Mary Oliver was born in 1935 in Maple Heights, Ohio. She attended both Ohio State University and Vassar College, but did not receive a degree from either institution. She held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching at Bennington College until 2001. In addition to such major awards as the Pulitzer and National Book Award, Oliver has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. She has also won the American Academy of Arts & Letters Award, the Poetry Society of America’s Shelley Memorial Prize and Alice Fay di Castagnola Award. She lives in Provincetown, Massachusetts.

玛丽-奥利弗1935年9月10日生于美国俄亥俄州，13岁开始写诗，1962年玛丽前往伦敦，后又回到美国。她的诗歌赢得了多项奖项，其中包括国家图书奖和普利策诗歌奖（1984年）。她的主要诗集有：《夜晚的旅行者》（1978），《美国原貌》 （1983）， 《灯光的屋宇》（1990），《新诗选》（1992），《白松》（1994）等。她现居马萨诸塞州。

倪志娟，1970年生于湖北。哲学博士，现任教于杭州电子科技大学人文学院。学术之余创作并翻译诗歌、随笔。

Zhijuan Ni was born in Hubei Province in China in 1970. She holds a PHD degree in philosophy. She has published a number of translations in poetry. She teaches and lives in Hangzhou.

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

触及信仰主题的夏日短章

Every summer
I listen and look 
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything -- 
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green 
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker -- 
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk. 

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing -- 
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves, 

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet -- 
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum. 

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear? 

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.
			

每个夏天，
在黄铜般的阳光下，在
月光下， 
我倾听并观看，但

我什么也听不见，什么也看不见——
苍白的根在地里延伸，绿色的梗
茁壮成长，
叶子不断加深
它们湿润的皱褶，

玉米穗，玉米壳
和玉米棒子正在成形。
一天一天，
过去了，

枝叶繁茂的田野
长得越来越高，越来越厚密——
夜晚，绿色的长袍铺呈着
闪亮的丝绸。

因而，每个夏天，
我什么都没看见，无法做一名证人——
我也是聋子，
听不见叶子的滴答声，

菩提树的脚步声——
所有发生的
一切，
没有留下可见的证据，或可闻的嗡嗡声。

因而，无限降临。
不可知触及我的脊骨。
风在树上栖息，
而尘土隐藏的秘密

在空中盘旋。
我能看见这世上的什么，
并颤抖着，用手护紧我的心呢？
我需要担心什么呢？

早晨，
在绿叶的海洋中，
玉米蜂窝状的美丽身体
一定会在那里。
			

Music

音乐

I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then

followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there

you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.

I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.

In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels

and heard this music behind
shut doors.

Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,

hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?

Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?

Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.

Did you?
			

我将一些细芦管
绑起来，刻上
气孔，吹奏出
一种音乐，使你
如受电击，呆呆地站住，然后

跟着我前行，
我慢慢地
长出斜眼和粗硬的毛发，我的脚
踏在岩石上，长出
坚硬的羊角，而你

沉溺在音乐中，
跟着我，取下了
头上的银发夹，
匆匆脱掉了
衣服。

我不记得
这发生在何处，但我觉得
那是夏末，万物
充满火焰，被孕育的果实
无所事事，
也无法抵抗，
只是躺着，像一片黑暗的水域，
在月亮的引力下，
翻腾起伏。

在城市野蛮的优雅中，
我曾散步于
旅店大厅，

在紧闭的门后，我听见了
这种音乐。

你以为心灵
可以被解释吗？你以为身体
不过是刺槐的
一根枝条，

它追逐水，
对着太阳隆起，
当它感知到
善，就颤抖着开出
白色的花？

或者你以为有一种
音乐，一种特定的旋律
点亮了身体
那迟钝的荒原——
一种激动
而难以解释的选择？

哦，好吧，无论是否
是夏末，是否
发生在我们身上，它只是
一场梦，我没有
变成温柔的山羊神。你也没有那样
奔跑着前来。

你说呢？
			

The Sun

太阳

Have you ever seen 
anything 
in your life 
more wonderful 

than the way the sun, 
every evening, 
relaxed and easy, 
floats toward the horizon 

and into the clouds or the hills, 
or the rumpled sea, 
and is gone-- 
and how it slides again 

out of the blackness, 
every morning, 
on the other side of the world, 
like a red flower 

streaming upward on its heavenly oils, 
say, on a morning in early summer, 
at its perfect imperial distance-- 
and have you ever felt for anything 
such wild love-- 
do you think there is anywhere, in any language, 
a word billowing enough 
for the pleasure 

that fills you, 
as the sun 
reaches out, 
as it warms you 

as you stand there, 
empty-handed-- 
or have you too 
turned from this world-- 

or have you too 
gone crazy 
for power, 
for things?
			

在你的生命中，
可曾见过
比太阳的旅程
更精彩的

事物？
每天傍晚，
它悠闲地
向着地平线飘落，

隐入云层，山峦，
或微波荡漾的大海，
消失了——
每天早晨，

在世界的另一边，
它又从黑暗中
滑出，
像一朵红花，

浮游在天空的云彩中， 
比如，一个初夏的早晨，
隔着其完美的帝国版图——
你可曾感受到
如此疯狂的爱——
难道你认为，在某个地方，在某种语言中，
一个词
能像太阳升起时那样，

激起
巨浪似的快乐，
充满你，
温暖你，

而你两手空空地
站在那里——
或者，你
已从这个世界

转身离开了——
或者，你只着迷于
权力
和物质？
			

Poem (The Spirit Likes To Dress Up...)

诗（灵魂喜欢伪装……）

The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers, 
ten toes,

shoulders, and all the rest
at night
in the black branches,
in the morning

in the blue branches
of the world.
It could float, of course,
but would rather

plumb rough matter.
Airy and shapeless thing,
it needs 
the metaphor of the body,

lime and appetite,
the oceanic fluids;
it needs the body's world,
instinct

and imagination
and the dark hug of time,
sweetness
and tangibility,

to be understood,
to be more than pure light
that burns
where no one is --

so it enters us --
in the morning
shines from brute comfort
like a stitch of lightning;

and at night
lights up the deep and wondrous
drownings of the body
like a star.
			

灵魂
喜欢装扮成这个样子：
十个手指，
十个脚趾，

肩膀，以及其它。
晚上
它是世界的黑色枝条，
早上

它是世界的
蓝色枝条。
当然，它可以飘浮， 
但它更愿

垂挂着重物。
作为空气般的无形之物，
它需要
肉体的隐喻，

肢体和欲望，
海洋般的流体，
它需要肉体的世界，
本能，

想象力，
时间黑暗的拥抱，
甜蜜，
和实在性，

它需要被理解，
燃烧出
更纯粹的光，
在无人之地——

因此它进入我们——
早晨
它在野蛮的安逸中闪耀，
像一道闪电；

夜晚
它照亮肉体深刻而奇异的
沉溺，
像一颗星。
			

Egrets

白鹭

Where the path closed
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier,
I kept going. Finally
I could not
save my arms
from thorns; soon
the mosquitoes
smelled me, hot
and wounded, and came
wheeling and whining.
And that's how I came
to the edge of the pond:
black and empty
except for a spindle
of bleached reeds
at the far shore
which, as I looked,
wrinkled suddenly
into three egrets - - -
a shower
of white fire!
Even half-asleep they had
such faith in the world
that had made them - - -
tilting through the water,
unruffled, sure,
by the laws
of their faith not logic,
they opened their wings
softly and stepped
over every dark thing.
			

在小路
消失了的地方，
我踏过暗淡的叶子， 
坠落的枝条，
以及盘根错节的猫藤，
继续向前。最后
我的胳膊
被荆棘
划伤， 
蚊子们
围绕着我，闷热
和伤痛，使我
头昏眼花，
这是我
到达池塘边的经过：
黑暗而空虚，
惟有一管被水泡白的
芦苇，
躺在远处的岸边，
当我观望着那里时，
水面突然荡起涟漪，
三只白鹭——
一束
白色的火焰！
即使半睡半醒，它们
对这个造就了它们的世界，
也如此信任——
倾斜着飞过水面，
安静，坚定，
借助它们的信仰法则
而非逻辑，
它们温柔地张开
翅膀，滑过每一件
黑暗的事物。
			

At Great Pond

大池塘

At Great Pond
the sun, rising,
scrapes his orange breast
on the thick pines, 
and down tumble
a few orange feathers into
the dark water.
On the far shore
a white bird is standing
like a white candle ---
or a man, in the distance,
in the clasp of some meditation --- 
while all around me the lilies
are breaking open again
from the black cave
of the night.
Later, I will consider
what I have seen ---
what it could signify ---
what words of adoration I might
make of it, and to do this
I will go indoors to my desk ---
I will sit in my chair ---
I will look back 
into the lost morning
in which I am moving, now,
like a swimmer,
so smoothly, 
so peacefully,
I am almost the lily ---
almost the bird vanishing over the water
on its sleeves of night.
			

在大池塘，
太阳正在升起，
他橙色的胸脯
掠过粗大的松树，
一些橙色的羽毛
飘进了
幽暗的水中。
远处的岸上
立着一只白鸟，
仿佛一只白色的蜡烛——
或者一个男人，在远处，
陷入了冥想——
而所有环绕着我的百合，
正从夜晚的
黑色洞穴中
再次开放。
迟一些，我会思考
我所见的——
它可能象征什么——
我能用什么样的赞誉之词
来描述它，而为了这样做，
我会进屋坐在书桌前——
我会坐在椅子中——
回头去看
这个失落了的早晨，
但是此刻，我正在其中移动， 
像一个游泳者，
多么平稳，
多么安宁，
就像百合——
就像消失于水面的鸟，
穿着夜晚的衣袖。