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美国诗人（poet.org）网站本周焦点诗歌
[这个贴子最后由一树碧无情在 2005/07/11 11:20pm 第 2 次编辑]
译文：
灵与肉II
文/查理斯•怀特
（致科尔曼•霍金斯）
即使雨的缝隙再大。
风景的结构还是如此缜密，
像音乐一样，
无缝, 无形。
是什么使风景聚集，又使音乐归一，
是信念，它出现了――视觉的信念，听觉的信念。
任何语言都无法抵达，
然而，云彩像花朵一样被风吹动，由西及东
四月，一切都成为可能。
有一个关于唐僧的故事。
一个和尚, 他从西安到南印度
穿行万哩，苦渡经年
过高山，涉沙漠，
――在马鞍，在驼峰, 在象背，在
自己的脚上。
为了取得真经，
他坚信心诚则灵，
不变的信条使他逃脱千难万险，
忍受了无法忍受的劫难。
终于取到了真经。
这些日子，我看一些事情，无不是通过它们，
并且低下头，远离外面的世界。
啜泣的樱桃色礁石使珊瑚茂盛，
邻居后廊的灯光像银莲花一样盛开。
乌贼眼金星在头上漂浮。
而这仅仅是时间的一半，光明的一半，黑暗的
一半，
当一切开始发光，
而且深藏于树中，
他们的翼将折叠，他们的头将低下。
每首真正的诗都是火花，
并且渴望原始的火
现于空灵。
诗的愿望就是点燃这样的空灵。
它造成了空灵，又希望被空灵再造。
流星。
相同的4月，
神圣，无语，焚毁。
它的光是促使我们亲密无间的光。
它的目的地是我们自己，它的希望是我们赖以
生存的期冀。
Wang Wei，走了另一个极端，
他30岁之前在Wang 河买下他的著名庄园
就在南山东部以东，
并在他有生之年
深居简出，住在那里。
他从不去旅行和寻找风景，但他呆在风景中，
自己成了大自然的一分子，他想。
而谁会说不呢
对于某人作茧自缚，自陷于孤独，
陷于失败，他认为，但能承受。
下午，天空的颜色酷似麦子制成的奶油，那么一
小团黄油，在西边，在天边，朦朦胧胧。
等到因衰老和慵懒而无法写诗，
我将从苹果树上
观看雪落。
如同Wang Wei所言，环境如此优美，弱化了
孤独锋利的边缘。
原文：
Body and Soul II
by Charles Wright
(for Coleman Hawkins)
The structure of landscape is infinitesimal,
Like the structure of music, seamless, invisible.
Even the rain has larger sutures.
What holds the landscape together, and what holds music together,
Is faith, it appears--faith of the eye, faith of the ear.
Nothing like that in language,
However, clouds chugging from west to east like blossoms
Blown by the wind.
April, and anything';s possible.
Here is the story of Hsuan Tsang.
A Buddhist monk, he went from Xian to southern India
And back--on horseback, on camel-back, on elephant-back, and on.
foot.
Ten thousand miles it took him, from 29 to 645,
Mountains and deserts,
In search of the Truth,
the heart of the heart of Reality,
The Law that would help him escape it,
And all its attendant and inescapable suffering.
And he found it.
These days, I look at things, not through them,
And sit down low, as far away from the sky as I can get.
The reef of the weeping cherry flourishes coral,
The neighbor';s back porch light bulbs glow like anemones.
Squid-eyed Venus floats forth overhead.
This is the half hour, half-light, half-dark,
when everything starts to shine out,
And aphorisms skulk in the trees,
Their wings folded, their heads bowed.
Every true poem is a spark,
and aspires to the condition of the original fire
Arising out of the emptiness.
It is that same emptiness it wants to reignite.
It is that same engendering it wants to be re-engendered by.
Shooting stars.
April';s identical,
celestial, wordless, burning down.
Its light is the light we commune by.
Its destination';s our own, its hope is the hope we live with.
Wang Wei, on the other hand,
Before he was 30 years old bought his famous estate on the Wang River
Just east of the east end of the Southern Mountains,
and lived there,
Off and on, for the rest of his life.
He never travelled the landscape, but stayed inside it,
A part of nature himself, he thought.
And who would say no
To someone so bound up in solitude,
in failure, he thought, and suffering.
Afternoon sky the color of Cream of Wheat, a small
Dollop of butter hazily at the western edge.
Getting too old and lazy to write poems,
I watch the snowfall
From the apple trees.
Landscape, as Wang Wei says, softens the sharp edges of isolation.
附诗人简介：
查尔斯・怀特，生于1935 年，1998年获普利策诗歌大奖。有一本诗集叫《中国踪影》。
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