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Selected poems：馬克．斯特蘭德的《一個人的暴風雪》(二讀)
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Selected poems：馬克．斯特蘭德的《一個人的暴風雪》(二讀)
書名：一個人的暴風雪
作者：馬克．斯特蘭德（Mark Strand）
譯者：桑婪
出版社：湖南文藝
出版日期：2025/01
《一個人的暴風雪》為馬克·斯特蘭德詩集《我們生活的故事》的續作，收錄斯特蘭德後半生（1980—2012）6部重要詩集，包括《詩選》《持續的生活》《黑色港灣》《一個人的暴風雪》《人與駱駝》和《近乎隱形》，輯錄逾百首佳作。
馬克·斯特蘭德，影響一代美國詩人的桂冠詩人，一生獲獎無數，其詩歌被翻譯成30多種語言。他被稱為「深沈的異化哀悼者」。他機敏、剋制，以深刻的智慧講述我們被遮蔽的生活故事：有關現代生活的孤獨、被異化、焦慮，以及面對廣闊世界時的無力感。
〈致他自己〉
就這樣，不知為何你來到我面前；
不知為何你坐在一張醜陋的深紅色長毛絨椅子裡，光線
以詭秘而發人深省的角度將你的頭髮染成銀灰；
也不知為何，這一刻你選擇以書寫歲月
抵抗書寫虛無；你眯起眼，
端詳走廊鏡子中閃亮的空氣，說
你屬於我，全然屬於我；你懇求我寫作，但當然了，
總是為你而寫，從不說為何而寫；
你過去常在我耳邊只是低語那些
你想聽到的事；此刻你來到我面前，說
時日已晚，樹木在風裡彎曲，
黑夜就要來臨；彷彿你想
知道什麼，多年來卻忘記詢問，
關於斜照桌子的陽光，
一隻抬起的手臂，一張轉動的臉，和遠處
一輛攀過山消失了的汽車。
TO HIMSELF
So you’ve come to me now without knowing why;
Nor why you sit in the ruby plush of an ugly chair, the sly
Revealing angle of light turning your hair a silver gray;
Nor why you have chosen this moment to set the writing of years
Against the writing of nothing; you who narrowed your eyes,
Peering into the polished air of the hallway mirror, and said
You were mine, all mine; who begged me to write, but always
Of course to you, without ever saying what it was for;
Who used to whisper in my ear only the things
You wanted to hear; who come to me now and say
That it’s late, that the trees are bending under the wind,
That night will fall; as if there were something
You wanted to know, but for years had forgotten to ask,
Something to do with sunlight slanting over a table,
An arm rising, a face turning, and far
In the distance a car disappearing over the hill.
〈出自一篇遺失的日記〉
我還未開啓即將踏上的偉大旅程。我不想開啓。早飯時，我想寫信給歌德，但當然沒寫。我還沒見過他，所以不能假裝與他交好。我會坐下來讓雷本給我畫像嗎？我想了又想，決定不了。我為何要在一個特定的日子把自己的模樣交付給歷史偶然的一瞥？我久久注視著房子西面的綠色原野，入迷地看著兩頭靜止的斑點奶牛。午餐沒有著落，寫給華茲華斯的信也不會有回音。我確信他不會回信。那我要自己來寫首詩嗎？我從沒寫過詩，但確信晚點兒再嘗試也不會有什麼損失。有太多不要去做的事！不要拜訪布萊克或克拉布·羅賓遜。不要寫信給科羅告訴他奶牛的事。不要寫信給透納談我看到如紅色叫喊般的太陽沈沒並熄滅在微波粼粼的水中直到最後遠處的水也墜入無盡之夜的寂靜深淵裡。解脫了！我母親彎著腰做針線活兒，催我寫信給無話可說的姐姐。“許多時候，即便寫點兒空話，也比什麼都不寫要貼心。”她引用某人的話說。日日如此相似，為何總得做些什麼？為何甚至寫下這些來，若不是為了公開表明觀點，就像不曾活過？畢竟，誰會相信未被寫下的東西？我不再浪費時間，這意義甚微或全無。我是一個地方，一個事物在此聚集而後飛散的地方。看那正在消失的原野，看那遠處的山丘，看那夜，那柔和、破碎的夜，它已經來臨，儘管陽光仍在我的門扉上躊躇。
FROM A LOST DIARY
I had not begun the great journey I was to undertake. I did not feel like it. At breakfast, I thought of writing to Goethe, but of course did not. I had not met him yet, so could not pretend to be on good terms with him. Would I sit for Raeburn? I turned it over a few times and chose not to. Why should I commit my looks on a particular day to the casual glances of history? I stared a long time at the green fields to the west of the house, and watched with numb fascination the immobility of two spotted cows. Lunch was out of the question, and so was the letter to Wordsworth. I was sure he would not respond. Would I myself write a poem? I had never written one, but decided that nothing would be lost by postponing the experiment. There is so much not to do! Not to visit Blake or Crabb Robinson. Not to write Corot and tell him about the cows. Not to write Turner about my vision of the sun that like a red cry sank and smothered in rippling water until finally far away the water fell into the soundless chasms of an infinite night. What a relief! My mother, hunched over her needlework, urged me to write my sister to whom I had nothing to say. “In many instances it is better and kinder to write nothing than not to write,” said she, quoting someone or other. A day so much like the others, why do anything about it? Why even write this down, were it not for my going on record as not having lived. After all, who can believe what is not written down? That I have withdrawn from the abuses of time means little or nothing. I am a place, a place where things come together, then fly apart. Look at the fields disappearing, look at the distant hills, look at the night, the velvety, fragrant night, which has already come, though the sun continues to stand at my door.
〈夜，門廊〉
凝視虛無就是用心體會
我們都將被捲入的事物，而將自己暴露
給風，就是感受近旁不可把握的事物。
樹可以搖晃或靜止。白天或夜晚可以如他們所願。
我們渴望的，不止一個季節或天氣，而是成為
陌生人的安慰，至少是成為自己的陌生人。這就是問題的
關鍵，這就是為什麼直到現在我們似乎還在等待
某種出現便要消失的事物——
比如，幾片樹葉，或僅僅一片樹葉，或更少之物
掉落的聲響。我們所能學習的事物沒有窮盡。那兒的書
告訴我們許多，但它從來不因我們而寫。
THE NIGHT, THE PORCH
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.
〈火〉
有時那裡會有一團火，我會走進去
毫髮無傷地出來，繼續我的旅程，
對於我而言，它只是另一件要完成的事。
至於熄滅那火，我將留給其他人
他們會衝進洶湧的煙裡，帶著掃帚
和毯子，撲滅火焰。當一切結束時
他們會擠到一堆，談論他們所見的——
他們多麼幸運，目擊了熱量的光澤，
灰燼的噓聲效果，但是更多地知道了燃燒的
紙的芳香，詞語最後一次呼吸的聲音。
FIRE
Sometimes there would be a fire and I would walk into it
and come out unharmed and continue on my way,
and for me it was just another thing to have done.
As for putting out the fire, I left that to others
who would rush into the billowing smoke with brooms
and blankets to smother the flames. When they were through
they would huddle together to talk of what they had seen—
how lucky they were to have witnessed the lusters of heat,
the hushing effect of ashes, but even more to have known the fragrance
of burning paper, the sound of words breathing their last.
書名：一個人的暴風雪
作者：馬克．斯特蘭德（Mark Strand）
譯者：桑婪
出版社：湖南文藝
出版日期：2025/01
《一個人的暴風雪》為馬克·斯特蘭德詩集《我們生活的故事》的續作，收錄斯特蘭德後半生（1980—2012）6部重要詩集，包括《詩選》《持續的生活》《黑色港灣》《一個人的暴風雪》《人與駱駝》和《近乎隱形》，輯錄逾百首佳作。
馬克·斯特蘭德，影響一代美國詩人的桂冠詩人，一生獲獎無數，其詩歌被翻譯成30多種語言。他被稱為「深沈的異化哀悼者」。他機敏、剋制，以深刻的智慧講述我們被遮蔽的生活故事：有關現代生活的孤獨、被異化、焦慮，以及面對廣闊世界時的無力感。
〈致他自己〉
就這樣，不知為何你來到我面前；
不知為何你坐在一張醜陋的深紅色長毛絨椅子裡，光線
以詭秘而發人深省的角度將你的頭髮染成銀灰；
也不知為何，這一刻你選擇以書寫歲月
抵抗書寫虛無；你眯起眼，
端詳走廊鏡子中閃亮的空氣，說
你屬於我，全然屬於我；你懇求我寫作，但當然了，
總是為你而寫，從不說為何而寫；
你過去常在我耳邊只是低語那些
你想聽到的事；此刻你來到我面前，說
時日已晚，樹木在風裡彎曲，
黑夜就要來臨；彷彿你想
知道什麼，多年來卻忘記詢問，
關於斜照桌子的陽光，
一隻抬起的手臂，一張轉動的臉，和遠處
一輛攀過山消失了的汽車。
TO HIMSELF
So you’ve come to me now without knowing why;
Nor why you sit in the ruby plush of an ugly chair, the sly
Revealing angle of light turning your hair a silver gray;
Nor why you have chosen this moment to set the writing of years
Against the writing of nothing; you who narrowed your eyes,
Peering into the polished air of the hallway mirror, and said
You were mine, all mine; who begged me to write, but always
Of course to you, without ever saying what it was for;
Who used to whisper in my ear only the things
You wanted to hear; who come to me now and say
That it’s late, that the trees are bending under the wind,
That night will fall; as if there were something
You wanted to know, but for years had forgotten to ask,
Something to do with sunlight slanting over a table,
An arm rising, a face turning, and far
In the distance a car disappearing over the hill.
〈出自一篇遺失的日記〉
我還未開啓即將踏上的偉大旅程。我不想開啓。早飯時，我想寫信給歌德，但當然沒寫。我還沒見過他，所以不能假裝與他交好。我會坐下來讓雷本給我畫像嗎？我想了又想，決定不了。我為何要在一個特定的日子把自己的模樣交付給歷史偶然的一瞥？我久久注視著房子西面的綠色原野，入迷地看著兩頭靜止的斑點奶牛。午餐沒有著落，寫給華茲華斯的信也不會有回音。我確信他不會回信。那我要自己來寫首詩嗎？我從沒寫過詩，但確信晚點兒再嘗試也不會有什麼損失。有太多不要去做的事！不要拜訪布萊克或克拉布·羅賓遜。不要寫信給科羅告訴他奶牛的事。不要寫信給透納談我看到如紅色叫喊般的太陽沈沒並熄滅在微波粼粼的水中直到最後遠處的水也墜入無盡之夜的寂靜深淵裡。解脫了！我母親彎著腰做針線活兒，催我寫信給無話可說的姐姐。“許多時候，即便寫點兒空話，也比什麼都不寫要貼心。”她引用某人的話說。日日如此相似，為何總得做些什麼？為何甚至寫下這些來，若不是為了公開表明觀點，就像不曾活過？畢竟，誰會相信未被寫下的東西？我不再浪費時間，這意義甚微或全無。我是一個地方，一個事物在此聚集而後飛散的地方。看那正在消失的原野，看那遠處的山丘，看那夜，那柔和、破碎的夜，它已經來臨，儘管陽光仍在我的門扉上躊躇。
FROM A LOST DIARY
I had not begun the great journey I was to undertake. I did not feel like it. At breakfast, I thought of writing to Goethe, but of course did not. I had not met him yet, so could not pretend to be on good terms with him. Would I sit for Raeburn? I turned it over a few times and chose not to. Why should I commit my looks on a particular day to the casual glances of history? I stared a long time at the green fields to the west of the house, and watched with numb fascination the immobility of two spotted cows. Lunch was out of the question, and so was the letter to Wordsworth. I was sure he would not respond. Would I myself write a poem? I had never written one, but decided that nothing would be lost by postponing the experiment. There is so much not to do! Not to visit Blake or Crabb Robinson. Not to write Corot and tell him about the cows. Not to write Turner about my vision of the sun that like a red cry sank and smothered in rippling water until finally far away the water fell into the soundless chasms of an infinite night. What a relief! My mother, hunched over her needlework, urged me to write my sister to whom I had nothing to say. “In many instances it is better and kinder to write nothing than not to write,” said she, quoting someone or other. A day so much like the others, why do anything about it? Why even write this down, were it not for my going on record as not having lived. After all, who can believe what is not written down? That I have withdrawn from the abuses of time means little or nothing. I am a place, a place where things come together, then fly apart. Look at the fields disappearing, look at the distant hills, look at the night, the velvety, fragrant night, which has already come, though the sun continues to stand at my door.
〈夜，門廊〉
凝視虛無就是用心體會
我們都將被捲入的事物，而將自己暴露
給風，就是感受近旁不可把握的事物。
樹可以搖晃或靜止。白天或夜晚可以如他們所願。
我們渴望的，不止一個季節或天氣，而是成為
陌生人的安慰，至少是成為自己的陌生人。這就是問題的
關鍵，這就是為什麼直到現在我們似乎還在等待
某種出現便要消失的事物——
比如，幾片樹葉，或僅僅一片樹葉，或更少之物
掉落的聲響。我們所能學習的事物沒有窮盡。那兒的書
告訴我們許多，但它從來不因我們而寫。
THE NIGHT, THE PORCH
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.
〈火〉
有時那裡會有一團火，我會走進去
毫髮無傷地出來，繼續我的旅程，
對於我而言，它只是另一件要完成的事。
至於熄滅那火，我將留給其他人
他們會衝進洶湧的煙裡，帶著掃帚
和毯子，撲滅火焰。當一切結束時
他們會擠到一堆，談論他們所見的——
他們多麼幸運，目擊了熱量的光澤，
灰燼的噓聲效果，但是更多地知道了燃燒的
紙的芳香，詞語最後一次呼吸的聲音。
FIRE
Sometimes there would be a fire and I would walk into it
and come out unharmed and continue on my way,
and for me it was just another thing to have done.
As for putting out the fire, I left that to others
who would rush into the billowing smoke with brooms
and blankets to smother the flames. When they were through
they would huddle together to talk of what they had seen—
how lucky they were to have witnessed the lusters of heat,
the hushing effect of ashes, but even more to have known the fragrance
of burning paper, the sound of words breathing their last.
自訂分類：Selected & Extracts
上一則： Selected poems：《最高虛構筆記：華萊士·史蒂文斯詩精選》（二讀）下一則： Selected poems：《煙與鋼：桑德堡詩選》
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