哈特·克兰诗7首
My Grandmother's Love Letters
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother's mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.
Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.
And I ask myself:
"Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?"
Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
时间那么遥远
脚步必须放轻。
信悬于一根看不见的白发,
颤抖,像白桦树枝在风中织网。
我问自己:
“你的手指那么长
能弹已成回音的琴键吗:
寂静的力量那么强
能把音乐带回声源
再传回给你
就像传给她?”
但是我还得拉着外婆的手
领她穿过那么多她不懂的东西;
我迟疑。雨依旧打着屋顶
那声音像怜悯的笑,很轻。
Black Tambourine
The interests of a black man in a cellar
Mark tardy judgment on the world's closed door.
Gnats toss in the shadow of a bottle,
And a roach spans a crevice in the floor.
Æsop, driven to pondering, found
Heaven with the tortoise and the hare;
Fox brush and sow ear top his grave
And mingling incantations on the air.
The black man, forlorn in the cellar,
Wanders in some mid-kingdom, dark, that lies,
Between his tambourine, stuck on the wall,
And, in Africa, a carcass quick with flies.
伊索,被迫思考,他发现了
一个有龟,有兔的天堂;
狐尾和猪耳长在他的坟头
把神秘的咒文混入风中。
那黑人,被抛弃在地窖里,
在一个黑暗的中央王国漫游,
一边是他挂在墙上的手鼓,
一边是在非洲很快长蛆的尸首。
North Labrador
A land of leaning ice
Hugged by plaster-grey arches of sky,
Flings itself silently
Into eternity.
"Has no one come here to win you,
Or left you with the faintest blush
Upon your glittering breasts?
Have you no memories, O Darkly Bright?"
Cold-hushed, there is only the shifting moments
That journey toward no Spring—
No birth, no death, no time nor sun
In answer.
“从来没人来赢取你,
或者让你闪光的
胸脯上微微起点红晕?
你没记忆吗,哦黑暗的光明?”
寒气噤口,只有时间变化
旅程没有春天——
没有生,没有死,没有时间和太阳
来给你回答。
At Melville's Tomb
Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men's bones he saw bequeath
An embassy. Their numbers as he watched,
Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.
And wrecks passed without sound of bells,
The calyx of death's bounty giving back
A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph,
The portent wound in corridors of shells.
Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil,
Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled,
Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars;
And silent answers crept across the stars.
Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive
No farther tides... High in the azure steeps
Monody shall not wake the mariner.
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.
沉船驶过,没有敲钟,
死亡的猎获物开出花萼送回
断章残简,青黑的象形文字,
贝壳走廊里缠绕着不祥物。
此后,大圆圈中的沉静小圈子,
它的抽击被惑住,解了恨,
迷糊的眼睛高筑起祭坛;
无声的回答爬过星群。
罗盘、四分仪、六分仪,再无法
催起潮水……在蔚蓝的陡岸之上
挽歌无法唤醒水手。
只有大海保存这奇异的影子。
Island Quarry
Square sheets—they saw the marble into
Flat slabs there at the marble quarry
At the turning of the road around the roots of the mountain
Where the straight road would seem to ply below the stone, that fierce
Profile of marble spiked with yonder
Palms against the sunset's towering sea, and maybe
Against mankind. It is at times—
In dusk it is at times as though this island lifted, floated
In Indian baths. At Cuban dusk the eyes
Walking the straight road toward thunder—
This dry road silvering toward the shadow of the quarry
—It is at times as though the eyes burned hard and glad
And did not take the goat path quivering to the right,
Wide of the mountain—thence to tears and sleep—
But went on into marble that does not weep.
岛上采石场
方石板——他们把大理石
锯成平板,在那山脚
道路转弯处的采石场上
笔直的路好像撬进石缝,那粗暴的
尖矛般的大理石和远处的
手掌一起,插进日暮那高耸的大海,可能
也插进人类世界。在某些时刻——
黄昏就是这种时刻,似乎这岛在升起,漂浮在
印第安温泉上。在古巴的黄昏,眼睛
沿着笔直的路,走向雷电——
这干燥的路银光闪闪,伸向采石场的阴影
——有时候,似乎眼睛被强烈地灼烧,庆幸,
不走上右边那条颤抖的,远远离开大山的,
山羊走的小道——不走向眼泪,不走向睡眠——
而是走进永不哭泣的大理石。
The Bridge
Proem: To Brooklyn Bridge
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—
Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
—Till elevators drop us from our day…
I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;
And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,—
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!
Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.
Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn…
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.
And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon... Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.
O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,—
Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path—condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.
Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City's fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year…
O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
The sea raised up a campanile... The wind I heard
Of brine partaking, whirling spout in shower
Of column kiss—that breakers spouted, sheared
Back into bosom—me—her, into natal power...
推荐阅读: