柳园图 诗歌（转载）# LeisureTime - 读书听歌看电影
w*s
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诗人詹姆士-美林(James Merrill)
垂柳图瓷杯
集体的歇斯底里，波纹破裂一波复生
岸上出身高贵的的广东人
在廉价店的变异物留存了基因库
烟云袅袅朦胧不清。有人今天却寻出。
梅花盛开，佛塔，青鸟，垂柳的羽枝——
几乎是一个战前图案的复制品——
同样的小舟载着微蚁般的恋人远去，
此时古老的桥弯下双影而她的父亲
微微示意，像从捕蝇纸上，渐而淡了挂牵。
两只小小的灯笼照亮他的归家之途。
他所携可是一卷画轴？此时他定已无比
智慧，早已舍弃世俗羁绊，和所有的一切。
不久，这五月的清晨，在薄雾中升起，他会问
只是为了入化——像肉身中的墨，蓝锚酒吧
钉上醺醉，而它的毁坏者
迅疾离去，伤疤抽痛，杂如乱麻——
只为了融入一种疯狂的质地。
你好遥远。树叶倾诉树叶所寄。
可这孤独的，缺口的容器，如果充满，
将为你注入那温暖而清澄的事物。
它们代表，我想象着，天堂的一个版本
在它的光阴中烦恼更多被弥补而不是替代：
陡檐斜倾，檐瓦铺的细密；
蜂巢翘起，雷云之青愁。
Willowware Cup
Mass hysteria, wave after breaking wave
Blueblooded Cantonese upon these shores
Left the gene pool Lux-opaque and smoking
With dimestore mutants. One turned up today.
Plum in bloom, pagoda, blue birds, plume of willow—
Almost the replica of a prewar pattern—
The same boat bearing the gnat-sized lovers away,
The old bridge now bent double where her father signals
Feebly, as from flypaper, minding less and less.
Two smaller retainers with lanterns light him home.
Is that a scroll he carries? He must by now be immensely
Wise, and have given up earthly attachments, and all that.
Soon, of these May mornings, rising in mist, he will ask
Only to blend—like ink in flesh, blue anchor
Needled upon drunkenness while its destroyer
Full steam departs, the stigma throbbing, intricate—
Only to blend into a crazing texture.
You are far away. The leaves tell what they tell.
But this lone, chipped vessel, if it fills,
Fills for you with something warm and clear.
Around its inner horizon the old odd designs
Crowd as before, and seem to concentrate on you.
They represent, I fancy, a version of heaven
In its day more trouble to mend than to replace:
Steep roofs aslant, minutely tiled;
Tilted honeycombs, thunderhead blue.
垂柳图瓷杯
集体的歇斯底里，波纹破裂一波复生
岸上出身高贵的的广东人
在廉价店的变异物留存了基因库
烟云袅袅朦胧不清。有人今天却寻出。
梅花盛开，佛塔，青鸟，垂柳的羽枝——
几乎是一个战前图案的复制品——
同样的小舟载着微蚁般的恋人远去，
此时古老的桥弯下双影而她的父亲
微微示意，像从捕蝇纸上，渐而淡了挂牵。
两只小小的灯笼照亮他的归家之途。
他所携可是一卷画轴？此时他定已无比
智慧，早已舍弃世俗羁绊，和所有的一切。
不久，这五月的清晨，在薄雾中升起，他会问
只是为了入化——像肉身中的墨，蓝锚酒吧
钉上醺醉，而它的毁坏者
迅疾离去，伤疤抽痛，杂如乱麻——
只为了融入一种疯狂的质地。
你好遥远。树叶倾诉树叶所寄。
可这孤独的，缺口的容器，如果充满，
将为你注入那温暖而清澄的事物。
它们代表，我想象着，天堂的一个版本
在它的光阴中烦恼更多被弥补而不是替代：
陡檐斜倾，檐瓦铺的细密；
蜂巢翘起，雷云之青愁。
Willowware Cup
Mass hysteria, wave after breaking wave
Blueblooded Cantonese upon these shores
Left the gene pool Lux-opaque and smoking
With dimestore mutants. One turned up today.
Plum in bloom, pagoda, blue birds, plume of willow—
Almost the replica of a prewar pattern—
The same boat bearing the gnat-sized lovers away,
The old bridge now bent double where her father signals
Feebly, as from flypaper, minding less and less.
Two smaller retainers with lanterns light him home.
Is that a scroll he carries? He must by now be immensely
Wise, and have given up earthly attachments, and all that.
Soon, of these May mornings, rising in mist, he will ask
Only to blend—like ink in flesh, blue anchor
Needled upon drunkenness while its destroyer
Full steam departs, the stigma throbbing, intricate—
Only to blend into a crazing texture.
You are far away. The leaves tell what they tell.
But this lone, chipped vessel, if it fills,
Fills for you with something warm and clear.
Around its inner horizon the old odd designs
Crowd as before, and seem to concentrate on you.
They represent, I fancy, a version of heaven
In its day more trouble to mend than to replace:
Steep roofs aslant, minutely tiled;
Tilted honeycombs, thunderhead blue.
