昨天读黄灿然的文章，评论袁可嘉翻译的洛厄尔诗歌《臭鼬时光》，这首诗是洛厄尔诗风的典型代表，完美的历史形式表述现代的生活，传统诗歌坚实的功力和现代生活的焦虑结合得极为自然，可读性很强，语感、节奏、意向、震撼都让人着迷，是私人化了的艾略特。

   很巧合，我和黄灿然都喜欢翻译诗歌，特别是洛厄尔，也都喜欢卡尔维诺（黄是卡文集的中文译者，我的硕士论文做的也是卡），也同样是西文出身，又从事新闻工作。当然关键的不同是全不在一个级别，但也不妨碍我拿他做比~~~呵呵

   两年前我也翻译过洛厄尔，也发表过一些译作，但这首一直没拿出去，原因就是与大师袁可嘉的翻译有很多差异，初出茅庐自是不敢以下犯上，收稿的编辑也如此建议。昨晚看到黄灿然的评论，多少壮胆把这篇旧作拿出来晒一晒：

                                                                                     Skunk hour

                                                                                 [FOR ELIZABETH BISHOP]

                                                                                 Nautilus Island’s hermit

                                                                                 heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;

                                                                                 her sheep still gaze above the sea.

                                                                                 Her son’s a bishop. Her farmer

                                                                                 is first selectman in our village;

                                                                                 she’s in her dotage.

                                                                                 Thirsting for

                                                                                 the hierarchic privacy

                                                                                 of Queen Victoria’s century,

                                                                                 she buys up all

                                                                                 the eyesores facing her shore,

                                                                                 and lets them fall.

                                                                                 The season’s ill---

                                                                                 We’ve lost our summer millionaire,

                                                                                 who seemed to the leap from an L.L. Bean

                                                                                 catalogue. His nine-knot yawl

                                                                                 was auctioned off to lobstermen.

                                                                                 A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

                                                                                 And now our fairy

                                                                                 decorator brightens his shop for fall;

                                                                                 his fishnet’s filled with orange cork,

                                                                                 orange, his cobbler’s bench and awl;

                                                                                 there is no money in his work,

                                                                                 he’d rather marry.

                                                                                 One dark night,

                                                                                 my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull;

                                                                                 I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,

                                                                                 they lay together, hull to hull,

                                                                                 where the graveyard shelves on the town…

                                                                                 My mind’s not right.

                                                                                 A car radio bleats,

                                              “Love, O careless love…” I hear

                                                                                 my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,

                                                                                 as if my hand were at its throat…

                                                                                 I myself am hell;

                                                                                 nobody’s here---

                                                                                 only skunks, that search

                                                                                 in the moonlight for a bite to eat.

                                                                                 They march on their soles up Main Street:

                                                                                 White stripes, moonstruck eye’s red fire

                                                                                 under the chalk-dry and spar spire

                                                                                 of the Trinitarian Church.

                                                                                 I stand on top

                                                                                 of our back steps and breathe the rich air---

                                                                                 a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.

                                                                                 She jabs her wedge-head in a cup

                                                                                 of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,

                                                                                 and will not scare.

                                       鼬鼠时光

                                       （致伊丽莎白·毕晓普）

                                              鹦鹉岛上隐居的

                                             继承人还是在她的斯巴达小屋里过冬；

                                             她的羊群仍在海上方放牧。

                                             儿子是个主教。她的包租农

                                             是我们村里第一位行政官；

                                             她已经上了年纪。

                                             沉迷

                                             维多利亚时代的

                                             等级的自由空间，

                                             她收购了所有

                                             对着海滨的碍眼的玩意

                                             任由它们坍塌。

                                             季节犯病——

                                             我们失去了夏季的百万富翁，

                                             他好像刚从宾恩店里

                                             冲出来。他的九海里帆船

                                             拍卖给了捕虾的渔夫。

                                             红狐狸蚀斑覆盖整个蓝山。

                                             现在，我们灵巧的装修工

                                             为迎秋季，正装点着他的店铺；

                                             他的渔网装满了桔木塞、

                                             橘子、他的修鞋凳和锥子；

                                             他的工作不赚钱，

                                             宁愿结婚。

                                             一个漆黑的夜晚，

                                             我的古董福特爬上山顶的头颅；

                                             我等待着情人车。灯光渐熄，

                                             它们躺在一起，壳挨着壳，

                                             墓地像架子一样摞在镇子里

                                             我的思路不对劲。

                                             车上广播低语，

                                             “爱情，噢，盲目的爱情……”我听见

                                             每个血细胞里，我病重的灵魂在抽噎，

                                             好像我的手扼住它的咽喉……

                                             我自己就是地狱；

                                             没有人在这儿——

                                             只剩下鼬鼠，为一口饭食

                                             在月光下搜寻。

                                             它们的脚掌行进在主干道上：

                                             白色的条纹、迷糊糊的眼睛

                                             闪着红色的火焰，窜到三一教堂

                                             干白粉的螺旋柱下。

                                             我站在后面的

                                             楼梯顶，呼吸着富饶的气息——

                                             一只母鼬带着她一群小崽儿在车库水桶里畅饮。

                                             她楔型的脑袋

                                             扎进酸奶杯里，露出鸵鸟的尾巴，

                                             不再恐惧。