情诗

总有些事要由痛苦制成。
你母亲编织。
她织出每种深浅红色的围巾。
它们本为圣诞准备,使你温暖
而一次次结婚,带你
一起。这怎么可行,
当所有那些年她都保存丧偶之心
仿佛逝者复返。
难怪你是现在这样,
害怕血,害怕你那些女人
就象砖墙一堵接一堵。

 

Love Poem

There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.

 

告白

要说我是没恐惧一一
并非真话。
我害怕疾病,害怕屈辱。
像任何人,我有些梦想。
但我学会了把它们藏住,
以保护自己
远离满足:所有幸福
都引命运三女神之怒。
她们是姐妹,野蛮人一一
终究她们都
无情感却嫉妒。

 

Confession

To say I’m without fear–
It wouldn’t be true.
I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
To protect myself
From fulfillment: all happiness
Attracts the Fates’ anger.
They are sisters, savages–
In the end they have
No emotion but envy.

 

初始记忆

很久以前,我曾受伤。我活着
报复自己
反对我父亲,不是
因为他是什么一一
而是因为我是:从开始,
在童年,我以为
那痛苦意味着
我不曾被爱过。
它意味着我爱过。

 

First Memory

Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was–
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.

(张裕 译于2020年10月8日)

By editor