帕斯卡尔·葩蒂（Pascale Petit）
杨炼小记：
帕斯卡尔·葩蒂
Pascale Petit（1953- ），出生于巴黎的英国当代诗人，《诗歌伦敦》创办者之一，并于1990-2005担任其诗歌编辑。曾有三本诗集入围艾略特诗歌奖，并被英国《卫报》选为未来一代最有潜力的诗人之一。我开始翻译她的诗，始于2005年我们第一次中英诗人直接交流，其结果是经张炜兄合作的《地图蛾》、《神奇的语言》。当代英语诗中“极端”之作甚少，而她的《镜兰》无论句式、语言堪称极端。除了诗中英诗少见的长句繁词外，音乐上亦很讲究，例如原文的一句“ the fossil-flowers with stone petals”（请注意其中谐音），中译要传其音乐神韵，非译成“这化石花有石花瓣”不可。我之所以啃这硬骨头，原因说来有点虚荣，因为她曾谓译者：“只有你能译”。赫，这是赞美，还是挑战？无论如何，希望译作不负朋友厚望也。这里的《拜水之赐》与《豁然伤口的记忆》二诗，均在2011年复旦大学中英诗人交流项目中完成。帕斯卡尔是墨西哥女画家弗丽达·卡罗的热爱者，且很认同拉丁美洲大自然的创造力。这两首诗中的刺痛和美同样触目，而副标题中的“After”可以译成“和”或“观后”，但品味诗的第一人称语感，我觉得译成“拟”更佳，画家诗人，浑然如一。顺便一提，复旦项目中，帕斯卡尔和我把我的《饕餮之问》合译成英文，发表在英国老牌诗歌杂志“诗歌评论”上，竟被选入2012年英国最佳诗选。这也颇为神奇，试想一本中文最佳诗选，怎么可能收入一首外文译诗？由此可见，我们的缘分，实在已超越国界语界（甚或男女之界），而在诗中相遇了。
凤歌争鸣：杨炼VS萧开愚（2首）
拜水之赐 （之六）
——拟弗丽达·卡罗
它就这么终结——
我躺在浴缸中
当水破裂
我的皮肤羊水般璀璨
星光之条纹。
水继续裂开
如我挣出我的躯体
我的生命在银色表面上舞蹈
那儿仙人掌开花。
屋顶敞开了
我焚烧着浮升。
雨扎穿我如荆棘。我有道蒸汽面纱。
我猝然坐起像被太阳的光芒攫住。
水，你是蕾丝婚袍
我从头上脱掉你，生出我的死。
我裹紧你像烧着了——
别带我回来。
（杨炼 译）
水所给我的（六）
弗丽达·卡洛同题作品观后
这是结束的样子——
我躺着洗澡
而羊水破了，
我的皮肤因羊水发亮
闪着星光。
我从我的身体出来时
羊水还在破。
我的生命在仙人掌开花的
银面跳舞。
天花板打开了
我上升到火的上面。
雨水如荆棘刺穿我。我戴着蒸气面纱。
当太阳的光线抱我我坐得笔直。
水，你是一件蕾丝婚纱
我滑过我的头，生下我的死。
当我燃烧我抱紧你——
别赶我回来。
（萧开愚 译）
附原文：
What the Water Gave Me (VI)
after Frida Kahlo
This is how it is at the end –
me lying in my bath
while the waters break,
my skin glistening with amnion,
streaks of starlight.
And the waters keep on breaking
as I reverse out of my body.
My life dances on the silver surface
where cacti flower.
The ceiling opens
and I float up on fire.
Rain pierces me like thorns. I have a steam veil.
I sit bolt upright as the sun’s rays embrace me.
Water, you are a lace wedding-gown
I slip over my head, giving birth to my death.
I wear you tightly as I burn –
don’t make me come back.
豁然伤口的记忆
——拟弗丽达 卡罗
每次我们做爱，你说
就像肏一场车祸——
我把一辆大巴开进卧室。
间歇片刻，像消防车
赶到前，火舌舔我们的
脚心。你我都不知道
油箱会在哪一刻爆炸。
你说我装饰我的房子
去再造那场事故——
我的骷髅被焰火铐锁，
笼中兽扑撞周围的空气。
你盯着穿金黄内裤的我——
一个十六岁的老媪 ，
失贞于一道闪电。
是拔出那根立柱的时候了。
我没料到爱是这感觉——
你用膝盖按压我，
拧拽我焦糊体内的钢棍
迅疾地，温存地，释放我。
（杨炼 译）
纪念赤裸的伤口
弗丽达·卡洛同题作品观后
当我们做爱，你说
就像操一场车祸——
我带着公共汽车进到卧室。
有一节平静，如消防队赶到
之前，火舔着我们的
脚。我俩谁也不知
油箱什么时候要爆炸。
你说我为重现事故现场
布置了我的住处——
住房四周缠满了烟火，
我豢养的动物吐着气。
你盯着我在我的金色内衣里——
一个十七岁的老太婆，在一次
闪电中失去了贞操。
是时候去掉扶手了。
我没想到爱是这种感觉——
你用膝盖摁住我
把铁棍从我烧焦的身体里抽出来
飞快地，好心地，令我自由。
（萧开愚 译）
附原文：
Remembrance of an Open Wound
after Frida Kahlo
Whenever we make love, you say
it’s like fucking a crash –
I bring the bus with me into the bedroom.
There’s a lull, like before the fire brigade
arrives, flames licking the soles
of our feet. Neither of us knows
when the petrol tank will explode.
You say I’ve decorated my house
to recreate the accident –
my skeleton wired with fireworks,
my menagerie flinging air about.
You look at me in my gold underwear –
a crone of sixteen, who lost
her virginity to a lightning bolt.
It’s time to pull the handrail out.
I didn’t expect love to feel like this –
you holding me down with your knee,
wrenching the steel rod from my charred body
quickly, kindly, setting me free.
Triangle of Glory：杨炼译《镜兰》《地图蛾》《神奇的语言》
镜兰
一座巨蜥山丘高耸在我们的葡萄园之上，
它遍布蛇鳞的蓟叶于午寐中缓缓开合恍若张口欲言。
自幼我仰望，想几个星期不被搅扰地在嶙峋的山脊上行走，
我的嘴大张，我的眼帘半闭，追逐
睫毛扑闪的朦胧间水晶兽一闪而过的尾巴。
低处的台地上，葡萄间，石英翼和流星眼的蜻蜓
吹拂高原的香——一朵云，我若不怕就能隐身其中。
此时此地，我攀援巨石的阶梯——
那梯级宽阔如地平线，坠石把我的指节擦破。
每道裂缝是一条铬绿色河谷，我沐浴且脱下孓然者十二层惊悸之皮。
直至我终于带着放大镜到了，分开茅草，
金剑叶的蓟头宛如沙漠美杜莎，这化石花有石花瓣与硫磺茎。
甲虫们爬出花冠，顶着虹彩黑的角向我挥舞触须，
载满地下航行的传说。
它们看过怎样的紫光宝石？探测过怎样的寂静，
从咆哮的阳光漩涡中浮起？
它们被花粉染得金黄，匆匆钻出时，冷风劲吹他们的甲。
有的背着箭簇，瞄准——这边！紧急！紧急！
于是我追随三叶虫的部落，我信他们。
我走至双脚麻木，磨蹭前行像千足虫穿过数千年。
它们把我领向那召唤着一根茎的蓝光——一只小小的、带斑点的翼。
诡秘的女王，黄蜂兰有镜子的性。
天空的全部颜料被这苍穹吞食者所包裹，在这液晶屏上
时间一幕幕展开，当我渐渐移近，我的脸被花萼的碗扣紧，
这里连钟乳的分秒也停止了滴落。
这里史前的蝈蝈吟唱石头的歌——我得侧耳才能听到那滴答声。
在它魅惑信息的颠倒的天空中，一支香歌向独一无二的恋人逸出。
我进入中央水晶巢，星工厂，世界窗，天底
那儿茎之隧道拖我向下穿越苍白的根系。
我饮幽独的树液，滚烫如岩浆，凝重如我行星的铁核。
蜂兰在抖动，幼虫数度白热地变形，
化为一只雌黄蜂。她的蓝翼发光
像刚出生的婴儿的胎衣。像簇新的望远镜上完美的镜片。
此刻，光淹没我之前，我必须注视进拉扎克高原多刺的腹地，
那里摇动着虚空的火瓣花。
我问候露齿的睡眠之花和它们的授粉者。
我问候它们静谧、修长、扎人、螺旋的茎，它们吮大地的根。
穿越夜之内核的黑色面纱，天虫降临。
午夜金龟子，吐血虫，雄壮的摩羯虫和鹿角虫——
所有埋藏我孤独生命的甲虫们。
圆蜘蛛的网是一个岛的星系——
它之字形的网上挂着我未做完的懵懂的梦。
金星镜兰闪亮，她的雄蕊伺伏在我之上
像锤又像刷，我若不逃就再次将我涂抹。
一只黄蜂，或一个情人？被魔法招出花瓣掩映的钴色的长廊，
我听见他趋近，他的翅膀因怯懦的光嗡嗡作响。
阳光的网为他飞向那镜兰助力，花瓣
为我打开如奢华的天蓝色卧榻上一张张床单，
闪耀的阳光下细丝茸茸柔软，我用手触摸，却是一片清凉。
一次又一次，我跌进花粉团的金色雷霆，花粉沾满了我的头。
而我的情人拥抱我，移近如一头雄蜂移向一朵花——
陌生的造物朝向陌生的造物。
（杨炼、有玲译）
附原文：
The Mirror Orchid
By Pascale Petit
A megasaurian massif reared above our vineyard,
its reptile-scale thistles slowly opening and closing during siestas as if they wanted to speak.
Since childhood I looked up, wanting to walk for weeks undisturbed on the spiny crest
of the great garrigue,
my catching-flies-mouth open, my eyes half-closed, chasing
the glimpsed tail of a crystalline beast in the blur of my flickering eyelashes.
Even down in the terraces, among the vines, dragonflies with quartz wings and meteor eyes
brought the perfume of the plateau – a cloud I could vanish in if I dared.
And now here I am climbing the giant stone ladder –
its rungs wide as the horizon, my knuckles grazed by falling rocks.
Each gap a viridian-rivered gorge where I bathe and shed the twelve scare-skins of singlehood.
Until at last I arrive with my magnifying glass, parting the straw-grasses,
the golden sword-leafed thistle-heads like desert medusas, the fossil-flowers with stone petals
and sulphur stems.
Iridescent-black horned beetles crawl out of their corollas and wave antennae at me,
bearing news from subterranean voyages.
What ultraviolet jewels have they seen? What silences have they plumbed,
to surface in roaring whirlpools of sunlight?
And the mistral blasting their armour-plates, as they scuttle out, gilded with pollen,
some with arrows on their backs, pointing – This way! Urgent! Urgent!
So I follow the trilobite tribe. I trust them.
I walk until my feet are numb, so numb they glide like millipedes across millennia.
They lead me to a blue light beckoning on a stem – a tiny, speckled speculum.
The queen of subterfuge, a wasp-orchid with a looking-glass sex.
All the sky's pigment is packed in this sky-swallower, this plasma screen
where time unreels, frame by frame, as I inch nearer, my face gripped by the cave of its calyx,
where even stalactite-seconds have stopped dripping.
Where a prehistoric cicada sings a stone song – a clock-tick my ears must tune themselves to.
In the upside-down sky of its pheromone-trap, a scent-song is released
for only one lover.
I enter the central crystal nest, star-factory, world-window, nadir
where stem-tunnels draw me down through etiolated systems of roots.
I drink the sap of solitude, scalding as magma, heavy as the iron core of my planet.
Ophrys miroir is vibrating now, metamorphosing into a female wasp,
passing through incandescent larva stages. Her blue wings shimmer
like the vernix on a newborn baby. Like the flawless lens on a newly cast telescope.
And now, before I drown in light, I must peer into the stinging heart of the Larzac
where the fire-petalled flowers of the void sway.
I greet the toothed flowers of sleep and their pollinators.
I greet their silent, long, thorned, spiral stems, their planet-sucking roots.
Through black veils of night's nucleus, the sky-insects come.
The midnight scarab, the blood-spitter, the great Capricorn and flying stag –
all the burying beetles of my lonely life.
And the orb-spider whose web is an island galaxy –
my swaddled, half-digested dreams dangle from the zigzag that streaks her net.
Mirror of Venus glistens, her stamens poised above me
like hammers or brushes that will repaint me if I don't run.
A wasp, or a lover? Conjured from the long cobalt corridors under the petal,
I hear him approach, his wings humming with nervous light.
Networks of sunrays harnessed for his flight to the mirror-flower, whose petals
are opening for me like the sheets of a plush azure bed,
the velvet nap lithe with solar flares but cool to my touch.
Again and again, the pollinia are stuck to my head as I tumble into their gold thunders.
And my lover clasps me, drawing close as a male wasp can draw to a flower –
alien species to alien species.
地图蛾
这只硕大的彩翅蛾
阔翼宛若中国地图。
这里两道长城蜿蜒。那儿
前翼挺出尖尖的满洲
有龙首震慑劫掠者。
但地图上这些鳞片晶亮
邀请着光的窗口是什么？
仿佛大地的皮肤
于薄暮某一瞬敞开。
这嫩嫩斑斓的地图
栖在我手上，它抖动——
热着身，像个新世界，临风欲飞。
（杨炼、张炜译）
附原文：
Atlas Moth
By Pascale Petit
This giant atlas moth’s broad wings
could be the map of China.
Here are two Great Walls. And there
on the Manchurian tip of each forewing
are dragon heads to scare off predators.
But what are those windows in the map,
where crystal scales let in the light?
As if earth’s skin has windows
and at certain times of the evening
they open. The newly emerged atlas
perches on my hand, and it trembles –
like a new world, warming up for its first flight.
神奇的语言
我曾精通星际的音乐
而它消隐。我救出一枚音符
保藏在舌下
启动我第一次呼吸。
出生后，我将那音符捣碎成颜色
细细打量这世界——
我们的家，此地我被反锁
在自身的地窖里。
门上一条悬吊的链子，
缀满了颤颤的小铃，
星夜霜霰般叮当作响。
之后，门轻启，我一步踏出
裸身而立
雪花点点在皮肤上融化，
一如失传语言中的词。
（杨炼、张炜译）
附原文：
Unearthly Languages
By Pascale Petit
I was fluent in the music of the spheres
but it faded. So I salvaged one note
and kept it under my tongue
to fuel my first breath.
After my birth, I broke that note into colours
with which to see the world –
our home, where I was locked
in the cellar of myself.
The door has a leash hanging from it,
with little bells that shiver,
the way frost tinkles on a starry night.
Then the door clicks open and I go out
and stand naked
while snowflakes melt on my skin,
like the words of a lost language.
Seasons of Poetry: 周瓒译四首
我父亲的身体
当我坐在这儿握着你的手
确信你曾是个强奸犯，
我觉得仅仅缩制你的头
是多么不够。
我可以缩制你的整个身体
用我作为一名雕塑家学到的技艺。
我会用火山的热力，
火焰河的水波
以及火焰河床上的热沙
我要对着这些材料唱歌。
它们会答唱，闪着辉光。
即使黑瓦洛的人头猎手
也会震惊于我是多么容易地
剥开你脖子上的皮
并一直向下撕到你的双脚。
我如何将你的肉丢给
我的动物们
要是它们饿了。
巨蟒独木舟将载着
你的器官去往那盛宴
而我要缝好你的裂缝。
然后我会煮你的皮
用河流的火焰把它熨平。
我会用热沙填充你身体的袋子，
丑恶将咕嘟咕嘟涌出去。
我不会停手
直到你被缩制到足以充当我的玩偶。
我会把你挂在一只钩子上
我瞪眼看我赤裸的爸爸
你那根微型阴茎
连一只耗子都伤害不了。
我会把你带到森林的某处
那里只有小孩子们允许去。
我在那里漫步，要听听
你的灵魂都说过什么。
当我来到空旷地
我会把你摆在那儿。留在那儿
当孩子们聚到你周围
耳语着，摸着你细小的手指。
(周瓒 译)
附原文:
My Father’s Body
By Pascale Petit
As I sit here holding your hand
knowing that you were once a rapist,
I think how it isn’t enough
just to shrink your head.
I could shrink your whole body
with the skills I learnt as a sculptor.
I’d use volcanic heat,
water from Fire River,
hot sand from its bed
and I’d sing to my materials.
They’d sing back, glowing.
Even Jivaro headhunters
would be shocked at how easily
I’d slit the sides of each limb,
peel the skin from your neck
and torso down to your feet.
How I’d discard your meat
and ask all my animals
if they were hungry.
The anaconda-canoe would carry
your organs to the feast
while I sewed your seams.
Then I’d boil your skin
and iron it with river-flames.
I’d fill your body-sack with hot sand,
the badness would bubble out.
I wouldn’t stop until
you’d shrunk enough to be my doll.
I’d hang you from a hook
and stare at my naked Papa –
your miniature penis
that couldn’t hurt a mouse.
I’d take you to a part of the forest
where only children are allowed.
Walking there, I’d listen
to what your soul had to say.
When I arrived at the clearing
I’d lay you out. And stay
as the children gathered around
whispering, touching your tiny fingers.
有火蚁的自画像
去拜访你，父亲，我戴了一副火蚁面具。
当我坐下等着你解释
为什么你抛弃我，在我八岁时
火蚁们列队挺进，红色的身体
聚在我双眼周围，螫着我的瞳孔直到它们发白
直到我失明。然后它们袭击我的嘴巴。
我试图舔掉它们，可它们爬下我的喉管
直到完整的一大群叮上我的胃，
而你准是变成了一只食蚁兽，
粘糊糊的长舌头探进我的嗓子，
就像你曾对我幼小的弟弟做过的，
当他假装睡着时给过他法国式亲吻。
我不记得你对我做了什么，但火蚁们知道。
(周瓒 译)
附原文：
Self-Portrait with Fire Ants
By Pascale Petit
To visit you Father, I wear a mask of fire ants.
When I sit waiting for you to explain
why you abandoned me when I was eight
they file in, their red bodies
massing around my eyes, stinging my pupils white
until I’m blind. Then they attack my mouth.
I try to lick them but they climb down my gullet
until an entire swarm stings my stomach,
while you must become a giant anteater,
push your long sticky tongue down my throat,
as you once did to my baby brother,
French-kissing him while he pretended to sleep.
I can’t remember what you did to me, but the ants know.
蛇屋
到了攀上你前门的时候了，母亲，
按响一只尖利蜂鸣的门铃，
这门有两颗弯曲的尖牙。
我进去，走入门厅那肌肉发达的喉咙，
走下此刻关闭着的地道
见到一点针尖般的灯光。
我置身于正在吞咽般的卧室，
为它洗洗擦擦，半个我活着
仿佛一个准备着祈雨舞的男人
在干燥的河床。他走进
来到矿井中，洗擦抚慰着群蛇
为了稍后当他起舞时将这些“小母亲们”
放在他嘴里，而它们不会咬他。
我是个小孩，呆在游戏围栏内
和我的宠物响尾蛇一起，
喂它们面包和牛奶。
只要我不害怕
它们就不袭击我。而此刻你说道，
“只有小女孩能够做到”。
至今我的脸颊还几乎没有缝合，
无数的移植物掩盖坏死的部分。
(周瓒 译)
附原文：
The Snake House
By Pascale Petit
It’s time to go up to your front door, Mother,
and ring the rattling buzzer of a bell,
the door with two curved fangs.
I go in, into the muscular throat of the hall,
down the tunnel that’s closing now
to a pinpoint of light.
I’m in the swallowing living-room,
washing it for you, half-alive,
like a man preparing for the rain-dance
in the dry arroyo. He reaches
into the pit and washes the snakes
so that later when he dances with the ‘little mothers’
in his mouth, they won’t bite.
I’m a child playing in the pen
with my pet rattlers,
giving them bread and milk.
As long as I’m unscared
they won’t strike. And you’re saying,
“Only a girl-child can do this”.
My cheeks are almost seamless now,
countless grafts hide the necrosis.
约束衣
我把手提箱放在父亲的床上
慢慢地，轻柔地打开它。
里面，躺着四十只活蜂鸟
裹着约束衣
拴成几排，每颗小小的脑袋
垫在襁褓般的身子上。
我用一只细颈瓶喂它们糖水，
往每只鸟喙里塞进吸管，
然后解开它们的捆束
好让父亲能够看到它们变幻颜色
它们在他的房间里飞来冲去。
它们在贴近他面孔的上方盘旋
仿佛他是一朵花儿，它们嗡嗡着
刚好在氧气机上方听得到。
我第一次来这里时
他呼吸顺畅，
插管连到他的鼻孔，差不多滑了出来。
我不知道我们坐了多久
但当我再一次扫视他的脸
他睡着了，蜂鸟羽毛上的光芒
依然在他的眼皮和面颊上游动。
我花了几小时将它们全部捉住
并把它们裹进约束衣里。
我安静地做着一切，他睡得
如此之深，一次都没醒来。
*题注：约束衣，指给囚犯或有暴力倾向的精神病患者设计的一种紧身衣。
(周瓒 译)
附原文：
The Strait-Jackets
By Pascale Petit
I lay the suitcase on Father’s bed
and unzip it slowly, gently.
Inside, packed in cloth strait-jackets
lie forty live hummingbirds
tied down in rows, each tiny head
cushioned on a swaddled body.
I feed them from a flask of sugar water,
inserting every bill into the pipette,
then unwind their bindings
so Father can see their changing colours
as they dart around his room.
They hover inches from his face
as if he’s a flower, their humming
just audible above the oxygen recycler.
For the first time since I’ve arrived
he’s breathing easily, the cannula
attached to his nostrils almost slips out.
I don’t know how long we sit there
but when I next glance at his face
he’s asleep, lights from their feathers
still playing on his eyelids and cheeks.
It takes me hours to catch them all
and wrap them in their strait-jackets.
I work quietly, he’s in such
a deep sleep he doesn’t wake once.
