Anne Sexton
安妮-塞克斯顿
 Anne Sexton (1928-1974) Sexton was born in Newton, Massachusetts, and spent most of her life near Boston, Massachusetts. Sexton is seen as the modern model of the confessional poet. Her honors include Pulitzer Prize in poetry, Guggenheim Foundation grant and many others. She suffered from complex mental illness and committed suicide on October 4, 1974.
安妮-塞克斯顿(1928-1974)生于麻省牛顿。她是美国自白派诗人的代表人物。 她曾获普利策奖、古根汉奖及其它奖项。她于1974年10月4日自杀。
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译者
Translator
倪志娟
Zhijuan Ni
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.
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Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.
Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.
Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.
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疯狂的安娜，
我的腋窝里有一把小刀。
当我用脚尖站立着拍打信号。
我是某种传染病吗？
是我使你发疯？
是我使声音变得刺耳？
是我指使你爬出窗外？
请原谅。请原谅。
说不是我做的。
说不是我。
说。
将圣母之词说进我们的枕头中。
将我身体细长的十二岁
带进你没入泥土的膝盖中。
像一朵金凤花那样低语。
吃我。像吃冰淇淋布丁那样吃光我。
带我进去。
带我去。
带。
给我一份关于我的精神状况的报告。
给我一份关于我的行为的完整描述。
递给我一棵天南星，让我倾听。
将我放在马镫上，带着一个旅游团游览。
在杂货单上历数我的罪行，让我去购买。
是我使你发疯？
是我转动你的耳机拉响了一声警报？
是我为长胡子的精神病医生开了门
让他像一辆金色的马车把你拖出去了？
是我使你发疯？
从坟墓里写信给我，安娜！
虽然你已化归尘土，但你必须
拿起我送给你的派克钢笔。
写信给我。
写。
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Until tonight they were separate specialties,
different stories, the best of their own worst.
Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy's
laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
story. Someday, I promised her, I'll be someone
going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum
school for proper girls. The next April the plane
bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned
and fear blew down my throat, that last profane
gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned
to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,
sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.
Maybe Rose, there is always another story,
better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.
Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities
turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy's
story, the April night of the civilian air crash
and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,
the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash
ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.
This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking
in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds.
And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking
bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards
to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature
photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.
Special tonight because I made her into a story
that I grew to know and savor.
A reason to worry,
Rose, when you fix an old death like that,
and outliving the impact, to find you've pretended.
We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.
I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.
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直到今晚他们都是单独的片段，
不同的故事，不幸中的万幸。
坐在温暖的机舱里回家，我记得伊莉莎白的
笑；在第一个故事里，罗丝，她和你
笑得一样。有一天，我告诉她，我将是
一个冒险家，我们在枯燥的学校，
为拘谨女孩们构思这个故事。第二年四月，
飞机颠簸得像一匹马，升降舵旋转着，
我被恐惧窒息，回到
地面后，我的胃
上下翻涌，像晕船的水手那么狼狈，
诚实的十八岁；我的第一个故事，我可笑的失败。
罗丝，也许总会有另一个故事，
残酷的，平淡的或者侵略性的，最好不要讲出来。
飞机下降半英里，城市的灯光
向我抬起它们的眼睛。而我记得伊莉莎白的
故事，那个四月之夜，民航机撞毁了，
她被拼错的名字突然出现在晚报上，
十年后的今天，当时的震惊和报纸一起
变成了垃圾。她使用了我给她的回程机票。
这是对她残忍的谋杀；两架飞机
像两只盲目的鸟，在华盛顿上空相撞。
从波拖马可河中，拣回了残损的尸体，
在殡仪馆里，人们像拼凑木板一样，
为她拼凑出一条腿或一张脸。只有她的一张
小照片保留下来，时间太久，已难以记起。
今晚，我将她编进一个故事中，
我在这个故事里长大并学会品味世事。
罗丝，我有理由担心，
当你牢记这样一次遥远的死亡，
接受了其影响，却发现自己只是假装若无其事。
我们到达了波士顿。我平安抵达。戴上帽子。
我是一个正在回家的人。故事结束了。
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