BETROTHED
Jack Gilbert（杰克·吉尔伯特）
You hear yourself walking on snow.
You hear the absence of birds.
A stillness so complete, you hear
the whispering inside of you. Alone
morning after morning, and even more
at night. They say we are born alone,
to live and die alone. But they are wrong.
We get to be alone by time, by luck,
or by misadventure. When I hit the log
frozen in the woodpile to break it free,
it makes a sound of perfect inhumanity,
which goes pure all through the valley,
like a crow calling unexpectedly
at the darker end of the twilight that awakens
me in the middle of a life. The black
and white of me mated with this indifferent
winter landscape. I think of the moon
coming in a little while to find the white
among these colorless pines
订婚
你听见自己走在雪地上
你听见鸟的缺席
完整的寂静，你听见
你体内的低语
清晨接续清晨的孤独，在夜晚更甚
他们说，我们孤独而生
孤独而活、孤独而死。但他们错了
我们只是循着时间，循着幸运或困厄
才抵达了孤独。当我敲击
冻结在木堆中的圆木，放它自由
它发出的纯然声响，会传遍整个山谷
像一只乌鸦，在黎明前的黑暗尽头
发出不期的鸣叫，把我
从人生中途唤醒。黑白的我匹配
这相异的冬景。我想起一会出来的月亮
临照这些黯淡的松树，就发现了白
Music Is in the Piano Only When It Is Played
We are not one with this world. We are not
the complexity our body is, nor the summer air
idling in the big maple without purpose.
We are a shape the wind makes in these leaves
as it passes through. We are not the wood
any more than the fire, but the heat which is a marriage
between the two. We are certainly not the lake
nor the fish in it, but the something that is
pleased by them. We are the stillness when
a mighty Mediterranean noon subtracts even the voices of
insects by the broken farmhouse. We are evident
when the orchestra plays, and yet are not part
of the strings or brass. Like the song that exists
only in the singing, and is not the singer.
God does not live among the church bells
but is briefly resident there. We are occasional
like that. A lifetime of easy happiness mixed
with pain and loss, trying always to name and hold
on to the enterprise under way in our chest.
Reality is not what we marry as a feeling. It is what
walks up the dirt path, through the excessive heat
and giant sky, the sea stretching away.
He continues past the nunnery to the old villa
where he will sit on the terrace with her, their sides
touching. In the quiet that is the music of that place,
which is the difference between silence and windlessness.
只有被弹奏时的琴声，才停驻于钢琴
我们不是和世界一体。我们不是
我们躯体的复杂折叠，也不是夏天的空气
在一棵大枫树里无目的地闲荡
我们是风，穿过树叶造出的一个形状
我们不是火焰，更不是木头，我们是热
它们之间的联姻。我们当然不是湖
和湖里的鱼，而是被它们愉悦过的某物
我们是寂静，当辽阔地中海的正午削弱了
临近破败农舍的虫鸣。我们是清晰
当整个乐队奏响，而不是局部的管弦
就像歌声不在歌手身上，而在歌唱之中
上帝不住在教堂的钟里面，只是短暂逗留
像我们也将转瞬即逝。一生的轻松快乐
混杂着痛与失落，总是试图被命名
试图抓住激荡我们心胸的进取
现实不是我们所结合的一种感觉，它是泥泞
路上的跋涉，穿过酷热与广袤天空，并向着海洋
无尽延展。他继续过修道院来到旧别墅
那儿，他和她坐在阳台，依偎在一起
寂静是那里的音乐，也是沉默与无风之间的区别
Rain
Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
And the browns gone gray
And yellow
A terrible amber.
In the cold streets
Your warm body.
In whatever room
Your warm body.
Among all the people
Your absence
The people who are always
Not you.
I have been easy with trees
Too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Now
Suddenly
This rain.
雨
突然如同败落
这场雨
蓝色转灰
棕色转灰
黄，凝成可怕的琥珀
在冷冷的街
你温热的身
或无论哪间屋
你温热的身
混迹人群形同缺席
无人是你
我曾和树
淹留自在
和山也如此亲密
欢乐如常
现在
突然
这场雨
MAYBE VERY HAPPY
After she died he was seized
by a great curiosity about what
it was like for her. Not that he
doubted how much she loved him.
But he knew there must have been
some things she had not liked.
So he went to her closest friend
and asked what she complained of.
"It's all right," he had to keep
saying,"I really won't mind."
Until the friend finally gave in.
"She said sometimes you made a noise
drinking your tea if it was very hot.”
也许非常幸福
她死后，他被一个巨大的好奇攫住
她生前感觉如何？倒不是怀疑
她非常爱他，而是他知道
那里一定有她不欢喜的东西
他走访她的密友
询问她抱怨过什么
“没关系”他坚持说，“我真的不在意”
最终，朋友屈从了他——
“她说，有时候你喝茶的声音
好大，如果茶水很烫”
没有阅读或诗句不被中断
——读杰克·吉尔伯特
这散漫而平常的一天，入夜我不得不
把隐没阳台的夜色
想象成滋养过美洲或罗马的海洋
风与静谧相伴
舰船的帆在等候消失的海鸥
我在这头
是翻卷也是凝冻的海岸
攥紧一些不安的词，等候你在雨中的败落
作为你模糊的到达之中
会有一阵清晰
描你多皱的脸
我要进入你伟大的遗忘
并在你色彩多变的冷暖小道穿行
把你爱过的再爱一遍
把你疑惑的专注的，像篝火继续燃烧
不是你也不是我
而是阅读，形同人影憧憧中的
激情或错认
才让一句诗在一首诗中
让一首诗在我们彼此寂静的生命里
像丰收一样
操劳而喜悦地喧腾、跃动
作为一个词或一块砖
我进入你，我围观你，我构筑了
无数你的可能
是我此刻珍藏的唯一现实
这鸡零狗碎的一天
也是万物的一天
消失于合乎预期的一生，奢靡而暖
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大牛，别默默的看了，快登录帮我点评一下吧！:)
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