野  鸟

灯光已黯淡，月亮

西沉，作别夜空

退向海，我们得以返回自身

清算孤寂。如果时间

允许，我们或许可以期望的转变是

离去。忍受了时间的

损耗，却没留下我们时光的记忆。

持刃之手或馈赠之手

皆不足以致充实。形式从未属于

我们，我们的心灵之美，质疑

天堂。一次，远离海岸

我看见一群乌鸦与风对抗。

徒劳挣扎，再来，要触地了，

它们拍打翅膀对抗比它们

更伟大的力量。我们所有人

皆如我在海上看见的那些鸟， 被强风

吹离我们的意愿。我阅读，

梦想着言词能改变

视野，铸人为完美的动物

并因此变形而永生。

还有什么可去梦的？不是这个，

不是抗击风的这个。喧嚣

是我们的创造，我们曾指靠的神是人：

再度变成我们之所是的事物，却成为

迷失海上的黑色灰烬，落败的野鸟。

© 禤园 译

Wild Birds

Because the light has paled and the moon

had wandered west and left the night

to the receding sea, we turn into ourselves

and count our solitudes. The change

we might have wished for had we time

to wish is gone. The sacrifice of hours

has endured and we remember nothing of our days.

Neither the hand with the knife nor human gift

is enough to bring fulfillment. Form that was never

ours, the questioning of paradise, the beauty of

our minds. Once beyond the sight of land

I saw a flock of crows battle the wind.

Baffled, returning, knowing the landfall,

they beat their wings against a strength

greater than their own. We are all of us

as those birds I saw at sea blown outward

against our will. I read the books

and dreamed the dream that words could change

the vision, make of man a perfect animal

and so transformed become immortal.

What else was there to dream? Not this,

not this beating against the wind. Chaos

is our creation and the god we wished was man:

to burn again into the thing we are, yet be

black cinders lost at sea, the wild birds failing.

© Patrick Lane

向风暴嬗变

知道他是个白人。

他打着横走入风暴

让他身体的左侧

忘记右侧

所感知的寒冷。双耳

变为双眼不能视见的

死亡。他终日

行走，远离太阳

向风暴嬗变。千万别

将你听到的怒号

以为你追随的踪迹

误认作他。在雪中

找一个白人就是找寻死亡。

他已被风焚化。

他留下了太多血肉

在冬的白色金属上

却没留下肤色作为标识。

寒冷的白。寒冷的血肉。他打着横

斜倚进风：失心疯般

来到雪地，无情地屠戮

身体左侧的一切。

© 禤园 译

Passing into Storm

Know him for a white man.

He walks sideways into wind

allowing the left of him

to forget what the right

knows as cold. His ears

turn into death what

his eyes can’t see. All day

he walks away from the sun

passing into storm. Do not

mistake him for the howl you hear

or the track you think you

follow: Finding a white man

in snow is to look for the dead.

He has been burned by the wind.

He has left too much

flesh on winter’s white metal

to leave his colour as a sign.

Cold white. Cold flesh. He leans

into wind sideways; kills without

mercy anything to the left of him

coming like madness in the snow.

© Patrick Lane

野  马

只要你单独到这儿来一次

看看这些野马

从高高的洛矶山里跑出来

粗犷的腿踹着齐腰深的雪地。

你只管单独来一次。千万别看到

那些男人和他们的卡车。

就单独来一次。一切都不再移动，

当那匹雄马和五匹自由奔放的牝马

撞到了枪口里。都死了。

他们的眼睛里闪着白霜。

冰从它们的鼻孔里流出来，

当它们被一根钢绳拖走。

后来，一阵骂骂咧咧

和跺脚之后

我们坐车到了戈尔登：

不要抓狂。

这是一种艰苦而血腥的生活

对三百块钱的肉而言

这更是漫长的一周。

还有那失去神彩的死去的眼睛

以及空荡的草原。

© 阿九 译

Wild Horses

Just to come once alone

to these wild horses

driving out of the high Rockies

raw legs heaving the hip-high snow.

Just once alone. Never to see

the men and their trucks.

Just once alone. Nothing moves

as the stallion with five free mares

rush into the guns. All dead.

Their eyes glaze with frost.

Ice bleeds in their nostrils

as the cable hauls them in.

Later, after the swearing

and the stamping of feet

we ride down into Golden:

Quit bitchin.

It’s a hard bloody life

and a long week

for three hundred bucks of meat.

That and the dull dead eyes

and the empty meadows.

© Patrick Lane

【诗人简介】帕特里克·雷恩(Patrick Lane，1939-2019)，加拿大最优秀的当代诗人之一，加拿大文学史上的重要诗人，包括加拿大最高文学奖总督奖和作协奖在内的众多文学奖项的得主。雷恩生于不列颠哥伦比亚省的内尔森小镇，年轻时干过各种体力活，做过卡车司机、装卸工、剥毛皮工、急救员、锯木厂小职员、推销员等，但他一生的大部分时间在从事写作和教学，包括在康科底亚大学、阿尔伯塔大学和多伦多大学担任驻校诗人。他还在萨斯卡川大学和维多利亚大学教授过文学创作。他的写作生涯持续了半个世纪，共出版诗集27本，因而其厚达500多页的大型诗选的编撰只按年代作代际划分，不列出自诗集。此外他还出版有小说、回忆录、童书等。雷恩的诗极富个性，像直拳一样重击胸口。有人曾这样写道：读他的诗后“不仅倍受震撼，简直就是全身发抖。”雷恩于2019年获颁欧洲诗歌暨文艺荷马奖章。