蔗尾蜂房

獄卒
--Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)，羅浩原 譯
我的暗夜盜汗油潤了他的早餐盤
被輪轉到定位的是同一面告示牌：藍色的霧
與同樣一片樹林、一方方墓碑
他使出全部本領就搞出這麼點兒
鑰匙的鋃鐺聲嗎？
我給下藥強姦了
被搞得神智不清整整七個鐘頭
進了個黑麻袋
我在裡面癱軟了、胎盤了或貓了起來
助長了他淫夢
我掉了東西了
我的安眠膠囊，我紅藍相間的齊柏林飛船
把我從駭人的高度拋了下來
硬殼粉碎了
我散落一地任群鳥啄食
啊，小螺紋錐子！
薄紙似的日子上已扎滿了孔子！
他直用香煙頭燙我
當我是有著粉紅掌心的黑女人
我就是我。可這還不夠
高燒令我頭髮先是汗涔涔繼而乾巴巴
我瘦出了肋骨。我都吃了些什麼？
不就謊言和微笑
天空肯定不是這種顏色
草地肯定該會泛起漣漪
我成天將燃過的火柴棒黏出一個教堂
全心夢想著一個截然不同的男人
而他，因為這顛覆行為
傷害著我，他這人
披著虛偽當作盔甲
戴著他高傲冷漠的失憶症面具
我怎麼來到了如此境地？
身為刑期不定的犯人
我的死法五花八門--
吊死、餓死、燒死、鉤死！
我想像著他
如遙遠的雷聲般陽痿無能
在他的陰影下我已食盡我魑魅魍魎的配糧
我但願他死掉或離去
這看來是絕無可能
且不論這個。若不發高燒供其吞噬
黑暗又何以施展？
若無眼珠供其戳刺
光線又何以得逞？倘若沒了我
他，又能做啥、做啥、做啥？
The Jailor
--Sylvia Plath
My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?
I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, fœtus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.
Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin,
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.
O little gimlets!
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He has been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a Negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.
The fever trickles and stiffens my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that colour,
Surely the grass should be rippling.
All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armoury of fakery.
His high, cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety--
Hung, starved, burned, hooked!
I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems is the impossibility.
That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?

秘密
--Sylvia Plath，羅浩原 譯
秘密！秘密！
多麼高深莫測
你蔚藍而巨大，宛如交通警察
掌心向外這麼一舉--
我倆之間有區別嗎？
我有一隻眼，你有兩隻眼
秘密已在你身上留下戳記
那泛白的、波浪形的浮水印
黑色的探測器能否令它顯示出來？
秘密是否會在儀表上
透過那微微擺盪、無可抵賴、真實無欺
宛如伊甸園的玻璃房裡的非洲長頸鹿
像隻摩洛哥河馬般顯示出來？
它們從僵硬的方框內盯著外面看
它們等著被輸出
一隻傻瓜，另一隻還是傻瓜
秘密是……多斟的琥珀色的
一注白蘭地酒
孵著咕咕低語：「汝、汝」
那雙眼後面別無他物，只映照出一群猴子
秘密是一把小刀，可以掏出來
修修指甲
挖挖污垢
「不會傷人的」
秘密是個私生子--
那藍色的大腦袋--
在辦公桌抽屜裡艱難地呼吸！
「那是件褻衣嗎，寵物？」
「聞起來像醃鱈，你最好
在蘋果上扎幾根丁香
做一個香囊
或乾脆處理掉這孽子
把它徹底處理乾淨」
「別，別，它在那裏很幸福」
「但它想出來哪！
看哪，看哪！它一直想往外爬」
我的天，路障來了！
協和廣場上的一輛輛汽車--
小心看路！
狼奔豕突、狼奔豕突！
喇叭聲呼嘯成渦，叢林式的粗嘎聲！
一瓶烈性的黑啤酒爆開
頹唐的泡沫濺滿大腿
你跌跌撞撞而出
侏儒寶寶
一把刀插在你背後
「我沒力了」
秘密已然洩露
　　
　　
A Secret
--Sylvia Plath
　　
A secret! A secret!
How superior.
You are blue and huge, a traffic policeman,
Holding up one palm--
A difference between us?
I have one eye, you have two.
The secret is stamped on you,
Faint, undulant watermark.
Will it show in the black detector?
Will it come out
Wavery, indelible, true
Through the African giraffe in its Edeny greenery,
The Moroccan hippopotamus?
They stare from a square, stiff frill.
They are for export,
One a fool, the other a fool.
A secret ... An extra amber
Brandy finger
Roosting and cooing 'You, you'
Behind two eyes in which nothing is reflected but monkeys.
A knife that can be taken out
To pare nails,
To lever the dirt.
'It won't hurt.'
An illegitimate baby--
That big blue head--
How it breathes in the bureau drawer!
'Is that lingerie, pet?
'It smells of salt cod, you had better
Stab a few cloves in an apple,
Make a sachet or
Do away with the bastard.
'Do away with it altogether.'
'No, no, it is happy there.'
'But it wants to get out!
Look, look! It is wanting to crawl.'
My god, there goes the stopper!
The cars in the Place de la Concorde--
Watch out!
A stampede, a stampede!
Horns twirling and jungle gutturals!
An exploded bottle of stout,
Slack foam in the lap.
You stumble out,
Dwarf baby,
The knife in your back.
'I feel weak.'
The secret is out.
　　　　　　　

  
  不孕的女人
--Sylvia Plath，羅浩原 譯
空蕩蕩，極輕的腳步也令會我發出回聲，
如一座毫無雕像的博物館，空有高聳的石柱、門廊、圓廳
我的中庭裡，噴泉躍起，又墜回自己裡面
心如修女，對世界封住雙眼。大理石的百合
吐露出宛若幽香的蒼白感
我想像自己面對一大群公眾
是白色的勝利女神和好幾尊未點睛的阿波羅雕像的母親
可實際上，死亡的殷勤關注傷殘了我，我已無可施為
月亮把手按在我的額上
像個板著臉、不吭聲的護士
Barren Woman
--Sylvia Plath
Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing can happen.
The moon lays a hand on my forehead,
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.

 
 

 
 

 
房間
--[菲律賓] Ria Rebolledo，羅浩原 譯
他帶她進了個毫無窗景的房間
高速公路旁俗麗的汽車旅館
「還好嘛，不是嗎？」他探問
她猶在揣想
他問的是什麼，卻幡然
帶他進了她的靈魂
接著後悔如一襲純白的床單
被虔敬的意圖玷污後遺忘
拋置在某個角落
在某個俗麗的汽車旅館，毫無窗景的房間
她對他說「還好」，然後詭異地聞到
心撕裂後流出的乳白物質
A Room
--Ria Rebolledo
He takes her to a viewless room
in a gaudy motel along the highway.
He asks, “It’s okay, isn’t it?”
As she wonders
what it is he was asking, instead,
she takes him to her soul,
and regret is a pure white sheet
defiled with reverent intents forgotten
and strewn in a corner somewhere
in a gaudy motel, in a viewless room.
She tells him, “Okay,” and smells, strangely,
of the milky substance of torn heart.
--Ria Rebolledo, “A Room,” The Sunday Times Magazine (Manila) Times, September 3, 2016, http://www.manilatimes.net/high-noon-in-the-storm/283783/ (accessed September 25, 2016).

 
 

我寫作的原因
--Leonard Cohen, 羅浩原 譯
我寫作的原因
是想造一些
跟妳一樣美的東西
當我與妳在一起
我想要成為
我七歲時想要成為的
那種英雄－－
完美的男子漢
能打能殺
The Reason I Write
The reason I write
is to make something
as beautiful as you are
When I’m with you
I want to be the kind of hero
I wanted to be
when I was seven years old
a perfect man
who kills
From Selected Poems 1956-1968
Leonard Cohen, Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs, New York: Pantheon Books, 1993, p.119.

 
歡迎來到這幾行詩
--Leonard Cohen, 羅浩原 譯
歡迎來到這幾行詩
這裡正在打仗
但我會盡量讓妳舒服點
別跟著聽我的對話
那只是我的緊張
我們不是曾做過愛嗎
當我們還在向東方學習的時候？
是的，這屋子不一樣了
這村子很快會被佔領
我已搬走一切
可能使敵人愜意的事物
現在只剩我倆了
直到時代改變
那些曾遭背叛的人們
如朝聖者般又回到這個時刻
我倆不投降的時刻
我倆堅定拒絕
稱黑暗為詩的時刻
Welcome to These Lines
Welcome to these lines
There is a war on
but I’ll try to make you comfortable
Don’t follow my conversation
It’s just nervousness
Didn’t I make love to you
when we were students of the East
Yes the house is different
the village will be taken soon
I’ve removed whatever
might give comfort to the enemy
We are alone
until the times change
and those who have been betrayed
come back like pilgrims to this moment
when we did not yield
when we steadfastly refused
to call the darkness poetry
From The Energy of Slaves (1972)
Leonard Cohen, Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs, New York: Pantheon Books, 1993, p.157.