标题: 几首 Raymond Carver 的诗 [打印本页]
作者: July 时间: 2010-1-6 22:41 标题: 几首 Raymond Carver 的诗
我热爱卡弗是因为他是个意外。他是那种看上去最不文学的人，真正的蓝领。贫穷，酗酒。一张肉脸多欲粗俗，手上还带着一个最底层的人爱戴的假宝石大戒指。可是他写得那么好，一写就写得独一无二。而且，他是那样热爱写作。他才活了50岁，就得肺癌死了。他做过看门人，钢厂工人，送外卖，在医院值夜班。。。却写诗，写小说，第一篇小说就被认为是美国最好的小说。
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An Afternoon
As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn't that. No,
it's because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead.
Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her
through the doorway. Maybe
she's remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.
Circulation
And all at length are gathered in.
--LOUISE BOGAN
By the time I came around to feeling pain
and woke up, moonlight
flooded the room. My arm lay paralyzed,
propped up like an old anchor under
your back. You were in a dream,
you said later, where you'd arrived
early for the dance. But after
a moment's anxiety you were okay
because it was really a sidewalk
sale, and the shoes you were wearing,
or not wearing, were fine for that.
"Help me," I said. And tried to hoist
my arm. But it just lay there, aching,
unable to rise on its own. Even after
you said, "What is it? What's wrong?"
it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved
by any expression of fear or amazement.
We shouted at it, and grew afraid
when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep,"
I said, and hearing those words
knew how absurd this was. But
I couldn't laugh. Somehow,
between the two of us, we managed
to raise it. This can't be my arm
is what I kept thinking as
we thumped it, squeezed it, and
prodded it back to life. Shook it
until that stinging went away.
We said a few words to each other.
I don't remember what. Whatever
reassuring things people
who love each other say to each other
given the hour and such odd
circumstance. I do remember
you remarked how it was light
enough in the room that you could see
circles under my eyes.
You said I needed more regular sleep,
and I agreed. Each of us went
to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed
on our respective sides.
Pulled the covers up. "Good night,"
you said, for the second time that night.
And fell asleep. Maybe
into that same dream, or else another.
I lay until daybreak, holding
both arms fast across my chest.
Working my fingers now and then.
While my thoughts kept circling
around and around, but always going back
where they'd started from.
That one inescapable fact: even while
we undertake this trip,
there's another, far more bizarre,
we still have to make.
The Cobweb
A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck
of the house. From there I could see and hear the water,
and everything that's happened to me all these years.
It was hot and still. The tide was out.
No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing
a cobweb touched my forehead.
It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned
and went inside. There was no wind. The sea
was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.
Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath
touches it. A fine thread. Intricate.
Before long, before anyone realizes,
I'll be gone from here.
This Morning
This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk -- determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong -- duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.
What The Doctor Said
He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong附件 1 : 
071224_r16910_p323.jpg (2010-1-6 22:41, 65.01 K )
作者: 萧雨生 时间: 2010-1-8 02:02
七月喜欢他的诗歌，我喜欢他的短篇小说: What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Cathedral, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? 都很不错。
作者: 忍忍 时间: 2010-1-8 02:21
七月，雨生，
你们看出来这些诗的特点了吗？
“Down to earth," close to real life, no big words, not artificial, not even poetic, unlike the classicals. That is the trend of contemporary poetry.
What doctor says is just what he says, no any efforts to make any imposing impressions.
Do you guys notice?
作者: July 时间: 2010-1-8 10:43
忍忍有一点说的不对。现代诗歌和经典诗歌相比，的确抛弃了空洞，程式化的大词，八股和形式。但是，一首好诗歌必须有诗意，也就是必须poetic。 卡佛的诗简单，用的是日常口语，写的是日常生活，却极其poetic。比如，An Afternoon ，这是我最喜欢的。那些英文诗行的节奏是流动的，就象是海的波浪，那个爱情的意像是真实的，却又很虚幻，恍惚，给人很大的想像空间。再说What doctor says ， 这几句难道不 poetic？不具有象征意义？：
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
而且，这首诗是可以当成寓言来读的。它非常真实的描写了一个人面对死亡的一瞬间。
好诗与坏诗的区别就在于是否poetic，是否写出了人类共同的感情。卡佛是个天才诗人，他的诗都很真实，却从最平凡的细节里写出人性的诗意。
有一次一元评我写的Mark Strand一文：
说七月笔头细腻，不如说她眼光细腻，说她眼光细腻，不如说她心底细腻，她上面写车上那个男人，寥寥几笔，却让人无法不为之动容。我想，这世界上大多数人的日常生活是远离浪漫的，他们为杂务琐事缠身，为谋生终日奔波，更有人为种种自己或亲人的不幸劳神憔悴，他们的庸庸碌碌是远离文学的。但七月逮住的那个瞬间，让读者从这些凡人俗务里品到一味美美的忧伤，那样真实却又那样文学。我倾向于认为，忧伤是人类的一大精神财富，让这个世界从纸醉金迷里，从血泪淋漓里，从尘世喧嚣里后退一步，躲进一层淡淡流动的蓝色薄雾。我想如果我们说生活是美好的，不一定真是说生活到处阳光明媚天蓝海碧，而是我们知道了，有人，尽管不是很多，尽管不是我们，在那么精心那么津津有味地观察这个世界，让我们在劳作或神伤中偶一抬头，一声叹息竟也有清风流转，一个无奈的眼神也有阳光的折射，一个简单的问候也可以显得风情万种。这样的文学笔触，也许并不直面人生，但却教我们品味人性，教我们体验回报，教我们不绝望。
就是我今天说的卡佛，"那样真实却又那样文学", 一元很理解我 
作者: July 时间: 2010-1-8 10:49
我前几天和笨笨讨论陈先发和笨水，干脆也贴在这里：
-------------------------
笨笨和我谈陈先发。我先是很吃一惊，不知为什么她如此迷恋陈先发的诗。花了两天，读了陈所有的诗，又去读了评论，摘抄一节：
陈的诗歌取材宽广，深刻的带有杜甫的轨迹，又有李贺般奇崛陌生的意象，既有欧阳江河中年式的广场朗诵与语言魔术，又在骨头里仍不动声色的流淌着海子、骆一禾这代诗人青春一般的生命祭献。他的诗歌融汇了老庄儒家博尔赫斯等多种智慧的糅合与冲突，又同时兼容着对水浒传、青龙白虎、神秘咒语等草根事物的强烈观照。
----许少璋:《维天之命，于穆不已——陈先发诗歌犹如宿命论》
可惜，我看陈诗就是一个难咽的粽子，堵在喉头，咽不下去。
杜甫，李贺，海子，老庄，博尔赫斯都是我的至爱。今年我最认真读的就是博尔赫斯。可是这个集各位大家于一身的陈先发，却让我食不甘味，无以下咽。
再摘一节：
陈先发诗歌深邃、博大、精确、势大力沉，犹如拧紧螺丝的技艺，犹如以青色的火焰烧一把紫砂壶，犹如黄河沙砾沉淀后露出的牡蛎。
这几句话我都同意。可惜，牡蛎是我讨厌的东西。深邃、博大、精确、势大力沉的另一说法就是故作深沉，故弄玄虚。
陈的诗缺乏诗意，他站在一个制高点上，对人间指手画脚，令人讨厌。用一个术语，就是堆砌。
笨笨说她不喜欢笨水了，我却很喜欢。笨水的诗年轻，利索，尖锐，节奏特别鲜明，更好的是，他的诗有诗意。陈先发和他比，简直是个半死不活的老头子。哈哈，笨水穿红T-恤的照片和陈浮肿的脸的照片就很形象生动地表现出他们诗歌的不同之处。成熟其实是衰老的另一种说法，诗永远是年轻人的。当然，我太刻薄了。
我看见的少年，依然清澈，深不见底
依然是无知者无边
就是这个意思。
-----------------
笨水的诗：
无知无边
我走过的路，不及少年在早晨的旅行
我越过大海、草原、沙漠
以及艰难的沼泽地
也没有接近他的星空
止刹于某个城市的公交车站
坐在某街某巷，成为某颗有名的尘埃
坐在椅子上，分辨它的木质
以椅子有限的想像和自身的纹理交谈
我放任了门牌号上火车穿行的光阴
看窗外的雪山，直至头发都白了
一棵树反复被风折断
那时，我还不知道活着是一种耻辱
不知道日子为何夹带着大风和雷雨
让我无法再回到少年微酸的葡萄树上
和落叶在一起
我和被称为你们与他们的人在一起
相互磨损，直到针锋相对
直到没有爱与恨的力气
直到老了。回头
我看见的少年，依然清澈，深不见底
依然是无知者无边
2009-5-20
走向草原
我走向草原时，草原正向我走来
牧羊人，他的妻子和儿女，赶着羊群
向我走来
从我身边走过去，像一阵微风
从我身边吹过去
它们吹过草原，吹过远处的孤树
给我留下的，只有
这旷远的暮色，这落在墓石上的倦鸟，河水中叫喊的砾石
2009-6-27
作者: July 时间: 2010-1-8 10:55
再贴一首我喜欢的诗：在文心社读到的。文心社有许多好写手，可是实在太受不了施雨社长大盘小碗的盛宴，和各级党政军领导人的合影。文学不是请客吃饭哈！
--------------
卡夫卡
文/张祈
2009年04月16日，星期四
我站在这城堡的中心
双脚却在城外的风雪中徘徊
法院的守门人不屑与我纠缠
我却早已被莫须有的法庭审判
一部断线的电话给我带来
陌生人的指令，而我写给上帝的求助信
却无一例外退回到我的衣袖
我爱的那个女人不知道如何接纳我
因为我的渴求比她的更犹豫不决
邻居们一个个都是窥视者和告密狂
从白天到黑夜他们都睁着大而圆的眼睛
在我办公桌前，那个指手划脚的人多么让人憎恶！
可是我也清楚就算我辞职他也不会马上死去
昨夜，高大魁梧的父亲回来了，就象童年时，
他紧绷着脸，继续高声地严厉斥责我，
然后把一只颤抖的小鸟丢在门外的冷风里。
2009，4
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这几句尤其好：一下子就抓住了卡夫卡的实质
一部断线的电话给我带来
陌生人的指令，而我写给上帝的求助信
却无一例外退回到我的衣袖
我爱的那个女人不知道如何接纳我
因为我的渴求比她的更犹豫不决
昨夜，高大魁梧的父亲回来了，就象童年时，
他紧绷着脸，继续高声地严厉斥责我，
然后把一只颤抖的小鸟丢在门外的冷风里。
作者: 忍忍 时间: 2010-1-8 12:25
Originally posted by July at 2010-1-8 10:43:
忍忍有一点说的不对。现代诗歌和经典诗歌相比，的确抛弃了空洞，程式化的大词，八股和形式。但是，一首好诗歌必须有诗意，也就是必须poetic。卡佛的诗简单，用的是日常口语，写的是日常生活，却极其poetic。比如，An Afternoon ，这是我最喜欢的。那些英文诗行的节奏是流动的，就象是海的波浪，那个爱情的意像是真实的，却又很虚幻，恍惚，给人很大的想像空间。再说What doctor says ， 这几句难道不 poetic？不具有象征意义？：
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
而且，这首诗是可以当成寓言来读的。它非常真实的描写了一个人面对死亡的一瞬间。
好诗与坏诗的区别就在于是否poetic，是否写出了人类共同的感情。卡佛是个天才诗人，他的诗都很真实，却从最平凡的细节里写出人性的诗意。
Dear 七月，
要辩论，没有定义是很糟糕的。
俺是说“诗情画意”，古典意义上那个“诗意”。那个诗意是与莺歌燕舞连在一快的。
咱们这次只说”What doctor says“这首。
What doctor says 一般是事实，与诗的距离最远。但是这个医生这次却适可而止，没说那么细，那么直。而诗人却是很感激，若是医生再说下去，就极为残忍，也不必要。
本来医生对病人要事实求实，理性的，非感性的。可是这次医生改变了职业准则，没有叙述事实，而是给了病人很委婉的劝告，收到很好的效果。
哲理是思考的一种方式，一种层次，和一种态度。与常识，专业知识，和职业准则不总是有相关性，有时甚至相反。这首诗里表现的就是这种思想，哲理性的思想。
所以俺说这首诗是哲理的诗，而不是刻意去营造诗意的诗。
不过，你要说哲理也是一种诗意，俺可能会同意。
On the other hand, 一元的评论是不能够给你提供依据的。如果需要，俺可以照样驳他。
作者: 忍忍 时间: 2010-1-8 12:46
Originally posted by July at 2010-1-8 10:49:
我前几天和笨笨讨论陈先发和笨水，干脆也贴在这里：
-------------------------
笨笨和我谈陈先发。我先是很吃一惊，不知为什么她如此迷恋陈先发的诗。花了两天，读了陈所有的诗，又去读了评论，摘抄一节：
..
COME ON, 七月，
谁是陈先发？你能欣赏 Raymond Carver 的诗，就停在那里。再回来看这些，是不是接不上? 俺会感到难受的。
除非你有无限的时间，读诗要读名人的诗。就象穿衣服要穿名牌子是一个意思，也许尤甚。
笨笨和大诗人的诗另说，因为我们都熟悉，这些诗就是活着的，有一些生活，思想，互动的关系。
作者: 忍忍 时间: 2010-1-8 12:50
Originally posted by
July at 2010-1-8 10:55:
再贴一首我喜欢的诗：在文心社读到的。文心社有许多好写手，可是实在太受不了施雨社长大盘小碗的盛宴，和各级党政军领导人的合影。文学不是请客吃饭哈！
--------------
卡夫卡
文/张祈
2009..
这些诗都是字，词的艺术性，或数学性的运用，或者说是对联大汇集，读后感。对我来说，与诗意甚远。西方现代诗里对此很不以为然。
至于文心社，俺从小就是一个不遵守纪律的坏孩子，看见他们那里排得整整齐齐，一本正经，假模假势，俺就想笑。It is intolerable. 
俺这个人老是装不象，就干脆不装。。。哈哈哈。。。
作者: 萧雨生 时间: 2010-1-8 20:07
Originally posted by 忍忍 at 2010-1-8 05:50 PM:
这些诗都是词的艺术性，或数学性的运用，或者说是对联大汇集，读后感。对我来说，与诗意甚远。西方现代诗里对此很不以为然。
至于文心社，俺从小就是一个不遵守纪律的坏孩子。看见他们那里排得整整齐齐，一..
忍忍说文心社，有点意思，跟我的感觉差不多，我觉得那边确实是把很多国内的做法带来了，别的不说，你看那个组织结构，就跟共产党的组织结构一样，国际国内遍布全球，三两个人也是一个支部，从中来个支部书记，一个秘书，剩下一个只好做副书记了。哈哈，搞笑。
作者: 忍忍 时间: 2010-1-8 20:26
Originally posted by 萧雨生 at 2010-1-8 20:07:
忍忍说文心社，有点意思，跟我的感觉差不多，我觉得那边确实是把很多国内的做法带来了，别的不说，你看那个组织结构，就跟共产党的组织结构一样，国际国内遍布全球，三两个人也是一个支部，从中来个支部书记，一个秘书，剩下一个只好做副书记了。哈哈，搞笑。
英雄所见略同。俺看雨生也是个自由的种子。俺不管走到哪里都不想让谁管着，自由自在。俺指自己的思想，行动自由。可是俺一般不去管别人。
作者: thesunlover 时间: 2010-1-9 14:13
伊甸走草根路线，精神贵族平民化。
你们请多聊，我有时间就来偷学点。
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