(又一次体会到,诗的语言真是强大,诗能够传达的感觉真是不可思议。请看迈基马德描写他爷爷的去世。——译者,2017/04)
那一头熊
艾米特·迈基马德(黄未原译)不愿见光的语言
从洞口偶然冒出
又吞回
消失在记忆的莫高窟里
膝上的曾孙女儿
在91年漫长的隧道尽头玩耍
阳光照亮那里的开阔地
助听器也不能打破的寂静
就像一枚硬币
掉落井底
他的眼光和我们相遇
像一只昏昏欲睡的熊
正把又一块石头放好
堵住通向自己的进口
掩上不能自动关闭的感觉之门
当我说我爷爷去年离世了
我是说他隐退了
退回到洞穴里黑郁的斜坡之下
隐没在孕育地河的深潭之中
The bear
Amit MajmudarA word peeked sometimes from the cave mouth
only to shuffle back, swallowed, sky-shy,
lost in his memory's russet Lascaux?.
The great-granddaughter we set on his lap
played in the far-off, sunlit opening
of a tunnel ninety-one years long,
as noiseless, in spite of the hearing aid,
as a penny striking the floor of a well.
His eyes met ours like a groggy bear's
as he pulled another stone into place
to seal the entrance to himself,
to close the senses that would not close themselves.
When I say my grandfather passed on
last year, what I mean is, he passed inward,
down the dark slope of a cave, drawn
by the womb rush of a river underground.
(Poetry Daily, 2017-03-30)