《Hart Crane's 'The Bridge'》的笔记-第43页
- 页码：第43页 2012-01-02 03:32:57
实在是杰作，把“大河”这一节贴上来。THE RIVER Stick your patent name on a signboard brother—all over—going west—young man Tintex—Japalac—Certain-teed Overalls ads and lands sakes! under the new playbill ripped in the guaranteed corner—see Bert Williams what? Minstrels when you steal a chicken just save me the wing for if it isn’t Erie it ain’t for miles around a Mazda—and the telegraphic night coming on Thomas a Ediford—and whistling down the tracks a headlight rushing with the sound—can you imagine—while an EXpress makes time like SCIENCE—COMMERCE and the HOLYGHOST RADIO ROARS IN EVERY HOME WE HAVE THE NORTHPOLE WALLSTREET AND VIRGINBIRTH WITHOUT STONES OR WIRES OR EVEN RUNning brooks connecting ears and no more sermons windows flashing roar breathtaking—as you like it… eh? So the 20th Century—so whizzed the Limited—roared by and left three men, still hungry on the tracks, ploddingly watching the tail lights wizen and converge, slip- ping gimleted and neatly out of sight. * The last bear, shot drinking in the Dakotas Loped under wires that span the mountain stream. Keen instruments, strung to a vast precision Bind town to town and dream to ticking dream. But some men take their liquor slow—and count —Though they’ll confess no rosary nor clue— The river’s minute by the far brook’s year. Under a world of whistles, wires and steam Caboose-like they go ruminating through Ohio, Indiana—blind baggage— To Cheyenne tagging… Maybe Kalamazoo. Time’s rendings, time’s blendings they construe As final reckonings of fire and snow; Strange bird-wit, like the elemental gist Of unwalled winds they offer, singing low My Old Kentucky Home and Casey Jones, Some Sunny Day. I heard a road-gang chanting so. And afterwards, who had a colt’s eyes—one said, “Jesus! Oh I remember watermelon days!” And sped High in a cloud of merriment, recalled “—And when my Aunt Sally Simpson smiled,” he drawled— “It was almost Louisiana, long ago.” “There’s no place like Booneville though, Buddy,” One said, excising a last burr from his vest, “—For early trouting.” Then peering in the can, “—But I kept on the tracks.” Possessed, resigned, He trod the fire down pensively and grinned, Spreading dry shingles of a beard…. Behind My father’s cannery works I used to see Rail-squatters ranged in nomad raillery, The ancient men—wifeless or runaway Hobo-trekkers that forever search An empire wilderness of freight and rails. Each seemed a child, like me, on a loose perch, Holding to childhood like some termless play. John, Jake or Charley, hopping the slow freight —Memphis to Tallahassee—riding the rods, Blind fists of nothing, humpty-dumpty clods. Yet they touch something like a key perhaps. From pole to pole across the hills, the states —They know a body under the wide rain; Youngsters with eyes like fjords, old reprobates With racetrack jargon, —dotting immensity They lurk across her, knowing her yonder breast Snow-silvered, sumac-stained or smoky blue— Is past the valley-sleepers, south or west. —As I have trod the rumorous midnights, too, And past the circuit of the lamp’s thin flame (O Nights that brought me to her body bare!) Have dreamed beyond the print that bound her name. Trains sounding the long blizzards out—I heard Wail into distances I knew were hers. Papooses crying on the wind’s long mane Screamed redskin dynasties that fled the brain, —Dead echoes! But I knew her body there, Time like a serpent down her shoulder, dark, And space, an eaglet’s wing, laid on her hair. Under the Ozarks, domed by Iron Mountain, The old gods of the rain lie wrapped in pools Where eyeless fish curvet a sunken fountain And re-descend with corn from querulous crows. Such pilferings make up their timeless eatage, Propitiate them for their timber torn By iron, iron—always the iron dealt cleavage! They doze now, below axe and powder horn. And Pullman breakfasters glide glistening steel From tunnel into field—iron strides the dew— Straddles the hill, a dance of wheel on wheel. You have a half-hour’s wait at Siskiyou, Or stay the night and take the next train through. Southward, near Cairo passing, you can see The Ohio merging, —borne down Tennessee; And if it’s summer and the sun’s in dusk Maybe the breeze will lift the River’s musk —As though the waters breathed that you might know Memphis Johnny, Steamboat Bill, Missouri Joe. Oh, lean from the window, if the train slows down, As though you touched hands with some ancient clown, —A little while gaze absently below And hum Deep River with them while they go. Yes, turn again and sniff once more—look see, O Sheriff, Brakeman and Authority— Hitch up your pants and crunch another quid, For you, too, feed the River timelessly. And few evade full measure of their fate; Always they smile out eerily what they seem. I could believe he joked at heaven’s gate— Dan Midland—jolted from the cold brake-beam. Down, down—born pioneers in time’s despite, Grimed tributaries to an ancient flow— They win no frontier by their wayward plight, But drift in stillness, as from Jordan’s brow. You will not hear it as the sea; even stone Is not more hushed by gravity… But slow, As loth to take more tribute—sliding prone Like one whose eyes were buried long ago The River, spreading, flows—and spends your dream. What are you, lost within this tideless spell? You are your father’s father, and the stream— A liquid theme that floating niggers swell. Damp tonnage and alluvial march of days— Nights turbid, vascular with silted shale And roots surrendered down of moraine clays: The Mississippi drinks the farthest dale. O quarrying passion, undertowed sunlight! The basalt surface drags a jungle grace Ochreous and lynx-barred in lengthening might; Patience! and you shall reach the biding place! Over De Soto’s bones the freighted floors Throb past the City storied of three thrones. Down two more turns the Mississippi pours (Anon tall ironsides up from salt lagoons) And flows within itself, heaps itself free. All fades but one thin skyline’round… Ahead No embrace opens but the stinging sea; The River lifts itself from its long bed, Poised wholly on its dream, a mustard glow Tortured with history, its one will—flow! —The Passion spreads in wide tongues, choked and slow, Meeting the Gulf, hosannas silently below.
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