小小的散文诗
文/丽塔·多夫
译/倪大也
这应该算是散文吧？如果它不停地延展，一长串的词语，太多了，来不及排列成列，像醉汉一样赤裸裸地跌进战场，大声喊着“到此报到，长官！”像是从数十亿化工厂泄出的粼粼废流，只是这点点碎光，就足以将一个小女孩送过房间，牛津鞋踩在厚厚的米色地毯上，窗帘因春风轻扬——是水仙花的香气飘进来了吗？
水仙花并无香气，但散文才不在乎。散文喜欢听自己的声音，散文就是发展，就是高潮与结局，是前菜旁边的期待，是开胃小食里肆意横生的欲望——比如，一只银叉被悲伤地捻起，而女主公将亚麻餐巾紧紧攥在膝上，以免自己在坎皮恩勋爵深情地倾向那位富有的年轻寡妇时失声惊叫……散文欣然赞许这样的句法缠绵。
那么，诗歌呢？它是不是一种限制？它沿着自身的轴线颤动，像一根在狂风中苏醒的旗杆，挥舞着那炫目的衣袖高喊——“这边！是我！”而留白（空气、田野、上课铃响前的清晨静默）在这道光芒中塑形……如果是这样，我们此刻拥有的，是梦境，还是三段文字？这页纸上也有留白，这是一种音乐吗？至于那些被拒之门外的词语，它们仍在叩响大门——我们本可以让它们进来，可那样，我们该如何安放命令，如何安放这磕磕绊绊的骄傲？
原文：
Prose in a Small Space
Rita Dove
It’s supposed to be prose if it runs on and on, isn’t it? All those words, too many to fall into rank and file, stumbling bareassed drunk onto the field reporting for duty, yessir, spilling out as shamelessly as the glut from a megabillion dollar chemical facility, just the amount of glittering effluvium it takes to transport a little girl across a room, beige carpet thick under her oxfords, curtains blowzy with spring — is that the scent of daffodils drifting in?
Daffodils don’t smell but prose doesn’t care. Prose likes to hear itself talk; prose is development and denouement, anticipation hovering near the canapés, lust rampant in the antipasta — e.g., a silver fork fingered sadly as the heroine crumples a linen napkin in her lap to keep from crying out at the sight of Lord Campion’s regal brow inclined tenderly toward the wealthy young widow . . . prose applauds such syntactical dalliances.
Then is it poetry if it’s confined? Trembling along its axis, a flagpole come alive in high wind, flapping its radiant sleeve for attention — Over here! It’s me! — while the white spaces (air, field, early morning silence before the school bell) shape themselves around that one bright seizure . . . and if that’s so what do we have here, a dream or three paragraphs? We have white space too; is this music? As for all the words left out, banging at the gates . . . we could let them in, but where would we go with our orders, our stuttering pride? |
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