[翻譯]Plath,《Ariel》, [30] The Swarm

[kamadevas (蔗尾蜂房)]

蜂擁
--Sylvia Plath, 羅浩原 譯

我們鎮上有人在開槍──
禮拜天的街上傳來低沈的砰、砰聲。
嫉妒能挑起血腥，
會造出朵朵黑色玫瑰。
到底是衝著誰射擊？

衝著你刀劍紛紛出鞘
蝟集滑鐵盧，喔滑鐵盧，拿破崙，
厄爾巴島的瘤丘鼓在你矮短的脊背上
風雪則督統著銀亮的兵刃
一簇又一簇地發出殺聲！

殺！你的對手可都是棋子，
屹立的象牙人物。
泥漿發出咳嘔聲
被法國軍靴踩在踏腳石下。
金粉的俄式圓頂消熔流散在

貪婪這熔爐裡。雲聚，雲聚。
蜂擁成一球而後出逃
於七丈高處，鑽入棵黑松樹。
可得把那一窩蜂擊落。砰！砰！
槍彈悶響令蜂群以為是雷聲隆隆。

以為那是上帝的聲音
縱容著狗去探鼻、舞爪、齜牙
那群獵犬中，一隻黃膘的
正朝著牠的牙白骨頭咧嘴獰笑
正如那狗黨，那狗黨，正如每個鄉民。

蜂群已飛得很遠。七丈多高！
俄國、波蘭與德國！
和緩的重重山巒、同顯老成的片片茜紅
田疇縮成鎳幣大小
滾進了長河，又穿過長河。

在那團黑球中，群蜂爭論著
如隻會飛的箭豬，渾身是刺。
伸著灰手的人站在蜜巢下
此乃群蜂夢之所繫，如擁擠的車站
一列列火車，忠實地循著鋼鐵的弧線，

進站出站，這是個無止境的國度。
砰！砰！蜂群墜落
瓦解，掉入一叢長春藤裡。
雙輪戰車、騎兵開道，大軍團盛極而衰！
只剩一縷紅碎布，拿破崙呀！

最後一枚勝利徽章。
蜂群被擊墜到一頂底朝天的草帽中。
厄爾巴呀厄爾巴，海上的泡沫！
元帥、提督、將軍們白色的胸像
蠕動著自己爬進了神龕。

這多麼具有教育意味啊！
呆滯、著條紋囚衣的身軀
踏上綴飾著母國法蘭西三色布幔的絞架板
墜入一座新的陵墓，
一座象牙的宮殿，岔枝的松樹。

伸著灰手的人微笑著──
生意人的微笑，勢利的不得了。
那手根本就不是手
而是石棉套。
砰！砰！「被他們宰的也可能會是我。」

蜂針支支大如圖釘！
蜂群各各榮譽至上，
這是種又黑又拗的意志。
拿破崙大悅，一切都稱了他的心。
哦，歐羅巴洲！蜂蜜之多車載斗量！


The Swarm
--Sylvia Plath

Somebody is shooting at something in our town
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at?

It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The hump of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off

In the furnace of greed.  Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm balls and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.

It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.

The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!

The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.

How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.

The man with gray hands smiles--
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! "They would have killed me."

Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!



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