【诗歌英译中】眩晕银河指南 by Terrance Hayes
今年读了好多Hayes的诗歌。抄写我之前给Lighthead这本诗集的短评：“原来绚丽、温柔、高频率却又恰到好处的wit是可以并存的，原来prose poem是可以拥有这样的music的，原来写作是可以既这么reflective又这么人性的。”Hayes把太多平衡都拿捏得恰到好处，绚烂的，狡黠的，又是太人性的。包括他前段时间的American Sonets，大胆剔透却仍旧温柔，好难读到政治意味浓厚却又以这种形式如此漂亮的诗。先偷懒来发一篇之前翻译的Lighthead开篇诗。原文很好，翻得不好。但希望有人喜欢。 眩晕银河指南 Terrance Hayes 翻译：初繁言 女士先生们，这国家的鬼魂与孩子们， 我在这里，是因为我从未学会掌管时间。 就比如说，这个小时，会如其他时分一般 若非雨水正在下落，穿透屋檐。 我或许不该如此直白。我的夜晚独自一身时 太过粗心，如同在冬天未着内衣的女人 一般招致麻烦。我相信万物皆是性的修辞。 交媾模仿着每一场离别，月光 从叶子上滴落。你可以穷尽你的一生 一事无成，只为生命与思考做准备。 “一切只是这样？”因此我在这里，诗人们 来此处饮用深浓的毒药加细小碎冰， 那使我人猿的口舌与其残留的字节 得以松弛。我知道所有词语皆来自既存的词语； 它们分解，直至我们的发音构建出自我。 黑暗中吠叫的小狗想要对我们生活的方式 说些什么。我宁愿如我父亲所说的节俭。 他说“分离”，意思是消失在视野里的 街道。并非你看见什么，而是你察觉到什么： 这是诗歌。并非那噪声，而是节奏；一种对错乱 的妥置；我将为了活下去而吃掉你；这是诗歌。 愿我如一位褐色皮肤的怀孕女人般焕发光芒。 愿我能如我的老师般从此啜泣，像是他为我们朗读 莫莉·布鲁姆的自白。当我亲吻我的妻子时， 有时我尝到她的谨慎。不过我们先别谈论这个。 或许
艺术
唯一的目的就是为
自我
服务。 有时我打游戏，我开着简陋的舰艇对一艘 外星飞船开火，只因它想要毁灭地球。 其他时候我爱上一个词语，比如
昏暗
。 或是月光榨压出裸露的枝条。 所有物种都晓得什么是无意义，可 花朵却从未放弃绽开。我携呜咽而来， 当嘴唇坍缩时你可以听见它，这是猴子们 的智慧。去问一杯水为什么它怜悯着雨。 去问后院里疯狂的狗为什么它容忍栓绳。 兄弟姐妹们，当你们孤独一人 度过夜晚时，兴许你会在你的睡梦中坠落。 Lighthead's Guide to the Galaxy Terrance Hayes Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and children of the state, I am here because I could never get the hang of Time. This hour, for example, would be like all the others were it not for the rain falling through the roof. I’d better not be too explicit. My night is careless with itself, troublesome as a woman wearing no bra in winter. I believe everything is a metaphor for sex. Lovemaking mimics the act of departure, moonlight drips from the leaves. You can spend your whole life doing no more than preparing for life and thinking. "Is this all there is?" Thus, I am here where poets come to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice, something to loosen my primate tongue and its syllables of debris. I know all words come from preexisting words and divide until our pronouncements develop selves. The small dog barking at the darkness has something to say about the way we live. I’d rather have what my daddy calls “skrimp.” He says “discrete” and means the street just out of sight. Not what you see, but what you perceive: that’s poetry. Not the noise, but its rhythm; an arrangement of derangements; I’ll eat you to live: that’s poetry. I wish I glowed like a brown-skinned pregnant woman. I wish I could weep the way my teacher did as he read us Molly Bloom’s soliloquy of yes. When I kiss my wife, sometimes I taste her caution. But let’s not talk about that. Maybe Art’s only purpose is to preserve the Self. Sometimes I play a game in which my primitive craft fires upon an alien ship whose intention is the destruction of the earth. Other times I fall in love with a word like
somberness
. Or moonlight juicing naked branches. All species have a notion of emptiness, and yet the flowers don’t quit opening. I am carrying the whimper you can hear when the mouth is collapsed, the wisdom of monkeys. Ask a glass of water why it pities the rain. Ask the lunatic yard dog why it tolerates the leash. Brothers and sisters, when you spend your nights out on a limb, there’s a chance you’ll fall in your sleep.
