冯岩译西尔维娅.普拉斯诗15首

1. 忧郁的鼹鼠
I
两只鼹鼠钻出黑布袋
他们死在卵石砾的凹槽里
像无形的手套，几只脚趾分离-----
小绒绒狗和狐狸已经开始咀嚼
孤零零的一个 只有他自己，似乎足以让人怜惜
几乎没有牺牲者被大的生物发掘
从他环绕的榆树根下
第二次的残骸引发一场决斗
失去理智的双胞胎恶劣地啃咬着残余的尸骸

遥远的苍穹一万碧青

落叶，毁灭他们金黄的洞穴
道路与湖水间
不再是凶险裸露的空间
鼹鼠把石头作为中立的落脚点
他们螺旋形的鼻子，白色的手
抬起，在家族中摆着变硬的姿态
难以想像怎样击败怒吼----
现在解决了一个古老冒着狼烟的战争

II
夜晚突发的象鼻战争
在老兵的耳畔再一次响起
我笨拙地参与了打击鼹鼠的战役
灯光意味着死亡，他们蜷缩在洞里
当我熟睡时他们穿过他们死寂的房间
用手掌挖掘放在一边的泥土
他是胖孩子，也是根和岩石下的挖掘者
白天就是土层上的距离
黎明就是一个人的孤寂

大大的手挖掘出一条路
走在前面：打开纹理
挖掘
甲壳虫、牛杂碎、陶瓷碎片的附属物-----被吃掉
日复一日
最后的厌食就是遥远的天堂
一如既往的遥远是我们之间
发生在黑暗里逐渐都消失的余音
像每一次那么容易而平常的呼吸

2. 一触即发

赞美雕像：
因为这些坚固的态度
和这些凝视成石的目光
穿越青苔的眼睑和鸟儿经过的足迹
在某个坚固的地方
越过远处变换无常的绿
疾驰而弹开的光
在这若即若离的公园随想

活泼的孩子们在旋转
像云端的色彩穿越时间
不能停下也不明白
他们所有的比赛一触即发：
但是，冲啊！ 他们哭喊，他们摇摆
旋转的弧度高过树梢
冲啊！不停地旋转
他们被来回拖拽

我，像被困住的孩子
在人间与死亡抗衡
让我路过的目光撕掉一滴泪
为每一个稚嫩的孩子在游戏里闪烁
像叶子和云朵
在相同的意境中冷漠地擦肩而过
看着多石头的眼睛
我的目光与镶嵌在岩石中的眼睛
一触即发流着泪

3星星划过多尔多涅河

星星是跌落在密密麻麻头里的小苗
树梢的轮廓是黑暗的
没有星星的夜晚天空是黑沉沉的
森林是一口井，星星默默坠落
它们似乎很大，然而跌落时无处可见
它们掉落时也没发生火灾
也没有任何信号也没有焦躁
但它们却立即吞掉松林

稀疏的星星黎明到达我家
我尽心竭力
可它们是那么苍白、那么无趣的旅行
那些较小的或更小的似乎从没有来过
但它们停下，远离现实就坐落在它们自己的灰尘里
它们是孤儿，我看不到它们，它们在我的视线里迷失
但今晚它们已经被发现在没有困难的银河里
它们是纯净自信的行星

过山车是我经常光顾的常客
我错过猎户星座和仙后星座的讲座
或许他们羞涩地悬挂镶嵌在地平线
就像一个孩子简单的数学难题
有限的数字似乎是天上的
或者他们也出席他们伪装的那么明亮的夜
我俯瞰他们看的太疲惫
或许这不是正确的季节

假如这的天空与众不同
那是我的眼睛已经削磨它？
那么一颗豪华的星星将我阻隔
我习惯的那几个是平凡耐用的
我想它们不希望那么考究服饰
或太多的交往、或温和的南方
他们也许是清教徒和隐士-----
他们之间的一个滑落会离开太空


在它曾经闪烁的地方华丽转身
我现在躺下，后背对着我自己的那颗孤独的黑星星
我看头上的这些星座
桃园里甜甜的空气温暖不了我
这些星星厚爱着我，舒缓我的每一颗细胞
在山峦，它们是点燃城堡的灯火
每一次摇摆的铃声是清点他们的奶牛
我闭上眼睛
喝着夜晚微弱的凉意如同聆听家的消息

4.家庭团聚

我听到外面的街上
砰然一声响的车门 声音极近
语无伦次的废话
高跟鞋敲击着步伐
门铃撕碎正午的高温
警察的干预
使一切再一次平静
我的脉冲迟钝地反复打着鼓声
安静逐渐消失
门从里面被打开
奥 听见人们会面的碰撞声
大声笑尖叫地打着招呼：

似乎一直肥胖的喘不上来气
在每一张面颊上露出油腻的神情
从伊丽莎白姑妈
在那里是头面人物
高兴而语塞的库欣.简
未嫁的老姑娘用褪色的目光
手像局促不安的蝴蝶
粗糙的像木头的碎屑
穿越所有人心灵的底线
保罗叔叔是铿锵有力的男中音
最小的侄子发出一声焦躁的哭泣
口水在那一刻流成线

想像一个选手站在高高的跳台
我站在飞机的楼梯上
一个漩涡向我荡送秋波
我摆脱我的身份
起身跳进漩涡

5.养蜂人的女儿

一座奇异的花园：紫色、猩红色点缀着
黑色的花冠膨胀，剥卷着他们的丝
被麝香味侵犯不间断地循环着
气味太浓密以至让人不能呼吸
大音乐家蜜蜂，穿着僧人的双排扣礼服
一直在拥挤的蜂巢里移动

我的心在你的脚下被一只姊妹石践踏

鸟嘴敞开喇叭嗓子
金雨树跌下屑粉
这些小贵妇人的闺房用橙色和红色点亮
花粉向着他们的王子点头
创世纪的时代，富饶了空气里的芬芳
这是女王的身份不是一个母亲所能竞争的----

那是一只被毁灭的水果：黑色的果肉被削掉黑色的果皮

洞穴像一个手指那么狭窄，独居蜂在草地上管理着家务
我跪下，把眼睛放在一个洞口和一只圆眼睛、绿眼睛相逢
孤独忧郁地流泪
爸爸、新郎
在这个复活节的彩蛋下玫瑰伸出甜蜜的花冠

蜂王嫁给你的冬天

6.        私人领地

初霜 我走在玫瑰跌落果实的路上
你带来希腊人冷酷美丽的脚趾
救出欧洲废墟上的遗迹
纽约的森林温暖着你的胸口
很快每一位白衣女士将用栅栏阻隔
对抗噼啪脆响的寒冬

整个清晨冒着白色烟雾似不停地喘息
工匠排出鱼池水
他们像倒塌的肺叶，在水波纹里穿梭
一层层细波清洁柏拉图桌上的生活
小鲤鱼被丢在像柑橘皮的泥浆里

十一后，我知道你有那么多房产
我知道我根本就不需要再去工作
一条超级高速路封闭了我
毒品交易，装进由北向南的车里
摧毁参杂着蛇形的纽带。 在这的草丛里
在我的鞋子里卸下他们的悲伤

吱吱呀呀的木头喊着疼痛，那一天它忘了自己
我俯身喝下水池里的小鱼
像泥浆弯曲冻结
他们像眼里闪着的光，我收集了所有
像陈尸所里过去的记忆和古旧的肖像
湖泊打开又关闭接受他们生命的回声

7在冬天醒来

我能品尝锡色的天空-----真的是灰蒙蒙的
冬天的黎明是金属的颜色
树木变硬像燃烧的神经
整夜我都梦见摧毁、灭绝-----
一条流水线割断了喉咙  也切断了我和你
灰色的雪佛兰离去
静止的草坪喝下绿色的毒液
小小楔形板下的墓地
在去海滩的路上、在胶轮下安静地生息

阳台里那么多回声！太阳点燃头颅上的光
解开扣子的骨骼面对着风景
空间！空隙！ 被单和枕套彻底地精疲力竭
折叠床在可怕的态度里融化 还有襁褓中的婴儿---
每一个婴儿的母亲都在她受伤即将消逝的灵魂上打着补丁
死亡的款待不再满意
意念的空间里，或微笑、或面对美丽的橡胶植物
或海洋，她们像老妈妈喝过吗啡剥去理智一样安静

8.鹰

时钟敲响12下
大街不像森林的边缘：
灵光----照亮 稀少的人群
抓起婚宴橱窗里的糕点
钻戒、盆栽的玫瑰、模特蜡像上狐狸皮般的红润
画面在玻璃镜框里汇聚
像来自深深凹陷的地下室

凶猛的鹰向栅栏前移动
然而街灯和电线在平行地嚎叫
墙对着墙
伸展的翅膀控制着飞行速度

肚子下面的羽毛，看起来是那么的柔软
老鼠的牙齿撕破鹰的内脏
整座城市被鹰的哭泣动摇

9秋天的青蛙

夏天把冷血的妈妈变老
昆虫在减少、瘦削
我们就在这沼泽的家中呱呱地叫，渐渐枯萎

每天早上在懒惰中浪费
太阳慢慢地拖着明亮的光
在无髓的芦苇里摆动，苍蝇舍弃了我们
他厌倦了沼泽地

霜滴在蜘蛛身上
天才编织大量的房子让他自己无处可逃
我们的亲属悲哀地变得越来越少

10丢失的父爱

现在，你将意识到缺席
像一棵在你身边长大的树
澳大利亚失去色彩死亡的桉树 ---
光秃秃的，被闪电割去---幻觉
一个天空像一头猪的臀部，完全失去关注
但现在你哑口无言
我爱你的愚昧
在盲人的镜子里
我找到了没有面孔的自己
你想那是多么滑稽
对我来说却太好了
你攫取我的嗅觉和登天的云梯
总有一天你会触摸所犯的错----
小小的骷髅，在碎石丛生的山丘，那里可怕的静谧
直到你的微笑被财富找到
那是曾经的父爱

11健忘症

没用的，没用的，现在祈求认识我！
不再忍受那么美丽的空白， 一切都删除了
名字、房子、车钥匙

妻子的小玩具---
清除、叹息、叹息
还有四个曾溺爱的孩子

护理薄弱的生命做临时医生
把食物挤进他嘴里
偶有意外发生

剥落他的外衣
一切都是徒劳
他与枕头拥抱

像红头发的姐妹他从来不敢去摸
他梦想一个新的---
空洞的，许多都是空洞的！

另一种颜色
他们将去旅行！旅行！旅行！
风景燃烧掉他们兄妹的后顾之忧

一颗彗星拖着长长的尾巴划过！
财富像所有消失的细胞，流过
又来了一个护工

一杯绿色的饮料 一杯蓝色的
它们在两边升起像他的两颗星
两种饮料一面似火焰一面似泡沫

奥，妈妈、妻子
亲爱的，忘却的是我的妻子
我从来没有，从来没有，没有回过家！

12.女作家

她整天用骨骼在世界地图上下棋
非常喜爱（突然窗外开始下雨）
她躺在靠垫上蜷缩着
突然轻咬糖果时产生了罪恶

她穿着整洁的、粉红的女士双排扣大衣
她在房间里看护着用玫瑰红糊的梦幻巧克力
擦亮的高橱吱吱呀呀地低声咒骂
温床上散发着永不凋谢的玫瑰

她手指上的石榴石敏捷地闪着光
血液穿越手稿反射
她沉浸在芳香和恶心的气味里
腐烂的栀子花在她的腋下

总是在迷失的隐喻里休养
那张孩子般苍白的脸在大街上哭泣

13.儿童公园的石头

在阳光照不到的天空、松荫下
绿色发黑发霉
铸造者放了些弯曲有裂痕的石头
像织布机上昏暗的过滤器
黑色像烧焦的膝关节

一个巨人的灭绝
动物，来自于另一个世界
年龄，无疑来自另一个星球
两侧镶嵌着橙子和紫红色火焰般的杜鹃花
是神圣的不可侵犯者

这些石头守卫着黑暗的静默
当炽热的太阳照射时依然完整保持着身形
而玫瑰和鸢尾花改变了影子----
长的、短的、长的---在灯光下的花园
燃尽夕阳中的余辉

把杜鹃花染成昏暗的色彩
然而迅速燃尽
接着光变浅
午夜则变强
在正午时各种各样的气候燃遍了每一个柔软和倔强

这依然是石头的心脏：
石头带着整个夏天消失
它们的梦想是冬天的寒冷
石头作为霜的唯一形式把仅有的温暖留在核心

没有撬棍能连根撬出它们
它们的根须永远长青
没有人再那么做
或许百年
直到畅饮河水
不再有饥渴妨碍石床

14.墓穴

这是一座墓地，很大
我给自己建的
从一个宁静的角落一间间堆起
在变老发黄的纸上咀嚼
渗出粘合剂
哀鸣在我的耳畔响起
这也让我想起许多
有那么多地窖
像精灵挖的墓穴
像一只鹰在空中盘旋
我看到我自己是唯一的光线
哪一天我或许丢掉小狗或一只小马驹
我的腹部在移动
我必须做更多的草图

这些是多髓的隧道！
拾起发霉的食物，我吃个精光
满嘴吞噬灌木丛
和锅里的肉
他住进一口老井
是一个石洞，他备受折磨
他是一个肥胖者

鹅卵石的腥臭是无精打采者的会所
小鼻孔呼吸
像短暂而简陋的爱情
无聊的像无骨的鼻子
她的温暖可以容隐
灵魂深处的根
这是一个想让人拥抱的母亲

15.蓝胡子

我退还钥匙
就要进入蓝胡子的书房
因为他将向我示爱
我送还钥匙
在他眼睛的暗室里我能看见
我X光的心脏   它能切开身体
我送还钥匙
就是让我进入蓝胡子的书房看透他黑暗中的心机



1Blue Moles - Poem by Sylvia Plath

1
They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two
Moles dead in the pebbled rut,
Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —-
Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.
One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,
Little victim unearthed by some large creature
From his orbit under the elm root.
The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:
Blind twins bitten by bad nature.

The sky's far dome is sane a clear.
Leaves, undoing their yellow caves
Between the road and the lake water,
Bare no sinister spaces. Already
The moles look neutral as the stones.
Their corkscrew noses, their white hands
Uplifted, stiffen in a family pose.
Difficult to imagine how fury struck —-
Dissolved now, smoke of an old war.

2
Nightly the battle-snouts start up
In the ear of the veteran, and again
I enter the soft pelt of the mole.
Light's death to them: they shrivel in it.
They move through their mute rooms while I sleep,
Palming the earth aside, grubbers
After the fat children of root and rock.
By day, only the topsoil heaves.
Down there one is alone.

Outsize hands prepare a path,
They go before: opening the veins,
Delving for the appendages
Of beetles, sweetbreads, shards — to be eaten
Over and over. And still the heaven
Of final surfeit is just as far
From the door as ever. What happens between us
Happens in darkness, vanishes
Easy and often as each breath.


2 Touch-And-Go - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Sing praise for statuary:
Sing praise for statuary:
For those anchored attitudes
And staunch stone eyes that stare
Through lichen-lid and passing bird-foot
At some steadfast mark
Beyond the inconstant green
Gallop and flick of light
In this precarious park

Where vivid children twirl
Like colored tops through time
Nor stop to understand
How all their play is touch-and-go:
But, Go! they cry, and the swing
Arcs up to the tall tree tip;
Go! and the merry-go-round
Hauls them round with it.

And I, like the children, caught
In the mortal active verb,
Let my transient eye break a tear
For each quick, flaring game
Of child, leaf and cloud,
While on this same fugue, unmoved,
Those stonier eyes look,
Safe-socketed in rock.

3 Stars Over The Dordogne - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.

Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

4 Family Reunion - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Outside in the street I hear
A car door slam; voices coming near;
Incoherent scraps of talk
And high heels clicking up the walk;
The doorbell rends the noonday heat
With copper claws;
A second's pause.
The dull drums of my pulses beat
Against a silence wearing thin.
The door now opens from within.
Oh, hear the clash of people meeting —-
The laughter and the screams of greeting :

Fat always, and out of breath,
A greasy smack on every cheek
From Aunt Elizabeth;
There, that's the pink, pleased squeak
Of Cousin Jane, out spinster with
The faded eyes
And hands like nervous butterflies;
While rough as splintered wood
Across them all
Rasps the jarring baritone of Uncle Paul;
The youngest nephew gives a fretful whine
And drools at the reception line.

Like a diver on a lofty spar of land
Atop the flight of stairs I stand.
A whirlpool leers at me,
I cast off my identity
And make the fatal plunge.

5 The Beekeeper's Daughter - Poem by Sylvia Plath

A garden of mouthings. Purple, scarlet-speckled, black
The great corollas dilate, peeling back their silks.
Their musk encroaches, circle after circle,
A well of scents almost too dense to breathe in.
Hieratical in your frock coat, maestro of the bees,
You move among the many-breasted hives,

My heart under your foot, sister of a stone.

Trumpet-throats open to the beaks of birds.
The Golden Rain Tree drips its powders down.
In these little boudoirs streaked with orange and red
The anthers nod their heads, potent as kings
To father dynasties. The air is rich.
Here is a queenship no mother can contest —-

A fruit that's death to taste: dark flesh, dark parings.

In burrows narrow as a finger, solitary bees
Keep house among the grasses. Kneeling down
I set my eyes to a hole-mouth and meet an eye
Round, green, disconsolate as a tear.
Father, bridegroom, in this Easter egg
Under the coronal of sugar roses

The queen bee marries the winter of your year.

6 Private Ground - Poem by Sylvia Plath

First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes
Of the Greek beauties you brought
Off Europe's relic heap
To sweeten your neck of the New York woods.
Soon each white lady will be boarded up
Against the crackling climate.

All morning, with smoking breath, the handyman
Has been draining the goldfish ponds.
They collapse like lungs, the escaped water
Threading back, filament by filament, to the pure
Platonic table where it lives. The baby carp
Litter the mud like orangepeel.



Eleven weeks, and I know your estate so well
I need hardly go out at all.
A superhighway seals me off.
Trading their poisons, the north and south bound cars
Flatten the doped snakes to ribbon. In here, the grasses
Unload their griefs on my shoes,

The woods creak and ache, and the day forgets itself.
I bend over this drained basin where the small fish
Flex as the mud freezes.
They glitter like eyes, and I collect them all.
Morgue of old logs and old images, the lake
Opens and shuts, accepting them among its reflections

7 Waking In Winter - Poem by Sylvia Plath

I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-
An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I
Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green
Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones,
Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.

How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up
The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view!
Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely.
Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —-
Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared.
The deathly guests had not been satisfied
With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants,
Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.

8 Owl - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise
Than its suburb of woods : nimbus—-
Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows
Of wedding pastries,

Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-skins
Ruddy on the wax mannequins
In a glassed tableau of affluence.
From deep-sunk basements

What moved the pale, raptorial owl
Then, to squall above the level
Of streetlights and wires, its wall to wall
Wingspread in control

Of the ferrying currents, belly
Dense-feathered, fearfully soft to
Look upon? Rats' teeth gut the city
Shaken by owl cry.

9 Frog Autumn - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.

Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.

10 For A Fatherless Son - Poem by Sylvia Plath

You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree —-
Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny.
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong —-
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.

11 Amnesiac - Poem by Sylvia Plath

No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,

The little toy wife—
Erased, sigh, sigh.
Four babies and a cocker!


Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor
Tuck him in.
Old happenings

Peel from his skin.
Down the drain with all of it!
Hugging his pillow
Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,
He dreams of a new one—
Barren, the lot are barren!

And of another color.
How they'll travel, travel, travel, scenery
Sparking off their brother-sister rears

A comet tail!
And money the sperm fluid of it all.
One nurse brings in

A green drink, one a blue.
They rise on either side of him like stars.
The two drinks flame and foam.
O sister, mother, wife,
Sweet Lethe is my life.
I am never, never, never coming home!

12 Female Author - Poem by Sylvia Plath

All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:
Favored (while suddenly the rains begin
Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled
And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin.

Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses
Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms
Where polished higboys whisper creaking curses
And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms.


The garnets on her fingers twinkle quick
And blood reflects across the manuscript;
She muses on the odor, sweet and sick,
Of festering gardenias in a crypt,

And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats
From gray child faces crying in the streets.

13 Child's Park Stones - Poem by Sylvia Plath

In sunless air, under pines
Green to the point of blackness, some
Founding father set these lobed, warped stones
To loom in the leaf-filtered gloom
Black as the charred knuckle-bones

Of a giant or extinct
Animal, come from another
Age, another planet surely. Flanked
By the orange and fuchsia bonfire
Of azaleas, sacrosanct

These stones guard a dark repose
And keep their shapes intact while sun
Alters shadows of rose and iris —-
Long, short, long —- in the lit garden
And kindles a day's-end blaze

Colored to dull the pigment
Of azaleas, yet burnt out
Quick as they. To follow the light's tint
And intensity by midnight
By noon and throughout the brunt

Of various weathers is
To know the still heart of the stones:
Stones that take the whole summer to lose
Their dream of the winter's cold; stones
Warming at core only as

Frost forms. No man's crowbar could
Uproot them: their beards are ever-
Green. Nor do they, once in a hundred
Years, go down to drink the river:
No thirst disturbs a stone's bed.

14 Dark House - Poem by Sylvia Plath

This is a dark house, very big.
I made it myself,
Cell by cell from a quiet corner,
Chewing at the grey paper,
Oozing the glue drops,
Whistling, wiggling my ears,
Thinking of something else.

It has so many cellars,
Such eelish delvings!
U an round as an owl,
I see by my own light.
Any day I may litter puppies
Or mother a horse. My belly moves.
I must make more maps.

These marrowy tunnels!
Moley-handed, I eat my way.
All-mouth licks up the bushes
And the pots of meat.
He lives in an old well,
A stoney hole. He's to blame.
He's a fat sort.

Pebble smells, turnipy chambers.
Small nostrils are breathing.
Little humble loves!
Footlings, boneless as noses,
It is warm and tolerable
In the bowel of the root.
Here's a cuddly mother.


15 Bluebeard - Poem by Sylvia Plath

I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study;
because he would make love to me
I am sending back the key;
in his eye's darkroom I can see
my X-rayed heart, dissected body :
I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study.




作者简介：
西尔维娅.普拉斯（Sylvia Plath）（1932-1963），生于美国，她的父母均为教师，她是继艾米莉•狄金森和伊丽莎白•毕肖普之后最重要的美国女诗人，也是美国自白派诗人的代表，在世界诗歌档案前500诗人中，名列14的重要地位。
西尔维娅.普拉斯31岁的短暂生命里，留下许多不朽的诗篇。生前，只出版过两本著作，一是诗集《巨人及其他诗歌》(The Colossus and Other Poems)，另外出版了自传体长篇小说《钟形罩》(The Bell Jar），去世后，特德•休斯编选诗集《爱丽尔》(Ariel)、《渡湖》(Crossing Waters)，《冬树》(Winter Trees)及《普拉斯诗全集》，《普拉斯诗全集》1982年获得普利策奖 。


【简介】冯岩，高校教师，副教授，美国西俄勒冈大学访问学者；诗歌、小说、散文、翻译诗作品散见百余家报刊杂志 。荣获2019年第三届中国“十佳当代诗人”奖；有作品获首届“凤凰山杯”全国山水诗大赛二等奖、《海燕》文学月刊特别奖、第二届“周庄杯”记住乡愁爱我中华二等奖等奖项；翻译诗获大连金普新区金石文艺奖；翻译诗入选上海28届金秋诗会《我爱我的祖国》合集版本等。译著《种子是花开的过去》《时间称出的重量》。

冯岩译西尔维娅.普拉斯诗15首

1. 忧郁的鼹鼠
I
两只鼹鼠钻出黑布袋
他们死在卵石砾的凹槽里
像无形的手套，几只脚趾分离-----
小绒绒狗和狐狸已经开始咀嚼
孤零零的一个 只有他自己，似乎足以让人怜惜
几乎没有牺牲者被大的生物发掘
从他环绕的榆树根下
第二次的残骸引发一场决斗
失去理智的双胞胎恶劣地啃咬着残余的尸骸

遥远的苍穹一万碧青

落叶，毁灭他们金黄的洞穴
道路与湖水间
不再是凶险裸露的空间
鼹鼠把石头作为中立的落脚点
他们螺旋形的鼻子，白色的手
抬起，在家族中摆着变硬的姿态
难以想像怎样击败怒吼----
现在解决了一个古老冒着狼烟的战争

II
夜晚突发的象鼻战争
在老兵的耳畔再一次响起
我笨拙地参与了打击鼹鼠的战役
灯光意味着死亡，他们蜷缩在洞里
当我熟睡时他们穿过他们死寂的房间
用手掌挖掘放在一边的泥土
他是胖孩子，也是根和岩石下的挖掘者
白天就是土层上的距离
黎明就是一个人的孤寂

大大的手挖掘出一条路
走在前面：打开纹理
挖掘
甲壳虫、牛杂碎、陶瓷碎片的附属物-----被吃掉
日复一日
最后的厌食就是遥远的天堂
一如既往的遥远是我们之间
发生在黑暗里逐渐都消失的余音
像每一次那么容易而平常的呼吸

2. 一触即发

赞美雕像：
因为这些坚固的态度
和这些凝视成石的目光
穿越青苔的眼睑和鸟儿经过的足迹
在某个坚固的地方
越过远处变换无常的绿
疾驰而弹开的光
在这若即若离的公园随想

活泼的孩子们在旋转
像云端的色彩穿越时间
不能停下也不明白
他们所有的比赛一触即发：
但是，冲啊！ 他们哭喊，他们摇摆
旋转的弧度高过树梢
冲啊！不停地旋转
他们被来回拖拽

我，像被困住的孩子
在人间与死亡抗衡
让我路过的目光撕掉一滴泪
为每一个稚嫩的孩子在游戏里闪烁
像叶子和云朵
在相同的意境中冷漠地擦肩而过
看着多石头的眼睛
我的目光与镶嵌在岩石中的眼睛
一触即发流着泪

3星星划过多尔多涅河

星星是跌落在密密麻麻头里的小苗
树梢的轮廓是黑暗的
没有星星的夜晚天空是黑沉沉的
森林是一口井，星星默默坠落
它们似乎很大，然而跌落时无处可见
它们掉落时也没发生火灾
也没有任何信号也没有焦躁
但它们却立即吞掉松林

稀疏的星星黎明到达我家
我尽心竭力
可它们是那么苍白、那么无趣的旅行
那些较小的或更小的似乎从没有来过
但它们停下，远离现实就坐落在它们自己的灰尘里
它们是孤儿，我看不到它们，它们在我的视线里迷失
但今晚它们已经被发现在没有困难的银河里
它们是纯净自信的行星

过山车是我经常光顾的常客
我错过猎户星座和仙后星座的讲座
或许他们羞涩地悬挂镶嵌在地平线
就像一个孩子简单的数学难题
有限的数字似乎是天上的
或者他们也出席他们伪装的那么明亮的夜
我俯瞰他们看的太疲惫
或许这不是正确的季节

假如这的天空与众不同
那是我的眼睛已经削磨它？
那么一颗豪华的星星将我阻隔
我习惯的那几个是平凡耐用的
我想它们不希望那么考究服饰
或太多的交往、或温和的南方
他们也许是清教徒和隐士-----
他们之间的一个滑落会离开太空


在它曾经闪烁的地方华丽转身
我现在躺下，后背对着我自己的那颗孤独的黑星星
我看头上的这些星座
桃园里甜甜的空气温暖不了我
这些星星厚爱着我，舒缓我的每一颗细胞
在山峦，它们是点燃城堡的灯火
每一次摇摆的铃声是清点他们的奶牛
我闭上眼睛
喝着夜晚微弱的凉意如同聆听家的消息

4.家庭团聚

我听到外面的街上
砰然一声响的车门 声音极近
语无伦次的废话
高跟鞋敲击着步伐
门铃撕碎正午的高温
警察的干预
使一切再一次平静
我的脉冲迟钝地反复打着鼓声
安静逐渐消失
门从里面被打开
奥 听见人们会面的碰撞声
大声笑尖叫地打着招呼：

似乎一直肥胖的喘不上来气
在每一张面颊上露出油腻的神情
从伊丽莎白姑妈
在那里是头面人物
高兴而语塞的库欣.简
未嫁的老姑娘用褪色的目光
手像局促不安的蝴蝶
粗糙的像木头的碎屑
穿越所有人心灵的底线
保罗叔叔是铿锵有力的男中音
最小的侄子发出一声焦躁的哭泣
口水在那一刻流成线

想像一个选手站在高高的跳台
我站在飞机的楼梯上
一个漩涡向我荡送秋波
我摆脱我的身份
起身跳进漩涡

5.养蜂人的女儿

一座奇异的花园：紫色、猩红色点缀着
黑色的花冠膨胀，剥卷着他们的丝
被麝香味侵犯不间断地循环着
气味太浓密以至让人不能呼吸
大音乐家蜜蜂，穿着僧人的双排扣礼服
一直在拥挤的蜂巢里移动

我的心在你的脚下被一只姊妹石践踏

鸟嘴敞开喇叭嗓子
金雨树跌下屑粉
这些小贵妇人的闺房用橙色和红色点亮
花粉向着他们的王子点头
创世纪的时代，富饶了空气里的芬芳
这是女王的身份不是一个母亲所能竞争的----

那是一只被毁灭的水果：黑色的果肉被削掉黑色的果皮

洞穴像一个手指那么狭窄，独居蜂在草地上管理着家务
我跪下，把眼睛放在一个洞口和一只圆眼睛、绿眼睛相逢
孤独忧郁地流泪
爸爸、新郎
在这个复活节的彩蛋下玫瑰伸出甜蜜的花冠

蜂王嫁给你的冬天

6.        私人领地

初霜 我走在玫瑰跌落果实的路上
你带来希腊人冷酷美丽的脚趾
救出欧洲废墟上的遗迹
纽约的森林温暖着你的胸口
很快每一位白衣女士将用栅栏阻隔
对抗噼啪脆响的寒冬

整个清晨冒着白色烟雾似不停地喘息
工匠排出鱼池水
他们像倒塌的肺叶，在水波纹里穿梭
一层层细波清洁柏拉图桌上的生活
小鲤鱼被丢在像柑橘皮的泥浆里

十一后，我知道你有那么多房产
我知道我根本就不需要再去工作
一条超级高速路封闭了我
毒品交易，装进由北向南的车里
摧毁参杂着蛇形的纽带。 在这的草丛里
在我的鞋子里卸下他们的悲伤

吱吱呀呀的木头喊着疼痛，那一天它忘了自己
我俯身喝下水池里的小鱼
像泥浆弯曲冻结
他们像眼里闪着的光，我收集了所有
像陈尸所里过去的记忆和古旧的肖像
湖泊打开又关闭接受他们生命的回声

7在冬天醒来

我能品尝锡色的天空-----真的是灰蒙蒙的
冬天的黎明是金属的颜色
树木变硬像燃烧的神经
整夜我都梦见摧毁、灭绝-----
一条流水线割断了喉咙  也切断了我和你
灰色的雪佛兰离去
静止的草坪喝下绿色的毒液
小小楔形板下的墓地
在去海滩的路上、在胶轮下安静地生息

阳台里那么多回声！太阳点燃头颅上的光
解开扣子的骨骼面对着风景
空间！空隙！ 被单和枕套彻底地精疲力竭
折叠床在可怕的态度里融化 还有襁褓中的婴儿---
每一个婴儿的母亲都在她受伤即将消逝的灵魂上打着补丁
死亡的款待不再满意
意念的空间里，或微笑、或面对美丽的橡胶植物
或海洋，她们像老妈妈喝过吗啡剥去理智一样安静

8.鹰

时钟敲响12下
大街不像森林的边缘：
灵光----照亮 稀少的人群
抓起婚宴橱窗里的糕点
钻戒、盆栽的玫瑰、模特蜡像上狐狸皮般的红润
画面在玻璃镜框里汇聚
像来自深深凹陷的地下室

凶猛的鹰向栅栏前移动
然而街灯和电线在平行地嚎叫
墙对着墙
伸展的翅膀控制着飞行速度

肚子下面的羽毛，看起来是那么的柔软
老鼠的牙齿撕破鹰的内脏
整座城市被鹰的哭泣动摇

9秋天的青蛙

夏天把冷血的妈妈变老
昆虫在减少、瘦削
我们就在这沼泽的家中呱呱地叫，渐渐枯萎

每天早上在懒惰中浪费
太阳慢慢地拖着明亮的光
在无髓的芦苇里摆动，苍蝇舍弃了我们
他厌倦了沼泽地

霜滴在蜘蛛身上
天才编织大量的房子让他自己无处可逃
我们的亲属悲哀地变得越来越少

10丢失的父爱

现在，你将意识到缺席
像一棵在你身边长大的树
澳大利亚失去色彩死亡的桉树 ---
光秃秃的，被闪电割去---幻觉
一个天空像一头猪的臀部，完全失去关注
但现在你哑口无言
我爱你的愚昧
在盲人的镜子里
我找到了没有面孔的自己
你想那是多么滑稽
对我来说却太好了
你攫取我的嗅觉和登天的云梯
总有一天你会触摸所犯的错----
小小的骷髅，在碎石丛生的山丘，那里可怕的静谧
直到你的微笑被财富找到
那是曾经的父爱

11健忘症

没用的，没用的，现在祈求认识我！
不再忍受那么美丽的空白， 一切都删除了
名字、房子、车钥匙

妻子的小玩具---
清除、叹息、叹息
还有四个曾溺爱的孩子

护理薄弱的生命做临时医生
把食物挤进他嘴里
偶有意外发生

剥落他的外衣
一切都是徒劳
他与枕头拥抱

像红头发的姐妹他从来不敢去摸
他梦想一个新的---
空洞的，许多都是空洞的！

另一种颜色
他们将去旅行！旅行！旅行！
风景燃烧掉他们兄妹的后顾之忧

一颗彗星拖着长长的尾巴划过！
财富像所有消失的细胞，流过
又来了一个护工

一杯绿色的饮料 一杯蓝色的
它们在两边升起像他的两颗星
两种饮料一面似火焰一面似泡沫

奥，妈妈、妻子
亲爱的，忘却的是我的妻子
我从来没有，从来没有，没有回过家！

12.女作家

她整天用骨骼在世界地图上下棋
非常喜爱（突然窗外开始下雨）
她躺在靠垫上蜷缩着
突然轻咬糖果时产生了罪恶

她穿着整洁的、粉红的女士双排扣大衣
她在房间里看护着用玫瑰红糊的梦幻巧克力
擦亮的高橱吱吱呀呀地低声咒骂
温床上散发着永不凋谢的玫瑰

她手指上的石榴石敏捷地闪着光
血液穿越手稿反射
她沉浸在芳香和恶心的气味里
腐烂的栀子花在她的腋下

总是在迷失的隐喻里休养
那张孩子般苍白的脸在大街上哭泣

13.儿童公园的石头

在阳光照不到的天空、松荫下
绿色发黑发霉
铸造者放了些弯曲有裂痕的石头
像织布机上昏暗的过滤器
黑色像烧焦的膝关节

一个巨人的灭绝
动物，来自于另一个世界
年龄，无疑来自另一个星球
两侧镶嵌着橙子和紫红色火焰般的杜鹃花
是神圣的不可侵犯者

这些石头守卫着黑暗的静默
当炽热的太阳照射时依然完整保持着身形
而玫瑰和鸢尾花改变了影子----
长的、短的、长的---在灯光下的花园
燃尽夕阳中的余辉

把杜鹃花染成昏暗的色彩
然而迅速燃尽
接着光变浅
午夜则变强
在正午时各种各样的气候燃遍了每一个柔软和倔强

这依然是石头的心脏：
石头带着整个夏天消失
它们的梦想是冬天的寒冷
石头作为霜的唯一形式把仅有的温暖留在核心

没有撬棍能连根撬出它们
它们的根须永远长青
没有人再那么做
或许百年
直到畅饮河水
不再有饥渴妨碍石床

14.墓穴

这是一座墓地，很大
我给自己建的
从一个宁静的角落一间间堆起
在变老发黄的纸上咀嚼
渗出粘合剂
哀鸣在我的耳畔响起
这也让我想起许多
有那么多地窖
像精灵挖的墓穴
像一只鹰在空中盘旋
我看到我自己是唯一的光线
哪一天我或许丢掉小狗或一只小马驹
我的腹部在移动
我必须做更多的草图

这些是多髓的隧道！
拾起发霉的食物，我吃个精光
满嘴吞噬灌木丛
和锅里的肉
他住进一口老井
是一个石洞，他备受折磨
他是一个肥胖者

鹅卵石的腥臭是无精打采者的会所
小鼻孔呼吸
像短暂而简陋的爱情
无聊的像无骨的鼻子
她的温暖可以容隐
灵魂深处的根
这是一个想让人拥抱的母亲

15.蓝胡子

我退还钥匙
就要进入蓝胡子的书房
因为他将向我示爱
我送还钥匙
在他眼睛的暗室里我能看见
我X光的心脏   它能切开身体
我送还钥匙
就是让我进入蓝胡子的书房看透他黑暗中的心机



1Blue Moles - Poem by Sylvia Plath

1
They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two
Moles dead in the pebbled rut,
Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —-
Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.
One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,
Little victim unearthed by some large creature
From his orbit under the elm root.
The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:
Blind twins bitten by bad nature.

The sky's far dome is sane a clear.
Leaves, undoing their yellow caves
Between the road and the lake water,
Bare no sinister spaces. Already
The moles look neutral as the stones.
Their corkscrew noses, their white hands
Uplifted, stiffen in a family pose.
Difficult to imagine how fury struck —-
Dissolved now, smoke of an old war.

2
Nightly the battle-snouts start up
In the ear of the veteran, and again
I enter the soft pelt of the mole.
Light's death to them: they shrivel in it.
They move through their mute rooms while I sleep,
Palming the earth aside, grubbers
After the fat children of root and rock.
By day, only the topsoil heaves.
Down there one is alone.

Outsize hands prepare a path,
They go before: opening the veins,
Delving for the appendages
Of beetles, sweetbreads, shards — to be eaten
Over and over. And still the heaven
Of final surfeit is just as far
From the door as ever. What happens between us
Happens in darkness, vanishes
Easy and often as each breath.


2 Touch-And-Go - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Sing praise for statuary:
Sing praise for statuary:
For those anchored attitudes
And staunch stone eyes that stare
Through lichen-lid and passing bird-foot
At some steadfast mark
Beyond the inconstant green
Gallop and flick of light
In this precarious park

Where vivid children twirl
Like colored tops through time
Nor stop to understand
How all their play is touch-and-go:
But, Go! they cry, and the swing
Arcs up to the tall tree tip;
Go! and the merry-go-round
Hauls them round with it.

And I, like the children, caught
In the mortal active verb,
Let my transient eye break a tear
For each quick, flaring game
Of child, leaf and cloud,
While on this same fugue, unmoved,
Those stonier eyes look,
Safe-socketed in rock.

3 Stars Over The Dordogne - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.

Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

4 Family Reunion - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Outside in the street I hear
A car door slam; voices coming near;
Incoherent scraps of talk
And high heels clicking up the walk;
The doorbell rends the noonday heat
With copper claws;
A second's pause.
The dull drums of my pulses beat
Against a silence wearing thin.
The door now opens from within.
Oh, hear the clash of people meeting —-
The laughter and the screams of greeting :

Fat always, and out of breath,
A greasy smack on every cheek
From Aunt Elizabeth;
There, that's the pink, pleased squeak
Of Cousin Jane, out spinster with
The faded eyes
And hands like nervous butterflies;
While rough as splintered wood
Across them all
Rasps the jarring baritone of Uncle Paul;
The youngest nephew gives a fretful whine
And drools at the reception line.

Like a diver on a lofty spar of land
Atop the flight of stairs I stand.
A whirlpool leers at me,
I cast off my identity
And make the fatal plunge.

5 The Beekeeper's Daughter - Poem by Sylvia Plath

A garden of mouthings. Purple, scarlet-speckled, black
The great corollas dilate, peeling back their silks.
Their musk encroaches, circle after circle,
A well of scents almost too dense to breathe in.
Hieratical in your frock coat, maestro of the bees,
You move among the many-breasted hives,

My heart under your foot, sister of a stone.

Trumpet-throats open to the beaks of birds.
The Golden Rain Tree drips its powders down.
In these little boudoirs streaked with orange and red
The anthers nod their heads, potent as kings
To father dynasties. The air is rich.
Here is a queenship no mother can contest —-

A fruit that's death to taste: dark flesh, dark parings.

In burrows narrow as a finger, solitary bees
Keep house among the grasses. Kneeling down
I set my eyes to a hole-mouth and meet an eye
Round, green, disconsolate as a tear.
Father, bridegroom, in this Easter egg
Under the coronal of sugar roses

The queen bee marries the winter of your year.

6 Private Ground - Poem by Sylvia Plath

First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes
Of the Greek beauties you brought
Off Europe's relic heap
To sweeten your neck of the New York woods.
Soon each white lady will be boarded up
Against the crackling climate.

All morning, with smoking breath, the handyman
Has been draining the goldfish ponds.
They collapse like lungs, the escaped water
Threading back, filament by filament, to the pure
Platonic table where it lives. The baby carp
Litter the mud like orangepeel.



Eleven weeks, and I know your estate so well
I need hardly go out at all.
A superhighway seals me off.
Trading their poisons, the north and south bound cars
Flatten the doped snakes to ribbon. In here, the grasses
Unload their griefs on my shoes,

The woods creak and ache, and the day forgets itself.
I bend over this drained basin where the small fish
Flex as the mud freezes.
They glitter like eyes, and I collect them all.
Morgue of old logs and old images, the lake
Opens and shuts, accepting them among its reflections

7 Waking In Winter - Poem by Sylvia Plath

I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-
An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I
Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green
Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones,
Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.

How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up
The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view!
Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely.
Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —-
Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared.
The deathly guests had not been satisfied
With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants,
Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.

8 Owl - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise
Than its suburb of woods : nimbus—-
Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows
Of wedding pastries,

Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-skins
Ruddy on the wax mannequins
In a glassed tableau of affluence.
From deep-sunk basements

What moved the pale, raptorial owl
Then, to squall above the level
Of streetlights and wires, its wall to wall
Wingspread in control

Of the ferrying currents, belly
Dense-feathered, fearfully soft to
Look upon? Rats' teeth gut the city
Shaken by owl cry.

9 Frog Autumn - Poem by Sylvia Plath

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.

Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.

10 For A Fatherless Son - Poem by Sylvia Plath

You will be aware of an absence, presently,
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree —-
Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny.
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong —-
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.

11 Amnesiac - Poem by Sylvia Plath

No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,

The little toy wife—
Erased, sigh, sigh.
Four babies and a cocker!


Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor
Tuck him in.
Old happenings

Peel from his skin.
Down the drain with all of it!
Hugging his pillow
Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,
He dreams of a new one—
Barren, the lot are barren!

And of another color.
How they'll travel, travel, travel, scenery
Sparking off their brother-sister rears

A comet tail!
And money the sperm fluid of it all.
One nurse brings in

A green drink, one a blue.
They rise on either side of him like stars.
The two drinks flame and foam.
O sister, mother, wife,
Sweet Lethe is my life.
I am never, never, never coming home!

12 Female Author - Poem by Sylvia Plath

All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:
Favored (while suddenly the rains begin
Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled
And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin.

Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses
Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms
Where polished higboys whisper creaking curses
And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms.


The garnets on her fingers twinkle quick
And blood reflects across the manuscript;
She muses on the odor, sweet and sick,
Of festering gardenias in a crypt,

And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats
From gray child faces crying in the streets.

13 Child's Park Stones - Poem by Sylvia Plath

In sunless air, under pines
Green to the point of blackness, some
Founding father set these lobed, warped stones
To loom in the leaf-filtered gloom
Black as the charred knuckle-bones

Of a giant or extinct
Animal, come from another
Age, another planet surely. Flanked
By the orange and fuchsia bonfire
Of azaleas, sacrosanct

These stones guard a dark repose
And keep their shapes intact while sun
Alters shadows of rose and iris —-
Long, short, long —- in the lit garden
And kindles a day's-end blaze

Colored to dull the pigment
Of azaleas, yet burnt out
Quick as they. To follow the light's tint
And intensity by midnight
By noon and throughout the brunt

Of various weathers is
To know the still heart of the stones:
Stones that take the whole summer to lose
Their dream of the winter's cold; stones
Warming at core only as

Frost forms. No man's crowbar could
Uproot them: their beards are ever-
Green. Nor do they, once in a hundred
Years, go down to drink the river:
No thirst disturbs a stone's bed.

14 Dark House - Poem by Sylvia Plath

This is a dark house, very big.
I made it myself,
Cell by cell from a quiet corner,
Chewing at the grey paper,
Oozing the glue drops,
Whistling, wiggling my ears,
Thinking of something else.

It has so many cellars,
Such eelish delvings!
U an round as an owl,
I see by my own light.
Any day I may litter puppies
Or mother a horse. My belly moves.
I must make more maps.

These marrowy tunnels!
Moley-handed, I eat my way.
All-mouth licks up the bushes
And the pots of meat.
He lives in an old well,
A stoney hole. He's to blame.
He's a fat sort.

Pebble smells, turnipy chambers.
Small nostrils are breathing.
Little humble loves!
Footlings, boneless as noses,
It is warm and tolerable
In the bowel of the root.
Here's a cuddly mother.


15 Bluebeard - Poem by Sylvia Plath

I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study;
because he would make love to me
I am sending back the key;
in his eye's darkroom I can see
my X-rayed heart, dissected body :
I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study.




作者简介：
西尔维娅.普拉斯（Sylvia Plath）（1932-1963），生于美国，她的父母均为教师，她是继艾米莉•狄金森和伊丽莎白•毕肖普之后最重要的美国女诗人，也是美国自白派诗人的代表，在世界诗歌档案前500诗人中，名列14的重要地位。
西尔维娅.普拉斯31岁的短暂生命里，留下许多不朽的诗篇。生前，只出版过两本著作，一是诗集《巨人及其他诗歌》(The Colossus and Other Poems)，另外出版了自传体长篇小说《钟形罩》(The Bell Jar），去世后，特德•休斯编选诗集《爱丽尔》(Ariel)、《渡湖》(Crossing Waters)，《冬树》(Winter Trees)及《普拉斯诗全集》，《普拉斯诗全集》1982年获得普利策奖 。


【简介】冯岩，高校教师，副教授，美国西俄勒冈大学访问学者；诗歌、小说、散文、翻译诗作品散见百余家报刊杂志 。荣获2019年第三届中国“十佳当代诗人”奖；有作品获首届“凤凰山杯”全国山水诗大赛二等奖、《海燕》文学月刊特别奖、第二届“周庄杯”记住乡愁爱我中华二等奖等奖项；翻译诗获大连金普新区金石文艺奖；翻译诗入选上海28届金秋诗会《我爱我的祖国》合集版本等。译著《种子是花开的过去》《时间称出的重量》。