The Things
By Donald Hall
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate
物件
每当我走入房间,我瞧见那些绘画
多年前购得,分别装裱并悬挂
——德·库宁,阿普,劳伦斯,亨利·摩尔——
我无比珍视这些画作并细看了多年
然而我的眼睛还是回到了
零碎品的主人身上——一块白色的浑圆石头
棒球运动员的铅制模型,一个牛铃
一把曾祖母破烂的摇椅
一个作废的玩具——毫无价值却难以忘怀
这些垃圾,我的小孩将丢弃
就像我丢掉了母亲及死去的父亲
旅游带回来的纪念品,小猫样的柯达相机
及成捆的她母亲凯特寄来的卡片 |
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