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本帖最后由 橙子 于 2018-6-10 10:51 编辑
Blue Hour
for Sean Christophe
by Carolyn Forché
The moon slips from its cerement, and my son, already disappearing into
a man, moves toward his bed for the night, wrapped in a towel of
lake scent.
A viola, night-voiced, calls into its past but nothing comes.
A woman alone rows across the lake. Her life is intact, but what she
thought could never be taken has been taken. An iron bridge railing
one moment its shadow the next.
It is n’y voir que du bleu, it is blind to something. Nevertheless.
Even the most broken life can be restored to its moments.
___________
My son rows toward me against the wind. For thirty-six years, he rows.
In 1986, he is born in Paris.
Bice the clouds, watchet, indigo, woad.
We lived overlooking the cemetery. It was the summer of the Paris
bombings. I walked him among the graves for what seemed hours but
were clouds drifting across marble.
Believing it possible to have back the field in its flowering, my friend has
brought me here, has given ma an open window, the preludes, an
echo of my son’s laughter on the rumpled lake.
Go wherever you can but keep returning to the present.
The human soul weighs twenty-six grams. A cathedral can become
A dovecote.
___________
I was born in America just after the war. My legs grew deformed, and
so they had to be fitted with a special brace.
At night I banged the brace against the wooden crib bars and cried
( so they say) . The cries had to be stopped before I woke “the
entire house.”
___________
In the morning, footsteps, a wind caught between roofs. From the quarry
of souls they come into being: supernal lights, concealed light, light
which has no end.
Everything in the world has a spirit released by its sound.
The room turns white again, and white. For years I have opened my eyes
and not known where I was.
It was like a kettle wrapped in towels and bubbling, spewing camphor
clouds against walls turning the world beyond the windows white.
I couldn’t move, and when they lifted the tented sheet covering the crib
It was only to touch my face.
This was the year my mother’s mother died in the asylum, Eloise.
Mindless. Without protection from the world.
Her hair, white, everywhere, her eyes the windows of a ruined house.
Like a kettle, but made of apothecary glass, so that it was possible to
watch the liquid boil inside.
Sometimes later I would find the suitcase of clippings: walls smeared
with waste, bedsheets mapped in urine, and how later, when Eloise
burned, they were still tied to their chairs.
By later summer, the fields are high with foamflower, fleabane, loosestrife,
mullein, and above these wings like chapel windows.
The first love is also there, running through the field as if he could
escape.
They were in their chairs and in their beds, tied to the bedrails. Some
had locked themselves in the dispensary, as more than the fire they
feared the world.
Here grow bellflower and blind gentian, blue-eyed grass and touch-me-
not. I don’t know who came into that room but spirits also came.
Objects in the room grew small grew large again. The doll laughed like
my mother’s mother.
In every future window their white gowns, a stone ruin behind a sign
forbidding trespass for years to come.
They came into the room and left, and later my mother would suffer the
same emptiness.
In the years just after the war, it was not as certain that a child would
live to be grown. Trucks delivered ice and poured coal into bins below
the houses.
You see, one can live without having survived.
___________
I have returned to Paris: a morning flecked with sparrows, the garret
casements open over the blue-winged roofs.
The two-story windows a spackled fresco of sky.
From the loggia, it is possible to gaze out over the graves. In the armoire,
books, and little paper soldiers fighting the Franco-Prussian War.
At the farm-table many afternoons with the windows open, I conjugated
the future perfect, ivy shivering on cemetery walks, the infant asleep—
How is it possible that I am living here, as if a childhood dream had found
an empty theater in which to mount a small production of its hopes?
___________
The doors of the coal chutes open. It is the grave of Svoboda. A night
paved with news reports, the sky breaking that the world could be
otherwise.
One does not forget stones versus tanks. When our very existence broadcast
an appeal. Shall not say adieu when a country ceases to be.
A little later, a burial on a hillside in a pine box.
The empty flesh like stone beneath my hands—
A field lifted into a train window.
Under the ice, hay flowers, anne’s lace and lupines. My father digging
through snow in a fatigue no sleep could relieve.
And the first love, sequestered in an attic room until spring.
___________
We row to the middle of the lake in a guideboat a century old, water
pewter in a coming-storm light, a diminishing signature of smoke
from one of the cabins.
Will his life open to hers, she asks, now that she has traveled all the way
to the edge of herself?
At night we sleep under blankets also a century old, beside cold stoves
forged at Horseshoe, again a hundred years.
At late day the lake stills, and the hills on the far shore round themselves
in the water.
We climb over rockmoss and lichen, through fern stands and up the
rain-slicked trail to the peak.
No longer could she live alone. As if dead, looking into a mirror with
no face.
Star-spangle, woodsia, walking leaf, the ghosts of great blue heron.
What one of us lives through, each must, so that this, of which we are
part, will know itself.
Here, where there was almost noting, we waited in the birch-lit clouds,
holding the uncertain hand of a lost spirit.
___________
When my son was an infant we woke for his early feeding at I’heure
bleue—cerulean, gentian, hyacinth, delft, jouvence. What were also
the milk hours.
This one who had come toward me all my life now gazed at the skies
above Montparnasse as if someone were there, gesturing to him from
the slate light.
He looked at me and the asylum shimmered, assembled again into brick.
Light and wards of madness. Emptiness left my mother. The first love
in field upon field.
The dolls were dolls, the curtain a curtain. The one in the grave said yes
Adieu, country. Adieu, Franco-Prussian War.
蓝时辰
——致肖恩.克里斯托夫
卡罗琳.佛雪
橙子/ 译
月亮总滑出它的被单摔倒，我的婴儿，已在蜕变为
男人，仍朝黑夜挪向他的小床，裹在一条
湖泊气味的毛巾里。
一把中提琴, 夜晚的低回之音，呼唤着过往但什么也不曾回来。
一个女人独自划破湖面。她生命完满，但她念头中
不可触碰的已被触及。紧接着一架铁桥的栏杆
迅速覆上它自己的影子。
那就是盲眼之蓝，对有些事物来说它再不可见。尽管如此。
甚至快毁灭的生命也能在向死之时得到修复。
___________
我的儿子迎风划向我。三十六年了，他仍在划。
1886年，他出生在巴黎。
灰蓝云群, 浅蓝，靛蓝, 崧蓝。
我们整日眺望墓地。在那个夏天巴黎
曾被炸毁。我陪他在墓碑前学走路，度过的并非时日。它们是
云影漂过大理石。
因为相信荒野还能再度开花，我朋友已经
带我来到这里，赐我一扇打开的窗。如同序曲，
我儿子的笑声回荡在吹皱的湖面。
你能去任何地方但将被眼前不断拉回。
人类的灵魂重二十六克。一座大教堂将变成
一间鸽舍。
___________
我生于战后初期的美国。我的双腿长成畸形，所以
它们只得扭绑在特殊的支架上。
夜里我捶打着横在木头床栏上的支架哭喊
(他们这样说) 。 这些哭喊声必须在我惊醒“整幢房子”前
得到平息。
___________
清晨，脚步声响起，一阵风在屋檐间止息。自灵魂的起源
他们渐渐成为：神秘之灯, 看不见的光芒, 光
永无止尽。
世间万物皆有幽魂，自它们的嗓音发出。
房间再次越变，越白。接连几年我睁开双眼
却不知道自己身在何处。
像用毛巾包裹的沸水壶，对着四壁呼出
樟脑味的云雾，令窗那边的世界变得雪白。
我不能动，当他们搭帐篷似的举起被单要盖住婴儿床
却蒙上了我的脸。
我妈妈的妈妈，爱洛伊斯，这一年死在疯人院。
停止了思想。再没有来自世界的庇护。
她的头发，白色，到处都是，她的眼已是废墟之窗。
也像一把水壶，却是药剂师的玻璃制造，所以还能看见
它内部的液体翻滚。
过些日子我才会发现它是凌乱的储物箱：垃圾涂鸦的
墙壁, 床单已尿成地图, 又过了不知多久，爱洛伊斯
早燃为灰烬, 他们仍绑在自己的椅子前。
漫长的盛夏，荒野丛生着繁密的泡沫花，飞蓬，珍珠菜，
毛蕊花，它们顶端的花翅犹如小教堂之窗。
我的初恋也在那儿，奔跑着穿过旷野，就好像他还能够
逃离。
他们被绑在栏杆上，固定于椅子或床。有些人
宁愿把自己锁在药房里，仿佛相对于火葬场他们
更害怕人间。
这儿生长着风铃花和盲龙胆，蓝眼草和
凤仙。我不知道谁曾进入这个房间但幽魂曾经来过。
房间内的物品再次变小变大。那只木偶笑得就像
我妈妈的妈妈。
后来每扇窗晃动着他们的白病服，年复一年禁止闯入的警示牌后
立着一座石头废墟。
他们进入这个房间又离去，后来我妈妈也将承受
同样的空虚。
战后的最初几年，一个儿童很可能
无法活到被养大。卡车运来冰块，把煤炭倾倒在
房屋的地下室里。
你看，那些没有活下来的人也曾活着。
___________
我已返回巴黎：鸟群黑压压的黎明，顶楼上
窗牖从画着蓝翅膀的屋顶推开。
一座双层窗是由天顶画托举的深穹。
自凉棚中，能越过那些墓碑远眺。壁橱里
书列，渺小的纸上兵士还在普法战役冲锋。
农庄的时刻表上许多午后打开窗，我完美融入
此后的世界, 常春藤在墓碑间的狭道颤抖，婴儿已入眠——
我怎样才能在这里生活？仿佛儿时的梦境
找到一个空剧场，心中又升起渺茫的希求。
___________
门从向下运煤的隧洞口打开。斯沃博达陵园。一夜之间
新战况接踵而来，它们铺天盖地埋没的世界
已非人间。
一个人无法忘却抵抗着坦克的石头。生死存亡之际我们已传遍
一种呼声。纵然国土沦陷
也决不说永别。.
不久后，一个松木盒子在山坡上被掩埋。
一具空荡荡的尸体像我用双手盖住的石头—
野地被托举到车窗前。
冰块底下, 枯干的花，野萝卜花和羽扇豆。我父亲
在睡眠也无法缓解的劳作中挖穿积雪。
我的初恋，被隔离在顶楼直到春天。
___________
我们的导航船向湖心划了一个世纪之久，白镴色水面
笼罩于风暴前昔的光芒，其中一个舱室
作为标识的烟雾信号已在消散。
他的生命会向她打开吗？她问道，既然她一路摸索至
她自己的国境线边缘。
我们夜里裹着毛毯睡觉也有一个世纪之久，紧挨霍斯舒铁匠铺锻造的
冰冷炉灶，又是一个百年。
傍晚的湖水宁静，远处岸上的群峰围住它们投入水中的
倒影。.
我们蹬着布满滑藓和地衣的岩石，攀住蕨类植物站立，把雨后湿滑的鞋迹
一直拖上顶峰。.
她再也无法独自生活。仿佛已经死去，望进去的镜中
没有面孔。
幽蓝星光，岩蕨，过山蕨，大蓝鹭的幽魂出没。
我们任何一个生者，我们所有生者，必将融汇这集体记忆的
每一部分，令它彻悟自身。
在这里，几近夷为废墟的空地，我们等待烧光的桦木升起烟云，
握住一个迷路的幽灵那茫然的手。
___________
当我儿子还是一个婴儿，我们为他的早哺摇醒于 碧蓝
晨曦——钴蓝，龙胆蓝，风信子蓝，代夫特瓷都之蓝，蓝喷泉。那正是
乳汁充盈的时辰。
此生一直走向我的那个人开始凝望
蒙巴纳斯上空的蓝天，仿佛有人在瓦蓝天光中对他
挥手召唤。
他看着我和疯人院开始闪光，又重新化入砖石。
光与精神病区。空虚已离开我妈妈。我的初恋
飞升于荒野之上的荒野。
木偶还是木偶，剧幕只停在那一幕。那坟墓里的人说是的
永别了，故土。永别了，普法战争。
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