂头丧气。
他醒着，听到夜蛾
毛绒绒的扑打，他月光下的同伴
他的力气退潮，他徒劳的推着
铁箍般的明日。
深处之神自深处喊出
拯救我！拯救你自己！
所有表面向内动作。
他被分拆，接着组合。
风起时野玫瑰丛
赶上逃逸的光。
未来开启 ，他看进
自旋的万花筒。
看到扑朔迷离的脸，
尚未出生的家族成员的面容。
我不小心被他的注视击中
当我在华盛顿漫游
在那些宏伟的宅舍
他们只需要每隔一根柱子承重。
火葬场风格的白色建筑
那里穷人的梦想成灰。
缓慢的下坡变得陡峭
不知不觉的成为深渊。
The Indoors is Endless
BY TOMAS TRANSTRÖMER
It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
hoists his death-mask and sails off.
The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
The wild geese are flying northwards.
Here is the north, here is Stockholm
swimming palaces and hovels.
The logs in the royal fireplace
collapse from Attention to At Ease.
Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,
but the city wells breathe heavily.
Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas
are carried by night over the North Bridge.
The cobblestones make them stagger
mamselles loafers gentlemen.
Implacably still, the sign-board
with the smoking blackamoor.
So many islands, so much rowing
with invisible oars against the current!
The channels open up, April May
and sweet honey dribbling June.
The heat reaches islands far out.
The village doors are open, except one.
The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.
The rock slopes glow with geology’s patience.
It happened like this, or almost.
It is an obscure family tale
about Erik, done down by a curse
disabled by a bullet through the soul.
He went to town, met an enemy
and sailed home sick and grey.
Keeps to his bed all that summer.
The tools on the wall are in mourning.
He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter
of night moths, his moonlight comrades.
His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain
against the iron-bound tomorrow.
And the God of the depths cries out of the depths
‘Deliver me! Deliver yourself!’
All the surface action turns inwards.
He’s taken apart, put together.
The wind rises and the wild rose bushes
catch on the fleeing light.
The future opens, he looks into
the self-rotating kaleidoscope
sees indistinct fluttering faces
family faces not yet born.
By mistake his gaze strikes me
as I walk around here in Washington
among grandiose houses where only
every second column bears weight.
White buildings in crematorium style
where the dream of the poor turns to ash.
The gentle downward slope gets steeper
and imperceptibly becomes an abyss.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181432#poem
