L****o
发帖数: 1642 | 1 2012年Tracy Smith以诗集《Life on Mars》（《火星生活》）获得美国普利策诗歌奖
，这本诗集“大胆、巧妙，将读者带上宇宙，并让他们真实感受到了快乐与苦痛。”
看到shot写的《慧星》、《宇宙长城》，想起了这个，贴几首里面的诗吧。
《The Weather in Space》
Is God being or pure force? The wind
Or what commands it? When our lives slow
And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls
In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm
Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing
After all we’re certain to lose, so alive—
Faces radiant with panic
《太空里的天气》
译/Lihebo
上帝是存在还是纯粹的力？风
还是驾驭它的东西？当我们的生活缓慢
并拥有所爱的一切，它四肢摊开
在我们大腿间，如瘦长的玩偶。当风暴
掀起，没有什么是我们的，我们便去追逐
注定要失去的一切，如此活泛——
散发着恐惧的脸
《My God, It’s Full of Stars》 – (Section) 1
We like to think of it as parallel to what we know,
Only bigger. One man against the authorities.
Or one man against a city of zombies. One man
Who is not, in fact, a man, sent to understand
The caravan of men now chasing him like red ants
Let loose down the pants of America. Man on the run.
Man with a ship to catch, a payload to drop,
This message going out to all of space. . . . Though
Maybe it’s more like life below the sea: silent,
Buoyant, bizarrely benign. Relics
Of an outmoded design. Some like to imagine
A cosmic mother watching through a spray of stars,
Mouthing yes, yes as we toddle toward the light,
Biting her lip if we teeter at some ledge. Longing
To sweep us to her breast, she hopes for the best
While the father storms through adjacent rooms
Ranting with the force of Kingdom Come,
Not caring anymore what might snap us in its jaw.
Sometimes, what I see is a library in a rural community.
All the tall shelves in the big open room. And the pencils
In a cup at Circulation, gnawed on by the entire population.
The books have lived here all along, belonging
For weeks at a time to one or another in the brief sequence
Of family names, speaking (at night mostly) to a face,
A pair of eyes. The most remarkable lies.
《It & Co.》
We are a part of It. Not guests.
Is It us, or what contains us?
How can It be anything but an idea,
Something teetering on the spine
Of the number i? It is elegant
But coy. It avoids the blunt ends
Of our fingers as we point. We
Have gone looking for It everywhere:
In Bibles and bandwidth, blooming
Like a wound from the ocean floor.
Still, It resists the matter of false vs. real.
Unconvinced by our zeal, It is un-
Appeasable. It is like some novels:
Vast and unreadable.
《The Good Life》
When some people talk about money
They speak as if it were a mysterious lover
Who went out to buy milk and never
Came back, and it makes me nostalgic
For the years I lived on coffee and bread,
Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday
Like a woman journeying for water
From a village without a well, then living
One or two nights like everyone else
On roast chicken and red wine.
《The Speed of Belief》 – (Excerpt)
In memoriam, Floyd William Smith 1935–2008
When your own sweet father died
You woke before first light
And ate half a plate of eggs and grits,
And drank a glass of milk.
After you’d left, I sat in your place
And finished the toast bits with jam
And the cold eggs, the thick bacon
Flanged in fat, savoring the taste.
Then I slept, too young to know how narrow
And grave the road before you seemed—
All the houses zipped tight, the night’s
Few clouds muddy as cold coffee.
You stayed gone a week, and who were we
Without your clean profile nicking away
At anything that made us afraid?
One neighbor sent a cake. We ate
The baked chickens, the honeyed hams.
We bowed our heads and prayed
You’d come back safe,
Knowing you would.
《When Your Small Form Tumbled into Me》
I lay sprawled like a big-game rug across the bed:
Belly down, legs wishbone-wide. It was winter.
Workaday. Your father swung his feet to the floor.
The kids upstairs dragged something back and forth
On shrieking wheels. I was empty, blown-through
By whatever swells, swirling, and then breaks
Night after night upon that room. You must have watched
For what felt like forever, wanting to be
What we passed back and forth between us like fire.
Wanting weight, desiring desire, dying
To descend into flesh, fault, the brief ecstasy of being.
From what dream of world did you wriggle free?
What soared—and what grieved—when you aimed your will
At the yes of my body alive like that on the sheets?
《Don’t You Wonder, Sometimes?》
Bowie is among us. Right here
In New York City. In a baseball cap
And expensive jeans. Ducking into
A deli. Flashing all those teeth
At the doorman on his way back up.
Or he’s hailing a taxi on Lafayette
As the sky clouds over at dusk.
He’s in no rush. Doesn’t feel
The way you’d think he feels.
Doesn’t strut or gloat. Tells jokes.
I’ve lived here all these years
And never seen him. Like not knowing
A comet from a shooting star.
But I’ll bet he burns bright,
Dragging a tail of white-hot matter
The way some of us track tissue
Back from the toilet stall. He’s got
The whole world under his foot,
And we are small alongside,
Though there are occasions
When a man his size can meet
Your eyes for just a blip of time
And send a thought like SHINE
SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE
Straight to your mind. Bowie,
I want to believe you. Want to feel
Your will like the wind before rain.
The kind everything simply obeys,
Swept up in that hypnotic dance
As if something with the power to do so
Had looked its way and said:
Go ahead. | s**t
发帖数: 17016 | 2 嘿嘿，迟早有一天，我要将我自鸣得意的那几百首诗用英文重写一遍
【在 L****o 的大作中提到】
: 2012年Tracy Smith以诗集《Life on Mars》（《火星生活》）获得美国普利策诗歌奖
: ，这本诗集“大胆、巧妙，将读者带上宇宙，并让他们真实感受到了快乐与苦痛。”
: 看到shot写的《慧星》、《宇宙长城》，想起了这个，贴几首里面的诗吧。
: 《The Weather in Space》
: Is God being or pure force? The wind
: Or what commands it? When our lives slow
: And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls
: In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm
: Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing
: After all we’re certain to lose, so alive—
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