安妮。塞克斯顿的几首诗歌翻译
安妮。塞克斯顿的几首诗歌翻译
和天使在一起
我已厌倦做一个女人
厌倦锅铲
厌倦我的嘴，我的牙齿
厌倦化妆品和丝绸
坐在我餐桌边安静的男人们
环绕在我递过去的碗中
碗里装满几串葡萄
苍蝇因香气盘旋不止
即便我父亲带着他的白骨进来
可我厌倦事物的性别
昨晚我做了个梦
我对它说…
“你是答案。
你会比我丈夫和父亲长寿”
在梦中，有个铁链制成的城市
约翰被推进去死在一个男人的衣服里
自然的天使变得模糊
没有两个被同样元素制成的物体，
一个长着一只鼻子，一个在它的手中长了个耳朵
一个咀嚼着一颗星记录它的轨道
每一个像一首诗服从他自己
形成上帝的功能，人的一部分
“你是答案”
我说着进去了，躺在
城市的大门
链条环绕着绑上我
我失去了一般的性别和最后的容貌
亚当在我左边
夏娃在我右边
全然持续在因缘世界中
我们一同晃着我们的胳膊
在太阳下骑奔
我不再是一个女人
不是一个东西或其它
我是耶路撒冷的女儿
国王将我送进他的寝室
我是黑的，我很美丽
我已被打开，变得赤裸
我没有胳膊或腿
我是所有皮肤像鱼的人
我不再是女人
胜于耶稣并非男人
Consorting with Angels
I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the pots,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.
There were still men who sat at my table,
circled around the bowl I offered up.
The bowl was filled with purple grapes
and the flies hovered in for the scent
and even my father came with his white bone.
But I was tired of the gender of things.
Last night I had a dream
and I said to it …
"You are the answer.
You will outlive my husband and my father."
In that dream there was a city made of chains
where Joan was put to death in man’s clothes
and the nature of the angels went unexplained,
no two made in the same species,
one with a nose, one with an ear in its hand,
one chewing a star and recording its orbit,
each one like a poem obeying itself,
performing God’s functions, a people apart.
"You are the answer,"
I said, and entered,
lying down on the gates of the city.
Then the chains were fastened around me
and I lost my common gender and my final aspect.
Adam was on the left of me
and Eve was on the right of me,
both thoroughly inconsistent with the world of reason.
We wove our arms together
and rode under the sun.
I was not a woman anymore,
not one thing or the other.
0 daughters of Jerusalem,
the king has brought me into his chamber.
I am black and I am beautiful.
I’ve been opened and undressed.
I have no arms or legs.
I’m all one skin like a fish.
I’m no more a woman
than Christ was a man.
Self in 1958
《1958年的自己》
什么是现实
我是个石膏木偶，
我摆出姿势，长着眼镜
剖开未登陆或夜晚在上面斗殴和嗤笑的人们，
睁开的眼睛，湛蓝，刚强，沉闷。
我靠近的是一个我吗，马其诺移民？
我长着头发，黑天使。
黑天使填充进梳子里，
尼龙腿，发光的胳膊
和一些广告衫
我住在有四张椅子的
木偶房里
一个假桌子，一个公寓屋顶
和一个大的前门
许多人来过这样一个小小的交叉口。
有一张铁床
（生活宽广，多有目标）
一个纸板地板，
闪现出某人城市的窗户
显得更小。
某人和我玩
把我安置在布满电的厨房，
这是罗姆保尔夫人说的？
某人假装成我——
我是被他们的鼻子固定成的有墙壁的东西
或者推我上他们那垂直的床
他们认为我是我！
他们的温暖？他们的温暖不属于某种友谊
他们为他们的杜松子酒杯和
不新鲜的面包试探我的嘴
什么是现实？
对这个人造木偶说
谁该微笑谁该转换齿轮
弹到门，打开一个有益的规则
没有毁灭和恐惧的规则？
但我会哭，
钻进曾是我母亲的墙
是否我还记得如何
是否我还有眼泪
Self in 1958
What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
upon some shellacked and grinning person,
eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately an I. Magnin transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
black angel-stuffing to comb,
nylon legs, luminous arms
and some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’s house
with four chairs,
a counterfeit table, a flat roof
and a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
a cardboard floor,
windows that flash open on someone’s city,
and little more.
Someone plays with me,
plants me in the all-electric kitchen,
Is this what Mrs. Rombauer said?
Someone pretends with me –
I am walled in solid by their noise –
or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
and their stale bread.
What is reality
to this synthetic doll
who should smile, who should shift gears,
should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
and have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
rooted into the wall that
was once my mother,
if I could remember how
and if I had the tears.
她的种类
我出去了，一个猎寻魔性的，
夜里的勇敢者。我打了个趔趄
在画房，光线接着是光线：
孤独的东西，十二根手指，意识之外。
一个女人喜欢的不是一个女人，相当程度
我拥有了她的种类。
我在墙上发现温暖的洞穴，
用木片填充，雕刻，搁置
壁橱，丝绸，无数商品，
混合着为女人和爱做恶剧小孩的晚餐
抱怨。重新安排
女人像是误会。
我是她的种类。
我骑上你的大车，
甩着我的裸露的胳膊驾驶
在路过的乡村，
明白上一个明朗的路线，幸存者所处的地方，
你的焰火仍旧舔我的腿
我的肋骨在你的车轮的风中破裂
一个女人喜欢那样不无羞愧地死去
我曾是她的种类
Her Kind
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves;
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.