今年讀了好多Hayes的詩(shī)歌。抄寫(xiě)我之前給Lighthead這本詩(shī)集的短評(píng)：“原來(lái)絢麗、溫柔、高頻率卻又恰到好處的wit是可以并存的，原來(lái)prose poem是可以擁有這樣的music的，原來(lái)寫(xiě)作是可以既這么reflective又這么人性的?！盚ayes把太多平衡都拿捏得恰到好處，絢爛的，狡黠的，又是太人性的。包括他前段時(shí)間的American Sonets，大膽剔透卻仍舊溫柔，好難讀到政治意味濃厚卻又以這種形式如此漂亮的詩(shī)。先偷懶來(lái)發(fā)一篇之前翻譯的Lighthead開(kāi)篇詩(shī)。原文很好，翻得不好。但希望有人喜歡。 眩暈銀河指南 Terrance Hayes 翻譯：初繁言 女士先生們，這國(guó)家的鬼魂與孩子們， 我在這里，是因?yàn)槲覐奈磳W(xué)會(huì)掌管時(shí)間。 就比如說(shuō)，這個(gè)小時(shí)，會(huì)如其他時(shí)分一般 若非雨水正在下落，穿透屋檐。 我或許不該如此直白。我的夜晚獨(dú)自一身時(shí) 太過(guò)粗心，如同在冬天未著內(nèi)衣的女人 一般招致麻煩。我相信萬(wàn)物皆是性的修辭。 交媾模仿著每一場(chǎng)離別，月光 從葉子上滴落。你可以窮盡你的一生 一事無(wú)成，只為生命與思考做準(zhǔn)備。 “一切只是這樣？”因此我在這里，詩(shī)人們 來(lái)此處飲用深濃的毒藥加細(xì)小碎冰， 那使我人猿的口舌與其殘留的字節(jié) 得以松弛。我知道所有詞語(yǔ)皆來(lái)自既存的詞語(yǔ)； 它們分解，直至我們的發(fā)音構(gòu)建出自我。 黑暗中吠叫的小狗想要對(duì)我們生活的方式 說(shuō)些什么。我寧愿如我父親所說(shuō)的節(jié)儉。 他說(shuō)“分離”，意思是消失在視野里的 街道。并非你看見(jiàn)什么，而是你察覺(jué)到什么： 這是詩(shī)歌。并非那噪聲，而是節(jié)奏；一種對(duì)錯(cuò)亂 的妥置；我將為了活下去而吃掉你；這是詩(shī)歌。 愿我如一位褐色皮膚的懷孕女人般煥發(fā)光芒。 愿我能如我的老師般從此啜泣，像是他為我們朗讀 莫莉·布魯姆的自白。當(dāng)我親吻我的妻子時(shí)， 有時(shí)我嘗到她的謹(jǐn)慎。不過(guò)我們先別談?wù)撨@個(gè)。 或許

藝術(shù)

唯一的目的就是為

自我

服務(wù)。 有時(shí)我打游戲，我開(kāi)著簡(jiǎn)陋的艦艇對(duì)一艘 外星飛船開(kāi)火，只因它想要?dú)绲厍颉?其他時(shí)候我愛(ài)上一個(gè)詞語(yǔ)，比如

昏暗

。 或是月光榨壓出裸露的枝條。 所有物種都曉得什么是無(wú)意義，可 花朵卻從未放棄綻開(kāi)。我攜嗚咽而來(lái)， 當(dāng)嘴唇坍縮時(shí)你可以聽(tīng)見(jiàn)它，這是猴子們 的智慧。去問(wèn)一杯水為什么它憐憫著雨。 去問(wèn)后院里瘋狂的狗為什么它容忍栓繩。 兄弟姐妹們，當(dāng)你們孤獨(dú)一人 度過(guò)夜晚時(shí)，興許你會(huì)在你的睡夢(mèng)中墜落。 Lighthead's Guide to the Galaxy Terrance Hayes Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and children of the state, I am here because I could never get the hang of Time. This hour, for example, would be like all the others were it not for the rain falling through the roof. I’d better not be too explicit. My night is careless with itself, troublesome as a woman wearing no bra in winter. I believe everything is a metaphor for sex. Lovemaking mimics the act of departure, moonlight drips from the leaves. You can spend your whole life doing no more than preparing for life and thinking. "Is this all there is?" Thus, I am here where poets come to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice, something to loosen my primate tongue and its syllables of debris. I know all words come from preexisting words and divide until our pronouncements develop selves. The small dog barking at the darkness has something to say about the way we live. I’d rather have what my daddy calls “skrimp.” He says “discrete” and means the street just out of sight. Not what you see, but what you perceive: that’s poetry. Not the noise, but its rhythm; an arrangement of derangements; I’ll eat you to live: that’s poetry. I wish I glowed like a brown-skinned pregnant woman. I wish I could weep the way my teacher did as he read us Molly Bloom’s soliloquy of yes. When I kiss my wife, sometimes I taste her caution. But let’s not talk about that. Maybe Art’s only purpose is to preserve the Self. Sometimes I play a game in which my primitive craft fires upon an alien ship whose intention is the destruction of the earth. Other times I fall in love with a word like?

somberness

. Or moonlight juicing naked branches. All species have a notion of emptiness, and yet the flowers don’t quit opening. I am carrying the whimper you can hear when the mouth is collapsed, the wisdom of monkeys. Ask a glass of water why it pities the rain. Ask the lunatic yard dog why it tolerates the leash. Brothers and sisters, when you spend your nights out on a limb, there’s a chance you’ll fall in your sleep.