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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