2 Poems by George O'Connell (试发表)
诗歌 创作
中译 | CHINESE TRANSLATION
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NAIL CLIPPERS
A crisp snap
says an end to that,
and then my thumb
again bears down the lever.
I could say the slim moons scattered at my feet
were smiles of my waking nights, my dreaming days,
but that would cheat us all,
as toward the bookshelf
zings a clipping,
vaguely parenthetical.
Days later, when I take down Rilke's elegies,
the moment closes,
the tumble of its sharp little arc
hardly the grin of heaven.
How like the instant
stopped in traffic,
when a moth exactly the cadmium of French mustard
lights on the bumper of the car ahead.
Or the old idea
that in the long hiatus of the grave
our yellowed nails grow on,
lengthening their purchase,
extending their useless reach.
If we grew wings,
this is where they'd start,
here at the hard ends of our fingers.
SELF-PORTRAIT AS CADAVER
He must have spent time outside
the husky boy will say, pre-med upstate.
Those squintlines fanning from the eyes,
the stubby hands—he must have worked
at something. Cool light runs
shadowless along gray skin
and down the stainless drains.
The girl, her first Anatomy, may spot the right foot
turned out farther than the left: no dancer,
or note the scar lashed white along his wrist,
not knowing how it saved him.
Nice hair, she'll think, important
for a short guy, though death dusts
its luster. Then she'll see
her own hand, or her mother's,
brushing back her brother's curls.
Of the lips, thin, particular,
scant evidence their words were soft
or cruel. But if along her skin
still plays the breeze of summer nights
before she left Poughkeepsie,
on her mouth
the graze of another
surrendering its vowels,
she may look upon his face, his ear,
and for a moment hear a voice
almost as he did
when someone breathed his name.
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最后更新 2014-01-16 13:39:19
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