Louise Glück was born in New York City in 1943 and grew up on Long Island. She is the author of numerous books of poetry, most recently, Averno (2006), a finalist for the 2006 National Book Award in Poetry. Her other books include Meadowlands (1996); The Wild Iris (1992), which received the Pulitzer Prize and William Carlos Williams Award. She also received fellowships from the Guggenheim and Rockefeller Foundations, and from the NEA. She was the Library of Congress's twelfth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry. She is a writer-in-residence at Yale University.
路易丝-格丽克，1943年4月出生于纽约，在长岛长大。目前出版了十二本诗集，为她赢得荣誉无数。其中，《野鸢尾花》（The Wild Iris）获1993年普利策诗歌奖。《阿基里斯的胜利》（The Triumph of Archillis）获国家图书评论奖。另有诗集《十月》《人生的七个阶段》《新生》《牧场》《亚拉腊山》《递减的数字》《沼泽地上的房子》《初生》等以及诗学文集《证据和推论：诗学随笔》。2001年耶鲁大学授予她博林根诗歌奖。她曾任2003-2004年第十二届美国桂冠诗人。现为耶鲁大学驻校作家。
An Fang was born in 1981 in Luoyang, Henan Province. She is now an English teacher in Chengdu Institute, Sichuan International Studies University. She has won the second prize in the 19th Han Suyin Award for Young Translators and the first prize in the 4th Yilin Award for New Translators.
The light stays longer in the sky, but it's a cold light,
it brings no relief from winter.
My neighbor stares out the window,
talking to her dog. He's sniffing the garden,
trying to reach a decision about the dead flowers.
It's a little early for all this.
Everything's still very bare—
nevertheless, something's different today from yesterday.
We can see the mountain: the peak's glittering where the ice catches the light.
But on the sides the snow's melted, exposing bare rock.
My neighbor's calling the dog, making her unconvincing doglike sounds.
The dog's polite; he raises his head when she calls,
but he doesn't move. So she goes on calling,
her failed bark slowly deteriorating into a human voice.
All her life she dreamed of living by the sea,
but fate didn't put her there.
It laughed at her dreams;
it locked her up in the hills, where no one escapes.
The sun beats down on the earth, the earth flourishes.
And every winter, it's as though the rock underneath the earth rises
higher and higher and the earth becomes rock, cold and rejecting.
She says hope killed her parents, it killed her grandparents.
It rose up each spring with the wheat
and died between the heat of summer and the raw cold.
In the end, they told her to live near the sea,
as though that would make a difference.
By late spring she'll be garrulous, but now she's down to two words,
never and only, to express this sense that life's cheated her.
Never the cries of the gulls, only, in summer, the crickets, cicadas.
Only the smell of the field, when all she wanted
was the smell of the sea, of disappearance.
The sky above the fields has turned a sort of grayish pink
as the sun sinks. The clouds are silk yarn, magenta and crimson.
And everywhere the earth is rustling, not lying still.
And the dog senses this stirring; his ears twitch.
He walks back and forth, vaguely remembering
from other years this elation. The season of discoveries
is beginning. Always the same discoveries, but to the dog
intoxicating and new, not duplicitous.
I tell my neighbor we'll be like this
when we lose our memories. I ask her if she's ever seen the sea
and she says, once, in a movie.
It was a sad story, nothing worked out at all.
The lovers part. The sea hammers the shore, the mark each wave leaves
wiped out by the wave that follows.
Never accumulation, never one wave trying to build on another,
never the promise of shelter—
The sea doesn't change as the earth changes;
it doesn't lie.
You ask the sea, what can you promise me
and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.
Finally the dog goes in.
We watch the crescent moon,
very faint at first, then clearer and clearer
as the night grows dark.
Soon it will be the sky of early spring, stretching above the stubborn ferns and
Nothing can be forced to live.
The earth is like a drug now, like a voice from far away,
a lover or master. In the end, you do what the voice tells you.
It says forget, you forget.
It says begin again, you begin again.