双语·《西尔维娅·普拉斯诗集》 蜂蜇

Stings
蜂蜇

Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
双手赤裸，我掌管蜂窝。

The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
白衣男子微笑着，双手赤裸，

Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
我们的粗棉布手套干净香甜，

The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
我们手腕袖口是漂亮的百合花

He and I
我与他

Have a thousand clean cells between us,
我们之间有一千只干净的蜂房，

Eight combs of yellow cups,
八个黄色杯状蜂窝，

And the hive itself a teacup,
蜂巢本身像白色茶杯，

White with pink flowers on it,
上面有粉色花儿朵朵，

With excessive love I enameled it
我曾经给它涂磁漆，太多的爱

Thinking ‘sweetness, sweetness’.
心想着“甜蜜，甜蜜”。

Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
孵房灰白如贝壳的化石

Terrify me, they seem so old.
让我感到害怕，它们太老了。

What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
我在买什么，虫蛀的桃花心木？

Is there any queen at all in it?
那里面果真有蜂后吗？

If there is, she is old,
若有的话，她老了，

Her wings torn shawls, her long body
翅膀像破旧的披肩，修长的身躯

Rubbed of its plush——
磨掉了绒毛——

Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
可怜、赤裸、不体面的被废蜂后。

I stand in a column
我站在一队

Of winged, unmiraculous women,
极普通的女子中，仿佛长翅的蜜蜂，

Honey-drudgers.
采蜜苦工。

I am no drudge
我并非苦工

Though for years I have eaten dust
虽说我吞食灰尘已经多年

And dried plates with my dense hair.
用我浓密的头发擦干盘子。

And seen my strangeness evaporate,
而我的怪异蒸发，

Blue dew from dangerous skin.
危险皮肤中渗出蓝色露水。

Will they hate me,
她们会恨我吗？

These women who only scurry,
这些妇女只是奔忙，

Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?
只关心樱桃开花，苜蓿开花的消息？

It is almost over.
几乎结束了。

I am in control.
我在掌控中。

Here is my honey-machine,
这是我的采蜜器，

It will work without thinking,
无须思考便可工作，

Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin
在春天里，打开，像勤劳的处女蜂

To scour the creaming crests
冲刷乳色羽冠

As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
正如月亮，为象牙色的粉末，冲刷海洋。

A third person is watching.
第三个人在注视。

He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
他与卖蜂人或我都无关。

Now he is gone
现在他走了

In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
迈了八大步，了不起的替罪羊。

Here is his slipper, here is another,
这是他的一只拖鞋，那是另一只，

And here the square of white linen
还有白色亚麻方巾，

He wore instead of a hat.
他用方巾代替帽子。

He was sweet,
他是温柔的，

The sweat of his efforts a rain
他挥汗如雨地劳动

Tugging the world to fruit.
想让大地结出果实。

The bees found him out,
蜜蜂找到了他

Molding onto his lips like lies,
像谎言蜇了他的双唇，

Complicating his features.
毁坏了他的容貌。

They thought death was worth it, but I
他们认为死是值得的，但我

Have a self to recover, a queen.
要恢复自我，一只蜂后。

Is she dead, is she sleeping?
她死了，还是在沉睡？

Where has she been,
她在哪里，

With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?
狮子般红色的身躯，透明的翅膀？

Now she is flying
现在，她在飞

More terrible than she ever was, red
比过去的她更可怕，天空中

Scar in the sky, red comet
红色的疤痕，红色的彗星

Over the engine that killed her——
在曾经杀死她的机器上空——

The mausoleum, the wax house.
大陵墓，蜡制的房子。

(1962/10/06. pp.214—215. No. 178)
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