伐切尔·林赛诗7首

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us: —as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapt shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free;

The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

古铜色皮肤，瘦高个儿！老式的黑衣，

出名的高礼帽，围巾破旧朴实，

这就是人民热爱的古怪伟人，

草原律师，我们大家的尊师。

他在山坡上再也无法安睡，

他走在我们中间——一如往昔，

我们，长夜辗侧难眠的人，

看他走过，惊跳起来，抽一口气。

他垂着头。想到人民，想到国王，

是呵，世界在哭号，他怎能安憩？

多少农民在打仗，不明白的，

多少家庭在惊惧恐怖中啜泣。

军阀们的罪恶如火燎他的心，

他看到无畏舰在海洋上航行。

在裹着围巾的肩上他承担着

过错、苦难、深创剧痛。

他没法休息，直到精神的黎明

来到人间——直到自由欧洲这光辉希望，

觉醒者的联盟，工人们的大地，

把和平带给玉米田、牧场和海洋。

国王们还在杀人，这使他心碎，

他长期为人民辛苦劳瘁

似乎白费。谁能带来白色和平

让他能在山坡上重新安睡？

Factory Windows Are Always Broken

Factory windows are always broken.

Somebody's always throwing bricks,

Somebody's always heaving cinders,

Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.

Factory windows are always broken.

Other windows are let alone.

No one throws through the chapel-window

The bitter, snarling, derisive stone.

Factory windows are always broken.

Something or other is going wrong.

Something is rotten—I think, in Denmark.

End of factory-window song.

What the Moon Saw

Two statesmen met by moonlight.

Their ease was partly feigned.

They glanced about the prairie.

Their faces were constrained.

In various ways aforetime

They had misled the state,

Yet did it so politely

Their henchmen thought them great.

They sat beneath a hedge and spake

No word, but had a smoke.

A satchel passed from hand to hand.

Next day, the deadlock broke.

The Leaden-eyed

Let not young souls be smothered out before

They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.

It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,

Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.

Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly,

Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,

Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,

Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.

侍奉也罢，他们没上帝可以侍奉，

死亡也罢，他们死得就像绵羊。

Here's to the Mice!

(Written with the hope that the socialists might yet dethrone Kaiser and Czar.)

Here's to the mice that scare the lions,

Creeping into their cages.

Here's to the fairy mice that bite

The elephants fat and wise:

Hidden in the hay-pile while the elephant thunder rages.

Here's to the scurrying, timid mice

Through whom the proud cause dies.

Here's to the seeming accident

When all is planned and working,

All the flywheels turning,

Not a vassal shirking.

Here's to the hidden tunneling thing

That brings the mountain's groans.

Here's to the midnight scamps that gnaw,

Gnawing away the thrones.

当一切就绪，工作正常，

所有的轮子转动自如，

没一个农奴敢于后退，

正是那看来偶然的因素，

正是这偷偷打洞的家伙，

让巍巍崇山声声叫苦，

正是这半夜乱啃的无赖，

一口口咬掉皇上的宝座。

The Chinese Nightingale (Excerpts)

A Song in Chinese Tapestries

"How, how," he said. "Friend Chang," I said,

"San Francisco sleeps as the dead—

Ended license, lust and play:

Why do you iron the night away?

Your big clock speaks with a deadly sound,

With a tick and a wail till dawn comes round.

While the monster shadows glower and creep,

What can be better for man than sleep?"

"I will tell you a secret," Chang replied;

"My breast with vision is satisfied,

And I see green trees and fluttering wings,

And my deathless bird from Shanghai sings."

Then he lit five fire-crackers in a pan.

"Pop, pop," said the fire-crackers, "cra-cra-crack."

He lit a joss stick long and black.

Then the proud gray joss in the corner stirred;

On his wrist appeared a gray small bird,

And this was the song of the gray small bird:

"Where is the princess, loved forever,

Who made Chang first of the kings of men?"

And the joss in the corner stirred again;

And the carved dog, curled in his arms, awoke,

Barked forth a smoke-cloud that whirled and broke.

It piled in a maze round the ironing-place,

And there on the snowy table wide

Stood a Chinese lady of high degree,

With a scornful, witching, tea-rose face...

Yet she put away all form and pride,

And laid her glimmering veil aside

With a childlike smile for Chang and for me.

The walls fell back, night was aflower,

The table gleamed in a moonlit bower,

While Chang, with a countenance carved of stone,

Ironed and ironed, all alone.

And thus she sang to the busy man Chang:

"Have you forgotten...

Deep in the ages, long, long ago,

I was your sweetheart, there on the sand—Storm-worn beach of the Chinese land?

We sold our grain in the peacock town

Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown—

Built on the edge of the sea-sands brown...

"When all the world was drinking blood

From the skulls of men and bulls,

And all the world had swords and clubs of stone,

We drank our tea in China, beneath the sacred spicetrees,

And heard the curled waves of the harbor moan.

And this gray bird, in Love's first spring,

With a bright-bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing,

Captured the world with his carolling.

Do you remember, ages after,

At last the world we were born to own?

You were the heir of the yellow throne—

The world was the field of the Chinese man

And we were the pride of the Sons of Han.

We copied deep books and we carved in jade,

And wove blue silks in the mulberry shade..."

"I remember, I remember

That Spring came on forever,

That Spring came on forever."

Said the Chinese nightingale.

My heart was filled with marvel and dream

Though I saw the western street-lamps gleam,

Though dawn was bringing the western day,

Though Chang was a laundryman, ironing away...

Mingled there, with the streets and alleys,

The railroad-yard and the clock-tower bright,

Demon-clouds crossed ancient valleys;

Across wide lotus-ponds of light

I marked a giant firefly's flight.

And the lady, rosy-red,

Flourished her fan, her shimmering fan,

Stretched her hand toward Chang, and said:

"Do you remember,

Ages after,

Our palace of heart-red stone?

Do you remember

The little doll-faced children

With their lanterns full of moon-fire,

That came from all the empire

Honoring the throne?—

The loveliest fête and carnival

Our world had ever known?

The sages sat about us

With their heads bowed in their beards,

With proper meditation on the sight.

Confucius was not born;

We lived in those great days

Confucius later said were lived aright....

And this gray bird, on that day of spring,

With a bright-bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing,

Captured the world with his carolling.

Late at night his tune was spent.

Peasants,

Sages,

Children,

Homeward went,

And then the bronze bird sang for you and me.

We walked alone, our hearts were high and free.

I had a silvery name, I had a silvery name,

I had a silvery name—do you remember

The name you cried beside the tumbling sea?"

Chang turned not to the lady slim—

He bent to his work, ironing away;

But she was arch and knowing and glowing.

And the bird on his shoulder spoke for him.

"Darling... darling... darling... darling..."

Said the Chinese nightingale.

张说：“我把秘密向你吐露，

有一个景象使我心满意足，

我看见绿色的树，高飞的翅膀，

我从上海带来的不死鸟在歌唱。”

然后他点着盘子里五个爆竹，

爆竹说：“噼、啪、嘭、噼、噗。”

他把一支黑色的长香点着，

灰色的神像动了一下，在那角落，

他手腕上出现一只灰色的小鸟，

灰色的小鸟唱出这样一首歌：

“公主在哪儿？永远可爱的公主？

使张成为第一个君王的公主？”

神像在角落里又动了一下，

他怀中木雕的狗竟然变活！

狗朝烟雾吠叫，猛然挣脱，

撞进熨衣桌周围堆放的杂物，

大桌子上铺着雪白的桌布，

出现一个中国女人，雍容华贵，

脸容骄傲，但迷人，像茶玫瑰  ……

但她却放下架子，撇开礼仪，

把闪闪发光的面纱轻轻撩开，

向着张和我孩子般微笑起来。

墙朝后消退，黑夜鲜花怒放，

月光下的亭子，桌子在放光，

而张的脸却好像石头刻成，

依然在熨着烫着，独自一人。

于是她向忙碌的张开口说：

“难道你已经把一切忘却……

无数年代，无数世纪之前，

我是你的情人，就在沙滩边——

在风雨蚀平的中国海岸？

我们卖掉谷子，在孔雀城，

在棕色海滩上的孔雀城——

在棕色海滩上的孔雀城……

“当全世界的人还在茹毛饮血，

用人和牛的头骨当作水杯，

当全世界还在用石棍石刀，

我们却在香料树下品尝茶味，

静听着海湾中浪涛的低吟，

而这灰色的鸟，在爱情的初春，

胸脯和翅膀闪着青铜的光辉，

他的歌声迷醉了整个世界。

你记不记得，多少年之后，

到了我们出生的那个世代？

你将继承那黄色的皇位，

全世界都是中国人在耕作，

我们是汉人子孙的骄傲。

我们抄深奥的书，把玉雕镂，

我们在桑树下织蓝色的丝绸……”

而中国夜莺唱了起来：

“我记得，我记得，

那个春天永留心头，

那个春天永留心头。”

我心中充满惊奇和梦想，

虽然我看见西方的街灯闪亮，

虽然拂晓正带来西方的白昼，

虽然张是洗衣工，成天拿熨斗……

街道和小巷纠结在一起，

还有铁路车站，明亮的钟楼，

魔鬼般的乌云穿过古老的山谷，

我看见一个巨大的萤火虫

飞越过宽阔的闪光的莲湖。

而这女人，玫瑰般红艳，

轻挥着绢扇，闪光的绢扇，

她把手伸向张，开口说道：

“你记得吧，

多少年之后，

我们住在红石砌的宫殿？

你记得吧，

那些孩子，玩偶般的脸？

他们的灯笼储满月火 

那是向你奉献的贡物，

来自全国的各个角落。——

而那天是世人所见过的

最华丽最欢乐的节日。

贤哲围坐在我们四周，

捻着长胡子，垂着头，

看来似乎老僧入定。

当时孔子尚未出世，

我们生活在伟大的时代，

孔子后来说那是盛世……

而这只灰鸟，在那初春日子，

胸脯和翅羽就像青铜，

世人都迷醉地听他的歌声。

到深夜，他的歌已唱完。

农民，

哲贤，

孩子，

都把家还，

这时青铜鸟单为你我歌唱，

我们并肩走着，心里多欢畅。

我有一个银的名字，银色的名字，

银铃般的名字——你记不记得

你在翻滚的大海边叫我的名字？”

张没有转过脸看这袅娜的美女——

他专心干活，弯腰熨烫，

可是她很狡猾，面露喜色，

因为张肩上的鸟代张开了腔：

“亲爱的……亲爱的……亲爱的……”

那中国夜莺连声地歌唱。

The Flute of the Lonely

Faintly the ne'er-do-well

Breathed through his flute:

All the tired neighbor-folk,

Hearing, were mute.

In their neat doorways sat,

Labors all done,

Helpless, relaxed, o'er-wrought,

Evening begun.

None of them there beguiled

Work-thoughts away,

Like to this reckless, wild

Loafer by day.

(Weeds in his flowers upgrown!

Fences awry!

Rubbish and bottles heaped!

Yard like a sty!)

There in his lonely door,

Leering and lean,

Staggering, liquor-stained,

Outlawed, obscene—

Played he his moonlight thought,

Mastered his flute.

All the tired neighbor-folk,

Hearing, were mute.

None but he, in that block,

Knew such a tune.

All loved the strain, and all

Looked at the moon!

兰波的诗歌创作首先可以理解为波德莱尔的那些理论设想的实现。但是这些创作展现的是经过彻底改变的图像。《恶之花》中那些无法消解却以清晰的布局、严整的形式叙说出的张力在这里成了绝对的不谐和音。诸多主题只是间或可以通过猜测互相连通，它们显示的是过多的断裂，大都彼此交错混杂。这种诗歌创作的核心几乎不再是主题内容，而是一种沸腾的激奋。自1871年开始，诗歌就不再创造任何可以让人领会的意义结构了，而是创造碎片、破裂的线条、感官表达敏锐却非现实的图像——但是这一切是如此一种状态，以至于这一片混沌在一种统一体中激荡，这种统一体要称之为语言就需要这种混杂：这是一种高于意义的、贯穿所有噪音与乐音的音调形成的统一体。抒情诗的语言行为越来越从内容表述转为一种专制的观看方式，由此转为一种不同寻常的表述技巧。这一技巧甚至不一定出现在对句法规范的破坏上。这种情形在惯于爆发的兰波这里是少见的，所以它在宁静的马拉美那里出现时才尤为引人注目。对于兰波来说，他用简化至粗朴的句子就足以让混杂的内容形成张力。

这样一种诗歌的作用是让人迷惑。里维埃在1920年论及兰波时写道：“他的使命就在于让我们迷失方向。”这句话之所以正确，是因为它在兰波身上识别出了一种使命。这在克洛岱尔写给里维埃的一封信中也可以得到证实，信中前者提到了他第一次读《彩图集》的情形，随后写道：“我终于走出了那个泰纳、那个勒南的可恶世界，走出了那套丑陋不堪的机制，这套机制是由不屈不挠的、可以辨识可以传授的规则所引导的。而那则是超自然力的天启。”这里所指的是科学上的实证主义，其基础是认为整个世界和人是完全可解释的，它扼杀了需要隐秘的艺术力量和心灵力量。所以那些力求挣脱极端科学思想的可解释世界而进入极端神秘化的幻想世界的晦暗诗歌就能够发挥信使的作用，帮助领受者达到同样的突破。这一点也许就是兰波不仅仅对于克洛岱尔，也对许多其他读者产生吸引力的主要原因之一。他的非现实混沌是让人脱离狭迫现实的拯救。克洛岱尔因为他而皈依宗教。但信教本身应由克洛岱尔一人负责。兰波和波德莱尔一样，都不可被误解为基督徒，虽然他的诗歌创作包含了与宗教狂喜相似的强力。但是在他这里，这些强力消散于一种空洞的超自然性的虚无中。

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