罗宾森·杰弗斯诗14首
Divinely Superfluous Beauty
The storm-dances of gulls, the barking game of seals,
Over and under the ocean…
Divinely superfluous beauty
Rules the games, presides over destinies, makes trees grow
And hills tower, waves fall.
The incredible beauty of joy
Stars with fire the joining of lips, O let our loves too
Be joined, there is not a maiden
Burns and thirsts for love
More than my blood for you, by the shore of seals while the wings
Weave like a web in the air
Divinely superfluous beauty.
To the Stone-cutters
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
Summer Holiday
When the sun shouts and people abound
One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of bronze
And the iron age; iron the unstable metal;
Steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the towered-up cities
Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster.
Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time, kind rains will cure them,
Then nothing will remain of the iron age
And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem
Stuck in the world's thought, splinters of glass
In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the mountain...
Gale in April
Intense and terrible beauty, how has our race with the frail naked nerves,
So little a craft swum down from its far launching?
Why now, only because the northwest blows and the headed grass billows,
Great seas jagging the west and on the granite
Blanching, the vessel is brimmed, this dancing play of the world is too much passion.
A gale in April so overfilling the spirit,
Though his ribs were thick as the earth's, arches of mountain, how shall one dare to live?
Though his blood were like the earth's rivers and his flesh iron,
How shall one dare to live? One is born strong, how do the weak endure it?
The strong lean upon death as on a rock,
After eighty years there is shelter and the naked nerves shall be covered with deep quietness,
O beauty of things go on, go on, O torture
Of intense joy I have lasted out my time. I have thanked God and finished,
Roots of millennial trees fold me in the darkness,
Northwest wind shake their tops, not to the root, not to the root, I have passed
From beauty to the other beauty, peace, the night splendor.
洗得雪白，杯子满溢出来，世界的舞蹈游戏变得过分热烈。
四月的一场劲风把精神装得太满，
哪怕他的肋骨像地球的山脉肋骨一样厚实，他敢活下去？
哪怕他的血像大地的巨川，他的肉是铁，
他敢活下去？他生来是强者，弱者何能忍受？
强者倚在死亡上，就像靠住石头，
八十年后，就会得到掩蔽，裸露的神经就会盖上深厚的安宁。
哦，万物的美，继续下去，继续下去，哦，紧张的欢乐
那种折磨，我已经超越了我的生命，我感谢上帝，结束了一切。
千年巨树的根在黑暗中包裹着我。
西北风，摇撼树梢吧，但别摇根，别摇根，我已经从一种美
进入了另一种美，一种安宁，一种夜的壮丽。
Hurt Hawks
I
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
II
I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
But the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance.
I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.
和疼痛：没有猫，没有狼
来缩短这等死的一周，它们情愿找没爪的可口物。
他站在橡树丛下，等待着
拯救姗姗来迟；夜里，他想起昔日的自由，
他在梦中翱翔，但黎明打碎了梦。
他是强者，痛苦对强者来说更难熬，最难受的是无能为力。
白天野狗跑来，站在远处
折磨他，但只有死神这救星才能压弯这头颅，
这无畏的胆气、这恐怖的眼睛。
死，这位暴虐的人世之神对那些
乞怜者颇怀恻隐，对倨傲者常不容情。
群居的人们，你们不认识他，要不然就是忘了他；
但是桀骜不驯的鹰却记得他；
这些狂野而美丽的鹰，还有临死的人，都记得他。
二
要我杀一头鹰，我情愿杀人，只要不是行刑；
但这头巨大的红尾鹰
除了怅然的哀愁已一无所有，
骨头破裂已无法复原，走动时翅膀拖在脚后。
我们喂了他六周，最后我让他自由，
他在海岬的巉岩中徘徊了一天，晚上回来，请求一死，
但不是乞求，眼神中依然是
不可摧折的傲气。
在暮色中，我给了他铅制的礼物。
跌倒的是松弛的茸茸羽毛；但是
昂然升起的，是鹰的猛然冲刺：当它飞起，夜鹭在涨水的河边恐惧地唳叫，
直到它从现实中脱颖而出，像利剑出鞘。
Hands
Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara
The vault of rock is painted with hands,
A multitude of hands in the twilight, a cloud of men's palms, no more,
No other picture. There's no one to say
Whether the brown shy quiet people who are dead intended
Religion or magic, or made their tracings
In the idleness of art; but over the division of years these careful
Signs-manual are now like a sealed message
Saying: "Look: we also were human; we had hands, not paws. All hail
You people with the cleverer hands, our supplanters
In the beautiful country; enjoy her a season, her beauty, and come down
And be supplanted; for you also are human."
是宗教？是巫术？还是仅仅在空闲时
从事艺术，留下这些痕迹？但是无数世代之后，
这些仔细画下的手势符号已变成密封的信息。
它们在说：“瞧：我们也是人；我们有手，不是爪子。欢迎你们
手指更为灵巧的人，在这个美丽的国土上
接替我们的人；享受她的美吧，享受一个季节，然后倒下吧，
让别的人接替你们；因为你们也是人。”
Evening Ebb
The ocean has not been so quiet for a long while; five night-herons
Fly shorelong voiceless in the hush of the air
Over the calm of an ebb that almost mirrors their wings.
The sun has gone down, and the water has gone down
From the weed-clad rock, but the distant cloud-wall rises. The ebb whispers.
Great cloud-shadows float in the opal water.
Through rifts in the screen of the world pale gold gleams, and the evening
Star suddenly glides like a flying torch.
As if we had not been meant to see her; rehearsing behind
The screen of the world for another audience.
落了下去，但远方的云墙升起。退潮的大海低语。
巨大的云影在猫眼石般的水面上漂浮。
而从世界之幕的缝隙中，淡金色的光辉带着
夜晚的星群，突然泻出，有如飞翔的火炬，
看来并非有心在我们眼前露面，他们原是在世界
这幕的后面，为另一批观众排演。
New Mexican Mountain
I watch the Indians dancing to help the young corn at Taos pueblo. The old men squat in a ring
And make the song, the young women with fat bare arms, and a few shame-faced young men, shuffle the dance.
The lean-muscled young men are naked to the narrow loins, their breasts and backs daubed with white clay,
Two eagle-feathers plume the black heads. They dance with reluctance, they are growing civilized; the old men persuade them.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed; the beating heart, the simplest of rhythms,
It thinks the world has not changed at all; it is only a dreamer, a brainless heart, the drum has no eyes.
These tourists have eyes, the hundred watching the dance, white Americans, hungrily too, with reverence, not laughter;
Pilgrims from civilization, anxiously seeking beauty, religion, poetry; pilgrims from the vacuum.
People from cities, anxious to be human again. Poor show how they suck you empty! The Indians are emptied,
And certainly there was never religion enough, nor beauty nor poetry here... to fill Americans.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed. Apparently only myself and the strong
Tribal drum, and the rockhead of Taos mountain, remember that civilization is a transient sickness.
肌肉精瘦的年轻人赤裸到腿弯，胸前背后涂着白泥，
黑头发上插两支鹰羽，他们不太情愿地跳着，他们渐渐文明化，但老人们硬要他们跳。
只有鼓是自信的，它认为世界毫无变化；那搏动的心脏，那最简朴的节奏，
它认为世界毫无变化；它是一个梦想家，一个无头脑的心脏，鼓没有眼睛。
但旅游者有眼睛，上百人围看舞蹈，白皮肤的美国人，贪婪地看着，满怀崇敬，没人想笑；
朝拜者来自文明之邦，渴求美、宗教、诗歌；朝拜者来自真空。
城市里来的人，渴望重新取得人性。好个丑相，他们把你们吸干！印第安人被吸干，
当然那里没有足够的宗教、美或诗歌……来填饱美国人。
只有鼓是自信的，它认为世界没有变化。看来只有我自己和这部落的
有力的鼓，以及陶斯山的岩石巨面还记得，文明是一种旋生旋灭的疾病。
Love the Wild Swan
"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting
Hash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."
—This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your... self ?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.
哦，模糊的破镜，它想要抓住
壮美世界的，
一种颜色，一条光影，
没交好运的猎人，哦，蜡做的子弹，
狮子的美，野天鹅的翼，翅翼的暴风。”
——这野天鹅属于世界，不会让人猎获，
比你好的子弹打不中那白胸脯，
比你好的镜子在火中也会开裂，
你恨你……自己？都没所谓。至少
爱你能看见的眼，能听翅膀击搏
这雷鸣似的音乐的心。爱野天鹅。
Shine, Perishing Republic
While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught—they say—God, when he walked on earth.
这时我悲伤地微笑，我想到花凋萎成果实，果实腐烂成泥土。
来自母亲；经过春日的欢乐、成熟和朽败；又回向母亲。
你急急忙忙地腐烂：做得不错；生活是美好的，不管它长得死皮赖脸，还是像
瞬息而逝的闪光：需要山，也需要流星：闪耀吧，正在朽败的共和国。
至于我的孩子，我让他们远离那越来越黏厚的中心；腐朽
决不会强加于人；当城市匍匐在妖魔脚下，山依然屹立。
孩子们，不要做爱别人那样低声下气的事，聪明的奴仆正是最骄横的主人。
有一个陷阱专门抓捕最崇高的灵魂，据说，当上帝走上地球，就已经被抓住。
Clouds of Evening
Enormous cloud-mountains that form over Point Lobos and into the sunset,
Figures of fire on the walls of to-night's storm,
Foam of gold in gorges of fire, and the great file of warrior angels:
Dreams gathering in the curded brain of the earth,
The sky the brain-vault, on the threshold of sleep: poor earth, you like your children
By inordinate desires tortured make dreams?
Storms more enormous, wars nobler, more toppling mountains, more jewelled waters, more free
Fires on impossible headlands... as a poor girl
Wishing her lover taller and more desirous, and herself maned with gold,
Dreams the world right, in the cold bed, about dawn.
Dreams are beautiful; the slaves of form are beautiful also; I have grown to believe
A stone is a better pillow than many visions.
宏伟的云山在洛沃斯角上空堆积，化成晚霞，在今夜风暴的墙上绘出燃烧的图画，
火的峡谷中金色的浪花，大队的天国武士：梦在大地凝冻的脑子中聚集——
天空是这脑子的颅壳——在睡眠的门槛上：可怜的大地，你难道和你的孩子一样
也被无法克制的欲望折磨着，也得做梦？
奢望更宏大的风暴，更壮观的战场，更陡峭的山峰，更晶莹的水流，更自由的
火焰，在这不可能的海岬上……就像一个可怜的姑娘
希望她的爱人更高大，更英俊，而她自己有金色的秀发，
她梦到一切如意，在冰冷的床上，当天甫黎明。
梦是美的；形式的奴隶也是美的。我开始相信
一块石头是比许多美景更好的枕头。
Grey Weather
It is true that, older than man and ages to outlast him, the Pacific surf
Still cheerfully pounds the worn granite drum;
But there's no storm; and the birds are still, no song; no kind of excess;
Nothing that shines, nothing is dark;
There; is neither joy nor grief nor a person, the sun's tooth sheathed in cloud,
And life has no more desires than a stone.
The stormy conditions of time and change are all abrogated, the essential
Violences of survival, pleasure,
Love, wrath and pain, and the curious desire of knowing, all perfectly suspended.
In the cloudy light, in the timeless quietness,
One explores deeper than the nerves or heart of nature, the womb or soul,
To the bone, the careless white bone, the excellence.
这里，没有欢乐，没有悲伤，也没有人，太阳的牙齿镶裹在云里，
而生命不比一块石头有更多的欲望。
沧桑变化那暴风雨般的力量被剥夺，那对生存
至关重要的暴力，那欢乐，
爱情，愤怒，痛苦以及好奇的求知欲，一切都彻底中止。
在云层透出的光里，在无时间的静谧中，
人能探寻到比神经，比人性的心脏，比子宫和灵魂更深沉处，
直探到骨头，无忧无虑的白骨，那精美绝伦之处。
Rock and Hawk
Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.
This gray rock, standing tall
On the headland, where the sea-wind
Lets no tree grow,
Earthquake-proved, and signatured
By ages of storms: on its peak
A falcon has perched.
I think, here is your emblem
To hang in the future sky;
Not the cross, not the hive,
But this; bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final
Disinterestedness;
Life with calm death; the falcon's
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive
Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.
在海角尖上，在这里，海风
不让任何树生长。
地震无奈它何，无数世纪的
暴风雨签下了名：在它顶上
一只鹰隼栖落。
我想这就是你的标志
可悬挂在未来的天空；
不用十字架或蜂窝，
就用这；光辉的力，幽暗的静；
激昂的意识与最终的
冷漠携手并进；
生命和安详的死；鹰的
现实主义的眼光和动作
结合了岩石
那魁伟厚实的神秘主义，
失败无法使它丧气
成功也不会使它骄傲。
Watch the Lights Fade
Gray steel, cloud-shadow-stained,
The ocean takes the last lights of evening.
Loud is the voice and the foam lead-color,
And flood-tide devours the sands.
Here stand, like an old stone,
And watch the lights fade and hear the sea's voice.
Hate and despair take Europe and Asia,
And the sea-wind blows cold.
Night comes: night will claim all.
The world is not changed, only more naked:
The strong struggle for power, and the weak
Warm their poor hearts with hate.
Night comes: come into the house,
Try around the dial for a late news-cast.
These others are America's voices: naive and
Powerful; spurious; doom-touched.
How soon? Four years or forty?
Why should an old stone pick at the future?
Stand on your shore, old stone, be still while the
Sea-wind salts your head white.