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美国著名文学刊物《AGNI》2013年诗歌作品选译
译者：殷晓媛
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灵柩台
所罗门的智慧并未拯救他自己
世间渺小的逝去
新生
室内规则
柯扎尔湖的仙女
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灵柩台
【美】多尔•吉赛尔巴哈
曼哈顿有蜻蜓出没，这一点是在其中一只落在我身上时
我才发现的
我尽量屏息凝神，以往从未在谁面前
这般安静
就像它们坚定而值得信赖的避风港
没有人能像欧椋鸟飞过时
天空让蜻蜓
翩跹摇曳一样
令我静止
我这样告诉自己
如果它向我的指尖喷火（译者注）
也许感觉就像
希望自己是在梦境中的人
被轻掐一下似的
夏日水面
行驶着的船只
有几只雕刻着蜻蜓形船头
蜻蜓翅膀就是
互相重叠的船桨
正好赶在不会水的众生
出现在那里之前
译者注：“蜻蜓”这个单词是“龙”（西方神话中的火龙）+“飞虫”组成的，故有“喷火”一说。
【作者简介】多尔•吉赛尔巴哈在奥柏林学院及衣阿华作家工作室研究文学创作，后在纽约从事住房建筑法相关工作若干年。9-11事件之后潜心创作，第一部诗集《盐堤》（匹兹堡大学2012年出版)获阿格尼丝诗歌奖，其中诗作还获得了布里德波特奖。其多部近作在《马拉哈特评论》《羽诗刊》《诗歌评论》及《傲立杂志》发表或即将发表。(12/2013)
所罗门的智慧并未拯救他自己
【美】马克•尼利
所罗门的智慧并未使他停止
为皮毛光洁的马匹而憔悴
何况我这个凡夫俗子——从未接到过
来自上苍的警告—
没有神灵警告我不要在酒吧里对你心生恋慕
那是十五年前的情形 仿佛从一面镜子中浮现
天空冰雪倾泻而下 而你我那时
还深信冬季
深信酒保们和彼得•巴克（译者注1）
以为把贝斯啤酒（译者注2）和布什米尔酒（译者注3）混在一起喝
不会损害健康
我们看着潮人们
在橘红色的电暖气旁
大肆炫耀他们的假皮草和铆钉
后来我们被赶了出去
跑进冰天雪地的公园
现在这葱茏的树林让我们想起
当日的自己
那天我们裹在自己的悲伤中
煜煜发光
译者注1：可能指核物理学家彼得•巴克，曾借款1000美元给赛百味创始人德卢卡，帮助他开办赛百味的第一家门店。
译者注2：英国啤酒名。
译者注3：布什米尔以酒厂名字命名，创立于1784年，该酒以精选大麦制成，生产工艺较复杂，有独特的香味，酒精度为43度。
【作者简介】马克•尼利的第一部诗集《山林之兽》获得 “《田野》诗歌奖”。另著有自印诗集《黑桃红桃梅花方块》，该书赢得 “水泥丛林之狼自印诗集大奖赛”大奖。作品散见《湾岸》《巴洛大街》《印第安纳评论》《索尔特山》等。目前在鲍尔州立大学教授文学创作课程。(11/2013)
世间渺小的逝去
【美】贝斯伍•德科姆•普拉托
I.
我们发现了一切伊始的端倪。
你了解我的所指。
即使你不明白，终究有一天也会悟出。
你与我的真实如出一辙。
II.
这是事实而非感觉：
水、生命抑或一张王牌。
我们能让幸福更完美吗? 我看到你写在书页白边上的留言。
你说：“也许真有上帝”。
III.
然后它就杳无踪影了，
而我们无法估量
这个刚失去的东西
究竟有多遥远 有多庞大
倘若真相确实存在，应该就是这一句：
“我们不愿再一路疯狂下去。”
我们没有一颗物理之心。
如果我们曾有过，请把它带回来。
新生
【美】贝斯伍•德科姆•普拉托
我们将它擦拭得干干净净，估测它的价值
购买它的股份
但暗地里我们却为追寻它、拥有它、为它殚思竭虑
所带来的痛苦而哭泣
我们把它领回家，把它调和在牛奶中
洒在空气里，放在电视节目间
有一天我们将会讲述关于它的故事
它如何在几场战争中辗转出生
我们曾成功地忽略这一切
我们将它带到萨克森豪森（译者注）
让它看看那些残留的鞋
和那些无所不用其极的人类同胞手笔
某个夜晚，当我们获得了热量
食物与自由
我转身，俯下身子
对它说：
我需要抢在你前面死去
译者注：萨克森豪森，纳粹第一个集中营所在地。
【作者简介】贝斯伍•德科姆•普拉托，诗作散见《犁》（Ploughshares）、 《博闻强识》（Memorious）,《湾岸》（Gulf Coast）等。 曾获得“格罗里尔奖”和“PEN/新英格兰发现奖”。取得本宁顿大学MFA学位。在伯克利音乐学院教书，常居马萨诸塞州纽伯里波特市。(9/2013)
室内规则
【美】克莱尔•西尔维斯特•史密斯
有时危险之物只是因为我们自身危险
才被迫如此进化 请看：
一家拥挤的体育馆，或一种我们视若儿戏的
礼仪。这群人相信他们是一个
搜索机构，却无法在搜索主题上
达成共识：一个提议寻找勇气，另一个只想寻觅一顿午餐，
它的内部结构在如此周而复始的争论中
土崩瓦解。现在他们正各自试图卷进或退出
一场争吵，这取决于
他们有多信仰这个机构的初衷
只需嗤之以鼻，就能毁掉很多规则。
选择不随大流，这并不够，因为
亮起一盏红色的恐惧之灯
代表你的恐惧尊崇着它所对抗的
权威。关于衣服哪一面朝外穿的规则。
关于挽手的规则。关于怎样才算是“已占座位”
的规则。很长一段时间，密码都需要
在门口出示，它是一种
口头递送的物品。这是一个秘密，所以请告诉我
另一个秘密作为交换，另一个秘密是
一个房间。室内规则。规则规定了
你永远不能停止寻找。这条规则将告诉其它所有规则
它们的使命。
【作者简介】克莱尔•西尔维斯特•史密斯近作散见《波士顿评论》《美国诗歌评论》《东南评论》《每日诗歌》（Verse Daily）和《湾岸》（Gulf Coast）。获得“密琦纳作家中心”MFA学位。长居马里兰州巴尔的摩市。(7/2013)
柯扎尔湖的仙女
【美】乔伊斯•佩塞罗夫
那些潜鸟是柯扎尔湖的仙女
在九月的黄昏 以宛转嗓音
朝着波澜不起的星群合唱
吉姆突然拉上了小船的帆布罩
尽管并不像有雨将至
光线有些摇摇欲坠 他搜寻着水面
似乎丢掉了一串钥匙
其实它们在他一个衣兜里 被轻飘的塑料盒子装着 安然无恙
他的儿子去过伊拉克两次 如今又被征入伍
他的妻子瘦得就像
长在沙中的桦树 我们离岸边近了——
更近了—— 潜鸟群聚在一起 之后飞向
广阔的水域 而不是更暖和的地方
气候尚暖 几个孩子还流连在
沙滩边 烤着什么东西
我们以前认识这些孩子都来自谁家
史密斯家有霓虹折叠椅
贝斯和艾米•布朗的孩子划船出来准备夜间钓鱼时
手里总拿着带浮子的竹竿
这些潜鸟是他们的童年
也是我女儿的童年 吉姆扮军士的儿子
以离群动物般的孤独大声喊叫
过了几个月在家人陪伴下漫步湖畔石子路的生活之后
才慢慢忘却了这一切
一些人把他们带回那些村舍中——
炉台上那些袖珍的家传物件掉下来
猫舔着爪子 小狗不凶也不记仇
另一些人把吆喝着把门口的乞者赶走
湖中仙女的木雕 她们居住的山洞有毒径流污染
那是从壁炉中涌出的河流——
她们脖子上系着白丝带，眼睛是红宝石刻成
【作者简介】乔伊斯•佩塞罗夫近期出版的新书包括《东山时光》和《方兴未艾：简•肯尼恩的记述者们》。她的第五部诗集《自知》将于2014下半年出版。在麻省大学波士顿校区教授MFA课程项目。(6/2013)
【刊物简介】
AGNI是一家美国文学杂志，刊登诗歌、小说、散文、评论、访谈、美术等作品，每两周出一期网刊、每年出两期纸刊，总部位于波士顿大学。编辑Sven Birkerts是文学评论家和散文家。高级编辑是William Pierce。
AGNI已成为国际文学的领航灯塔，众多文坛巨匠早点都曾在此刊物上发表作品，其中很大部分是首次被译成英文。
AGNI所刊登过作品的众多作者中，部分作品被选入《手推车奖文选》《美国最佳散文》《美国最佳选择性阅读》《最佳新锐诗人》《哈珀斯》《欧•亨利小说奖文选》《最佳网络作品选》《每日诗歌》等著名文集及奖项。该杂志连续五年入选storySouth杂志社的“百万作家奖”（Million Writers Award）十强。
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附原文:
Catafalque
by Dore Kiesselbach
There are dragonflies in Manhattan
I learn when one uses me to rest.
I keep as still as I can, to be now
what I haven’t been to any person,
a refuge, steady, reliable.
No one made me this way
any more than the sky makes
the dragonfly stagger when
a starling crosses overhead.
That’s what I say to myself.
Were it to breathe fire on my finger
I would feel it as the pinch
of someone who wants
to believe he is dreaming.
Few of the boats driven
on the summer water
have carved dragonfly
prows, though wings
were oars on oars
before anything not
meant for water went there.
Solomon’s Wisdom Didn’t Keep
by Mark Neely
Solomon’s wisdom didn’t keep
him from pining for sleek
horses, so how am I—with no
direct warnings from above—
to keep my mind off you in the bar
mirror fifteen years ago watching
ice pour from the sky, when
we still believed in winter
and bartenders and Peter Buck,
believed no harm could come to us
from mixing Bass and Bushmills
and watching hipsters flaunt
fake fur and silver studs
by the orange heaters
until we were thrown out
into the frozen park
where the glassy trees
reminded us of us,
wrapped brightly
in their misery.
Mark Neely’s first book, Beasts of the Hill, won the FIELD Poetry Prize and was published by Oberlin College Press. He is also the author of a chapbook, Four of a Kind, which won the Concrete Wolf chapbook contest. His poems have appeared in Gulf Coast, Barrow Street, Indiana Review, Boulevard, and Salt Hill. He directs the Creative Writing Program at Ball State University. (11/2013)
A Little Death in the World
by Beth Woodcome Platow
I.
We found traces of the beginning.
You know what I mean.
If you don’t know what I mean, you will.
Your truth is only as real as mine is.
II.
It was a fact, and not a feeling:
Water, life, and a thrump.
Can we prove happiness? I saw your note,
In the margins, that maybe there is a God.
III.
Then it was gone,
And we could not measure
The distance or the volume
Of that particular loss.
If there were ever a truth, it would be this:
We don’t want to be crazy anymore.
We don’t have the heart for physics.
If it was here, then bring it back.
Beth Woodcome Platow’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Memorious, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. She received the Grolier Prize and the PEN/New England Discovery award. She holds an MFA from Bennington College, teaches at Berklee College of Music, and lives in Newburyport, Massachusetts. (9/2013)
The New Life
by Beth Woodcome Platow
We wiped it down, measured it,
and bought stocks for it.
In private we cried for all the pain
it took to get it, hold it, worry for it.
We took it home, introduced it to milk,
air, and television.
Someday we’ll tell the story
of how it was born during several wars
that we were able to ignore.
We’ll take it to Sachsenhausen
and show it all the shoes and the things
humans are capable of doing.
One night, while we had heat
and food and freedom,
I looked behind me, bent down,
and whispered to it:
I need to die before you do.
The Rule of Chambers
by Claire Sylvester Smith
Sometimes that which is dangerous is made only
that way because we are dangerous, too. See:
a crowded stadium, or, an etiquette that we do not
respect. A group that believes itself
a search party, but can’t agree on what it's
looking for: bravery, for one, lunch for another,
and thusly the inner workings of this small
institution break down. Now they are looking
for a way into or out of a brawl, depending on
how hard they believed in the party’s original end.
You can ruin many rules by disregarding them,
though just not following’s never enough, because
not following, because running a red light with fear,
means your fear respects the authority against
which it rebels. The rule of right side out.
The rule of hand holding. The rule of what is or is not
an occupied chair. A password was for a long time
the thing you gave at the door, when this giving
is a spoken thing. Here’s a secret, now tell me
another, was the exchange, wherein the second
secret is a room. The rule of chambers. The rule
that says you never stop looking. The rule that
tells all the other rules what they’re supposed to do.
Claire Sylvester Smith has recent work appearing or forthcoming in Boston Review, American Poetry Review, Southeast Review, Verse Daily, and Gulf Coast. She holds an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers and lives in Baltimore, Maryland. (7/2013)
Nymphs of Kezar Lake
by Joyce Peseroff
The loons that are the nymphs of Kezar Lake
yodel in September’s sudden dusk
or at a few undulating stars
as Jim snaps the boat’s canvas cover
shut, though it doesn’t look like rain.
Light wobbles when he scans the water
as if he’d dropped his keys, safe
in a pocket, cased in plastic that will float.
His boy reenlisted after two tours in Iraq.
His wife’s as thin as one of the birches
rooting in sand, close—too close—
to shore. Loons flock before they fly
to open water, not milder weather.
It’s still warm, a few kids hanging out
on the beach, smoking something.
We used to know every child, who belonged
to who, the Smiths with neon folding chairs,
Beth and Amy Brown’s bamboo rods
bobbing as they rowed out for the evening rise.
I think the loons are their childhoods,
my daughter’s too, and Jim’s sergeant
of a son, hooting in the desolate way of strays
let go after months of human companionship
on gravel roads that loop around the lake.
Some open cottage doors to take them in—
little lares thumped down at the hearth,
cats licking a paw, dogs empty of malice
or blame. Others shoo the supplicant away.
Carved idols of nymphs, grottoes polluted
by toxic runoff, brood from their mantels—
white band around the neck, red stone for an eye.
http://www.bu.edu/agni/history.html
http://www.baidu.com/link?url=XP ... 7hqjuj-xO9m-N9NayTq
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