热爱沉于睡眠

毕晓普 诗/施玮  译

凌晨，转换所有的路径

横越天空，熄灭一颗星到另一颗，

将一条条街道的尽头

与光的列车相连，

此刻于床上将我们拖入白昼；

且除尽了头脑中的紧压：

释放出霓虹的形状

流动，并且膨胀，并且耀目

沿着双目间灰色的大道

落进粉色和黄色，字母及痉挛的符号。

残留的月光，衰微，衰微！

我透过窗子看着

一个巨大的城市，小心谨慎地显露出来，

超凡的技艺描绘出它的细微精妙，

细致更细致，

飞檐覆显于屋群，

迟缓地升起抵达那

苍白的天空，它像是在那儿踌躇。

（在那里，它缓慢地成长于

水色玻璃的天空

从融化的铁珠与铜晶之间，

一个小小的化学“庭院”在坛子里

震动并又重新站立，

苍蓝色，蓝绿色，瓦蓝色。）

麻雀匆忙地，开始着它们的活动。

然而，在西面，“轰隆！”一朵烟云。

“轰隆！”那爆裂的花球

又再次绽放

（那声音在园中高呼“危险”，“死亡”，

所有在那儿种植的园丁

都逃回他们的睡眠并且感觉着

短短的汗毛根根竖起

在后颈上。）烟云移动着离去。

一件衬衫从晾衣绳上滑落。

沿着街道下的

水车而来

撒出它嘶嘶的声响，雪白地扇形掠过

剥落物和报纸。水干了

浅浅的干，深深的潮湿

如同凉西爪的样式。

我听见晨钟敲响的白昼

在石墙、大厅和铁床间，

如散乱或是聚集的瀑布，

为那己预期的发出警报：

所有人的美妙爱神都起来了，

他们整日预备着晚餐，

你将宴请圆满

在他的心中，在他的，和他的，

于是，向他们递送你行动的激情，

把他们珍奇的爱强拉上街。

仅以玫瑰来鞭打他们，

轻轻地好似氦，

总是一个，或几个，清晨来临，

他的头落在他的床边，

他的脸翻转来

那城市的影像

映落在他开启的眼中

颠倒并扭曲，不！我的意思是

变形地呈现，

若他全然看见了它。

Love Lies Sleeping

           Elizabeth  Bishop

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks

That cross the sky from cinder star to star,

coupling the ends of streets

to trains of light,

now draw us into daylight in our beds;

and clear away what presses on the brain:

put out the neon shapes

that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes

in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.

Hang-over moons, wane, wane!

From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,

Made delicate by over-workmanship,

Detail upon detail,

Cornice upon façade,

Reaching so languidly up into

A weak white sky, it seems to waver there.

(Where it has slowly grown

in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,

the little chemical “garden” in a jar

trembles and stands again,

pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.

Then, in the west, “Boom!” and a cloud of smoke.

    “Boom!” and the exploding ball

    of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in plants

where such a sound says “Danger,” or once said “Death,” 

    turn in their sleep and feel

    the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.

A shirt is taken off a threadlike clothes-line.

    Along the street below

the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across

peelings and newspapers. The water dries

    light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern

    of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike

From stony walls and halls and iron beds,

    scattered or grouped cascades,

    alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,

whose evening meal they will prepare all day,

    you will dine well

    on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,

dragging in the streets their unique loves.

    Scourge them with roses only,

    Be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes,

whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,

    whose face is turned

    so that the image of 

the city grows down into his open eyes

inverted and distorted. No. I mean

    distorted and revealed,

    if he sees it at all.