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两首英文诗|博尔赫斯

Two English Poems


                          I

   

   The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-

      corner; I have outlived the night.

   Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves

      laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with

      things unlikely and desirable.

   Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,

      of things half given away, half withheld,

      of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act

      that way, I tell you.

   The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds

      and odd ends: some hated friends to chat

      with, music for dreams, and the smoking of

      bitter ashes.  The things my hungry heart

      has no use for.

   The big wave brought you.

   Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily

      and incessantly beautiful.  We talked and you

      have forgotten the words.

   The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street

      of my city.

   Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to

      make your name, the lilt of your laughter:

      these are the illustrious toys you have left me.

   I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find

      them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and

      to the few stray stars of the dawn.

   Your dark rich life ... 

   I must get at you, somehow; I put away those

      illustrious toys you have left me, I want your

      hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely,

      mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

   

                       II

   

   What can I hold you with?

   I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the

      moon of the jagged suburbs.

   I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked

      long and long at the lonely moon.

   I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts

      that living men have honoured in bronze:

      my father's father killed in the frontier of

      Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,

      bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in

      the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather

      --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of

      three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on

      vanished horses.

   I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, 

      whatever manliness or humour my life.

   I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never

      been loyal.

   I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,

      somehow --the central heart that deals not

      in words, traffics not with dreams, and is

      untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

   I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at

      sunset, years before you were born.

   I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about

      yourself, authentic and surprising news of

      yourself.

   I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the

      hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you

      with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

   

   

                     - Jorge Luis Borges (1934)



I

拂晓时分,我伫立在阒无一人的街角,我熬过了夜晚.
夜晚是骄傲的波浪;深蓝色的、头重脚轻的波浪带着深翻泥土的种种颜色,带着不太可能、但称心如意的事物。
夜晚有一种赠与和拒绝、半舍半留的神秘习惯,有黑暗半球的欢乐。夜晚就是那样,我对你说。
那夜的波涛留给了我惯常的零星琐碎:几个讨厌的聊天朋友、梦中音乐、辛辣的灰烬烟雾。我渴望的心用不着的东西。
巨浪带来了你。
言语,任何言语,你的笑声;还有懒洋洋而美得心醉的你。我们谈着话,而你已忘记言语。
旭日初升,我在我的城市里一条阒无一人的街上。
你转过身的侧影,组成你名字的发音,你有韵律的笑声:这些情景都让我久久回味。
我在黎明时细细琢磨,我失去了它们,我又找到了;我向几条野狗诉说,也向黎明寥寥的晨星诉说。
你隐秘而丰富的生活……
我必须设法了解你:我敞开你留给我的回味,我要你那隐藏的容颜,你真正的微笑——你冷冷的镜子反映的寂寞而嘲弄的微笑。

II


我用什么才能留驻你?
我给你贫穷的街道、绝望的日落、破败郊区的月亮。
我给你一个久久地望着孤月的人的悲哀。
我给你我已死去的先辈,人们用大理石纪念他们的幽灵:在布宜诺斯艾利斯边境阵亡的我父亲的父亲,两颗子弹穿了他的胸膛。蓄着胡子的他死去了,士兵们用牛皮裹起他的尸体;我母亲的祖父——时年二十四岁——在秘鲁率领三百名士兵冲锋,如今都成了消失的马背上的幽灵。
我给你我写的书中所能包含的一切悟力、我生活中所能有的男子气概或幽默。
我给你一个从未有过信仰人的忠诚。
我给你我设法保全的我自己的核心——不营字造句,不和梦想交易,不被时间、欢乐和逆境触动的核心。
我给你,早在你出生前多年的一个傍晚看到的一朵黄玫瑰的记忆。
我给你对自己的解释,关于你自己的理论,你自己的真实而惊人的消息。
我给你我的寂寞、我的黑暗、我心的饥渴;我试图用困惑、危险、失败来打动你。我给你,早在你出生前多年的一个傍晚看到的一朵黄玫瑰的记忆。


2014-09-12  | 75  |  #文摘 #诗
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