Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) is the most important American poetess after Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Bishop. In 1963, when she finally committed suicide, she was only 31 years old and was known as a gifted poetess.

西尔维娅·普拉斯（Sylvia Plath，1932—1963）是继艾米莉·狄金森和伊丽莎白·毕肖普之后最重要的美国女诗人。1963年她最后一次自杀成功时，年仅31岁，被称为天才女诗人。

诗人、译者。从事诗歌写作、文学翻译和研究。译作有《尼采随笔》、《一个崭新的女性诗歌流派，或者诞生》。

Poet and translator. Engaged in poetry writing, literary translation and research. Translations include Nietzsche's Essays and A New School of Women's Poetry, Or Birth.

Poppies in October

十月的罂粟花

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. 
Nor the woman in the ambulance 
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly---- 

A gift, a love gift 
Utterly unasked for 
By a sky 

Palely and flamily 
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes 
Dulled to a halt under bowlers. 

O my God, what am I 
That these late mouths should cry open 
In a forest of frost, in dawn of cornflowers.
			

清晨的朝霞也做不出这样的裙子。
救护车上的女人也做不出
她红色的心穿过大褂，如此惊人的绽放——

一份礼物，爱情的礼物
完全是不请自来
来自

苍白的，火焰点燃了
一氧化碳的天空
礼帽下一双近乎呆滞的眼睛。

哦上帝，我凭借什么
使这些迟来的嘴放声疾呼
在凝霜的森林，在矢车菊的清晨。
			

Barren Woman

不孕的女人

Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.

I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing can happen.
The moon lays a hand on my forehead,
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.
			

空荡荡的，我最轻微的脚步声也会发出回响。
无雕像的博物馆，因圆柱、门廊和圆形的大厅气而雄伟。
在我的庭院，一柱喷泉跃起又泻下，
有修女之心，不闻世事。大理石百合，
散发出香气般的苍白。

我想象身处伟大的公众之中
一尊白色胜利女神和几尊秃眼的阿波罗之母。
然而，什么也没发生。死者的注目反而伤害到了我
月亮把手放到我额上
面无表情，一如沉默不语的护士。
			

The Couriers

信使

The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.

Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.

A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one——

Love, love, my season.
			

蜗牛滞留在树叶托盘中的话语?
那不是我的。别理睬它。
醋酸被困在一个密封的锡罐？
这不是真的。别理睬它。
一枚嵌有太阳的金戒指?
谎言。谎言叠加的悲伤。
有如叶子上结霜，一尘不染的大锅，
滔滔不绝，噼里啪啦作响
在阿尔卑斯山九座黑色峰顶

群镜里一阵骚动，
大海砸碎了它的灰色幻象——
爱情、爱情，我的季节。