2006-05-17 10:23:09非馬
譯詩兩首--紀念剛去世的美國詩人康尼茲
作者簡介：
上個週末在紐約去世的詩人康尼茲(Stanley Kunitz, 1905-2006) ，生于麻薩諸 塞州，在哈佛大學受過教育，在哥倫比亞及耶魯等大學教過書。曾到蘇聯及波蘭當過文化交流學者。主編過耶魯年輕詩人叢書。擔任過國會圖書館的詩顧問(2000年美國桂冠詩人)。1959年得普立茲獎。翻譯過蘇聯詩人葉夫圖申科等人的詩。對于形式，他比同代的大部分詩人更熱狂。在他的詩里，我們能察覺到一种白熱的抽象感性，有如現代雕塑家用堅硬的金屬，塑造出优美的形象，奇突地躍向純粹之境，不容你不正視。
The Portrait
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
畫像
我母親從未饒恕過我父親
的自殺，
特別是在那樣尷尬的時候
在一個公園里，
那春天
當我等著出世。
她把他的名字鎖
在她最深的柜子里
不讓他出來，
雖然我能听到他砰砰捶響。
當我從閣樓下來
手里拿著一幀蜡筆畫像
一個寬唇的陌生人
胡子耀武揚威
眼睛深褐而鎮定，
她把它撕成片片
沒說一句話
且重重摑我。
今年六十四歲了
我還能感到
頰上的灼痛。
The Artist
His paintings grew darker every year.
They filled the walls, they filled the room;
eventually they filled his world––
all but the ravishment.
When voices faded, he would rush to hear
the scratched soul of Mozart
endlessly in gyre.
Back and forth, back and forth,
he paced the paint-smeared floor,
diminishing in size each time he turned,
trapped in his monumental void,
raving against his adversaries.
At last he took a knife in his hand
and slashed an exit for himself
between the frames of his tall scenery.
Through the holes of his tattered universe
the first innocence and the light
came pouring in.
畫家
他的畫一年比一年陰沉。
它們填滿了牆壁，填滿了房間；
終于填滿了他的世界––
除了他的自我陶醉。
當聲音消歇，他便跑去听
莫扎特沙沙作響的靈魂
不停地旋轉。
來來去去，來來去去，
他踱著涂滿顏料
轉一次身便縮小一點的地板，
困在他龐大的虛空里，
對著他的仇敵吼叫。
最后他手里拿著一把刀
在他浮夸的風景畫框間
為自己砍開一個出口。
一線天真無邪的光，
從他破碎了的宇宙罅隙
傾注而入。
上個週末在紐約去世的詩人康尼茲(Stanley Kunitz, 1905-2006) ，生于麻薩諸 塞州，在哈佛大學受過教育，在哥倫比亞及耶魯等大學教過書。曾到蘇聯及波蘭當過文化交流學者。主編過耶魯年輕詩人叢書。擔任過國會圖書館的詩顧問(2000年美國桂冠詩人)。1959年得普立茲獎。翻譯過蘇聯詩人葉夫圖申科等人的詩。對于形式，他比同代的大部分詩人更熱狂。在他的詩里，我們能察覺到一种白熱的抽象感性，有如現代雕塑家用堅硬的金屬，塑造出优美的形象，奇突地躍向純粹之境，不容你不正視。
The Portrait
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
畫像
我母親從未饒恕過我父親
的自殺，
特別是在那樣尷尬的時候
在一個公園里，
那春天
當我等著出世。
她把他的名字鎖
在她最深的柜子里
不讓他出來，
雖然我能听到他砰砰捶響。
當我從閣樓下來
手里拿著一幀蜡筆畫像
一個寬唇的陌生人
胡子耀武揚威
眼睛深褐而鎮定，
她把它撕成片片
沒說一句話
且重重摑我。
今年六十四歲了
我還能感到
頰上的灼痛。
The Artist
His paintings grew darker every year.
They filled the walls, they filled the room;
eventually they filled his world––
all but the ravishment.
When voices faded, he would rush to hear
the scratched soul of Mozart
endlessly in gyre.
Back and forth, back and forth,
he paced the paint-smeared floor,
diminishing in size each time he turned,
trapped in his monumental void,
raving against his adversaries.
At last he took a knife in his hand
and slashed an exit for himself
between the frames of his tall scenery.
Through the holes of his tattered universe
the first innocence and the light
came pouring in.
畫家
他的畫一年比一年陰沉。
它們填滿了牆壁，填滿了房間；
終于填滿了他的世界––
除了他的自我陶醉。
當聲音消歇，他便跑去听
莫扎特沙沙作響的靈魂
不停地旋轉。
來來去去，來來去去，
他踱著涂滿顏料
轉一次身便縮小一點的地板，
困在他龐大的虛空里，
對著他的仇敵吼叫。
最后他手里拿著一把刀
在他浮夸的風景畫框間
為自己砍開一個出口。
一線天真無邪的光，
從他破碎了的宇宙罅隙
傾注而入。