紧急中沉思 翻译

前几天《广告狂人》看到了第二季,里面提到了一本诗歌集,找来了其中书名同名诗歌胡乱翻译了一通,仍旧基本上看不懂。


Meditation in an Emergency

紧急中的沉思

by Frank O’hara

如果我是一名金发女郎,是否便可去恣意挥霍?或者如果我是法国人,是否就能够变得虔诚?

每当我心碎的时候,它都让我感觉更加喜欢冒险(以及那些相同名字是如何不断出地现在永无休止的名单上!),但总会有一天将没有什么事能算得上是冒险。

为什么我要与你分享?为什么你不来一个改变,试着摆脱他人?

我所想要的是最简单的东西,我要的只是无限的爱。

就连树都能理解我!天啊!我同样躺在它们下面,不是么?就像是一堆落叶。

不过,我从没用过对田园生活的赞美,或者对牧场里倒行逆施的过往天真时光的追忆来堵塞自己。不。要想留住整个花房的渴望,让一个人只能永不离开纽约——要不是了解了地铁的便利,认识一家唱片店以及其他一些让人对生活不彻底后悔的东西,我甚至不能够享受一片草叶。更重要的是去确认那起码的真诚,云朵飘在那里,即使它们将要飘过,也已经得到了足够的注视。它们是否知道自己错过了什么?嗯哼。

我的眼睛是模糊的蓝色,就像天空,始终在变化。它们来者不拒但又稍纵即逝,特异而不忠,所以,没有人相信我。我总是看向别处。或者在一些东西放弃了我之后才注意到。这使我不安,而这不安让我不快,但我无法让目光停滞。如果我的眼睛是灰色的、绿色的、黑色的、棕色的或是黄色的,我该待在家里做些什么。并不是说我好奇。相反,我很无聊,但是专心是我的职责,我被需要着,就像天空必须留在地面上方。最近,他们变得更加焦虑,我几乎腾不出时间睡觉。

现在,只有一个人,即使他胡子拉碴,我也会去吻。异性恋!你正无情地逼近。(如何阻止她?)

圣·谢拉皮翁,我将我自己包裹在你白色的长袍里,就像陀思妥耶夫斯基的午夜。我怎样能成为一个传奇,亲爱的?我试过爱情,但那要把自己藏在另一个人的怀中,我总会像莲花一样从那里冲出来——总是狂喜地绽放而出!(但是我们不能为此分神!)或者像风信子一样,“不让生命的污秽靠近”,是的,在那里,甚至是在心里,污秽被灌入、追赶、诽谤、污染、判决。我将束缚我的意愿,即使我可能会因为那个部分的神秘空缺而出名,那个花房。

摧毁你自己,如果你还不明白!

拥有美丽是容易的,表现出美丽却很难。我钦佩你,亲爱的,钦佩你设下的陷阱。它就像是因为剧情已经完结,而没人再去读的最后一章。

“Fanny Brown逃走了——蹦蹦跳跳地随着一个骑马军官跑了。我确实喜欢那个小疯丫头,并希望她能够开心,尽管如此,她这么做还是让我相当困扰。——傻傻可怜的Cecchina!我们过去叫她F:B:——我希望她被好好鞭打一顿,再猛打10000下。“——Thrale夫人

我得离开这里。我选了一块披肩和我最脏的土黄色军服。我会回来的。我会挫败地从山谷重新出现,你不希望我去你去的地方,所以我去你不想我去的地方。现在还只是下午,还有很多时间。楼下不会有任何邮件。转身,我向锁吐口水然后转动把手。


Meditations in an Emergency

by Frank O’hara

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I love to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the filth of life away,” yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

“Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. —Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. —I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.” —Mrs. Thrale.

I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *