安妮·塞克斯顿（AnneSexton）诗选译

安妮·塞克斯顿（AnneSexton）诗选译
安妮·塞克斯頓(Anne Sexton)詩
⼋和‖試譯
⽬錄《你，⾺丁醫⽣》《好先⽣：這些樹林》《來⾃榮耀⽣活的俯衝》《⾳樂向我游回》《星夜》
画：⼷⼽
▎你，马丁医⽣
你，马丁医⽣，散步
从早餐到疯狂。

⼋⽉下旬，
我快速穿过消毒的过道
那⾥，动弹的死⼈们仍在谈论要
迫使他们的⾻骼反抗药剂的
效⼒。

⽽我，是今年夏季旅馆的⼥王
或者死亡茎秆上⼤笑的
蜜蜂。

我们站成虚线，
等候他们打开门，在晚餐冰冷的
门⼝将我们清点。

说着陈词滥调，
我们穿上微笑的罩衫向⾁汁移动。

我们排着队咀嚼，我们的碟⼦
刮擦，如学校粉笔的
哀号。

这⾥没有⼑
割破你的喉咙。

整个上午
我都在做⿅⽪鞋。

起初我的⼿
⼀直摊开，让它们曾⼯作的
⽣命放松。

现在我试着
收回它们，每根愤怒的⼿指，命令
我去修补另⼀个将在明天坏掉的
东西。

当然，我爱你；
你斜倚在塑料天空上，
我们的社区之神，所有狐狸的王⼦。

杰克带的断冠是新制的。

你的第三只眼
在我们中间穿梭，点亮隔离的盒⼦，
我们在那⾥⾯睡觉或哭泣。

这⾥，我们是⼀群⼤孩⼦。

在这最好的病房，所有⼈中
我长得最⾼。

你的⽣意是⼈，
你视察这精神病院，带着个神⽰般的
眼睛在我们巢⽳。

在⼤厅外，
对讲电话呼叫着你。

在狡猾孩⼦们的
牵引下，你打转，他们倒下去
如严寒⾥⽣命的洪⽔。

⽽我们着了魔般⾃说⾃话，
嘈杂并孤独。

我是我所有被遗忘的
罪恶的⼥王。

难道我还在迷失？
曾经我是美丽的。

现在我是我⾃⼰，
清点着这排和那排的⿅⽪鞋，
它们正在沉默的架⼦上等候。

——《去拜蒂厄姆精神病院中途返回》1960
画：⽊芷
▎好先⽣：这些树林
这世上，⼀个⼈只需闭上眼转个圈就会晕眩….只有当我们晕眩…我们就开始发现我们⾃⼰——梭罗，《⽡尔登湖》
好先⽣：这是个我们
⼋九岁①时就玩过的⽼游戏。

有时在缅因州下游的岛上，
⼋⽉下旬，当冷雾从海上吹来，
丁格利·戴尔②和爷爷村舍间的
那⽚森林就变得雪⽩和诡异。

那情形就好像每颗松树都是⼀根根
我们从不认识的褐⾊杆⼦；好像⽩天
被重新排进了⿊夜，蝙蝠在太阳下飞舞。

这是个你转个圈就知道⾃⼰晕眩的把戏；
就知道乌鸦的号⾓正在⿊暗⾥哭叫，
就知道晚餐再也不会到来，海岸的
厄运叫喊，来⾃远处浮标的铃声，
在说：你的保姆已经⾛了。

哦，⼩姐③，
⼩船摇翻了。

然后你死了。

转个圈，闭紧眼，脑⼦⾥有观念。

好先⽣：我也晕了，和你⼀样，
我已经闭上眼转了两个圈，
当树林是⽩的，我夜晚的⼼看见
如此诡异的事发⽣，没听说过，也不真实。

⽽睁开眼，我⾃然不敢看
——这世⼈嘲笑的内在模样——
我还在这⽚树林⾥寻找，在葡萄和荆棘间，
我突然明⽩没什么⽐我更糟。

——《去拜蒂厄姆精神病院中途返回》1960
译注：
①原⽂直译为⼋岁和⼗岁，此处翻译为了⽣动⽽意译为⼋九岁。

② Dingley Dell 丁格利·戴尔。

狄更斯在⼩说《匹克威克外传》中写有丁格利·戴尔庄园。

③原⽂为法语，Mademoiselle 法语，“⼩姐”。

此处表现了⼀种讽刺养尊处优的⼝吻。

画：林
▎来⾃荣耀⽣活的俯冲
整⽇，我们注视着海鸥
在醒⽬的天空⾼处
骑风驰的过⼭车。

在那⾥，
在整个神圣的蓝⾊世界，
它们尖叫在陆地的切⽚处。

现在，如孩童般，
我们带着⼀包
剩下的⼩⾯包，
从岩⽯凸起攀援⽽下，
在⽯头上轻轻的分⾷它们，
留下六块⾯包⽪给年轻的王者。

独处的注视者鹰隼般飞来，
突然跃起，
骑着当下的饥饿之轮
张开如丝般雕花的⽻⽑
擦着⽔⾯，出现。

⼜来了
从拍浪上滑翔⽽过。

带来了它的族群，如空⽓⾥
下坠的⽻翅之城。

它们在等待，每只都如⽊制假鸟
或像鸽⼦般温柔，亦或
如可爱舒⼼的鸭⼦：
直到⼀只突然出击，移动利箭般的鸟喙划破空⽓。

它得到了⾯包。

这个世界充满了它们，
野兽的世界，
为了⼀块⾯包屑岩⽯⽽相互戳刺，
仅有四只抢得⾯包，
然后荡过格罗斯特
飞去天空的⾼处。

哦，看它们怎么
减轻吞了伙伴⾯包屑的
咸腥的肚⽪。

画：⽊芷
▎⾳乐向我游回
等等，先⽣。

哪⾥是回家的路？
她们关掉灯，
⿊暗⾛进⾓落。

这个房间没有标牌，
四个妇⼥，年过⼋⼗，
穿着花格⾐裳。

啦啦啦，哦，⾳乐向我游回，
我能感受到她们演奏的曲调
在留给我的夜晚，
在这⼩⼭上的私⼈会所。

想象⼀下。

收⾳机在演奏着，
每个⼈都在这狂欢着。

我喜欢这样，围成圆圈跳舞。

⾳乐从感官⾥溢了出来
更好玩的是，
⾳乐看上去⽐我还多。

我是说这⼀切回想起来更美好；
当想起在这的第⼀个夜晚。

是在冷得让⼈窒息的⼗⼀⽉，
连星星都被冻在了夜空，
⽉亮⼗分明亮，
光线从窗栏中穿过来附上我
脑⼦⾥响起了歌声，
让我忘记了⼀切。

早上⼋点，她们把我锁在椅⼦上，
毫⽆迹象表明会这样。

只有收⾳机仍在打着节拍，
这歌⽐我记得还多。

哦，啦啦啦，
⾳乐向我游了回来。

晚上我曾来过，曾跳了⼀圈舞，
曾并不害怕。

是不是，先⽣？
画：远⼦
▎星夜
那并不能阻挡我极度的渴求——我会说出这个词——宗教。

于是，在夜晚我⾛出去，画星星。

——摘⾃⽂森特· 梵⾼给他弟弟的信
这个⼩镇并不存在
除了⼀颗⿊发的树
站⽴如溺亡在炎热天空⾥的⼥⼈
⼩镇沉默。

夜晚带着⼗⼀颗星星沸腾。

哦，星夜星夜！我多愿
就这么死去。

夜空旋转。

它们如此鲜活。

甚⾄⽉亮也在橙⾊烙印中⿎起，
从眼中，挤出孩⼦们，如⼀个神。

古⽼的隐匿之蛇吞噬群星。

哦，星夜星夜！我多愿
就这么死去。

进⼊那奔⾛的夜之巨兽
被那巨龙吸尽，从我的⽣命
剥离，没有痕迹
没有腹部
没有哭喊
——All My Pretty Ones , Houghton, 1962.《我所有的美丽》译注：该诗是对梵⾼绘画作品《星夜》的描写。

▎附原⽂：
YOU, DOCTOR MARTIN
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the door and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore. Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
KIND SIR: THESE WOODS
For a man needs only to be turned around once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost. . . . Not till we are lost . . . do we begin to find ourselves.
Thoreau, Walden
Kind Sir: This is an old game
that we played when we were eight and ten.
Sometimes on The Island, in down Maine,
in late August, when the cold fog blew in
off the ocean, the forest between Dingley Dell
and grandfather’s cottage grew white and strange.
It was as if every pine tree were a brown pole
we did not know; as if day had rearranged
into night and bats flew in sun. It was a trick
to turn around once and know you were lost;
knowing the crow’s horn was crying in the dark,
knowing that supper would never come, that the coast’s
cry of doom from that far away bell buoy’s bell
said your nursemaid is gone. O Mademoiselle,
the rowboat rocked over. Then you were dead.
Turn around once, eyes tight, the thought in your head.
Kind Sir: Lost and of your same kind
I have turned around twice with my eyes sealed
and the woods were white and my night mind
saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal.
And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course
to look — this inward look that society scorns —
Still, I search in these woods and find nothing worse
than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns.
（written in February 1959, from To Bedlam and Part Way back, 1960）Torn Down From Glory Daily
All day we watched the gulls
striking the top of the sky
and riding the blown roller coaster.
Up there
godding the whole blue world
and shrieking at a snip of land.
Now, like children,
we climb down humps of rock
with a bag of dinner rolls,
left over,
and spread them gently on stone,
leaving six crusts for an early king.
A single watcher comes hawking in,
rides the current round its hunger
and hangs
carved in silk
until it throbs up suddenly,
out, and one inch over water;
to come again
smoothing over the slap tide.
To come bringing its flock, like a city
of wings that fall from the air.
They wait, each like a wooden decoy
or soft like a pigeon or
a sweet snug duck:
until one moves, moves that dart-beak
breaking over. It has the bread.
The world is full of them,
a world of beasts
thrusting for one rock.
Just four scoop out the bread
and go swinging over Gloucester
to the top of the sky.
Oh see how
they cushion their fishy bellies
with a brother's crumb.
Music Swims Back to Me
Wait Mister. Which way is home? They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner. There are no sign posts in this room, four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill. Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better; remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November; even the stars were strapped in the sky and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?
The Starry Night
That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother
The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.
It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:
into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
——All My Pretty Ones , Houghton, 1962.。