西米克诗三首

  西米克诗三首
   （周伟驰译）
Charles Simic（1938- ）于2007年荣获美国桂冠诗人。译者2003年曾翻译过他几首诗。下面是从网上找到并新译出的三首。
In the Library
for Octavio
There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered
The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.
Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.
She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.
         在图书馆里
          为Octavio而作
有一本书叫作
“天使词典。”
五十年里没有一个人翻过它，
这我知道，因为当我翻开它时，
它的封面嘎吱作响，一页页
直掉渣。我发现里面
各种各样的天使一度
多如苍蝇。
他们挤满了
薄暮时的天空。
你得挥动两条手臂
才能让他们闪开。
此刻阳光照耀
透过高高的窗子。
图书馆显得安静。
天使和诸神拥挤在
暗淡而未翻开的那些书里。
大机密正躺在
琼斯小姐
每天都得巡回的某个书架上。
她长得很高，因此
总是歪斜着她的头，好象在倾听。
那些书正在悄声细语。
我什么也听不到，但是她能。
Octavio当是指墨西哥诗人、诺宝贝尔文学奖得主、
《太阳石》作者Octavio Paz（1914-1998）。
Late September
The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.
Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.
This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.
晚九月
邮政卡车冲下海岸
只载着一封信。
在长长码头的终端
无聊的海鸥偶尔举起一条腿
又忘了放下。
空气中悲剧正在形成
发出危险的气味。
昨夜你以为听到了
隔壁的电视。
你确认他们正在报道
某件新的恐怖的事，
因此你外出寻找。
你赤着脚，只穿着短裤。
只有大海在发出声音
在如此之多的世代之后
它厌倦了假装着在冲过某地
却又从来没有抵达任何地方。
这个早晨，感觉象礼拜天。
诸天在尽它们的职份
没有把阴影投在木板路上
或成排的空别墅上。
附近有一个小小的教堂
它有一打灰白的墓碑，紧紧地挤在一起
仿佛它们，也有了颤栗。
Pigeons at Dawn
Extraordinary efforts are being made
To hide things from us, my friend.
Some stay up into the wee hours
To search their souls.
Others undress each other in darkened rooms.
The creaky old elevator
Took us down to the icy cellar first
To show us a mop and a bucket
Before it deigned to ascend again
With a sigh of exasperation.
Under the vast, early-dawn sky
The city lay silent before us.
Everything on hold:
Rooftops and water towers,
Clouds and wisps of white smoke.
We must be patient, we told ourselves,
See if the pigeons will coo now
For the one who comes to her window
To feed them angel cake,
All but invisible, but for her slender arm.
     拂晓时分的鸽子
异乎寻常的努力在付出
把事情向我们隐藏，伙伴。
一些人熬夜到凌晨几点
搜寻自己的灵魂。
另一些人则彼此脱衣服，在暗了的房间。
嘎吱作响的老旧电梯
先把我们载到冒着寒气的地下室
显示一个拖把和一只水桶
随后它便屈蹲着再次上升
带着一声恼怒的叹气。
在辽阔、拂晓的天空下
城市静静地横躺在我们眼前。
万物都各就各位：
屋顶和水塔，
云朵和缕缕白色的蒸汽。
我们告诉自己，一定要耐心，
看鸽子们会不会咕咕叫
因为那个走到窗边的女人
会喂它们蛋糕吃，
一切都还不可见，都等着她修长的臂。