读《英国当代诗选》
实际上是近三十年前的集子。当时不到四十的诗人现在已经快七十了。
西蒙斯-希尼的作品，总是伴随着死亡和人的骨骼。我很喜欢《暴露》这首，以及《残余物》里的语言的承接。
还喜欢Derek Mahon的，包括《生命》和《最后的火神》
Michael Lonley对于生物的诡异的理解。
Fleur Adcock对于场景的设计，当然，这更像是写小说。
整体看来，里面很多人的作品我都很喜欢，可能是自己比较契合吧。
还喜欢Tom Paulin的，例如《后来的一首抒情诗》。
还有Craig Raine的，也不错。
后来的一首抒情诗
整个夏天都有一种紧张的干燥
你每天坐在灼热的花园里
直到那些穿制服的喜剧演员
用他们白色的大救护车充满街道，
把你接回我这里。
远离我们自己的海，我们等待
祈祷严厉的蓝色寂静。
当你不在时，我爬到一个方形房间
那里有干花，有十四行诗的文件夹
和纵横字谜：我叫它们音乐鼻烟盒
或者别具一格的过时之物，
它们都过于无益地复杂，
死魂灵的棺柩。它们痛苦的克制
和外表的愉悦是一种
在绝望中完美的风格；它们讲话
用一只被捕获的鸟焦躁的叫声。
现在那一切已经改变，当我看见你
在河边散步，离我一步之远。
到处都有这伟大的仁慈：
在世界的恩赐中，并将始终如此。
Exposure
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
Seamus Heaney
西蒙斯-希尼的作品，总是伴随着死亡和人的骨骼。我很喜欢《暴露》这首，以及《残余物》里的语言的承接。
还喜欢Derek Mahon的，包括《生命》和《最后的火神》
Michael Lonley对于生物的诡异的理解。
Fleur Adcock对于场景的设计，当然，这更像是写小说。
整体看来，里面很多人的作品我都很喜欢，可能是自己比较契合吧。
还喜欢Tom Paulin的，例如《后来的一首抒情诗》。
还有Craig Raine的，也不错。
后来的一首抒情诗
整个夏天都有一种紧张的干燥
你每天坐在灼热的花园里
直到那些穿制服的喜剧演员
用他们白色的大救护车充满街道，
把你接回我这里。
远离我们自己的海，我们等待
祈祷严厉的蓝色寂静。
当你不在时，我爬到一个方形房间
那里有干花，有十四行诗的文件夹
和纵横字谜：我叫它们音乐鼻烟盒
或者别具一格的过时之物，
它们都过于无益地复杂，
死魂灵的棺柩。它们痛苦的克制
和外表的愉悦是一种
在绝望中完美的风格；它们讲话
用一只被捕获的鸟焦躁的叫声。
现在那一切已经改变，当我看见你
在河边散步，离我一步之远。
到处都有这伟大的仁慈：
在世界的恩赐中，并将始终如此。
Exposure
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
Seamus Heaney
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