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哈瓦那的学术谈话
（豆瓣上先贴了：http://www.douban.com/group/topic/23451318/）
I
清晨的金丝雀，午后的
管弦乐队，夜晚的气球。那
是种差异，至少不同于夜莺，
耶和华和大海虫。空气
不那么自然而大地也不那么
近。
但是荒野的食物
在大都市中养活不了我们。
II
生活是公园里的一座旧赌场。
天鹅的喙平摊在地面。
一阵最凄凉的寒风袭向红衣法蒂玛
而一阵宏大的颓废像寒冷般落定。
III
天鹅……在天鹅的喙平展地落
到地面之前，在用假意的致敬写成的
编年史蒙骗了这么多书籍之前，
它们守护了湖泊的空白水域
和岛上的树冠，这些曾被指定由
那座赌场继承。早在雨水泼进它的
木板窗，落叶塞满它凝结的喷泉
之前，它们就排列好了
那神话般的花生可汗之黄昏。
一个个世纪，属于将要到来的卓越，
从诺言中升起并变成
在林间飘荡的长号的真相。
思想的
劳作召唤来了看起来古怪
听起来叮叮响的和平。低沉的
鼓声能击打，但不能警醒民众。
天鹅慵懒的队列
整饬了大地；一场为花生之民
演出的花生滑稽模仿。
而更加沉静的神话
从它完美的丰饶中沉思，
像六月一样强健，比最成熟的夏季里
那几个星期更加硕果累累，一直迟疑着
要去再次触碰最火热的底部，再次
敲击最悠长的回响，给最明晰的女人
覆盖上合适的野草，让最粗壮的男人
骑上最粗张的牡马，
这急迫、有力、更加沉静的神话
像马戏团一样经过。
政客判定
想象为致命的罪恶。
祖母和她的一篮梨子
一定是我们纲领的症结。
那就足够是世界了，如果再把她的
女儿们包括进人们为之建起高塔的
如蜜桃象牙般的少女，就更其如此。市民的
心胸，而非星辰环绕的精巧苍穹，
一定是创造奇迹之地，除非
奇异之物都是骗局。世界不是
无眠者的小摆设，也不是一个
应该把普世精髓传入古巴的
词语。快些记下这些乳汁似的东西。
它们养育了朱庇特们。它们无心的半流食
将会像空虚的夜里的甜蜜一样滴落，
当过于庞大的狂想被宣布无效弃置一旁
而嗜酒的祈祷者激起新的汗水：于是，于是：
生活是林间的一座旧赌场。
IV
此处诗人的功能是否仅仅是声音，
比辞藻最华丽的预言更精妙，
用来填充耳朵？它让他做出
无尽的重复并熔铸
乌木的琴拨，翠鸟的琴拨。
它用针对古板之人的良好逻辑压住他。
作为自然的一部分他也是我们的一部分。
他的珍宝也是我们的：愿它们恰如其分
并让我们与自我和解，在那些
真正的和解，黑暗、和平的词语，
以及属于它们的跌落的更机敏的和谐之中。
关闭酒吧。罩上枝形吊灯。
月光不是黄色而是一种让
永远忠实的城镇沉默的白色。
这是一个多么苍白多么入迷的夜晚，
如此充满大海的呼吸……
所有这一切比它最古老的颂歌更加古老，
并不比明天的面包更有意义。
但是让诗人在他的阳台上
言说而沉睡者在梦乡中移动、
唤醒并凝望他们地板上的月光。
这也许是赐福祈祷、陵寝
和墓志铭。然而，它也许是
一支月亮仅仅用清晰得奢侈的例证
就定义了的咒语。
同样，那古老的赌场也许会
在消亡了的天鹅的宏大颓废之中定义
一支属于我们的自我的无尽咒语。
原文：
ACADEMIC DISCOURSE AT HAVANA
[from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens (1954), Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.: IDEAS OF ORDER. p 142-145]
I
Canaries in the morning, orchestras
In the afternoon, balloons at night. That is
A difference, at least, from nightingales,
Jehovah and the great sea-worm. The air
Is not so elemental nor the earth
So near.
But the sustenance of the wilderness
Does not sustain us in the metropoles.
II
Life is an old casino in a park.
The bills of the swans are flat upon the ground.
A most desolate wind has chilled Rouge-Fatima
And a grand decadence settles down like cold.
III
The swans ... Before the bills of the swans fell flat
Upon the ground, and before the chronicle
Of affected homage foxed so many books,
They warded the blank waters of the lakes
And island canopies which were entailed
To that casino. Long before the rain
Swept through its boarded windows and the leaves
Filled its encrusted fountains, they arrayed
The twilights of the mythy goober khan.
The centuries of excellence to be
Rose out of promise and became the sooth
Of trombones floating in the trees.
The toil
Of thought evoked a peace eccentric to
The eye and tinkling to the ear. Gruff drums
Could beat, yet not alarm the populace.
The indolent progressions of the swans
Made earth come right; a peanut parody
For peanut people.
And serener myth
Conceiving from its perfect plenitude,
Lusty as June, more fruitful than the weeks
Of ripest summer, always lingering
To touch again the hottest bloom, to strike
Once more the longest resonance, to cap
The clearest woman with apt weed, to mount
The thickest man on thickest stallion-back,
This urgent, competent, serener myth
Passed like a circus.
Politic man ordained
Imagination as the fateful sin.
Grandmother and her basketful of pears
Must be the crux for our compendia.
That's world enough, and more, if one includes
Her daughters to the peached and ivory wench
For whom the towers are built. The burgher's breast,
And not a delicate ether star-impaled,
Must be the place for prodigy, unless
Prodigious things are tricks. The world is not
The bauble of the sleepless nor a word
That should import a universal pith
To Cuba. Jot these milky matters down.
They nourish Jupiters. Their casual pap
Will drop like sweetness in the empty nights
When too great rhapsody is left annulled
And liquorish prayer provokes new sweats: so, so:
Life is an old casino in a wood.
IV
Is the function of the poet here mere sound,
Subtler than the ornatest prophecy,
To stuff the ear? It causes him to make
His infinite repetition and alloys
Of pick of ebon, pick of halcyon.
It weights him with nice logic for the prim.
As part of nature he is part of us.
His rarities are ours: may they be fit
And reconcile us to our selves in those
True reconcilings, dark, pacific words,
And the adroiter harmonies of their fall.
Close the cantina. Hood the chandelier.
The moonlight is not yellow but a white
That silences the ever-faithful town.
How pale and how possessed a night it is,
How full of exhalations of the sea ...
All this is older than its oldest hymn,
Has no more meaning than tomorrow's bread.
But let the poet on his balcony
Speak and the sleepers in their sleep shall move,
Waken, and watch the moonlight on their floors.
This may be benediction, sepulcher,
And epitaph. It may, however, be
An incantation that the moon defines
By mere example opulently clear.
And the old casino likewise may define
An infinite incantation of our selves
In the grand decadence of the perished swans. |
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发表于 2011-11-12 10:33:18
发表于 2011-11-12 10:45:36
