帕斯卡尔·帕蒂诗7首

帕斯卡尔·佩蒂特(Pascale Petit)，法国出生的英国诗人。她出生在巴黎，在法国和威尔士长大。她在皇家艺术学院（Royal College of Art）接受雕塑家的培训，并在人生的第一阶段成为一名视觉艺术家。她旅行广泛，特别是在秘鲁和委内瑞拉的亚马逊地区。

◎电鳗的到来

每一次打开它，都感觉自己像个马忒色*姑娘

在结束与世隔绝的生活时拿到一个邮包

脸要被美洲黑豹的髭须刺一下

才会变得勇敢

我知道那里面是什么——我必须

拆开树叶做的信封

直到那留下来的

在我手掌里蠕动着的

是一条电鳗

正极的头，负极的尾

皮肤下藏着成排的电池

小小的眼睛几乎是盲眼

日子又变得昏暗

我在人生的底部艰难跋涉

此时父亲的信到了。而且不停地到来

带电的纸质纤维

薄薄的电镀油墨

紧贴着我颤抖的手指

这个信使把我从底部拖到面上

大口吞入空气，然后摆动尾鳍

此前，从未有一封信如此沉重

在我房间长到两米长

地址、电话号码、然后是麻木——

我知道你一定很吃惊，它说

但是我不久于人世了，想要取得联系

◎暮色中的美洲黑豹

他似乎把整个

亚马逊

卷入自己的生命，风暴

云似的玫瑰花结

穿过古铜色的黄昏

我到过那里，求庇护

在一个庞然大物的

支墩下，感觉

它的气息围着我——

它，肌肉紧绷

悄悄尾随着我

我跌跌撞撞

在浓密的皮毛中穿行

父亲的舌头

湿湿的，在我脖子上

我坠入深壑

他那断电的嘴巴

醒来时

我想我听到了

丛林咳嗽——这丛林

美洲豹，很安全

在栅栏后面。我俯身

触摸他的笼子——他瞥出目光

向我飞掠而来，像一支利箭

◎沉睡的美洲黑豹

1

一场日食——他的皮毛

似乎要遮住光

那些焖烧的

黑色玫瑰花结

如一园动物般的亚原子

我试图驯服——

氚、轻子、反质子

它们碰撞

仿佛在内部粉碎了

一台粒子加速器

但那是阿拉米斯在沉睡

在猛扯自己回到

丛林，在那里，他跃起

跳入一池漩涡

星云，去抓一条鱼

2

后来，饲养员告诉我

阿拉米斯动了手术

因为吞下了

一个软管头

他吃的一团牛肉

存放在那。但是

兽医拿把一手术刀

能对这个做梦的宇宙

做些什么呢？

什么样的手能剃光

那皮毛，去探索

那些器官

那些暗物质，解开

时间的肠子

一针针

把夜晚的肚子

重新缝合，难道只是

为了将他交还给笼子？

Black Jaguar with Quai Saint-Bernard

BY PASCALE PETIT

Behind the Fauverie a crawl of quayside traffic

while Aramis roars for his food, the air

turbulent as he opens his jaws in a huge

yawn. If I hold my breath, half-close my eyes

and listen hard — there at the tongue’s root,

in the voicebox of night, I might hear

the almost-vanished. He’s summoning his prey,

this lord of thunderbolts, calling to ghosts

of the Lost World, with this evening chant

to scarlet macaw, tapir, golden lion tamarin.

Until everything goes slow and the rush-hour

queue of scale-to-scale cars is one giant caiman

basking on the bank. The jaguar’s all

swimming stealth now — no sound — a stalker

camouflaged by floating hyacinths, senses

tuned only to the reptile of the road. Then, with

one bound, spray scatters like glass, as Aramis

lands on the brute’s back and bites its neck.

Green Bee-Eater

BY PASCALE PETIT

More precious than all

the gems of  Jaipur—

the green bee-eater.

If  you see one singing

tree-tree-tree

with his space-black bill

and rufous cap,

his robes

all shades of emerald

like treetops glimpsed

from a plane,

his blue cheeks,

black eye-mask

and the delicate tail streamer

like a plume of smoke—

you might dream

of the forests

that once clothed

our flying planet.

And perhaps his singing

is a spell

to call our forests back—

tree

     by tree

              by tree.

The Hummingbird Nest

BY PASCALE PETIT

I bring you a hummingbird’s nest, woven

from seed-down, thistle head,

bound with lichen and spidersilk,

shaped by a mother who presses her breast

against the cup, uses her rump, chin,

the curve of her wing, who stomps

her claws on the base to check it’s

windproof under this leaf porch.

The male gone, she works alone,

hurrying back and forth thirty times

an hour, before the eggs come.

She lays them in a home small as a nutshell,

the rim turned in, the sides pliant

so they’ll stretch as the chicks grow.

Little mother, I’ve read your file

filled with letters to the mairie, begging

for a place where we could live together.

I know now how hard you fought the powers,

like a jeweled dart stabbing at their door,

before you fell prey to the jungle mantis.

Instead of flowers, I leave you this nest

on your grave, in case you make it

from your migration — only a wisp

of feathers, no flesh left on your bones.

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