斯蒂文斯诗14首
Domination of Black
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
The colors of their tails
Were like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry—the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the twilight
Or against the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the flames
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the peacocks
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the hemlocks
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?
Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Valley Candle
My candle burned alone in an immense valley.
Beams of the huge night converged upon it,
Until the wind blew.
The beams of the huge night
Converged upon its image,
Until the wind blew.
The Emperor of Ice-cream
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
冰淇淋皇帝
叫一下那个卷大雪茄的人，
那肌肉发达的汉子，告诉他
到厨房里打一杯色情的冰淇淋。
让娘儿们穿着平时的衣服
过来闲逛，让那些男孩
带着花束，裹着上个月的报纸。
让“似乎”最后变成“就是”。
唯一的皇帝是冰淇淋皇帝。
松木柜掉了三个玻璃把手，
请从里面取出那条
她绣了扇尾鸽的被单
铺开，盖没她的脸。
她粗硬的脚伸出，那正是
在表示她已全身冰冷，不会说话。
让灯把光线贴上去。
唯一的皇帝是冰淇淋皇帝。
Anecdote of the Jar
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
坛子的轶事
我把一只坛放在田纳西，
它是圆的，置在山巅。
它使凌乱的荒野
围着山峰排列。
于是荒野向坛子涌起，
匍匐在四周，再不荒莽。
坛子圆圆地置在地上
高高屹立，巍峨庄严。
它君临着四面八方。
坛是灰色的，未施彩妆。
它无法产生鸟或树丛，
不像田纳西别的事物。
Peter Quince at the Clavier
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned—
A cymbal crashed,
And roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind—
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
彼得·昆士弹琴
一
正当我的手指在键上
弹出音乐，这些声音
在我心中也形成音乐。
因此音乐是感觉，不是声音；
因此，此时此地，
在这房间里，我渴望你，
想念你蓝幽幽的绸衣，
就是音乐。它正如苏珊娜
在长者们心中唤起的曲调；
绿色的夜晚，清澈，温暖，
她在宁静的花园沐浴，这时
眼睛发红的长者看着，感到
他们生命的低音区震荡出
销魂的和弦，而稀薄的血，
蹦跳着，拨奏赞美之声。
二
绿色的水，清澈，温暖，
苏珊娜躺在水里。
她寻求
春天的抚摸，
只找到
隐藏的想象。
她叹息
因为旋律太多。
她站到岸上
激情消退
心绪安宁。
纷纷落叶中，她感到
往昔的忠诚
如露滴。
她在草上走，
依然在打颤。
风像她的使女
步履羞怯地跟着，
给她取来
还在摇摆的头巾。
一口气吹在她手上
使夜悄然无声。
她转过身——
一声铙钹敲响，
号角齐鸣。
三
很快，伴着手鼓的敲击，
来了她的拜占庭婢女。
她们不明白为什么
苏珊娜对长者呵斥；
她们低语，那迭句
像打着柳叶的雨。
不久，她们的灯焰升起，
照亮了苏珊娜和她的羞耻。
于是痴笑的拜占庭少女
逃了，伴着手鼓的敲击。
四
美在头脑中转瞬即逝——
像大门时开时合；
但是在肉体中它却不朽。
肉体死亡；肉体的美永存。
正如晚景消失，绿莹莹地出走，
而波浪却不停地流。
正如花园荒芜，而柔弱的呼吸
察觉到冬天的僧帽，完成忏悔。
正如姑娘死去，而少女的合唱
欢庆来临的曙光。
苏珊娜的音乐拨响了
这些白发长者淫心的弦；但她逃跑
只留下死神嘲弄的刮搔。
现在，在永恒中，音乐表演
记着她的六弦琴，
做出永远不变的赞美诺言。
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
三
黑鸟回翔在秋风中。
它是哑剧的一小部分。
四
一个男人和一个女人
是一回事。
一个男人和一个女人和一只黑鸟
是一回事。
五
我不知道该挑哪一个，
是词形变化之美，
还是词义暗示之美，
是黑鸟啼啭之时，
还是鸟鸣乍停之际。
六
冰串儿填满了
玻璃粗蛮的长窗。
黑鸟的身影
掠过窗子，来来去去。
影子描画出
情绪
原因很难解释。
七
哦哈达姆 瘦弱的人，
你为什么幻想金鸟？
你没见到黑鸟
在你周围女人的
脚下跳来跳去？
八
我懂得高贵的声调
和澄澈的，无法回避的节奏；
但我也知道，
我懂得的事情
都跟黑鸟有关。
九
当黑鸟远飞高翔，渺无踪影，
它画出了
许多圆圈中某一个的边界。
十
当我们见到黑鸟
在绿光中疾飞，
哪怕是买卖音韵的人
也会惊叫起来。
十一
有人坐玻璃马车
穿过康涅狄格州，
一次，他惊恐万分，
因为他
把马车的影子
当作了黑鸟。
十二
大河动荡，
黑鸟准是在飞。
十三
整个下午都如傍晚，
飞雪不断，
还将下雪。
黑鸟栖在
杉树的枝头。
The Death of a Soldier
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
He does not become a three-days' personage.
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.
他没有变成轰动三天的人物。
把告别强加于人，
搞得泱泱壮观。
死是绝对的，没有怀念，
就像在秋天，
金风骤停。
金风骤停，但在天上，
白云依然
走自己的路。
Dance of the Macabre Mice
In the land of turkeys in turkey weather
At the base of the statue, we go round and round.
What a beautiful history, beautiful surprise!
Monsieur is on horseback. The horse is covered with mice.
This dance has no name. It is a hungry dance.
We dance it out to the tip of Monsieur's sword,
Reading the lordly language of the inscription,
Which is like zithers and tambourines combined:
The Founder of the State. Whoever founded
A state that was free, in the dead of winter, from mice?
What a beautiful tableau tinted and towering,
The arm of bronze outstretched against all evil!
这舞没有名字，它是饥饿之舞。
我们笔直舞到英雄的剑尖，
我们读着题铭的庄严词句，
读来就像筝琴与手鼓合奏：
建国元勋。有谁建立过一个
能在严冬时免于鼠害的国家？
好个美景，层层上色，高高耸立，
青铜的手臂伸出打击一切罪恶！
The Man with the Blue Guitar (Excerpts)
I
The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.
They said, "You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are."
The man replied, "Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar."
And they said then, "But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,
A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are."
II
I cannot bring a world quite round,
Although I patch it as I can.
I sing a hero's head, large eye
And bearded bronze, but not a man,
Although I patch him as I can
And reach through him almost to man.
If to serenade almost to man
Is to miss, by that, things as they are,
Say it is the serenade
Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
XXVI
The world washed in his imagination,
The world was a shore, whether sound or form
Or light, the relic of farewells,
Rock, of valedictory echoings,
To which his imagination returned,
From which it sped, a bar in space,
Sand heaped in the clouds, giant that fought
Against the murderous alphabet:
The swarm of thoughts, the swarm of dreams
Of inaccessible Utopia.
A mountainous music always seemed
To be falling and to be passing away.
这人回答说：“如实的真情，
也在这蓝吉他上发生变更。”
因此他们说：“你必须弹个，
既超越又实写我们的曲子，
在蓝吉他上弹出个曲子
要恰如事物其分的样子。”
二
我没法把一个世界弄得滚圆，
虽然我尽所能贴贴补补。
我歌唱英雄的头，巨大的眼，
长胡子的铜像，但唱不出人。
虽然我尽我所能贴贴补补，
而且靠它差点儿够着了人。
要是够着小夜曲就是够着人，
那就是搞错了事物的真相。
只能说那是人的小夜曲
在俯身弹奏蓝色的吉他。
二十六
世界在他的想象中洗刷，
世界是岸，不管声音、形式
还是光，告别的遗迹，
岩石，辞行的回声，
他的想象总是回溯这些东西，
又从它们驰开，像光射入空间，
像沙堆在云中，像巨人
在与凶残的字母搏斗：
麇集的世界，麇集的梦，
梦见一个不可企及的乌托邦。
大山一般的音乐似乎
在不断倒下，在消失。
Dry Loaf
It is equal to living in a tragic land
To live in a tragic time.
Regard now the sloping, the mountainous rocks
And the river that batters its way over stones,
Regard the hovels of those that live in this land.
That was what I painted behind the loaf,
The rocks not even touched by snow,
The pines along the river and the dry men blown
Brown as the bread, thinking of birds
Flying from burning countries and brown sand shores.
Birds that came like dirty water in waves
Flowing above the rocks, flowing over the sky,
As if the sky was a current that bore them along,
Spreading them as waves spread flat on the shore,
One after another washing the mountains bare.
It was the battering of drums I heard.
It was hunger, it was the hungry that cried
And the waves, the waves were soldiers moving,
Marching and marching in a tragic time
Below me, on the asphalt, under the trees.
It was soldiers went marching over the rocks
And still the birds came, came in watery flocks,
Because it was spring and the birds had to come.
No doubt that soldiers had to be marching
And that drums had to be rolling, rolling, rolling.
这就是我在面包后面画的景色，
从来没沾过飞雪的巍巍山岩，
沿河的松林，风吹干的人
面包一般棕黄，思念着那些
来自火焰之国和棕色沙岸的鸟。
飞鸟来到，像波澜层层的污水，
从岩石上漫过，从天空中漫过，
似乎天空是条巨流把他们裹起，
又洒开，就如波浪漫洒在海岸，
后浪接前浪，把山脉洗得光秃。
而我听到的却是战鼓在猛击。
是饥饿，是饥饿的人们在呼喊，
这波浪，这波浪是士兵在前进，
行进，行进在一个悲剧的时代
在窗下，柏油路上，树木下面。
这是士兵在山岩上面行进，
而鸟仍像水波般一群群飞来。
因为这是春天，是鸟飞来之时，
无可怀疑士兵们也得不断行进，
而鼓声必须不断轰鸣，轰鸣，轰鸣。
Of Modern Poetry
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words that in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly
Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.
It must
Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
诗必须活着，学会当地的话，
它得面对这时代的男人，会见
这时代的女人。它也得想战争，
得找出何物令人满意。它必须
搭一个新台。他必须站在台上，
像个永不满足的演员，缓慢地
沉思地，咏出台词，在那耳朵，
在思维的最敏感的耳朵中恰好
重复它正想听的东西，这声音
一群看不见的观众正在倾听，
不是听戏，而是听自己被表现，
情绪上好像是两个人，两种
情绪结合成一体。演员应是
黑暗中的玄学家，拨动他的
乐器，拨动一根金属丝的弦，
琴声穿越突然的准确性，整个
包裹了思想，不能低于这水平
也没有超越它的愿望。
它必须
找到令人满意的东西，可以是
一个男人滑冰，一个女人跳舞，
或者梳头。思维在行动中的诗。
The Motive for Metaphor
You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.
In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter-things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon—
The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were not quite yourself,
And did not want nor have to be,
Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being,
The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound—
Steel against intimation—the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.
四下分的东西，两半的颜色，
稍微亮些的天，消融的云，
孤独的鸟，幽暗的月亮——
幽暗的月亮，照着幽暗世界，
充满了无法表达的事物。
在那儿你永远没法自在，
你不想自在，你也不必，
企望变化的那种兴奋：
就是比喻的动机，它躲避
那最初的正午的压力，
躲避存在的A、B、C。
殷红的淬火，红的蓝的
锤子，沉重的声音——
钢的打击暗示——刺眼的火光，
那重要、傲慢、致命、主宰的X。
Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction (Excerpts)
IV
Two things of opposite natures seem to depend
On one another, as a man depends
On a woman, day on night, the imagined
On the real. This is the origin of change.
Winter and spring, cold copulars, embrace
And forth the particulars of rapture come.
Music falls on the silence like a sense,
A passion that we feel, not understand.
Morning and afternoon are clasped together
And North and South are an intrinsic couple
And sun and rain a plural, like two lovers
That walk away as one in the greenest body.
In solitude the trumpets of solitude
Are not of another solitude resounding;
A little string speaks for a crowd of voices.
The partaker partakes of that which changes him.
The child that touches takes character from the thing,
The body, it touches. The captain and his men
Are one and the sailor and the sea are one.
Follow after, O my companion, my fellow, my self,
Sister and solace, brother and delight.
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