【夜读抄】 第八十五夜·德里克·沃尔科特《码头之夜》
码头之夜
黄昏时分，白色游艇的船身穿越小船坞的
橙色水面，而在船首斜桅下面，锁链
在被污染的大海里发出轻笑声；尽力到达那里
在绿光从桅杆上闪烁之前，前甲板
强光闪耀，而黄昏和船的桅杆横桁、
绳索以及丁香般的铅色天空悬浮在一起，
和被阳光触摸的泡沫云的陶制啤酒杯悬浮在一起，
当星星显现目睹夜晚消亡。
在这个橙色的时刻，光像但丁在阅读，
一目三行，对称的张力，
安静的酒吧从帕拉迪索泛起涟漪
当一只无篷小船用它的浆划出
缺乏韵律的诗行，我们如此
着迷，几乎不能说话。此刻
比任何人都幸福的是那个饮酒的人
他和终生的同伴坐在眨眼的星星下
码头的尽头亮着一盏稳定的弧光灯。
The Hulls of White Yachts
The hulls of white yachts riding the orange water
of the marina at dusk, and, under their bowsprits the chuckle
of the chain in the stained sea; try to get there
before a green light winks from the mast and the foc’sle
blazes with glare, while dusk hangs in suspension
with crosstrees and ropes and a like-livid sky
with its beer stein of cloud froth touched by the sun,
as stars come out to watch the evening die.
In this orange hour the light reads like Dante,
three lines at a time, their symmetrical tension,
quiet bars rippling from the Paradiso
as a dinghy writes lines made by the scanty
metre of its oar strokes, and we, so
mesmerized can barely talk. Happier
than any man now is one who sits drinking
with his lifelong companion under the winking
stars and the steady arc lamp at the end of the pier.
Derek Walcott
黄昏时分，白色游艇的船身穿越小船坞的
橙色水面，而在船首斜桅下面，锁链
在被污染的大海里发出轻笑声；尽力到达那里
在绿光从桅杆上闪烁之前，前甲板
强光闪耀，而黄昏和船的桅杆横桁、
绳索以及丁香般的铅色天空悬浮在一起，
和被阳光触摸的泡沫云的陶制啤酒杯悬浮在一起，
当星星显现目睹夜晚消亡。
在这个橙色的时刻，光像但丁在阅读，
一目三行，对称的张力，
安静的酒吧从帕拉迪索泛起涟漪
当一只无篷小船用它的浆划出
缺乏韵律的诗行，我们如此
着迷，几乎不能说话。此刻
比任何人都幸福的是那个饮酒的人
他和终生的同伴坐在眨眼的星星下
码头的尽头亮着一盏稳定的弧光灯。
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Departure Songs |
The Hulls of White Yachts
The hulls of white yachts riding the orange water
of the marina at dusk, and, under their bowsprits the chuckle
of the chain in the stained sea; try to get there
before a green light winks from the mast and the foc’sle
blazes with glare, while dusk hangs in suspension
with crosstrees and ropes and a like-livid sky
with its beer stein of cloud froth touched by the sun,
as stars come out to watch the evening die.
In this orange hour the light reads like Dante,
three lines at a time, their symmetrical tension,
quiet bars rippling from the Paradiso
as a dinghy writes lines made by the scanty
metre of its oar strokes, and we, so
mesmerized can barely talk. Happier
than any man now is one who sits drinking
with his lifelong companion under the winking
stars and the steady arc lamp at the end of the pier.
Derek Walcott
