玛丽·奥利弗
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黑水塘
雨下了一整夜
黑水塘沸腾的水平静下来。
我掬了一捧。慢慢
饮下。它的味道
像石头，叶子，火。它把寒冷
灌进我体内，惊醒了骨头。我听见他们
在我身体深处，窃窃私语
哦，这转瞬即逝的美妙之物
究竟是什么？
At Blackwater Pond
by Mary Oliver
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?
天鹅
你是否也看见它，整夜，漂浮在黑暗的河上？
你是否看见它在早晨，飞入银亮的空气——
一束白色的花，
丝绸与亚麻的一阵完美抖动，当它
将头藏进翅膀中；一道雪堤，一片开满百合的坡岸，
它黑色的喙咬紧了空气？
你是否听见它，笛声和哨音
一种尖锐而深沉的音乐——像雨拍打着树——像一片瀑布
冲下黑色的岩石？
你是否看见它，最后，就在云层下——
滑过天空的一个白十字架，它的脚
像黑色的叶子，它的翅膀像河面上伸展的光？
在你心里，是否感受到它如何化归万物？
而你最终领会了，美是为了什么？
并改变了你的生活？
The Swan
by Mary Oliver
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
鱼
我捉住的
第一条鱼，
不愿安静地
躺在提桶中，
而是拼命拍打着，大口喘气，
显得
惊慌失措，
在缓慢倾泻的
彩虹中，
它死了。后来
我剖开它的身体，将肉
和骨头分开，
吃掉了它。现在，海
在我身体里：我是鱼，鱼
在我里面闪闪发光；我们
正在上升，紧紧缠绕着，将要
掉回海中。摆脱痛苦，
和痛苦，和更多的痛苦，
我们喂养这个狂热的阴谋，我们被这个秘密
所滋养。
The Fish
by Mary Oliver
The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.
刀
当红尾鸟
巨大的翅膀拍打水面，
然后，飞上嶙峋的
灰色岩壁，
是什么
正
穿透我的心，
如同最薄的刀片。
它无关于
鸟，而是关于
石头
沉默，并促使
某种事物
一闪而过的方式。
有时
当我这样安静地坐着，
我生命的全部梦想
和全部非凡的时刻，
似乎要离开，
从我身上溜出去。
于是，我想象，我将不再移动。
此时，
鹰至少已飞了
五英里，
无论谁偶然抬头去看
都会头昏眼花。
我感到晕眩。但那
不是刀。
它是陡峭、盲目而厚实的
石头墙，
不含一点希望，
或者一个未满足的欲望，
海绵般吸收并反射着
太阳之火，
它如此明亮，
仿佛已存在了几个世纪。
Knife
by Mary Oliver
Something
just now
moved through my heart
like the thinnest of blades
as that red-tail pumped
once with its great wings
and flew above the gray, cracked
rock wall.
It wasn"t
about the bird, it was
something about the way
stone stays
mute and put, whatever
goes flashing by.
Sometimes,
when I sit like this, quiet,
all the dreams of my blood
and all outrageous divisions of time
seem ready to leave,
to slide out of me.
Then, I imagine, I would never move.
By now
the hawk has flown five miles
at least,
dazzling whoever else has happened
to look up.
I was dazzled. But that
wasn"t the knife.
It was the sheer, dense wall
of blind stone
without a pinch of hope
or a single unfulfilled desire
sponging up and reflecting,
so brilliantly,
as it has for centuries,
the sun"s fire.
野鹅
你不必善良。
不必跪行
一百英里，穿过荒凉的忏悔。
你只要让你温柔的身体
爱它所爱的。
告诉我，你的绝望，而我将告诉你我的。
同时世界继续。
同时太阳和雨清澈的鹅卵石
正在穿越风景，
越过大草原，幽深的树林，
山脉和河流。
同时野鹅，在洁净蔚蓝的高空，
正再次飞回家乡。
无论你是谁，无论多么孤独，
世界为你提供了想象，
召唤你，像野鹅那样，严厉并充满激情——
反复宣告
你在万物中的位置。
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
桌上的蜂蜜
它用柔软无形的
花的精魂，填满你，它滴成
一根头发似的细线，你跟随它
从蜂蜜罐到桌子
到门外，到地上，
它不断变稠，
变深，变宽，经过
松树枝，潮湿的大石头，
山猫和熊的爪印，进入了
森林深处，你
匆匆放倒一些树，剥掉树皮，
你漂浮着，并吞下淌着蜂蜜的蜂巢，
树屑，被压碎的蜜蜂……一种味道
由失去的一切所构成，在其中，失去的一切又被找回。
Honey At The Table
by Mary Oliver
It fills you with the soft
essence of vanished flowers, it becomes
a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow
from the honey pot over the table
and out the door and over the ground,
and all the while it thickens,
grows deeper and wilder, edged
with pine boughs and wet boulders,
pawprints of bobcat and bear, until
deep in the forest you
shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark,
you float into and swallow the dripping combs,
bits of the tree, crushed bees - - - a taste
composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found.
在森林中沉睡
我想大地记得我，
她那么温柔地接纳我，
整理好她的黑裙子，她的口袋中
装满青苔和种子。
我沉沉睡去，就像河床上的一块石头，
在我和星星的白色火焰之间，空无一物
只有我的思想，它们像飞蛾一样
轻轻漂浮在完美之树的枝叶间。
整夜，我听见这个小王国
在我周围呼吸，昆虫，
和鸟儿们，在黑暗中工作。
整夜，我沉浮起落，如同在水中，
挣扎于一种明亮的光。直到清晨，
我在一些更好的事物中
至少消失了十二次。
Sleeping In The Forest
by Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
开花
四月
池塘像黑色的花
开放了，
月亮
游在每一朵花中；
处处
都着了火：青蛙叫喊着
它们的欲望，
它们的满足。我们
知道：时间
向我们砸来，像一把
铁锄头，死亡
是一种瘫软状态。我们
渴望：死亡之前的
欢乐，湿地的
夜晚——其他的一切
都能等，惟有
发自肉体的
冲动
不能等。我们
知道：我们浓于
血——我们大于
我们的饥饿，而
我们属于
月亮，当池塘
开放，当火
在我们之间燃烧，我们
深深梦想
赶紧
进入黑色的花瓣
进入火，
进入时间粉碎的夜晚
进入另一个人的身体。
Blossom
by Mary Oliver
In April
the ponds open
like black blossoms,
the moon
swims in every one;
there’s fire
everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
their satisfaction. What
we know: that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: joy
before death, nights
in the swale - everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know: we are more
than blood - we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered
into the body of another.
八月
当黑莓饱满地
挂在林中，挂在不属于任何人的
莓枝上，我整天
晃悠在高高的
枝条下，什么也不
想，只是伸出
我被划破的胳膊，把夏日的黑蜜
塞进
嘴中；整天，我的身体
顺其自然。在流过的
幽暗溪水中，有我
生命的厚爪，张扬在
黑色的钟型浆果和枝叶间；还有
这欢乐的语言。
August
by Mary Oliver
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
鼹鼠
在草叶下，在
第一块
松动的泥土下
它们出现了——像
甲虫那样迅速，像
蝙蝠那样盲目，像
野兔那样害羞，但是
比所有这些生物更少被看见——
它们穿行在
苹果树
苍白的根须间，
在石块，昆虫的
洞穴，和黑色草地
气味浓烈的鳞茎间，
在最丰富可口的
食物：
春天的花之间。
在一片又一片田野中，
你能看见他们
漫长而孤独的
踪迹，然后
雨抹去了
这一点微弱的痕迹——
如此刺激，
如此舒适，
因此愿意延续下去，
一代又一代，
它们并不成就什么，
除了简单的物质生活，
它们的生和死，
它们用顽固的鼻口
对着整片泥土
推挤，
寻找它们的
美味。
Moles
by Mary Oliver
Under the leaves, under
the first loose
levels of earth
they"re there -- quick
as beetles, blind
as bats, shy
as hares but seen
less than these --
traveling
among the pale girders
of appleroot,
rockshelf, nests
of insects and black
pastures of bulbs
peppery and packed full
of the sweetest food:
spring flowers.
Field after field
you can see the traceries
of their long
lonely walks, then
the rains blur
even this frail hint of them --
so excitable,
so plush,
so willing to continue
generation after generation
accomplishing nothing
but their brief physical lives
as they live and die,
pushing and shoving
with their stubborn muzzles against
the whole earth,
finding it
delicious.
秋歌
又一年将尽，处处留下了
气味浓郁的残余：藤蔓，落叶，
吃剩的果实在阴影中
腐烂，消融，
撤离这个夏天的
孤岛，这个此刻，无处可寻。
除了腐烂，在脚下，
在不可知的
黑暗神秘的地下城堡中——根和带壳的种子
和水的渗透。当时间的轮盘
艰难地转动，我试图记住
这些，譬如，当秋天
终于闪现，喧闹着，像我们那样渴望
停驻——明亮的景物变换更替，在这转瞬即逝的
草场中，万物如何
进入永恒。
Fall Song
by Mary Oliver
Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back
from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere
except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle
of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This
I try to remember when time"s measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.
百合
一夜又一夜
黑暗
笼罩了百合的
脸，
轻轻地
关闭了
它的五面墙，
它的
花蜜袋，
以及它的芬芳，
它心满意足地
站在
花园里，
并不安静地睡去，
而是
用百合的语言，
说着一些
我们无法听见的私语，
尤其是
一丝风也没有时，
它的唇
守口如瓶，
它的语调
那么隐秘——
或者，它
什么也没说
只是站在那儿，
带着植物
和圣人似的
耐心，
直到整个地球转了一圈，
银色的月亮
变成金色的太阳——
百合仿佛对此了然于心，
它自己，难道不正是
最完美的祈祷？
The Lily
by Mary Oliver
Night after night
darkness
enters the face
of the lily
which, lightly,
closes its five walls
around itself,
and its purse
of honey,
and its fragrance,
and is content
to stand there
in the garden,
not quite sleeping,
and, maybe,
saying in lily language
some small words
we can’t hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere,
its lips
are so secret,
its tongue
is so hidden –
or, maybe,
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience
of vegetables
and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon
becomes the golden sun –
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isn’t it,
the perfect prayer?
停歇在凌霄花上的蜂雀
谁不爱
玫瑰，谁
不爱黑暗池塘中
小天鹅一般
漂浮的
睡莲，
以及，热烈开放的
凌霄花呢。
蜂雀飞来，
像一个小小的绿色天使，
将棕黑的舌头
浸泡在幸福中——
谁不希望
和它小马达似的心灵一起
轻快地跳动
像舒伯特那样
歌唱
眼睛
四处观望，像阿尔勒的梵高那样
心醉神迷？
看！几乎整个世界
都在等待
或回忆——
几乎整个世界都处于
我们不在其中的时刻，
我们尚未出生，或已死去——
一束缓慢燃烧的火
与我们所有聋哑、疯狂而盲目的兄妹们
一起呆在地底
他们
甚至不再记得
自己的幸福——
看！我们将
如同苍白、冰凉的
石头，永远
存在。
Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
by Mary Oliver
Who doesn’t love
roses, and who
doesn’t love the lilies
of the black ponds
floating like flocks
of tiny swans,
and of course, the flaming
trumpet vine
where the hummingbird comes
like a small green angel, to soak
his dark tongue
in happiness -
and who doesn’t want
to live with the brisk
motor of his heart
singing
like a Schubert
and his eyes
working and working like those days of rapture,
by Van Gogh in Arles?
Look! for most of the world
is waiting
or remembering -
most of the world is time
when we’re not here,
not born yet, or died -
a slow fire
under the earth with all
our dumb wild blind cousins
who also
can’t even remember anymore
their own happiness -
Look! and then we will be
like the pale cool
stones, that last almost
forever.
克拉普的池塘
离树林三英里，
克拉普的池塘躺在橡树和松树间，
岸边铺满灰色的石头。
在深冬的旷野上，
一只野鸡
抬起黄色的腿
猛然张开翅膀，炫耀着
它青铜色的羽毛；
一只母鹿，激荡起
潮湿的雾气，迅速跳过
灌木丛，飞奔而去。
*
傍晚：下起了雨。
雨水从黑色的云层倾泻而下，
敲打着屋顶。残留的
橡实，掉落在门廊，四处飞溅；我向火中
扔了一根，两根，然后
更多的木头。
*
万物有时
合拢，一把有图画的扇子，风景和时间
同时流动，直到距离感——
比如说，克拉普的池塘和我之间的距离——
彻底消失，界限像一只翅膀的羽毛
全部滑落下来，万物
彼此融合。
*
深夜，半睡半醒
躺在毛毯下，我留神倾听
母鹿，浑身挂满雨珠，
穿过松树潮湿的枝条，将
长长的脖子伸下池塘去饮水，
*
在三里
之外。
Clapp"s Pond
by Mary Oliver
Three miles through the woods
Clapp"s Pond sprawls stone gray
among oaks and pines,
the late winter fields
where a pheasant blazes up
lifting his yellow legs
under bronze feathers, opening
bronze wings;
and one doe, dimpling the ground as she touches
its dampness sharply, flares
out of the brush and gallops away.
*
By evening: rain.
It pours down from the black clouds,
lashes over the roof. The last
acorns spray over the porch; I toss
one, then two more
logs on the fire.
*
How sometimes everything
closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments
flowing together until the sense of distance - - -
say, between Clapp"s Pond and me - - -
vanishes, edges slide together
like the feathers of a wing, everything
touches everything.
*
Later, lying half-asleep under
the blankets, I watch
while the doe, glittering with rain, steps
under the wet slabs of the pines, stretches
her long neck down to drink
*
from the pond
three miles away.
叶子姑妈
因为需要，我创造了她——
这个伟大的姑妈像山胡桃树一样黑
名叫亮叶子，或者浮云
或者夜美人。
我在叶子中呼喊，亲爱的姑妈，
她就会站起来，像池塘中一根古旧的木头，
用一种只有我们俩才懂的语言，低声
吩咐我跟随，
我们将去旅行
像快乐的鸟儿一样
离开灰尘扑扑的小镇，一旦进入树林
她就把我们俩变成某种更敏捷的动物——
两只黑脚狐狸，
两条绿丝带似的蛇，
两条闪光的鱼——我们将整天旅行。
夜晚来临时，她离开我，让我回到自己的家
和家人呆在一起，
他们心地善良，却像木头一样顽固
从不流浪。而她，
是羽毛和白桦树皮缠绕成的一团
像雨一样盘旋着，又
飘回来
将黎明的光
播撒在飞舞的蛾翅上，
或者，像一只负鼠，懒散地呆在谷仓；
或者，悬挂在凝练的月光下，
像一枚耀眼的大奖章，
这个深刻的梦想，这个我需要的朋友，
这个老妇人，是用叶子做成的。
Aunt Leaf
by Mary Oliver
Needing one, I invented her -
the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.
Dear aunt, I"d call into the leaves,
and she"d rise up, like an old log in a pool,
and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
the word that meant follow,
and we"d travel
cheerful as birds
out of the dusty town and into the trees
where she would change us both into something quicker -
two foxes with black feet,
two snakes green as ribbons,
two shimmering fish - and all day we"d travel.
At day"s end she"d leave me back at my own door
with the rest of my family,
who were kind, but solid as wood
and rarely wandered. While she,
old twist of feathers and birch bark,
would walk in circles wide as rain and then
float back
scattering the rags of twilight
on fluttering moth wings;
or she"d slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;
or she"d hang in the milky moonlight
burning like a medallion,
this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
this old woman made out of leaves.
幸福
下午，我跟踪
母熊；她正在寻找
隐秘的甜箱子——
蜂蜜，被蜜蜂储藏在
柔软的树洞中。
这黑色阴郁的庞然大物，爬上
一棵棵树，慢吞吞地
穿过树林。终于
她找到了！树心深处的
蜂房，被掏出来
在拥挤的蜜蜂堆中，她用嘴啃，
用舌头舔，用黑色的爪子
挖——蜂蜜和蜂巢，最后
也许是饱了，也许是困了，
有些醉了，腻了
她放下毛茸茸的胳膊，
哼哼地摇晃起来。
我看见她松开枝条，
我看见她将涂满蜜蜂的嘴
和粗大的胳膊，伸进叶子，
仿佛要飞起来——
一只巨大的蜜蜂
拥有蜜和翅膀——
飞进草地，飞进美丽的
金银花、玫瑰和三叶草丛中——
漂浮并沉睡于透明的网中，
从一朵花飞到另一朵花
在一个接一个明亮的日子。
Happiness
by Mary Oliver
In the afternoon I watched
the she-bear; she was looking
for the secret bin of sweetness -
honey, that the bees store
in the trees’ soft caves.
Black block of gloom, she climbed down
tree after tree and shuffled on
through the woods. And then
she found it! The honey-house deep
as heartwood, and dipped into it
among the swarming bees - honey and comb
she lipped and tongued and scooped out
in her black nails, until
maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe
a little drunk, and sticky
down the rugs of her arms,
and began to hum and sway.
I saw her let go of the branches,
I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle
into the leaves, and her thick arms,
as though she would fly -
an enormous bee
all sweetness and wings -
down into the meadows, the perfections
of honeysuckle and roses and clover -
to float and sleep in the sheer nets
swaying from flower to flower
day after shining day.
一
蚊子如此渺小，
毁灭它无需费一点力气。
每一片叶子，以及匆匆来去的黑蚂蚁，
同样如此。
这么多生命，这么多命运！
每天早晨，我轻轻走着，眼睛扫视
低处的池塘和松树林。
在鼻涕虫爬向它的盛宴之前，
在松针簌簌地落下之前，
在迅疾而有益的雨中，
即使只有短短数小时，蘑菇，也会繁殖
许多，许多，许多
组成一个世界！
于是我想起那个古老的观念：独特的
才是永恒的。
一只杯子，万物在其中旋转着
变回大海和天空的颜色。
想象它！
必定是一只明亮的杯子！
那一刻
没有风掠过你的肩膀，
你凝视着它，
你在它里面，
你自己亲切的脸，你自己的眼睛。
而风，不顾及你，只是掠过。
轻抚着蚂蚁，蚊子，叶子，
以及你所知道的其他一切！
大海多么蓝，天空多么蓝，
万物多么蓝，多么微小，万物皆可以救赎，包括你，
包括你的眼睛，包括你的想象。
One
by Mary Oliver
The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
So many lives, so many fortunes!
Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
before the slug creeps to the feast,
before the pine needles hustle down
under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.
How many, how many, how many
make up a world!
And then I think of that old idea: the singular
and the eternal.
One cup, in which everything is swirled
back to the color of the sea and sky.
Imagine it!
A shining cup, surely!
In the moment in which there is no wind
over your shoulder,
you stare down into it,
and there you are,
your own darling face, your own eyes.
And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
and you know what else!
How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
even your eyes, even your imagination.
家信
她给我寄来蓝松鸦，霜，
星星，以及此刻正升起在贫瘠山巅的
秋月的消息。
她轻描淡写地提及寒冷，痛苦，
并罗列出已经丧失的东西。
读到这里，我的生活显得艰难而缓慢，
我读到生机勃勃的瓜
堆在门边，篮子里装满
茴香，迷迭香和莳萝，
而所有无法采集，或隐藏在叶子中的
那些，她只能任其变黑并落下。
读到这里，我的生活显得艰难而陌生，
我读到她的兴奋，每当
星星升起，霜降下来，蓝松鸦唱起歌。
荒芜的岁月没有改变
她聪明而热情的心；
她知道人们总是
计划自己的生活，却难以实现。
如果她哭泣，她不会告诉我。
我抚摸着她的名字；
我叠好信，站起来，
倾倒信封，从里面飘出了
玻璃苣，忍冬，芸香的碎片。
A Letter from Home
by Mary Oliver
She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.
I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.
沉迷
整个夏天
我漫步于田野，
在每个清晨，
每一场雨中，
田野变得深邃
充满种子和花，
以及闪烁不定的
耀眼的光环——
如同苍白的火焰，它们升起
又熄灭，
丰盈而美——
这就是田野的全部——
而我
至少有一两次，
感到自己飞起来了，
我的鞋子
突然碰到种子的顶端，
丝绸一般柔滑的蓝色空气——
听，
它热情地
召唤我，
使我迷茫，
剥去我的外壳
再为我穿上欢乐的衣裳——
我不再需要什么，
只是沉迷于这闪亮的一刻，
沉迷于这不合逻辑的失重——
它是否是你所爱之物的
完美形式——
属于一首古老的德国歌曲——
或者某个人——
或者就是地球自身的黑色丝线，
沉重，带电。
在可爱心智的边缘，展开
如此狂野而盲目的翅膀。
The Rapture
by Mary Oliver
All summer
I wandered the fields
that were thickening
every morning,
every rainfall,
with weeds and blossoms,
with the long loops
of the shimmering, and the extravagant-
pale as flames they rose
and fell back,
replete and beautiful-
that was all there was-
and I too
once or twice, at least,
felt myself rising,
my boots
touching suddenly the tops of the weeds,
the blue and silky air-
listen,
passion did it,
called me forth,
addled me,
stripped me clean
then covered me with the cloth of happiness-
I think there is no other prize,
only rapture the gleaming,
rapture the illogical the weightless-
whether it be for the perfect shapeliness
of something you love-
like an old German song-
or of someone-
or the dark floss of the earth itself,
heavy and electric.
At the edge of sweet sanity open
such wild, blind wings.
在冬天的边缘
在冬天的边缘，看见小鸟，此刻
携带着半真半幻的记忆蜂拥而回，
回到以仁慈著称的花园。
绿色的地球一片荒凉；藤蔓彼此纠结着，
悬挂在树林沉默的入口。
带着半块面包，我就是面包屑王子；
当雪开始飘落，鸟云集着歌唱，
像孩子们为他们的陛下走到户外！
但我所钟爱的，是倔强的灰鹰，
它独自停歇在结满冰霜的藤上；
我所梦想的是隐忍的鹿，
它的腿像芦苇一样，迎风而立；——
它们是这个世界的拯救者：宁愿长得清瘦，
以此作为超越贫困的起点。
On Winter"s Margin
by Mary Oliver
On winter’s margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs;
By snow’s down, the birds amassed will sing
Like children for their sire to walk abroad!
But what I love, is the gray stubborn hawk
Who floats alone beyond the frozen vines;
And what I dream of are the patient deer
Who stand on legs like reeds and drink that wind; -
They are what saves the world: who choose to grow
Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.
当死亡来临
当死亡来临
如秋天饥饿的熊；
当死亡来临，掏出钱包中所有崭新的钱币
来买我，再啪地合上钱包；
当死亡来临
如麻疹
当死亡来临
如肩胛骨间的一座冰山，
我想穿过门，充满好奇，想知道：
它会是什么样子，那黑暗的小屋？
因而，我视一切
如同兄弟姐妹，
我视时间只是一个念头，
我想到永恒是另一种可能性，
我将每一个生命看作一朵花，和野菊花一样
平常，又独特，
而每个名字是唇中舒缓的音乐，
就像所有的音乐，趋向沉默，
而每一个身体是一头勇敢的狮子，对于地球而言
珍贵无比。
当一切结束，我将说终此一生
我是惊奇的新娘。
我是新郎，怀抱着世界。
当一切结束，我不想知道
我是否度过了特别而真实的一生。
我不愿发现自己叹息并惊恐，
或者充满争辩。
我不愿只在世上走一遭就死去。
When Death Comes
by Mary Oliver
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it"s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it"s over, I don"t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don"t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don"t want to end up simply having visited this world.
旅程
有一天，你终于知道
你必须做什么，并开始去做，
虽然你周围的声音
一直喊叫
他们的坏建议
虽然整个房子
开始发抖
而你感到古老的绳索
绊住你的脚踝。
“改善我的生活！”
每个声音哭喊着。
但你不停止。
你知道你必须做什么，
虽然风用它僵硬的手指
撬动
这个根基，
虽然他们的忧郁
着实可怕。
天已经
晚了，一个疯狂的夜晚，
路上塞满了
断枝和石头。
但是，渐渐地，
你将他们的声音抛在身后，
星星穿透云层
散发光辉，
一个新的声音出现
你慢慢
意识到，它是你自己的声音，
伴随着你
当你越来越深地
步入世界，
决定去做
你唯一能做的事——
决定去拯救
你唯一能拯救的生活。
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn"t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
相遇
她走进黑暗的泥沼
那漫长等待的尽头。
神秘光滑的包裹
落入杂草。
她倾斜着长长的脖子，舔它
疲惫而轻缓地呼吸着
过了一会儿，它站起来，变成一个和她相似的
生物，但是要小得多。
现在有两个她。她们一起走着
像树下的一个梦。
六月初，田边
开满密密麻麻的粉色和黄色花
我遇见她们。
我只能凝望。
她是我曾见过的
最美的妇人。
她的孩子跳跃在花丛中，
天空的蓝挂在头顶
像丝绸，花儿们燃烧着，而我希望
再活一次，从头开始，
彻底
而狂野。
A Meeting
by Mary Oliver
She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.
The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.
She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion
and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.
So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.
In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers
I meet them.
I can only stare.
She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.
Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me
like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,
to be utterly
wild.
夏日
谁创造了世界？
谁创造了天鹅，和黑熊？
谁创造了蚱蜢？
蚱蜢，我指的是——
跳出草丛的这一只，
正在我手中吃糖的这一只，
正在来回而不是上下移动她的颚——
正在用她巨大而复杂的眼睛四处张望的这一只。
现在她抬起柔弱的前臂，彻底洗净她的脸。
现在她张开翅膀，飞走了。
我不能确定祷告是什么。
我只知道如何专注，如何躺进
草里，如何跪在草中，
如何偷懒并享受幸福，如何在田野闲逛，
这是我整天所做的事。
告诉我，我还应该做什么？
一切最终不都死去了，而且很快？
告诉我，你打算做什么
用你疯狂而宝贵的一生？
The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don"t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn"t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
触及信仰主题的夏日短章
每个夏天
我倾听并观看
在黄铜般的阳光下，在
月光中，但
我什么也听不见，什么也看不见——
苍白的根在地底延伸，绿色的梗
有力地向上，
叶子不断加深
它们潮湿的皱摺
玉米穗正在成形，
玉米壳和玉米棒子也是。
每天，
如此，
枝叶的原野
长得越来越高，越来越厚实——
绿色长袍在夜晚高高托起，
闪亮的丝绸。
因此，每个夏天，
我什么也没看见，无法做一名证人——
我也是聋子
听不见叶子的滴答声，
菩提树向下的拍击声——
所有这些
发生了
却没有留下可见的证据，或可闻的嗡嗡声。
因而，无限降临。
不可知触及我的脊骨。
风在树上栖息，
而泥土的秘密
在空中回旋。
我怎能看着这世上的一切
并颤抖，并护紧我的心呢？
我应该担心什么吗？
早晨
在绿叶的海洋中
玉米蜂窝状的美丽身体
一定会在那儿。
Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith
by Mary Oliver
Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun"s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can"t hear
anything, I can"t see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,
nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,
the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.
And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,
the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.
And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt
swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?
One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn"s beautiful body
is sure to be there.
冷之诗
现在，冷。
到了极限。几乎
难以忍受。云
沸腾着，聚成一团
从北极熊的北方来。
这个冷得树开裂的清晨
我梦想着它肥胖的足迹，
和维持生命的脂肪。
我想念夏天，连同它明亮的果实，
鲜花，环绕着浆果，叶子，
一把把谷粒。
也许所谓冷，是这样的时刻
我们秘密测量我们始终拥有的爱
为了我们自己的身体，坚硬而锋利的爱，
为“我”而非他人的温暖水域；也许
它意味着蓝鲨之美，它正游向
翻筋斗的海豹。
在雪的季节，
在无限的冷中，
我们残忍却诚实地生长；我们使
自己活着，
如果可以，我们不断占有
必需的其他身体，这些
被压碎的红色花朵。
Cold Poem
by Mary Oliver
Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.
I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.
Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe
that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.
In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
音乐
我将一些细芦管
绑在一起，刻上
气孔，吹奏出一种音乐
使你呆立
如受电击，然后
跟随着，当我漫步，一点点
长出
斜眼睛和粗糙的毛发，我的脚
踏着岩石，长出
坚硬的羊角，而你
跟在后面，沉溺在
音乐中，取下
头上的银发夹
匆匆地，脱掉
衣服。
我不记得
这发生在哪里，但是我想
它是夏末，万物
充满火焰，孕育着果实
不做其他事，
也不抵抗，
只是躺着，像一片黑暗的水域
在月亮的引力下，
颠簸不休。
在城市野蛮的优雅中
我曾散步
在旅店大厅
并听见这种音乐，在
闭紧的门后。
你以为心灵
可以被解释吗？你以为身体
是皂荚树的
一根枝条，
追逐水，
对着太阳隆起，
颤抖着，当它感到
善，进入了
白色的花中？
或者你以为有一种
音乐，一种特定的旋律
点亮身体
迟钝的荒原——
一种兴奋
而难以解释的选择？
哈，好吧，总之，无论是不是
夏末，或是不是
发生在我们身上，它只是
一场梦，我没有
变成柔软的山羊神。你也没有像那样
奔跑着到来。
你说呢？
Music
by Mary Oliver
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can"t remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn"t,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
太阳
在你的生命中
可曾见过
比太阳的旅程
更精彩的
事物，
每天傍晚，
它悠闲地，
向着地平线飘落
隐入云层或山峦，
或微波荡漾的大海，
然后消失了——
它再次从黑暗中
滑出，
每个早晨，
在世界的另一边，
像一朵红花
浮在神圣的油中向上流动，
说，初夏的一个早晨，
隔着其完美的帝国距离——
你可曾感受到
如此疯狂的爱——
难道你认为，在什么地方，在什么语言中，
一个词可能激起
巨浪似的快乐
充满你，
如同太阳
升起，
如同它温暖你
当你站在那儿，
两手空空——
或者你
已从这个世界转身离去——
或者你
已变得疯狂
为权力，
为物质？
The Sun
by Mary Oliver
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
爱万物的偶然性
整个夏天，我和邻近的生物
交朋友——
它们飘荡在田野
和帐篷周围，
有时它们的脑袋钻进门帘
露出一些牙齿
寻找种子，
板油，糖；嘴里哼哼唧唧，
打开面包盒，发现里面有牛奶和音乐时
无比开心。但是，有一个
晚上，我听见外面
有一种声音，帆布
轻微鼓起——某种东西的
眼睛正贴在上面向里看。
我盯着它，浑身发抖，我的确听见了
爪子的摩擦声，嘴唇的啪嗒声
在我单薄的房子外——
我想象它有红色的眼睛，
宽大的舌头，粗壮的腿。
它是友好的吗？
恐惧战胜了我。然而，
不是出于信念和疯狂
只是认为
我的梦应该有勇气，
我走了出去。它消失了。
然后我恍然听见了沉重的
脚步声。
我是否真的看见了一个黑色的尾巴闪到了
树后？看见
月光照耀着它？
我是否真的朝它伸出了
胳膊，朝着降落的天堂，像
爱人的消逝，最狂野的希望——
这个故事黑暗的中心，是它被讲出的
全部原因吗？
The Chance To Love Everything
by Mary Oliver
All summer I made friends
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door,
grinning through their many teeth,
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming,
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound
outside the door, the canvas
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes,
the broad tongue, the enormous lap.
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?
下一次
下一次我该做的是，说话之前
看着地面。进入一所房子前
我要先停下
短暂地做一做皇帝
更好地倾听风
或静止的空气。
当任何人与我交谈，无论是
责备，赞扬或仅仅为了消磨时间，
我要观察他的脸，嘴唇如何
动，留意发声的
任何变化，任何迹象。
尽管，我该知道更多——大地
支撑着自己并翱翔，空气
托举着每一片叶子和羽毛
在森林与流水之上，对每个人来说
身体在衣服中散发出光芒
像一盏灯。
Next Time
by Mary Oliver
Next time what I"d do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I"d stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.
When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I"d watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.
And for all, I"d know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.
诗（灵魂喜欢伪装……）
灵魂
喜欢装扮成这个样子：
十个手指，
十个脚趾，
肩膀，以及其余部分
在晚上
是世界的黑色枝条，
在早上
是世界的
蓝色枝条。
当然，它可以浮动，
但是更愿
垂挂着重物。
空气般的无形之物，
它需要
肉体的隐喻，
肢体和欲望，
海洋般的流体，
它需要肉体的世界，
本能
想象力
时间黑暗的拥抱，
甜蜜
和实在性，
需要被理解，
燃烧出
更纯粹的光
无人在那里——
因此它进入我们——
早晨
在野蛮的安逸中闪耀
如一道闪电；
夜晚
点亮肉体深刻而奇异的
沉溺
如一颗星。
Poem (The spirit likes to dress up...)
by Mary Oliver
The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,
shoulders, and all the rest
at night
in the black branches,
in the morning
in the blue branches
of the world.
It could float, of course,
but would rather
plumb rough matter.
Airy and shapeless thing,
it needs
the metaphor of the body,
lime and appetite,
the oceanic fluids;
it needs the body"s world,
instinct
and imagination
and the dark hug of time,
sweetness
and tangibility,
to be understood,
to be more than pure light
that burns
where no one is --
so it enters us --
in the morning
shines from brute comfort
like a stitch of lightning;
and at night
lights up the deep and wondrous
drownings of the body
like a star.
早晨之诗
每天早晨
世界
被创造出来
在太阳的
橙色光芒中
夜晚
堆积的灰尘
变成叶子
将自己固定在高高的枝条上——
池塘显现
如同黑布上
开满荷花的
岛屿图案。
如果你的天性
是快乐的
你将沿着柔软的小径
游荡几个小时，你的想象
落在每一处。
如果
你的灵魂
携带着
比铅垂还沉重的刺——
如果你所能做的
是继续跋涉——
你的内心深处
仍有
一只野兽在叫喊，土地
才是它所需要的——
每个盛开荷花的池塘
是一声祈祷，被听见并得到
慷慨的回应，
每个早晨，
你是否
曾勇敢地快乐，
你是否
曾勇敢地祈祷。
Morning Poem
by Mary Oliver
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it"s all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
白鹭
在道路
被堵塞了的地方，
我踏过暗淡的叶子，
坠落的枝条，
以及盘根错节的猫藤，
继续向前。最后
我的胳膊
被荆棘
划伤，很快
蚊子们
围着我，闷热
伤痛，我感到
天旋地转，
这是我
到达池塘的经过：
黑暗而空虚
惟有一管被水泡白的
芦苇
躺在远处的岸边
当我正看着那里时，
水面突然荡起波纹
三只白鹭——
一束
白色的火焰！
即使半睡半醒，它们
对这个造就了它们的世界
也如此信任——
倾斜着飞过水面，
安静，确定，
借助它们的信仰法则
而不是逻辑，
它们温柔地张开
翅膀，滑过
每一件黑暗的事物。
Egrets
by Mary Oliver
Where the path closed
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier,
I kept going. Finally
I could not
save my arms
from thorns; soon
the mosquitoes
smelled me, hot
and wounded, and came
wheeling and whining.
And that"s how I came
to the edge of the pond:
black and empty
except for a spindle
of bleached reeds
at the far shore
which, as I looked,
wrinkled suddenly
into three egrets - - -
a shower
of white fire!
Even half-asleep they had
such faith in the world
that had made them - - -
tilting through the water,
unruffled, sure,
by the laws
of their faith not logic,
they opened their wings
softly and stepped
over every dark thing.
大池塘
在大池塘
太阳，正在升起，
他橙色的胸脯
掠过粗大的松树，
一些橙色的羽毛
飘进
幽暗的水中。
远处的岸上
立着一只白鸟
仿佛一只白色的蜡烛——
或者一个男人，在远处，
陷入冥想——
而所有环绕着我的百合
正从夜晚
黑色的洞穴中
再次开放。
以后，我会思考
我所见的——
它可能象征什么——
我可能用什么赞誉之词
解释它，而为了这样做，
我将进屋坐在书桌前——
我将坐在椅子中——
我将回头去看
这个遗失了的早晨
此刻，我正在其中移动，
像一个游泳者，
多么平稳，
多么安宁，
我就像百合——
就像正消失在水面上的鸟
穿着夜晚的衣袖。
At Great Pond
by Mary Oliver
At Great Pond
the sun, rising,
scrapes his orange breast
on the thick pines,
and down tumble
a few orange feathers into
the dark water.
On the far shore
a white bird is standing
like a white candle ---
or a man, in the distance,
in the clasp of some meditation ---
while all around me the lilies
are breaking open again
from the black cave
of the night.
Later, I will consider
what I have seen ---
what it could signify ---
what words of adoration I might
make of it, and to do this
I will go indoors to my desk ---
I will sit in my chair ---
I will look back
into the lost morning
in which I am moving, now,
like a swimmer,
so smoothly,
so peacefully,
I am almost the lily ---
almost the bird vanishing over the water
on its sleeves of night.
闪光
1.
欢迎来到这首无所事事的诗。
它不是日出，
一阵红色的漂洗，
照亮整个东边的天空；
它不是从上帝钱包中落下的雨；
它不是雨后天空的蓝色盔甲，
或者树，或者正钻进泥土的甲虫；
它不是嘲鸟，在开满繁花的梓树枝上，
以它自己的旋律
继续咝咝鸣叫，拍打着翅膀，
而那些花，正波浪似的翻腾，闪亮，
随风摇摆。
2.
有时，你仍会记起，曾祖父农场中的
旧谷仓，你曾去过一次，
独自走进去，而大人们正坐在屋子里
交谈。
它几乎是空的。地上铺着一层干草，
一些黄蜂在窗上嗡嗡鸣叫，也许，
高处有一只奇怪的鸟，受到惊扰，呼地叫
一声，停在凌乱的壁架上，用它野性的双目
向下瞪视。
虽然，里面主要充斥着牛奶与动物
忍耐的气息；
虽然，主要是宁静与神秘，屋顶
高高拱起，未上漆的木板，简单质朴。
但是粪便的味道仍然散发在空中，
一种模糊的氨，令人讨厌。
你可能永远停留在那儿，角落里的一个小孩。
在剩下的干草堆上，被那看上去空虚
其实并不空的空间弄晕。
然后——你仍然记得——你感到饥饿的折磨——正是
中午——而你从黎明的梦中醒来，匆匆回到
房子，那里桌子已经摆好，一位叔叔
拍拍你的肩，表示欢迎，桌上有你的位置。
3.
没有留下什么。
我正在说起的地方，现在，是一块
墓地。
我曾站在那里，在绿色的草地上，撒下鲜花。
4.
没有什么能像青蛾的翅膀那样
灵敏或细微地扇动
扑向灯
扑向它的炉火
扑向乌鸦的喙
在清晨。
飞蛾也有整洁，和生机，但是它没有一丝丝
自怜。
并不存在于这个世界。
5.
我的母亲
是忧伤的紫藤，
我的母亲
是房后蔓生的青苔，
我的母亲，唉，唉，
并不总是爱她的生活，
它比熨斗还重
当她拎着它，从一个房间到另一个房间，
哦，令人难以释怀！
我将她
装在盒子里
葬入泥土
然后转身离开。
我的父亲
是一个梦想落空的魔鬼，
一个信仰破灭者，
一个穷人，倒霉的瘦男孩。
他跟随上帝，在上帝面前吹牛，
除了上帝，
他无人交谈，无人
愿意倾听。
倾听，
这是他的生活。
我将它葬入泥土。
我清空壁橱。
我离开房子。
6.
此刻我提起他们，
我不会再提起。
不是不爱
也不是不悲伤。
但是他们拎着的铁东西，我不会再拎着。
我给他们——一个，两个，三个，四个——礼节性的吻，
甜蜜的致谢之吻，
生气的吻，祝他们在泥土中好运的吻。
他们也许睡得很安稳。他们也许变柔和了。
但是我不会给他们同类的吻。
我不需要他们为我的生活负责。
7.
你知道吗，蚂蚁有一只舌头
用来收集它所能收集的
全部甜蜜？
你知道这点吗？
8.
诗不是世界。
它甚至不是世界的首页。
但是诗歌想开放，像一朵花那样。
它非常清楚这点。
它想打开自己，
像一座小修道院的门，
以便你能走进去，平静下来，重新振作，
使你自己卑微如尘埃。
9.
从成熟妇女嘴中喊出的
孩子气声音
是一种痛苦和失望。
从身材高大、长胡须的壮实男人嘴中
嚎出的孩子气声音
是一种痛苦，一种恐怖。
10.
那么，告诉我：
什么将吸引你？
什么将打开你精神的黑暗领域，
像初次亲热的
情人那样？
11.
无论如何，
没有谷仓。
没有孩子在谷仓里。
没有叔叔没有桌子没有厨房。
只有一块狭长可爱的田野，停满了食米鸟。
12.
当孤独偷偷潜来，进入田野，思考
世界的秩序。留意
你以前从未留意过的，
比如蟋蟀的鼓声
它淡绿色的身体比你的拇指长不了多少。
在夏天的雨中，努力注视蜂雀，
看它如何抖落翅膀上的水珠。
让忧伤做你的妹妹，无论她是否愿意。
从悲痛的树桩上站起，和勤奋的叶子一样，
也长成绿色。
对于这个世界的美，和你生活的责任
一生的时间并不够用。
在坟墓上撒下你的鲜花，然后离开。
在你的生机勃勃中，保持善良和懒散。
在你精神的闪耀中，保持谦逊。
对可触而动人的事物充满感激。
与甲虫和风生活在一起。
这是诗歌隐秘的面包。
这是诗歌隐秘而富有营养的面包。
Flare
by Mary Oliver
1.
Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.
It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,
or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;
it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.
2.
You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather"s farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn"t.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.
3.
Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.
I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.
4.
Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
Not in this world.
5.
My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!
I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.
6.
I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.
It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.
I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.
But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.
7.
Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?
Did you know that?
8.
The poem is not the world.
It isn"t even the first page of the world.
But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.
It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.
9.
The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.
10.
Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?
11.
Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.
No uncle no table no kitchen.
Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.
12.
When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,
like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.
Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.
Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.
A lifetime isn"t long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.
Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.
Live with the beetle, and the wind.
This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.
嘲鸟
今天早晨
绿色的田野上
有两只嘲鸟
正在空中
纺织
它们歌声的
白丝带。
除了倾听
我没有
更好的事去做。
我这样说时
很严肃。
很久以前，
希腊，
有一对老夫妇
为两个
陌生人
打开门，
发现
根本不是人，
而是神。
这是我喜爱的故事——
这对老人
没有什么能给予
除了他们殷勤的
意愿——
但是仅此一点
神就爱他们
并祝福他们——
当他们升离
肉身，
像无数水珠
从一个喷泉中升起，
光
照进农舍的
每一处角落，
这对老人，
颤抖着领受，
弯下身躯——
但是他们仍然什么也不求
除了他们已经拥有的
困难生活。
神微笑着，拍动巨大的翅膀，
消失了。
这个早晨
无论我假设
这个故事发生在哪里——
无论我所说的是什么
我将要做的是——
我正站在
田野的边缘——
匆匆
穿越自己的灵魂，
打开它黑暗的门——
我探出头来；
我正在倾听。
Mockingbirds
by Mary Oliver
This morning
two mockingbirds
in the green field
were spinning and tossing
the white ribbons
of their songs
into the air.
I had nothing
better to do
than listen.
I mean this
seriously.
In Greece,
a long time ago,
an old couple
opened their door
to two strangers
who were,
it soon appeared,
not men at all,
but gods.
It is my favorite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing to give
but their willingness
to be attentive--
but for this alone
the gods loved them
and blessed them--
when they rose
out of their mortal bodies,
like a million particles of water
from a fountain,
the light
swept into all the corners
of the cottage,
and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--
but still they asked for nothing
but the difficult life
which they had already.
And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.
Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--
whatever it was I said
I would be doing--
I was standing
at the edge of the field--
I was hurrying
through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--
I was leaning out;
I was listening.
白夜
整夜
我漂浮
在浅水池塘
而月亮四处漫步
明亮刺眼，
白色的骨头
在牛奶似的茎干中。
有一次
我看见她伸出手
抚摸麝鼠
小巧光滑的头
它真可爱，哦，
我不想再去争论
这些事情
我想我不能
一无所有地生活！很快
麝鼠
将和另一只麝鼠
一起溜进它们野草的
城堡，早晨
从东边起来
衣衫蓬乱，大大咧咧的，
站在
那难以对付的
美丽的
光的飓风面前
我想从
所有水域的
源头流出，
我想在黑暗
柔滑的水流中
迷失自己，
张着嘴，
聚拢
睡眠的
高大百合。
White Night
by Mary Oliver
All night
I float
in the shallow ponds
while the moon wanders
burning,
bone white,
among the milky stems.
Once
I saw her hand reach
to touch the muskrat’s
small sleek head
and it was lovely, oh,
I don’t want to argue anymore
about all the things
I thought I could not
live without! Soon
the muskrat
will glide with another
into their castle
of weeds, morning
will rise from the east
tangled and brazen,
and before that
difficult
and beautiful
hurricane of light
I want to flow out
across the mother
of all waters,
I want to lose myself
on the black
and silky currents,
yawning,
gathering
the tall lilies
of sleep.
黑橡树
好吧，没有一棵树能写一首交响乐，或者一本字典，
或者哪怕一封信，给一位老朋友，充满回忆
与安慰。
没有一棵树能发出一点声音，如果
没有风的摇动，虽然蓝松鸦
整天在枝条上叽叽喳喳。
但是，说实话，过了没多久，我感到软弱，渴望
它们覆盖着青苔的粗大躯干
而你不能阻止我进入树林，进入他们
厚实的肩膀，进入他们亮闪闪的绿头发。
今天和其他日子相似：二十四小时，
一点阳光，一点雨。
听着，野心说，紧张地将她身体的重心，从
一只脚移到另一只脚——为什么你不继续向前走？
因为我在那里了，在长满青苔的阴影中，在树下。
说实话，我不想放开懒散的
手，我不想为钱出卖我的生活。
我甚至不想离开雨。
Black Oaks
by Mary Oliver
Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I"m pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can"t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don"t you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
And to tell the truth I don"t want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don"t want to sell my life for money,
I don"t even want to come in out of the rain.
佛的临终训导
“将自己看成一束光”
佛死之前，
如是说。
每天早晨，我都会想起这句话
东边的天空正褪去
黑色的
云层，发出第一个
信号——一柄白色的扇子
布满粉红，紫色，
以及绿色的条纹。
一位老人躺在
两棵菩提树之间，
他或许已说了许多，
明白这是他最后的时间。
光向上延伸，
变得更亮，笼罩在田野上空。
村民们围绕在他周围
身体向前倾，专注地听着。
当太阳尚未升起，尚未高悬于
蓝色的天空时，
我已被它黄色的波浪之海
触及全身。
无疑，他想到了
自己艰难一生所经历的一切。
于是，我感受到太阳
它在山头燃烧，
仿佛千万朵火焰之花——
显然，我无足轻重，
但我觉得自己
变成了某种难以言说的有用之物。
在树枝下，他慢慢地
抬起头。
他注视着人们惊恐的脸。
The Buddha"s Last Instruction
by Mary Oliver
"Make of yourself a light"
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal-a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire-
clearly I"m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
是！不！
拥有看法多么必要！我认为赤莲
满足于站在地面几英尺之上。
我认为宁静并不是你在世上刚刚发现的事物，
如一棵李子树，舒展着白色的花瓣。
河边的紫罗兰，正露出它们蓝色的脸，像
忧郁的小灯笼。
绿色的青苔，大片大片，充满强健的生机。
沿着河，慢慢地走，不要着急，这多么重要，
看看每一件事物并喊出
是！不！
天鹅，他全部的夸耀，他的青草和花瓣的长袍，只不过渴望
能居住在无名的池塘。猫藤
没有错。水鸫，跳到潮湿的
岩石上，快乐得要疯掉。想象，比
一件利器更好。注意，这是我们无穷无尽
而又合宜的工作。
Yes! No!
by Mary Oliver
How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.
The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like
small dark lanterns.
The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.
How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out
Yes! No! The
swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work.
倪志娟译
