皮影戲
【美】拉爾夫·安吉爾 陳子弘? 譯
她讓發(fā)動(dòng)機(jī)繼續(xù)運(yùn)轉(zhuǎn)新翎。
我也會(huì)這樣缓醋。我愿意娶她署鸡，那個(gè)
在這城市里重復(fù)了千萬(wàn)遍的臉龐请敦。
挨邊汽車的廢氣旁，一個(gè)男人
把他的木腿扭成一個(gè)不可能的
姿勢(shì)储玫。他甚至不需要說(shuō)
“我曉得侍筛，我曉得，沒(méi)人會(huì)討厭我撒穷∠灰”
他只是笑笑。
商販的金屬秤上端礼，日光
閃爍搖動(dòng)禽笑。黑磚上有血入录，
店主取下帶著的眼鏡。
年輕人在門口坐立不安佳镜，
用一只手捂住驚恐
閃現(xiàn)的藍(lán)色僚稿，又后靠
靠向散亂的紙張和腳印，
響聲從他身邊散開(kāi)
卻又不是噪音蟀伸。
此刻女保潔員停下來(lái)
回頭看了看蚀同。以及
郵差、交警啊掏、推自行車的小孩也一樣蠢络。
絕妙好詞棲身于商人們的喉嚨深處，
他們胡扯八扯迟蜜，他們手舞足蹈
滔滔不絕刹孔，直到叫來(lái)出租車。
在我們之間娜睛，只有我們
松開(kāi)的衣服髓霞，亞麻桌布，像瞎子眼睛
一樣白畦戒。只有運(yùn)河船的發(fā)動(dòng)機(jī)聲方库，
只有爬滿青藤的墻，某些匆匆一瞥
空洞了我們雙眼兢交，一但相遇，
一但看去笼痹，便不能熟視無(wú)睹配喳。
一個(gè)可能會(huì)
老去的人。會(huì)滅掉夢(mèng)想的人凳干。
那些會(huì)回來(lái)而且會(huì)
活在面包香氣中的人晴裹，活在廣場(chǎng)中
千百只鴿子舒展聲音中的人。
我愿意要一杯冰水救赐。
這一點(diǎn)就是涧团，當(dāng)我在幸運(yùn)時(shí)分，
世界就會(huì)來(lái)靠近我经磅。
詩(shī)人簡(jiǎn)介：拉爾夫·安吉爾（Ralph Angel泌绣，1951-2020）系第二代塞法迪猶太裔美國(guó)詩(shī)人，出版過(guò)多部詩(shī)集预厌，翻譯有洛爾迦的《深歌之詩(shī)》并獲得威利斯·巴恩斯通詩(shī)歌翻譯獎(jiǎng)阿迈。他一生中還獲得過(guò)普希卡獎(jiǎng)轧叽、格特魯?shù)隆に固┮颡?jiǎng)苗沧、貝絲·霍金獎(jiǎng)刊棕、美國(guó)筆會(huì)文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)及綠玫瑰詩(shī)歌獎(jiǎng)等多項(xiàng)文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)項(xiàng)。晚年擔(dān)任雷德蘭茲大學(xué)伊迪斯·懷特杰出教授及佛蒙特藝術(shù)學(xué)院寫(xiě)作碩士項(xiàng)目指導(dǎo)教師待逞。
RALPH ANGEL
Shadow Play
She leaves the motor running.
I would too. I would like to marry her, that face
repeated a million times in this town.
In the exhaust next door a man
twists his wooden leg into an impossible
position. He doesn't even have to say
"I know, I know, and nobody resentsme."
He just grins.
On the vendor's tin scales, daylight
shifts and splinters. Blood on the black brick,
a shopkeeper sweeps glass from his eyelids.
A young man fidgets in a doorway,
cups his hand around a blue
flicker of panic, and leans back
into the shuffling papers and footsteps,
the noise that opens away from him
and is not noise.
Now a cleaning lady stops herself
and looks over her shoulder. And so does
the mailman, a traffic cop, a kid walking his bike.
And the perfect word lodges
deep in the throats of businessmen
talking gibberish, drawing lines around themselves
until obsessed and hailing taxis.
Only our loose clothes
between us, the linen tablecloths, white
as blindness. Only the putter of canal boats,
the vine-covered walls, some cursory
glance that empties our eyes, when they meet,
of options, and won't let go.
A person who might
grow older. People who will dash their dreams.
People who will come back and
live in the aroma of bread, in the sound of
a thousand doves unfolding the plaza.
I would like a glass of ice water.
It’s the little thing, when I’m lucky
the world comes to me.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?from Poetry
