杰克•吉尔伯特：遗忘的心的私房话
遗忘的心的私房话
杰克•吉尔伯特
多让人惊诧语言几乎能意味着，
而骇人的是它又并不真的能。爱，我们说，
上帝，我们说，罗马和美智子，我们写，而词语
却把它弄糟了。我们说面包而它根据
国家而有不同的意思。法语没有词说家，
而我们没有词说绝对的欢愉。
北印度的一族在死去因为他们古老的
语言没有给情话的词。我梦想可以表达
一些我们不再能够表达的东西的
丢失的词汇。也许伊特鲁里亚的文稿
会最终解释为什么那一对人儿在他们的坟墓上
在微笑。也许不能。当上千块
神秘的苏美尔碑铭被翻译，
它们似乎是商业记录。可要是它们是
诗歌或者赞美诗呢？我的欢乐和
站在晨光中的十二只埃塞俄比亚山羊的一模一样。
哦主啊，你的手艺是盐块与铜锭，
像在风的辛劳中弯下的成熟的燕麦般宏丽。
她的乳房是六只白色公牛满载匹匹
埃及长绒棉。我的爱是一百桶
蜂蜜。一船的金钟柏是我的
身体想要对你的身体说的。长颈鹿是
黑暗中的这种欲望。或许克利特的螺旋的手稿
不是一种语言而是一个地图。我们感受最深的
没有名字而是琥珀、弓箭手、肉桂、马儿和群鸟。
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
诗人的朗读：http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19351
杰克•吉尔伯特
多让人惊诧语言几乎能意味着，
而骇人的是它又并不真的能。爱，我们说，
上帝，我们说，罗马和美智子，我们写，而词语
却把它弄糟了。我们说面包而它根据
国家而有不同的意思。法语没有词说家，
而我们没有词说绝对的欢愉。
北印度的一族在死去因为他们古老的
语言没有给情话的词。我梦想可以表达
一些我们不再能够表达的东西的
丢失的词汇。也许伊特鲁里亚的文稿
会最终解释为什么那一对人儿在他们的坟墓上
在微笑。也许不能。当上千块
神秘的苏美尔碑铭被翻译，
它们似乎是商业记录。可要是它们是
诗歌或者赞美诗呢？我的欢乐和
站在晨光中的十二只埃塞俄比亚山羊的一模一样。
哦主啊，你的手艺是盐块与铜锭，
像在风的辛劳中弯下的成熟的燕麦般宏丽。
她的乳房是六只白色公牛满载匹匹
埃及长绒棉。我的爱是一百桶
蜂蜜。一船的金钟柏是我的
身体想要对你的身体说的。长颈鹿是
黑暗中的这种欲望。或许克利特的螺旋的手稿
不是一种语言而是一个地图。我们感受最深的
没有名字而是琥珀、弓箭手、肉桂、马儿和群鸟。
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
诗人的朗读：http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19351
