鬱金香
--Sylvia Plath, 羅浩原 譯
這叢鬱金香太容易激動，這裡是冬天。
看看這一切多麼白、多麼安靜、多麼入雪
我正在學習平心靜氣，靜靜獨臥
此際有光躺上白牆、這眠床、這雙手掌。
我是無名小卒，花爆開了與我無關。
我已將姓名與衣服給了護士
病史給了麻醉師而身體給了外科醫師。
這群人在枕頭與布幔間刺探我的頭腦
就像一粒眼球卡在兩扇不能閉合的白眼皮間。
瞳孔有股傻勁，非要收盡這一切。
護士們進進出出，沒感到任何困擾，
她們戴著白帽巾如海鷗飛進內陸，
忙著手頭上的事情，每個都長得一樣，
所以根本算不清她們的數目。
我的身體是她們的一塊卵石，她們如流水照料著
穿流過無數顆卵石，將之輕柔地一一磨平。
她們用鋥亮的針頭麻痺我，使我入睡。
如今我迷失了自我，我討厭透了這些包袱——
我那專門設計給短途旅行用的小皮箱如黑色藥盒、
我丈夫與孩子在家庭合照中微笑；
他們的微笑揪住了我的皮肉，好一些笑嘻嘻的小鉤子。
我已任往事一件件溜走，這艘跑海三十年的貨船
仍固執地掛記著我的姓名與地址。
與我有親密聯繫的全給醫護人員抹淨了。
我驚惶無蔽地坐在電車的綠塑膠坐墊上
看著我的茶具組、亞麻布餐墊、我的書
紛紛沉沒不見，然後大水淹沒我的頭頂。
如今我成了個修女，我從未如此六根清淨。
我不要任何鮮花，我只要
枕著自己的手臂躺著極度放空自己。
這樣太自在了，超乎你想像的自在——
這平和感大到令你目瞪口呆，
不用任何代價就能得到，只消配著姓名標籤、幾根針管。
最後，這平和感就是迫近的死亡；我想像著鬱金香
閉著嘴含著死亡，像含著聖餐禮的餅片。
鬱金香原本就太紅了，使我感到痛苦。
就算隔著包裝紙我仍能聽見它們的呼吸聲
輕微地，從白色的襁褓中透出，如一個可怕的嬰兒。
它們的紅在對我的傷口說話，傷口應合著。
鬱金香很微妙：看似懸浮著，卻重重地壓著我，
其顏色之突兀與逞口舌之快在在使我沮喪，
好似一打紅色的灌鉛重物纏在我頸上。
以前沒人要看我，現在我被牢牢看著。
鬱金香朝向我，窗在我的身後
一天之中，光線逐漸擴大又逐漸稀微，
然後我看見了自己，扁平、荒謬、如紙杯的影子
在太陽之眼與鬱金香之眼中間，
我沒有臉，我想要隱沒我自己。
活躍的鬱金香吃掉了我的氧氣。
鬱金香來之前空氣本已平靜下來，
進氣出氣，一吐一息，一絲不亂。
這時鬱金香如巨大噪音充塞在空氣中。
空氣頓時撞上暗樁，圍著鬱金香環繞如河流
被沉船鏽紅的螺旋引擎鉤住變成漩渦。
鬱金香集中了我注意力，真是樂事一件
可以玩完了就休息而不用實際去犯那件事。
Tulips
--Sylvia Plath
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage--
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free--
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
--
http://www.wretch.cc/blog/kamadevas\
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