露伊絲 · 葛綠珂〈十月〉2021.10.9

露伊絲 · 葛綠珂〈十月〉　　　2021.10.9，試譯

1.
冬天又來了嗎，又要轉冷了嗎，
法蘭克不是才剛在冰上滑倒？
他沒有痊癒嗎，春天的種子不是種下了嗎

這不是夜晚的盡頭？
寒冰不會融化嗎
寒冰淹進逼仄的溝渠

我的身體不是
獲救了嗎，難道不會安好嗎

難道疤痕沒有成形，就看不見
受過的傷

恐怖、凜冽，
不是才剛結束嗎，不是
要在後花園耕植嗎──

我銘記大地的感受，大地赤紅，
一排排稠密緊鄰的植物僵硬著，
種子不是種下了？葡萄藤，
沒有攀上南邊的牆嗎

我聽不見你的聲音
因為風在哭，嚎過赤裸裸的大地

我不再關心
它發出的任何聲音

哪些時刻我會沉默，是在何時我第一次
描繪那聲音，但這毫無意義

似乎無力去改變什麼──

這不是夜晚的盡頭嗎，土地尚未
種植作物時，是安好的

我們不是播種了？
我們不是土地不可或缺的嗎，

那些葡萄藤，收割了嗎？


2.
一個個夏天接連結束了，
暴力過後的香膏：
對於讓我好起來
沒有效用；因為暴力，
改變了我。

破曉。低低的山丘閃耀著
赭石的火光，田野耀閃燦燦。
我知道看見的是什麼；太陽可以是
八月的太陽，回來了，回來的還有
那被帶走的一切──

你聽見了嗎？這是我心的聲音；
現在，你不能碰觸我的身體。它已經
妥協過一次了，它變得堅漠麻木，
不要要求它再次搭理你。

這一天夏日無奇的一天。除了
不尋常的寂靜。溫暖，傍晚，碎石小徑上
近乎淡紫色，修長的
楓樹影子。這個夜晚平凡的夏日夜晚。

對我沒有好處；暴力改變了我。
我的身體──逐次被剝光的田地，愈來
愈冷；當下，我僅剩的這顆
謹小慎微的心，遭遇嚴酷的試驗。

太陽在升起時如常升起，夏日；
慷慨大方，暴力過後的香膏。
香膏的安慰跟著樹葉改變，那片田野
收割翻轉，重新整地。

告訴我這就是未來，
我不會相信。
告訴我，我仍活著，
我不會相信。


3.
曾經，雪落下來了。我記得
那敞開的窗流淌的音樂。

到我這裡來吧，世界說。
這不是說
它說了確切的句子
而是我以這種方式意識到美。

黎明。層層的濕氣包覆
萬物。溝渠正收斂著
粼粼冷光。

我站著
在門口，
現在看來多荒謬。

他們在藝術中所領略的，我在大自然
領略到了。他們在
人類之愛裡所領略的，在大自然中
我領略到了。非常純粹。那裡沒有一點聲響。

冬季一過。解凍的泥土，透出
隱隱的嫩綠。

到我這裡來吧，世界說。
穿著羊毛大衣站在明亮的門口──
我終於可以說
很久以前了；歷經過的，帶給我曠然的心悅。自然之美
療癒者，導師──

死亡對我的傷害，不會比你
傷害我還多，
我鍾愛的生命。


4.
光線變了；此刻
中央C降得更暗。
晨曲排練得太頻繁了。

這是秋天的光，不是春天的。
秋天的光：你不會倖免的。

歌曲變了；無法言說的，已經
流入他們。

這是秋天的光，不是光線在說
我重生了。

不是春天的黎明：我焦慮，我受苦，我被釋放。
當下，這一則無用的寓言。

改變了這麼多。你依舊是幸運的：
理想是高燒不退，在你體內
燒。或許不像發燒，是第二顆心。

歌曲變了，依舊那麼美。他們
被收攏在一個心靈的更小空間裡。此刻的
樂曲陰暗，荒涼，痛苦。

寂靜的盼望裡，音符卻
反覆出現。他們怪異地
盤旋。單耳已習慣了。
一隻眼，習慣失蹤。

你不會倖免的，你所愛的也不會倖免。

風來了，又走，吹散了心靈；留下
難以思議的澄徹。

你是如此有幸地被偏愛啊，如此
熱情洋溢，執著於你所愛的；即使
喪失希望也沒能摧毀你。

＊Maestoso, doloroso:

秋天的光；猛然撬開我們。
無疑地，接近尾聲是如此有幸
仍然相信，某些事物。


註：＊義大利文，意思是「莊嚴的，痛苦的」


5.
無疑地，這世界沒有充足的美麗。
事實是我也沒有能力去修復。世界與我
都不夠率真，但或許，我是有點用處的。

我一直在
勞動著，即使我靜默。

如此乏味，平淡

世界的苦難
將我們束縛在兩側，一條小徑

樹木林立；我們是

此地的同伴，不交談，
人人都有自己的意念；

樹群的後方是，鐵
私人住宅的大門，百葉窗
遮蔽的房間

不知何故被遺棄，不知何故，如此冷清，

彷彿藝術家的責任是創造
希望，這是出於什麼？是什麼？

這個詞本身是
虛幻的，以一種手段去辯駁
洞察力──在十字路口，

季節的裝飾燈。

年輕的我曾在此處。
乘坐地鐵攜帶著小小的書
彷彿守禦著自己

抵禦著同一個世界：

「你不會是一個人，｣
這一首詩說，
在黑暗隧道裡。


6.
白天的刺亮轉為
夜晚的暗亮；
火轉變成鏡子。

我的朋友大地苦澀不堪；我想
陽光已辜負了她。
苦澀還是厭倦，很難說。

她自己與太陽之間，
某種東西已然結束。
此刻，她渴望獨自留下；
我想我們必須放棄
為了證詞，求助於她。

在田野上空，
在鄉村屋頂上空，
那光芒，曾讓一切生命成為可能
如今化成冷冽的群星。

靜靜躺下，注視：
它們無可給予，無所索取。

從大地
苦恥荒寒的內部

我的朋友月亮升起：
今夜的她多靚麗，她哪時不靚麗？



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　後記

　　在「1.」這段裡，葛綠珂用了16個反問句，這些反問句是一種不篤定的肯定，詩中敘事者都是隱約有答案的，並暗示著讀者，而這些16個反問句，均以逗號或無標點符號作結。全段唯一一個「問號」出現在最後一句，「the vines, were they harvested？」（那些葡萄藤，收割了嗎？），這是全段唯一個有問號的句子，也是唯一一個詩中敘事者，內心沒有答案的句子。這是葛綠珂在詩形式上的設計，然而，若要保留其設計，便會出現頻繁的「嗎」字，會讓閱讀無法持續集中。經過反覆的思量，我採取最多讓｢嗎｣一字，連續出現兩次，但這樣也破壞了其設計。

　　2001年美國發生911恐怖攻擊事件，葛綠珂為此在2004年發表這首長詩〈October〉其中也運用了希臘神話。一方面是寫911事件，然而我覺得更多的是藉此，描寫個人在創傷與痛苦中的心靈活動。其中，讓我覺得苦惱的是，數字「4.｣這段裡的兩句：

　　　　The light of autumn: you will not be spared.
　　　　You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

　　spared一詞，譯作「倖免｣，讓這兩句有種威嚴感，有種威脅的迫人感，若往911事件的詮釋途徑，是很切合的。然而，若往個人創傷與痛苦的詮釋途徑，我主觀地覺得，這宿命般「秋天的光」──無從閃避的創傷痛苦，也是生命的旅伴。「倖免｣一詞自然是不夠貼合的，但我暫時找不到能夠兼顧，且比倖免更適切的詞了。

　　以及 ｢6.｣第四句以後，參考自柳向陽譯本，其中｢它們無可給予，無所索取。｣一句，與柳向陽同。




Louise Glück〈October〉

1.
Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn't Frank just slip on the ice,
didn't he heal, weren't the spring seeds planted

didn't the night end,
didn't the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters

wasn't my body
rescued, wasn't it safe

didn't the scar form, invisible
above the injury

terror and cold,
didn't they just end, wasn't the back garden
harrowed and planted—

I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren't the seeds planted,
didn't vines climb the south wall

I can't hear your voice
for the wind's cries, whistling over the bare ground

I no longer care
what sound it makes

when was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound

what it sounds like can't change what it is—

didn't the night end, wasn't the earth
safe when it was planted

didn't we plant the seeds,
weren't we necessary to the earth,

the vines, were they harvested?


2.
Summer after summer has ended,
balm after violence:
it does me no good
to be good to me now;
violence has changed me.

Daybreak. The low hills shine
ochre and fire, even the fields shine.
I know what I see; sun that could be
the August sun, returning
everything that was taken away—

You hear this voice? This is my mind’s voice;
you can’t touch my body now.
It has changed once, it has hardened,
don’t ask it to respond again.

A day like a day in summer.
Exceptionally still. The long shadows of the maples
nearly mauve on the gravel paths.
And in the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer.

It does me no good; violence has changed me.
My body has grown cold like the stripped fields;
now there is only my mind, cautious and wary,
with the sense it is being tested.

Once more, the sun rises as it rose in summer;
bounty, balm after violence.
Balm after the leaves have changed, after the fields
have been harvested and turned.

Tell me this is the future,
I won’t believe you.
Tell me I’m living,
I won’t believe you.


3.
Snow had fallen. I remember
music from an open window.

Come to me, said the world.
This is not to say
it spoke in exact sentences
but that I perceived beauty in this manner.

Sunrise. A film of moisture
on each living thing. Pools of cold light
formed in the gutters.

I stood
at the doorway,
ridiculous as it now seems.

What others found in art,
I found in nature. What others found
in human love, I found in nature.
Very simple. But there was no voice there.

Winter was over. In the thawed dirt,
bits of green were showing.

Come to me, said the world. I was standing
in my wool coat at a kind of bright portal—
I can finally say
long ago; it gives me considerable pleasure. Beauty
the healer, the teacher—

death cannot harm me
more than you have harmed me,
my beloved life.


4.
The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.

Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered.
This is the present, an allegory of waste.

So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind;
it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.

How privileged you are, to be passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

Maestoso, doloroso:

This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.


5.
It is true there is not enough beauty in the world.
It is also true that I am not competent to restore it.
Neither is there candor, and here I may be of some use.

I am
at work, though I am silent.

The bland

misery of the world
bounds us on either side, an alley

lined with trees; we are

companions here, not speaking,
each with his own thoughts;

behind the trees, iron
gates of the private houses,
the shuttered rooms

somehow deserted, abandoned,

as though it were the artist’s
duty to create
hope, but out of what? what?

the word itself
false, a device to refute
perception— At the intersection,

ornamental lights of the season.

I was young here. Riding
the subway with my small book
as though to defend myself against

the same world:

you are not alone,
the poem said,
in the dark tunnel.


6.
The brightness of the day becomes
the brightness of the night;
the fire becomes the mirror.

My friend the earth is bitter; I think
sunlight has failed her.
Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.

Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.
She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give up
turning to her for affirmation.

Above the fields,
above the roofs of the village houses,
the brilliance that made all life possible
becomes the cold stars.

Lie still and watch:
they give nothing but ask nothing.

From within the earth’s
bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness

my friend the moon rises:
she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?

2004