翻译Mary Oliver玛丽•奥利弗- Flare 光

Flare by Mary Oliver 1. Welcome to the silly, comforting poem. It is not the sunrise, which is a red rinse, which is flaring all over the eastern sky; it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God; it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward, or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth; it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence, will go on sizzling and clapping from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms, that are billowing and shining, that are shaking in the wind.

2. You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather’s farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and talked in the house. It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild, binocular eyes. Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air, a vague ammonia, not unpleasant. Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain. You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn’t. Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table. 3. Nothing lasts. There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is, now. I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

4. Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings of the green moth against the lantern against its heat against the beak of the crow in the early morning. Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop of self-pity. Not in this world.

5. My mother was the blue wisteria, my mother was the mossy stream out behind the house, my mother, alas, alas, did not always love her life, heavier than iron it was as she carried it in her arms, from room to room, oh, unforgettable!

I bury her in a box in the earth and turn away. My father was a demon of frustrated dreams, was a breaker of trust, was a poor, thin boy with bad luck. He followed God, there being no one else he could talk to; he swaggered before God, there being no one else who would listen. Listen, this was his life. I bury it in the earth. I sweep the closets. I leave the house.

6. I mention them now, I will not mention them again. It is not lack of love nor lack of sorrow. But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry. I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy, of sweet thanks, of anger, of good luck in the deep earth. May they sleep well. May they soften. But I will not give them the kiss of complicity. I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

7. Did you know that the ant has a tongue with which to gather in all that it can of sweetness? Did you know that?

8. The poem is not the world. It isn’t even the first page of the world. But the poem wants to flower, like a flower. It knows that much. It wants to open itself, like the door of a little temple, so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed, and less yourself than part of everything.

9. The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the grown woman is a misery and a disappointment. The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded, muscular man is a misery, and a terror.

10. Therefore, tell me: what will engage you? What will open the dark fields of your mind, like a lover at first touching?

11. Anyway, there was no barn. No child in the barn. No uncle no table no kitchen. Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

12. When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider the orderliness of the world. Notice something you have never noticed before, like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb. Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain, shaking the water-sparks from its wings. Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no. Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also, like the diligent leaves. A lifetime isn’t long enough for the beauty of this world and the responsibilities of your life. Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away. Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance. In the glare of your mind, be modest. And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling. Live with the beetle, and the wind. This is the dark bread of the poem. This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

光

玛丽•奥利弗

1. 来读读这首幼稚、抚慰的诗吧。 它不是日出， 日出是红色的喷薄， 是整个东方天际都在闪耀； 它不是从上帝钱包中落下的雨； 不是雨后天空的蓝色穹顶， 不是树，不是钻进大地的甲虫； 它不是嘲鸫，按自己的节奏， 嘶嘶作响扇动翅膀 在梓树的树枝上繁花盛开， 簇拥着熠熠生辉， 摇曳着随风摆动。

2.

有时，你仍会想起，那座有年头的谷仓在你 曾祖父的农场，你曾去过那儿， 独自一人，走了进去，大人们都在 屋子里坐着聊天。 谷仓空无一物，或者说几乎如此。一束束干草覆盖着地面， 几只黄蜂在窗子上嗡鸣，或许有只奇怪的鸟 拍打着翅膀高高在上，带着不安，呼呼 叫了几声并用野性的， 肮脏眼睛的眼角在上面盯着。 尽管，大部分时间，这里有牛奶的味道，动物们的 耐心；身体释放出的气味仍在空气里， 若隐若现氨的味道，难闻刺鼻。 尽管，大部分时间，这里安安静静神神秘秘，屋顶高高 拱起，未刷漆的木板平白无奇。 你可以一直待在那儿，角落里的孩子， 在最后一堆干草上，被搞得晕头转向在如此大的空间 似乎空无一物，然而并非如此。 那时——你仍会想起，肚子咕咕叫了起来——已经 中午了——你从暮光之梦中醒来匆匆回到 屋子，餐桌已经摆好，一位叔叔轻拍 你的肩膀邀请你，在桌子前你的位置坐下。

3. 世事无永恒。 有处墓地我正讲述的一切都发生在那里， 就是现在。 我曾站在那儿，芳草凄凄，花朵零落。

4.

没有什么像绿蛾的翅膀那样精美 那样灵活 逆着灯笼 逆着灯笼发出的热 逆着乌鸦的喙 在这个早上。 不过飞蛾经过蜕变，充满生机，丝毫不会 自怨自艾。

5. 我的母亲 曾是蓝色的紫藤， 我的母亲 曾是屋后生满青苔的溪流， 我的母亲，唉、唉， 并不总是热爱她的生命， 她的生命比熨斗更沉重 当她抱着熨斗，从一个房间到另一个房间， 啊，令人难忘！ 我将她 装入棺椁 埋进土里 转身离开。 我的父亲 曾是梦想挫败的恶魔， 曾是背信者， 曾贫穷，骨瘦如柴厄运连连。 他追随上帝，除上帝外他无话 对人诉说， 他在上帝面前吹嘘，除上帝外没人 会听他讲话。 听， 这是他的生命。 我将他埋进土里。 清空了衣柜。 离开了房子。

6. 现在我提到他们， 以后不会再提了。 不是缺少爱 不是不够痛。 他们使用的熨斗，我不会再使用了。 我为他们献吻——一个、两个、三个、四个——礼貌之吻， 温柔感恩之吻， 愤怒之吻，土地深处的好运之吻。 愿他们安息。愿他们被温柔对待。 我不会为他们献上同谋之吻。 我不会将自己生命的责任托付给他们。

7. 你知道吗蚂蚁有舌头 用它收集所有能收集到的 甜蜜？ 你知道这个吗？

8. 诗不是世界。 甚至不是世界的第一页。 诗要绽放，像花一样。 它对花的绽放了如指掌。 诗要敞开自己， 就像小小庙宇的门， 因此你可以走进去冷静下来重振精神， 更加无我比万物的一部分。

9. 从成年女人口中呼喊出来的 孩童之音 是痛苦是失望。 高大、留着胡子、身强体壮的男人 吼叫出来的孩童之音 是痛苦，是恐惧。

10. 所以，告诉我： 什么会吸引你？ 什么会打开你心灵的黑暗之地， 像初次触摸时的 爱人？ 11. 总之， 谷仓不存在。 也没有孩子在谷仓。 叔叔餐桌厨房都不存在。 只有食米鸟遍布的狭长可爱的田野。

12.

当孤独悄悄走来，走进田野，思考起 世界的秩序。留意着 你从未留意过的东西， 就像雪地蟋蟀发出的手鼓声 它浅绿色的身体还没你的拇指大。 紧紧盯着那只蜂鸟，在夏雨中， 晃动翅膀抖落水花。

让忧伤作你的姐妹，无论答应与否。 从悲伤的树桩上站起来，也变成绿色， 像那勤奋的叶子。 人生苦短对世界的美 对生命的责任而言。 把花朵撒向坟墓，转身离开。 在你的勃勃生机中温柔善良边幅不修。 在心灵的瞩目下，你要谦虚。 要留意什么可以感知，什么又是惊恐。 与甲虫共存于世，与风同在。 这是诗的黑面包。 这是诗的黑色滋养的面包。

小亮

2019/12/24-27