加布里埃尔·查维兹·卡萨佐拉 ▍当一条螺旋线证实着美的流逝

加布里埃尔·查维兹·卡萨佐拉（Gabriel Chávez Casazola）

1972年生于玻利维亚。诗人、记者，被誉为“当代最不可或缺的玻利维亚及拉美诗人之一” 著有六部诗集：《通明水域》 （2010年玻利维亚）、《清晨，园丁纷至沓来》 （2013年厄瓜多尔、2014年玻利维亚） 及《太阳的增殖》等 （2017年哥伦比亚、2018年智利）。出版诗选包括《欧律狄刻之足》（2014年哥伦比亚）、《汤之歌》 （2014年厄瓜多尔）、《雾室》（2014年阿根廷、2015年玻利维亚、2017年哥斯达黎加）、《雨中的纸飞机》 （2016年西班牙）、 《泥与光》 （2017年墨西哥）及创意折纸书《诗五卷》 （2017年墨西哥）。近日在欧洲出版两部双语诗集：意大利RaffaelliEditore出版社《后院之歌》 （2018）（Emilio Coco译）和法国Al Manar editions出版社《幽灵速度》 （2018）（Jean Portante译）。其著作被翻译为英语、法语、意大利语、葡萄牙语、希腊语、俄语、罗马尼亚语、加泰罗尼亚语等。曾赴南北美洲及欧洲各地参加诗会及诗歌节，获“玻利维亚文化荣誉勋章”及“年度最佳图书编辑奖”，并获西班牙“费尔南多·里洛悬疑世界诗歌奖”提名。曾任“圣克鲁兹国际诗歌集市之国际环城诗歌大会”负责人、文学杂志《ElAnsia》联合编辑、玻利维亚圣克鲁兹私立大学（UPSA）创意写作教授。主编诗选《Agua Ardiente》（Plural Editores出版社）及主持诗歌创作工坊“绿色光焰”。

无人生还，从来，没有

——卡洛斯·莫西亚诺

某座房子里，下午时光落在纸页和橡皮擦之上

一盒蜡笔被尘埃覆盖

又从尘埃下透出，当光线掀起它虚假的微粒帆布罩，或小心翼翼放下，它面对的是饱和的寂静

它们停止聆听那空气的沙沙作响

当一个女人的嫩白纤手握住蜡笔，在同样的光线中画着螺旋线

当不在场攫住这房子并把它分成若干份，让它弥漫陌生气息

将它准备好接受必将到来的摧毁，某种程度上也是美学的摧毁

——在种种声称反对她的战争中

美总是最先还是最后阵亡？——

当一张泛黄的纸挂在桌边，似乎将自己作为命运钦定选项祭出 

——命运能否与它的画框天衣无缝——

被转换成极简事物的组成物质：一篮西红柿或水果

一个带着忧郁猫的金发女孩 

杏树林间舒展的沟渠，与树枝后翎羽状升起的炊烟

面向人群，它们勾勒出一位年老女人的面庞，她倾听

更有可能，期待着听到某些声音

当她的期盼还在时光中、在纸张雪白的毛孔中悬而未决

在寂静之处，一声低吟的急切沉重而带着蓝调，似乎应该伴随有一支烟羽的舒展

在嘹亮中冷凝

——悖论的是，在这里听不到

人造物件所产生的美，和升起的祈愿——

比如，当四点正的火车经过时，只有一股烟与低吟

而现在甚至两者皆无

只有一张女人面孔，期待听到它的到来

嫩白纤手画出素描中冰封的面孔 ，这只手已不常触碰纸张或蜡笔

被尘埃的虚假纹理覆盖又露出，在这被分割的房屋中

画像中的女人等候着已毫无希望但又似乎近在眉睫的事件，例如四点正火车的到来

遥遥无期地仿佛正接近某座城市，当下午时光落在纸页和橡皮擦、一个空筐和一些干枯的树木上

当美执意等待

——那是烟雾的盛宴——

像晚餐前，永不衰弛的女孩

在沟渠与杏树林间与猫玩耍

当一条螺旋线证实着美的流逝：在描摹的手和等待的耳朵之间

我

为寂静与试图捕捉的急迫所充斥

——但我失败了：回忆是否会与一幅肖像合辙？——一些沉重而带着蓝调的低吟

有一次我看到一个孩子

坐在你膝盖上，母亲

（殷晓媛 译）

Nobody returns to anything, ever, nobody

Nobody returns to anything, ever, nobody

-Carlos Murciano

While in a certain house afternoon falls on some papers, rubber eraser,

box of wax pencils covered

and discovered by dust, as light arouses its false canvas of particulates or leaves it, carefully, facing so much stillness,

they’ve stopped to listen to the steps as if made of air

of the woman who held those pencils with a fine, milky white hand beneath this same light, sketching a spiral;

while absence takes over the house and splits it, scores it with strangeness, prepares it

for definite demolition which in some way is beauty’s demolition

–does beauty die first or last in

all the wars declared against her?–

while one of those already yellowed papers hangs on the table as if offering itself as fate’s chosen one

–will fate fit in a frame?–

to be converted into the substance of simple things: a basket of tomatoes or fruits,

a blonde girl with a gloomy cat,

the canal spreading out between apricot trees and often a smoke plume behind branches,

facing the ones which outline an old woman’s face, who listens, 

or better, hopes to hear;

while the old woman’s expectations stay suspended in time in the paper’s white spores

in the place where it’s silent, a moan’s imminence grave and bluish like it should accompany a smoke plume,

resonant condensation

–here, paradoxically, inaudible–

of beauty produced by human artifacts, invocations which can arise,

when, for example, the four o’clock train passes of which only smoke and moan are known

and now not even that,

only a woman’s face, waiting to hear its arrival

a frozen face in a sketch by some milky white hands which don’t visit paper or wax pencils frequently now,

remaining covered and discovered only by false dust fabric, in a split house;

while the woman from the portrait waits for something already impossible but always about to happen, like the four o’clock train’s arrival,

indefinitely about to arrive in some city where afternoon falls on some paper, a rubber eraser, an empty basket, some dry trees;

while beauty still persists in letting itself wait

–smoke concert–

like an everlasting girl who plays with cats

there between canals and apricot trees, before supper;

while a spiral silently testifies to beauty lost between the tracing hand and waiting ear;

I

full of silence and imminence too try to capture

–but I can’t: will memory fit in a portrait?– some grave, bluish moan

I once heard as a child

sitting on your knees, mother.

1.

趋于黯淡的光既不是一座帝国

也不是一朵萤火

安托万明白，他目睹过它飞扬在巴塔哥尼亚高原上空

趋于寂灭的光停止对世界眨动眼眸

如大厦森然矗立

——一座可能的谦卑的大厦：所有人的房屋都是大厦，所有大厦又都是窝棚——

“一座大厦，”安托万说道，“让他的爱与疲惫黯然失色。”

跳错不已的光

——冷调又或暖调——

淳朴农人们依赖它们

流放者从荒弃之岛

面对无限划燃一根火柴

2.

今天世界之轴向左或向右（谁知道呢）偏移了十厘米

但今夜诗人们却漂泊无定

他们褪下鞋履走入河流

平摊开四肢

去捕捉繁星的辉光

他们

双手浸没在水中

捕捉

（殷晓媛 译）

Evening Flight / Ars Poetica 

1.

The light that fades is not an empire

or a firefly.

Antoine knew it, he discovered it soaring over Patagonia.

The light that fades is a house, ceasing to wink at the rest of the world,

a mansion

–a modest mansion if possible: all men’s houses are a mansion, all men’s mansions a shack–

a mansion, said Antoine, overshadowing his love. Or his weariness. 

A shaky light

—cold to hot—

some friendly farmers cling to

castaways who swing a match before the immensity

from a desert island.

2.

Today the axis of the world has moved ten centimeters to the left or right who knows

but tonight the poets wander unsettled

and throw off their shoes and enter the river

and lay themselves out to capture

the splendor of the stars

to capture them 

with their hands in 

the water.

我的家族在祖父那一代人丁兴旺

房屋敞亮——有大有小，但很气派

甚至袖珍的——也范儿十足

他们坐在大餐桌边用餐

桌子很结实，有的铺着宽大的桌布，有的没有

但无一例外稳稳地立在地面

在那些盛大的下午

他们用硕大的勺子喝汤。汤用巨大的长勺

从大汤碗里盛出

然后他们坐在一起听着收音机

         喝着咖啡

抽一支香烟

在健康或良心上，他们没有大（或小）问题

母亲有时在绣花，有时缝缝补补

绣出一幅巨大的、绵延不断的

儿孙绕膝图

父亲，家中的权威，每天下午六点回家

开着一辆宽敞的美国车，或者骑着高头大马

又或大步流星

走在路上

准备晚间和子孙们共享天伦

那是无人打扰的时光

除非有人生病，或缺席

留下谜一般的空洞感

——一种巨大的空洞感——

飘浮着，带着香烟的白雾

缭绕在晚餐后的闲谈之上

有时，在这样的场合，父亲，家中的权威

会想关掉收音机

独处片刻，也许只是简单的

离开，也许是和金发、长得像母亲但不是母亲的跑伴一道

在陌生小径上跑步

或开着宽敞的美国车，骑着高头大马

又或大步流星走在路上——他还没有衰老

作为母亲来说，有时晚餐后闲谈时会觉得喉头发堵

这种堵塞感之后会随着一声巨大叹息

从嘴里浮出来 

那是一种强烈的堵塞感，在她咖啡的细流里

缠结起来，在那吸收了她视线

让她想要独处的螺旋里

她只想简单的离开，听不到最小的两个女儿

和最大两个孙子的哭声

那些年就这样过去，生活充满咖啡和香烟

然后有一天大房子变得空荡荡，大汤碗

空了，勺子没有了声响

一种更大的静默追赶着我们，女儿们和孙子们

横跨上千公里距离，电话线

和现在已不再以公里计算的巨大电流

即使是抱恙者，和第一个离开的人， 

也像所有喝下了那羹汤的人，被沉默攫住，

它从打着呵欠的大嘴里 

钻进你的胸腔

因此

她买了速热汤

在它细小的涡旋里

允许自己抽泣片刻

她无法喝下那杯汤

在她那小公寓里甚至找不到一个勺子

或者摆放到位的桌子，任何一件

能以假乱真

模仿平素幸福的物件

她想起祖父的时代，或我的时代

又或你的时代，当我们人丁兴旺

房屋敞亮——有大有小，但很气派

甚至袖珍的——也范儿十足

母亲绣出一幅巨大、绵延不断的

儿孙绕膝图

无形的粗线让他们悬在半空

（殷晓媛 译）

The Song of Soup

In my grandfather’s day families were big

they lived in big houses – big or small, but big,

even tiny, but big.

They ate around big tables,

sturdy tables, with or without a wide tablecloth

but firmly set up on the ground.

With enormous spoons they ate their soup

in the big afternoons. Soup dished out with big ladles

from enormous tureens.

They gathered together afterwards to listen to the radio, 

       to drink coffee,

to smoke a cigarette

without big (or small) concerns about health or conscience.

Mother, sometimes embroidering, sometimes sewing,

would see children and grandchildren follow on

in a big, uninterrupted embroidery.

Father, the authority father, came home every evening at 6

riding in a big American car, or on a big horse

or with big style

walking

so as to spend the night together with his children and grandchildren

that time had not interrupted,

except when one was ill, or one went away,

leaving behind an enigma and a sensation of emptiness

an enormous sensation of emptiness – 

floating, with the smoke from the cigarettes,

above the after dinner talk.

At times, on these occasions, Father, the authority father,

stopped listening to the sounds on the radio and wanted to be

on his own, simply

not to be there, perhaps racing along some distant

road with a blonde similar to Mother when she was not

Mother, riding in a big American car or on a big horse or

walking with big style, not yet aged by time.

Mother, for her part, sometimes felt a knot in her throat during after dinner talk,

a knot that afterwards would float from her 

mouth astride a big sigh,

an enormous knot which became entangled in the steam

from her cup of coffee, in spirals

that absorbed her gaze and made her wish to be alone,

simply not to be there, listening to the crying

of the last daughters and the first grandchildren.

Such were the years, coffees and cigarettes appeared

and one day the big house was alone, the enormous

tureens empty, the spoons mute

with an enormous muteness that pursued us, the daughters and grandchildren,

along thousands of kilometres of road, of telephone

cable, of the big waves that now are not measured in kilometres.

Even the one who was ill, the first to leave,

like all who drank that soup, was touched by muteness,

that entered one’s chest through the big open mouth

of an enormous yawn.

So

she bought an instant ready soup

and within its small spiralling

allowed herself a little sob.

She could not drink the soup,

in her tiny apartment there was not a single spoon,

or a single well-grounded table, something

that could vaguely resemble happiness

and its routines.

So she thought of the times of her grandfather, or of mine,

or of yours, when families were big

and would live in big houses – big or small, but big,

even tiny, but big – 

and children and grandchildren would be seen to follow on 

in a big and uninterrupted embroidery

with enormous invisible threads holding them all in the air.

本作品由作者独家授权、殷晓媛首译，未经本公众号书面同意，原文/译文不得转载或以任何形式使用。作者及译者保留追究法律责任的权利。

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