推 Rootless: 08/24 11:05
※ 編輯: kamadevas 來自: 98.206.162.66 (08/24 12:04)
推 MsJay: 08/24 14:56
蜂蜇
--Sylvia Plath, 羅浩原 譯
赤裸著手，我搬遞蜂窩。
那白衣男人微笑著，赤裸著手，
我倆的粗布護手整潔而甜美，
我倆手腕脈動處如無畏的百合花。
他與我
相隔著上千個乾淨的蜂巢格、
內有八個黃色的蜂杯，
蜂巢本身則像個茶杯，
白底上塗著粉紅的花朵，
我因愛之太甚給它上了釉彩
心想著「好甜美，好甜美」。
格格孵巢灰暗如貝殼化石
令我生懼，它們似乎很古老。
我買了什麼回來？蠕蟲攢動的桃花心木？
這裡面真的有一隻蜂后嗎？
就算有，她也衰老了，
雙翅像撕裂的披肩，長長的身體
磨光了長毛絨——
衣不蔽體可憐兮兮，毫無蜂后威儀，甚至丟人現眼。
我站進這一列
長著羽翅、平凡無奇的婦工隊，
採蜜的苦力。
我可不是苦力，
雖說多年來我總是吃灰
還得用我濃密的頭髮去擦盤子。
我的陌生眼見著就被蒸發，
藍色露珠從危險的皮膚上消散。
我會被她們妒恨嗎？
被這群庸庸碌碌，
只關心櫻桃與苜蓿開花的消息的女人？
就快完成了。
一切都在我控制之下。
這是我的產蜜機，
它將毫不思考地運轉，
開動，春季時，如勤勉的處女
四處抹淨乳液滿溢的花冠，
像月亮為了收拾象牙白的粉沫而擦拭海面。
那位旁觀的第三者
與蜜蜂商販或我都毫不相干
這時他走開了
莫約在八步開外，成了絕佳的替罪羊。
他的拖鞋一隻掉在這，一隻在那兒，
還有塊麻布白方巾
是他用來代替帽子戴的。
他可真是甜美，
他努力的汗水如雨絲
縴拽著世界去開花結果。
蜜蜂們發現了他，
立刻如謊言似的貼附上他的雙唇，
登時令他五官糾結成一團。
它們認為自己死得值得，而我
卻還缺了那尚待尋回的自我，一隻蜂后。
她死了嗎？她是否尚在沉睡？
她一直在何處蟄伏
其猊紅之軀、琉璃之翅？
霎時間蜂后飛起，
比以往更加令人悚懼，赤色
傷痕劃過天空，赤色彗星
劃過那殘害她的引擎——
那座陵寢、蠟房。
Stings
--Sylvia Plath
Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I
Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it
Thinking "Sweetness, sweetness."
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?
If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush--
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column
Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.
And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?
It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin
To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone
In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,
The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.
They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?
Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her--
The mausoleum, the wax house.
--
http://www.wretch.cc/blog/kamadevas\
--
※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.cc)
◆ From: 98.206.162.66
※ 編輯: kamadevas 來自: 98.206.162.66 (08/24 10:45)