《这雨》
这声音敲击整夜
再次折返，
再次降临，这静谧的
细雨，绵绵。
我是谁，对我自己
有什么必须牢记，
必须持之
以恒？难道是
从不轻松，
甚至坚硬，
飘洒的雨
将赐予我
不同与此的，
不太坚韧的某种事物——
我被幽闭于此
这最后的焦虑。
爱人，若你爱我，
来我身边共寝。
只为我，如雨，
潇潇地释放
这疲惫，这愚昧，这半推
半就的欲望。
那就濡湿吧
以一种真正的幸福。
（1962）
《致爱人》
给芭比
昨天我就想
提起，这感觉
对我而言比什么都
重要，因为我
所熟悉的一切
皆来自它的教诲。
今天，是什么
让它自己的言辞
最终变得如此无助，
不同，而又绝望
意欲转身离开，
永久地转身离开。
如果明月不会... ...
不，如果你不会
我亦不会，但是
我不会去做什么
预防什么，什么
事情转瞬即止。
那是昨日之爱
或者明日之爱，不是
现在。我不能吃
嗟来之食。我
尚未挣得分毫。我必须
想到一切
是自己挣的。现在爱情也
成为一种赏赐，它离我
如此遥远，只是
一闪念划过脑际。
如此乏味，
绝望，痛苦的
孤独感和
怪异仿佛自命
不凡。而那意象
只是大脑的
模糊构造，模糊于我
只因它是我的。
爱人，我想说的
我不能说。
你质疑你成为何人，
我让你成为现在的你，
一个伴侣，好伙伴，
穿着裙子交叉双腿，或者
柔软的躯体
在瘦骨嶙峋的床下。
没有什么能说明什么
但那希望
总会成真，害怕
其他的什么可能发生
在某个地方，某个
时辰，而非此时此地。
一个声音在我这里，一个
回音只在你的声音里。
让我跌入
不是自白而是
我现在开始的
拥有。为你
而且（而且）
超越某地之某时，抑或
超越某时之某地，不留
任何思想
讲述任何事情，
现在，那面孔已消逝。
进入爱的陪伴
一切都折返。
（1962）
莫笑愚译，2014-07-06于北京
-------------------------
附英文原文：
The Rain
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me
something other than this,
something not so insistent --
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.
For Love
for Bobbie
Yesterday I wanted to
speak of it, that sense above
the others to me
important because all
that I know derives
from what it teaches me.
Today, what is it that
is finally so helpless,
different, despairs of its own
statement, wants to
turn away, endlessly
to turn away.
If the moon did not ...
no, if you did not
I wouldn't either, but
what would I not
do, what prevention, what
thing so quickly stopped.
That is love yesterday
or tomorrow, not
now. Can I eat
what you give me. I
have not earned it. Must
I think of everything
as earned. Now love also
becomes a reward so
remote from me I have
only made it with my mind.
Here is tedium,
despair, a painful
sense of isolation and
whimsical if pompous
self-regard. But that image
is only of the mind's
vague structure, vague to me
because it is my own.
Love, what do I think
to say. I cannot say it.
What have you become to ask,
what have I made you into,
companion, good company,
crossed legs with skirt, or
soft body under
the bones of the bed.
Nothing says anything
but that which it wishes
would come true, fears
what else might happen in
some other place, some
other time not this one.
A voice in my place, an
echo of that only in yours.
Let me stumble into
not the confession but
the obsession I begin with
now. For you
also (also)
some time beyond place, or
place beyond time, no
mind left to
say anything at all,
that face gone, now.
Into the company of love
it all returns.
(1962)
----------------------
Note: Poems selected from Post Modern American Poetry, A Norton Anthology edited by Paul Hoover, 2nd edition. P.127-130.
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