推 GETpoint:有融入蜜蜂的苦勞感 很生動 10/20 23:30
渡冬
這是休息的時間, 無事可做.
我啟動了助產士的吸取器,
我有蜂蜜,
六罐,
而在放酒的地窖有六隻貓的眼睛,
渡入了黑暗的冬天 沒有窗
在房子的中央
在上個房客腐臭的果醬旁
空空的玻璃瓶發亮—
也許是某個爵士剩的琴酒
這是我從未進入的房間.
這是在裡面我無法呼吸的房間.
黑暗在裡面聚集如一隻蝙蝠,
沒有光
只有火把與其餘燼.
發霉的黃色在令人害怕的物品上—
黑暗不走 腐蝕
占有
它們擁有了我
不殘酷也不冷淡
只是無感
這是蜜蜂繼續努力的時候—這些蜜蜂
如此緩慢 我幾乎不認識它們
如士兵整齊排列
至楓糖漿罐
去補充我吃掉的蜂蜜
蜂蜜公司使它們繼續
精煉的雪
它們以蜂蜜公司 而非花 維生
它們拿走它 然後冬天來了
現在它們搬入一顆大球
漆黑的
心 對抗所有的白
雪的微笑是白色的
它把自己展開 麥森市的一哩長
在那兒, 在溫暖的時候,
它們只能攜帶死亡的同伴
蜜蜂都是女人
女僕們和細長高貴的皇后
它們已擺脫男人
那些愚鈍,笨拙,跌跌撞撞的人, 粗野人.
冬天是給女人的---
女人,仍坐著縫織
在西班牙胡桃木作的搖籃旁
她的身體是寒冬中的溫暖燈泡 蠢笨到無法思考
蜂巢能否倖存 這些胸膛能否
成功保存溫暖的火
以活著進入來年?
它們會嚐到什麼, 聖誕節的玫瑰嗎?
蜜蜂們飛著 它們嚐到的是春天
Note 1:原詩中的”Tate and Lyle”是英國一家有名的跨國農產公司, 最有名的產品為
楓糖漿.這邊我暫且將”Tate and Lyle”翻為”蜂蜜公司,”以符合上下文的意思.
Note 2: 印象中題目"渡冬"為其他譯者的翻譯,因為想不出更好的翻譯,故續用.
Note 3: 似乎,我和其他喜歡Plath的同好快把她的詩集都翻完了 :)
Wintering
This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,
Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters ----
Sir So-and-so's gin.
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
Chinese yellow on appalling objects ----
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women ----
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
--
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◆ From: 111.251.147.183
※ 編輯: sylviaplath 來自: 111.251.147.183 (10/20 22:56)
※ 編輯: sylviaplath 來自: 111.251.147.183 (10/20 23:25)