当代英国诗歌译介|伊恩·格雷格森《少校劳伦斯》

Major Lawrence

少校劳伦斯

—for Steve Ormrod

——致史蒂夫·奥莫罗德

By Ian Gregson

译/许景城

I wipe the film from my gasmask’s lenses,

peering towards the flaring horizon

where a Scud’s slipped through our Patriot defences,

but the fireworks fuzz in the lenses’ scratches.

Lawrence with his Arab disguise on

Is with me often, and how Lean lingers

on desert stretches like a flaring pain

expanded of the safety matches

snuffed out by O’Toole on his fingers,

as though what drove that Arab campaign

was Lawrence’s epic sickness and need,

divided as the loudspeakers on poles

around us broadcasting Scud alarms

but also calls to prayer. Contrasting roles –

a scholar inflicting guerrilla harms,

determined that the Arabs be freed,

but serving first the British empire.

How I hate the hot pissy aura

he hated of squaddies en masse –

a major feeling minor, I disappear,

I’m ghostly and anonymous

inside the ranks of scientific killers

and the shimmering sky and sand of the Gulf,

thinking of Lawrence naming flora

and rocks, inhabiting his Seven Pillars,

drawing on war to express himself

and looming like David Lean as director

of himself, so large in the bigger picture.

I shrink inside my charcoal-lined jacket.

I’m contained between my helmet and rubber boots

bumping along one of the routes

we’ve bulldozed out of the desert, sick

of airborne poisons and the racket,

both sides vying for spoils –

and pine for a dishdasha, and rafiq

to lead me to a ruined desert palace

whose clay was kneaded with essential oils

so I could understand, in Arabic,

each room with its own scent of jessamine,

of violet or of rose. The Seven Pillars

glowing at sunset at sandstone Wadi Rum

echoed to him like a high muezzin.

Lean has Lawrence say the desert’s clean,

that’s why he loves it. Now the sands swarm

with littered bunkers, canvas with mildew,

redolence of piss and feet and Vietnam,

the TV crews composing a scene.

How many times I’ve willed you,

Lawrence of Arabia, to defy the norm

Of class and empire. I have been you,

seizing Aqaba, where you diminish

and hate yourself for being cruel,

rejecting honours and spoils,

and push beyond the loss of self in action –

eating green dates and camel sinew,

loving the desert like a holy fool,

rejecting even rooms scented with essential oils

in favour of that pure

breath of the scentless desert wind, to punish

yourself with rarefaction,

and push beyond to taste

that absence of scent in an air

throbbing out of endless miles of scorched waste.

我擦了擦防毒面罩的镜头薄膜，

朝着发亮的水平线凝视，

那儿飞毛腿导弹，穿透我们爱国者导弹的重重防线，

但是，烟火在镜头的擦痕中，变得模糊。

劳伦斯伪装成阿拉伯人，

经常和我在一起，利恩如何在沙漠

徘徊的场景，蔓延得像一阵灼烧疼痛；

安全火柴不断地膨胀

被奥图尔的手指掐灭，

好像触发阿拉伯运动的动因

是劳伦斯的久疾与贪婪，

被分割，如电杆上的喇叭扩音器

围绕着我们，播放飞毛腿导弹的警报

却也呼吁祷告。对比不同的角色——

一位学者施以游击队似的伤害，

坚信阿拉伯人应被释放，

但优先服务于大英帝国。

我是多么厌恶又热又臭的气味

就像他讨厌全体新兵的那种气味——

一位少校感觉渺小，像幽灵一样，

无名无姓，我消失

在科学杀手的各种头衔中，

闪烁的天空和海湾的沙滩，

想起劳伦斯给植物、岩石

命名，住着他的‘七柱’寓所，

利用战争，来炫耀自我，

像大卫·利恩一样，若隐若现，成为

自己的领帅，在更大的格局中如此高大。

我蜷缩在一件碳黑线条的茄克衫里，

包裹在头盔与雨靴之间，

顺着其中一个路线，顛簸而行，

走我们从沙漠中已推平出来的路线，

厌恶空传的毒气和喧闹，

双方在争夺战利品——

想要一套阿拉伯长衫，希望伙伴

带领我到一座废墟的沙漠宫殿，

那里黏土掺揉着各种精油，

这样，我便会知道，在阿拉伯文化中，

每个房间，有它自己的味道，茉莉香、

紫罗兰香或玫瑰香。‘七柱’

在瓦地伦砂岩的夕阳中，发亮，

像一位高大的穆安津，与他交辉相映。

利恩希望劳伦斯说，这沙漠是洁净的，

那是他喜欢它的原因。如今，沙地聚集

各种杂乱的燃料库、发霉的帆布，

充满小便、脚和越南的气味，

以及取景的电台人员。

我曾多次命令你，

阿拉伯的劳伦斯，去挑衅帝国

和社会等级的规范。我已像你一样，

攻下亚喀巴 ，在那里你变小

并厌恶自己的残酷不仁，

拒绝荣耀和战利品，

不顾行动中的自我迷失，而继续推进——

吃着青枣和骆驼的肌腱，

像大傻瓜一样，爱着这片沙漠，

甚至拒绝带着精油气味的房间，

而去喜欢那纯净的、

无味的沙漠风息，用稀薄化的

方式惩罚自己，

并义无反顾地去品尝

空气中所缺少的气味，

从漫无边际的、烧焦的垃圾堆中，悸动而出。

（选自《英语世界》2018年第8期）