December 1,2006
希薇亞的她者
Sylvia Plath 這首詩寫的她者
是那善於誘惑的Assia Wevil
是那善於誘惑的Assia Wevil
Wevill是Assia第三任丈夫的姓
她的美麗是屬於異鄉與浪人的
她似乎一生都在捕捉
或等待被擄獲
她深受Sylvia吸引
被她內在的靈魂
那需要城堡的Sylvia
她的詩是無盡的告白
一種精神激昂的暴力
爆裂出驚嚇的效應
讓你比清楚更過度地
感受到她的洞察力
她的憤怒與嘲諷
與死亡親密地擦身而過
她無法殺戮的良善痛苦
她太愛某個男人以致於
學會了仇恨另一個女人
並且仇恨自己這個女人
那個她者-命定的侵佔者
在Sylvia自殺之後
住進她的屋內
睡在她的床上
使用她的物品
愛戀她的男人
照顧她的孩子
閱讀她的日記
想像她的命運
到最後
Assia她者近乎效忠地重演
Sylvia永恆女主人的自殺場景
擁著自己無人托付的小女兒
於是
真正無法分別存在
需要彼此才能完整
註定在死裡相逢的
是這兩個女人
------------------
The Other
by Sylvia Plath
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
她的美麗是屬於異鄉與浪人的
她似乎一生都在捕捉
或等待被擄獲
她深受Sylvia吸引
被她內在的靈魂
那需要城堡的Sylvia
她的詩是無盡的告白
一種精神激昂的暴力
爆裂出驚嚇的效應
讓你比清楚更過度地
感受到她的洞察力
她的憤怒與嘲諷
與死亡親密地擦身而過
她無法殺戮的良善痛苦
她太愛某個男人以致於
學會了仇恨另一個女人
並且仇恨自己這個女人
那個她者-命定的侵佔者
在Sylvia自殺之後
住進她的屋內
睡在她的床上
使用她的物品
愛戀她的男人
照顧她的孩子
閱讀她的日記
想像她的命運
到最後
Assia她者近乎效忠地重演
Sylvia永恆女主人的自殺場景
擁著自己無人托付的小女兒
於是
真正無法分別存在
需要彼此才能完整
註定在死裡相逢的
是這兩個女人
------------------
The Other
by Sylvia Plath
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
引用URL
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My Mother
by Frieda Hughes
They are killing her again,
She said she did it
One Year in every ten,
But they do it annually, or weekly,
Some do it daily,
Carrying her death around in their heads,
And practising it. She saves them
The trouble of their own;
They can die through her
Without ever making
The decision. My buried mother
Is up-dug for repeat performances.
Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children. Then
It can be rewound
So they can watch her die
Right from the beginning again.
The peanut-eaters, entertained
At my mother's death, will go home,
Each carrying their memory of her,
Lifeless - a souvenir.
Maybe they'll buy the video.
Watching someone on TV
Means all they have to do
Is press pause
If they want to boil a kettle,
While my mother holds her breath on screen
To finish dying after tea.
The filmmakers have collected
The body parts.
They want me to see.
But they requiere dressings to cover the joins
And disguise the prosthetics
In their remake of my mother.
They want to use her poetry
As stichting and sutures
To give it credibility.
They think I should love it-
Having her back again, they think
I should give them my mother`s words
to fill the mouth of their monster,
Their Sylvia Suicide Doll.
Who will walk and talk
And die at will,
And die, and die
And forever be dying.
© Frieda Hughes
by Frieda Hughes
They are killing her again,
She said she did it
One Year in every ten,
But they do it annually, or weekly,
Some do it daily,
Carrying her death around in their heads,
And practising it. She saves them
The trouble of their own;
They can die through her
Without ever making
The decision. My buried mother
Is up-dug for repeat performances.
Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children. Then
It can be rewound
So they can watch her die
Right from the beginning again.
The peanut-eaters, entertained
At my mother's death, will go home,
Each carrying their memory of her,
Lifeless - a souvenir.
Maybe they'll buy the video.
Watching someone on TV
Means all they have to do
Is press pause
If they want to boil a kettle,
While my mother holds her breath on screen
To finish dying after tea.
The filmmakers have collected
The body parts.
They want me to see.
But they requiere dressings to cover the joins
And disguise the prosthetics
In their remake of my mother.
They want to use her poetry
As stichting and sutures
To give it credibility.
They think I should love it-
Having her back again, they think
I should give them my mother`s words
to fill the mouth of their monster,
Their Sylvia Suicide Doll.
Who will walk and talk
And die at will,
And die, and die
And forever be dying.
© Frieda Hughes
Posted by Island
at December 1,2006 14:22
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