冬藏
--Sylvia Plath
這段時間可以放輕鬆，現在無事可做。
我捲好了助產士的真空吸取器，
我自有我的蜂蜜，
整整六罐，
儲放在酒窖裡的六顆貓眼睛，
冬藏於無窗的黑暗中
在房屋的中心
在前一個房客酸臭的果醬旁
在一堆亮晶晶的空瓶--
某某爵士喝完的琴酒旁。
這是我從未進過的房間
這是令我在裡面無法呼吸的房間。
聚攏在裡面的黑暗如一隻蝙蝠，
沒有光
只有火把與其餘燼
令人髮指的物品上泛著支那黃--
黑色的倔強。日漸衰敗。
縈繞不去。
它們主宰了我。
主宰我的既非殘酷也非冷漠，
只是無知無覺。
這是蜜蜂堅持不懈的時刻--這些蜜蜂
緩慢到我幾乎察覺不到它們在動
如兵士般排列整齊
向白鐵糖罐前進
去補充被我取走的蜂蜜。
泰萊食品公司讓它們能繼續下去，
精煉的雪。
它們不是靠花朵而是靠泰萊食品公司維生
它們採糖。開始變冷了。
現在它們球聚成一顆巨大
黑色的
心志去對抗所有的白色。
雪的微笑是白的。
雪的微笑綻開，綿延成一哩長的梅森白瓷，
鑽進那裡面，在溫暖的日子裡，
它們只能帶走它們死去的同伴。
蜜蜂都是女人，
女僕們和修長的女王。
它們已甩開了男人，
那些愚鈍、笨手笨腳的老粗們。
冬天適合女人--
那女人，仍在打她的毛線，
在西班牙胡桃木的搖籃旁，
她的身體是寒凍中的球莖因太庸闇而無法思考。
蜂巢能否倖存？這些唐菖蒲球莖
能否成功儲存它們的火花
邁入來年？
來年它們會嚐到什麼，聖誕節的玫瑰嗎?
群蜂紛飛。它們嚐到的是春天。
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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