马克·斯特兰德

本栏主持：远 行

早，中，晚

一

这清晨的绿色，这形成的天气，我的眉毛尚未也永远不会，被这神明的微风梳理。

那么的清晰，至少对于我。然而昨天我觉察有什么在漂浮，进出于云雾，像只鸟，也像个人，黑色套装，手臂伸展。

我想这个迹象可能表明，我一直是错的。

然后，我醒来，未来的影子投到我的床上，在外面液体废墟的海上，也在水边大厦的躯壳上。

一个急速的阴霾吹入，吹倒了树木，刮平了原野。我躺在床上，希望它会过去。这可能就是一直等待的时机。

二

不管星图告诉过我们观察什么，或地图说我们会找到什么，我们毫无准备地迎接我们的发现。

我们跋涉，远离无影的中午的深处，同时一阵袭来的风睡上枝杈，而枯叶转为街上的浮尘。

城市之光，长长的、夏天的闲暇，不再属于我们；为我们而来的，至关重要的，很久以后，将存于坟墓，像它们现在一样伟大，不曾接近终点，也没有远离我们的起点。

三

夜晚的粉红与紫色退去，奇异的热度灼烧着我们的皮肤，直到我们入睡，漂移到我们希望的永远遥不可及的深处——那里没有炫耀，在那里发生的一切似乎都是为了永存。

我们流汗，恳求按时释放到即将来临的一天，思想里唯恐不会到达，而被迫遗忘、漂移于午夜的海面上。每一千年，望见一艘船舶，或一只天鹅，或一个沉溺的泳者，他的想象力比他的命运更持久，他游泳是为了证明，不只针对某人，他的生活是多么的虚伪。

我们的杰作是个人生活——给朱尔斯

一

是不是有些事物顺水而下，远离于我们——一些羞怯的事件；一些落在深处的、隐秘的光；尚不希望被发现的、悲伤的源泉？

我们为何要在乎？难道不希望将世界这表皮粗糙的瓷具铸造成彩虹，并以此填充空茫？为何还要寻求？

二

现在，当畏惧与悲痛的拥戴者，推动他们湿淋淋的驳船上下海滩，让我们吃我们的比目鱼，啜饮这美丽、白色的波那酒。

诚然，光线是人造的，我们穿着也不考究。那又怎样，我们喜欢这里。我们喜欢临近田野上的公牛，我们喜欢风声在草地上吹过。你低声说话的样子，我们深夜的外出……为何要为其他而活？我们的杰作，是个人生活。

三

站在逡巡天鹅与无瑕恒星之间的码头，呼吸着夜晚的空气。当快乐的时刻深入, 乐趣的消失也似乎逐渐开始，它的尘染的美丽，只能是原本面目的美丽。维持它长一点的时间, 当它离去的时候，我相信我们自己的顺利通道, 穿越等级的间隔，危机流向普通，使我们每次更困倦一些, 远离经验一些，在过去，这把握、俘获了我们许多时辰。

沿着蜿蜒的公路驾驶回到家中，大海撞击着悬崖，桌子上一杯威士忌，打开着的书与疑问，全天的回报等候在熟睡的门槛……

2010.1.25 译

Morning, Noon, and Night

by Mark Strand

I

And the morning green, and the buildup weather, and my brows

Have no been brushed, and never will be,by the breezes of divinity.

That much is clear, at least to me, but yesterday I noticed

Something floating in and out of clouds,something like a bird,

But also like a man, black-suited, with his arm outspread.

And I thought this could be a sign that I’ve been wrong. Then I woke,

And on my bed the shadow of the future fell, and on the liquid ruins

Of the sea outside, and on the shells of buildings at the water’s edge.

A rapid overcast blew in, bending trees and fl attening fi elds. I stayed in bed,

Hoping it would pass. What might have been still waited for its chance.

II

Whatever the star charts told us to watch for or the maps

Said we would find, nothing prepared us for what we discovered.

We toiled away in the shadowless depths of noon,

While an alien wind slept in the branches,and dead leaves

Turned to dust in the streets. Cities of light,long summers

Of leisure, were not to be ours; for to come as we had, long after

It mattered, to live among tombs, great as they are,

Was to be no nearer the end, no farther from where we began.

III

These nights of pinks and purples vanishing, of freakish heat

That stokes our skin until we fall asleep and stray to places

We hoped would always be beyond our reach—the deeps

Where nothing flourishes, where everything that happens seems

To be for keeps. We sweat, and plead to be released

Into the coming day on time, and panic at the thought

Of never getting there and being forced to drift forgotten

Of a midnight sea where every thousand years a ship is sighted, or a swan,

Or a drowned swimmer whose imagination has outlived his fate, and who swims

To prove, to no one in particular, how false his life had been.

Our Masterpieces Is the Private Life

by Mark Strand

For Jules

I

Is there something down by the water keeping itself from us,

Some shy event, some secret of the light that falls upon the deep,

Some source of sorrow that does not wish to be discovered yet?

Why should we care? Doesn’t desire cast its

rainbows over the coarse porcelain

Of the world’s skin and with its measures fi ll the

air? Why look for more?

II

And now, while the advocates of awfulness and sorrow

Push their dripping barge up and down the beach, let’s eat

Our brill, and sip this beautiful white Beaune.

True, the light is artif i cial, and we are not well-dressed.

So what. We like it here. We like the bullocks in the fi eld next door,

We like the sound of wind passing over grass. The way you speak,

In that low voice, our late night disclosures……why live

For anything else? Our masterpiece is the private life.

III

Standing on the quay between the Roving Swan and the Star Immaculate,

Breathing the night air as the moment of pleasure taken

In pleasure vanishing seems to grow, its self-soiling

Beauty, which can only be what it was,sustaining itself

A little longer in its going, I think of our own smooth passage

Through the graded partitions, the crises that bleed

Into the ordinary, leaving us a little more tired each time,

A little more distant from the experiences,which, in the old days,

Held us captive for hours. The drive along the winding road

Back to the house, the sea pounding against the cliffs,

The glass of whiskey on the table, the open book, the questions,

All the day’s rewards waiting at the doors of sleep……