本欄主持：遠 行

華萊士·史蒂文斯（Wallace Stevens）（1879-1955），生于美國賓夕法尼亞州,先后在哈佛和紐約法學院受教育。做了十幾年律師后，于1934年出任康涅狄格州的哈特福德意外事故保險公司副總裁，直到退休。他除在法律和商務(wù)圈周旋之外，還是個詩人。詩集有《簧風琴》《秩序的觀念》等。他的詩突發(fā)奇想，構(gòu)思巧妙，不受傳統(tǒng)意識影響。

這里介紹的這首《基韋斯特的秩序觀念》，強調(diào)了人類的精神、意志、力量與文明，讓大海失色，并調(diào)整、主宰了這個世界，而被人們一向頌揚的大海只是空洞地“哭泣”，而我們每個人，都是我們自身世界里的唯一工匠，我們創(chuàng)造自己的世界，并在里面吟唱。這首詩以一種新的“觀念”，重整著世界的“秩序”……她聽到的，因為她的歌唱被一字字地反饋。

也許，她所有激昂的樂句，攪動了跌宕的水和痙攣的風；

但我們聽到的是她，而不是海。

基韋斯特的秩序觀念

她唱得超過天才的大海。

海水的形成從不是為了思考或發(fā)音，它像一個軀體，整個身軀，飄動著空洞的衣袖；盡管模擬的動作，不休的哭泣，無休地引起哭泣，可那不是我們的聲音，盡管我們理解這真實的、超人類的海洋。

大海不是裝飾。 她更不是。

歌與水不是交響樂，縱使她唱的，也是

因為她是她歌曲的創(chuàng)作者。

那永遠被遮掩的、悲慘姿勢的海洋只是她漫步并歌唱的地方。

這是誰的精神？我們說，是因為我們知道它是我們曾尋找的精神，我們要一再地詢問，當她歌唱的時候。

如果那只是海的暗淡的聲息，升起，或甚至被許多的波濤助瀾；

如果那只是外面的天空的響動，與云，沉陷的珊瑚，被水困擾，

很明顯，那將是深深的大氣，沉重的空氣的述說，夏季的聲音，在夏季里重復(fù)，無休無止，而且僅僅是聲音。

然而，不僅如此，甚至不是她的聲音，也不是我們的聲音，在水與風無意義的穿插之間。

夸大的遠方，青銅色的影子堆聚在高高的地平線上，天與海形成山峰般的大氣。

是她的聲音，讓天空在消沉中敏銳。

她丈量了荒僻的時刻。她是這世界里唯一的工匠，她在這世界里吟唱。

當她吟唱的時候，大海自身擁有的一切，化為自身。正是她的歌，因為她的創(chuàng)作。而我們，當我們單獨領(lǐng)悟到她的步伐，感知到，未曾哪個世界為她存在， 除了這個，她曾唱，正唱，與建立的世界。

瑞蒙.費爾南德斯，對我說，你是否知道，為什么，當歌唱停止，在我們返城途中，為什么如鏡的燈，港灣里漁船上的燈火，當夜幕降落，傾斜在空中，主宰了夜晚，分割了海域；固定了光彩斑駁的地帶和火紅的桅桿；編整、深邃、陶醉了夜晚。

哦！瘋狂地為順序祈禱, 蒼白的瑞蒙。

創(chuàng)造者的狂熱調(diào)整了海的語言,制訂了馥郁的入口、朦朧的星光, 以及我們自己和我們起源的語言，在幽魂的靈界里, 銳利的聲音。

2010.1.2譯

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.

The water never formed to mind or voice,

Like a body wholly body, fl uttering

Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion

Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,

That was not ours although we understood,

Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.

The song and water were not medleyed sound

Even if what she sang was what she heard,

Since what she sang was uttered word by word.

It may be that in all her phrases stirred

The grinding water and the gasping wind;

But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.

The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea

Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.

Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew

It was the spirit that we sought and knew

That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea

That rose, or even colored by many waves;

If it was only the outer voice of sky

And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,

However clear, it would have been deep air,

The heaving speech of air, a summer sound

Repeated in a summer without end

And sound alone. But it was more than that,More even than her voice, and ours, among

The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,

Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped

On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres

Of sky and sea.

It was her voice that made

The sky acutest at its vanishing.

She measured to the hour its solitude.

She was the single arti fi cer of the world

In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,

Whatever self it had, became the self

That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,

As we beheld her striding there alone,

Knew that there never was a world for her

Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,

Why, when the singing ended and we turned

Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,

The lights in the fi shing boats at anchor there,

As the night descended, tilting in the air,

Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,

Fixing emblazoned zones and fi ery poles,

Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,

The maker's rage to order words of the sea,

Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,

And of ourselves and of our origins,

In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.