本帖最后由 雨荷风 于 2015-10-7 14:05 编辑
爸爸
原作：Sylvia Plath
译者：Tanya
你不行，你再也不行，
你这老不中用，漆黑的鞋子
我如个脚丫子在里面
苟活了三十年，苍白又凄惨，
喘口气和打个阿嚏都不敢。
爸爸，我真想让我杀死你。
却没等抓住时机你就已死去——
沉重的如大理石，装满上帝的囊皮，
可怖的雕像，还长着灰色的脚趾
大的像那旧金山的海狗
和浸入奇特幻妙大西洋的头颅
把一汪豆绿倾注在蓝色的
美丽的瑙塞特的水域。
我曾祈祷再次的见到你
哦，你
操着德国腔，养在波兰的镇上
被战争，战争，还是战争
这台压路机碾平。
但这镇的名字却极为平常。
我那波兰佬朋友
说这样的名字就有一两打。
所以我说不清你
去了哪里，在哪驻留，
我永远不能与你谈天。
舌头卡在我的咽喉。
它落入垫满铁钉的陷阱。
我，我，我，我
我结巴地几乎说不出话。
我觉得每个德国佬化成你。
还说着污言秽语。
点燃那发动机，那引擎
哧哧地载我离开像个犹太人。
一个送去达豪，奥斯比次，贝尔森的犹太人。
我便开始学着像犹太人的谈吐。
变成犹太人我是如此适合。
提洛尔的雪，维也纳的清啤
不是特别纯也不特别真。
我那吉普赛女祖先和我那诡异的运气
以及我的塔罗牌呀我的塔罗牌
令我还真有一点犹太人的架势。
你总是令我恐惧，
用你那纳粹的空军军衔，你的官腔。
和你那修剪整齐的胡子
雅利安系的眼睛，明澈的蓝。
装甲大兵，装甲大兵，哦 你——
不是上帝，却是纳粹党的徽章
漆黑地一丝天空也透不出。
每个女人都爱慕那法西斯党，
靴子摔在脸上，这个畜生
有着畜生的残暴心肠和你一样。
你站在黑板前，爸爸，
我有你这张的照片，
在你下巴里有个裂缝，而非你的脚
但绝不逊于魔鬼，也不
次于把我娇嫩鲜红的心
扯成两半的那个黑人。
当他们葬你时我10岁。
在20岁时我试着死去
然后向着你方向，你的地方汇合。
我想即使仅剩白骨也照做不悔。
但他们把我从这劫数拖还，
再用胶水把我粘全。
于是我知道该去做什么。
我做了你的模型
一个男人在黑暗中有着《我的奋斗》的神情
以及对拷问台和螺丝扭的热衷。
而我说我愿意，我愿意
所以爸爸，我最后完成。
当黑色的电话从根上截断，
那声音马上不再蠕动。
如果我杀了一个人，就夺了两条命——
吸血鬼自称他是你
吸走了我一年的血。
7年了，如果你想要知道。
爸爸，你可以躺下安息了。
把木桩插入你肥胖黑暗的心脏，
从没有一个喜欢你的同乡。
他们又蹦又跳践踏着你。
他们清楚你跑不了。
爸爸，爸爸，你个杂种，我就此了断。
Daddy
Sylvia Plath
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time─
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You─
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two─
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
|
|Archiver|手机版|小黑屋|中诗网
( 京ICP备：12024093号-1|
京公网安备 11010502045403号 )
发表于 2010-3-3 22:17:00