2 Poems by George O'Connell (试发表)

诗歌 创作
中译 | CHINESE TRANSLATION --- 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