【这一课】
我以前在周末乐队演奏的铜木管
躺在壁橱里安睡正酣，
我的妻已开始学钢琴，天天如此开心地练，
使专心致志一词不褒反贬。
她像个孩子在弹儿歌，
蹦蹦哒哒我的宝儿，阿维尼翁之桥。
左手弹奏着阿尔贝蒂低音，她不止一次地击敲
同一个错误的音键，
我站在水槽边洗碗盘回过头
或坐在电视前看新闻转过脸，大叫不对！
她从不答话，也从不气恼。只是把那乐句
再来一遍，这次对了。随着时间的推移
她在一点一点进步，也许每天
一点点。
The lesson
The horns I used to play in weekend bands
asleep in their closet cases,
my wife has started piano lesssons and practices daily with such joy
that she gives dedication a bad name.
She’s playing songs a child would play,
Skip to My Lou, the Bridge of Avignon.
She works her Alberti bass in her left hand, hits the
same wrong note more than once,
and I l look up from the dishes in the sink
or the news on TV and bark NO!
she’s never angry, never replies. Just runs
the phrase again, right this time. Over time
she’s improving, little by little, maybe a little
every day.
【成交】
河北大学外文系英语82-1班 丁举华 译
前房主的妻子死在这间卧室。
成交前他对我说—他想我那个中国妻子
可能会介意。我妻子笑了笑说，
替我谢谢他，但我还是忘了代她转达：
天气闷热，一个足球队员
中暑死了，我担心
搬运工也会突然昏倒，
光顾着纸箱、车和检查了，
没有时间想鬼魂之事。
邻居后来告诉我说
前房主的妻子是个瘦高个儿。
每天坚持跑步，很远的距离，
一个温柔的母亲。
出门工作，不到五十岁就得了肝癌（可她从不喝酒）
生命就停止在了那一年。
她修剪花园就像照顾孩子一样，
她经常坐在书桌旁，望着窗外的花园。
这张书桌陈旧笨重，还不是古董, 难以移动。
所以她的丈夫就留给了我，
我现在每天坐在那里写作，像她那样望着花园。
这交易不会拉倒，
当他问我妻子的信仰时我跟他没好气地开玩笑说。
我俩握了握手，
从此花园、卧室和整栋房子就不再属于他了。
在接下来的七个夜晚
我的妻子会点上一炷香
把它插到我们最好的一组水杯里，
杯子冲着不同的方向
（灵魂，会穿过车库吗？我在想）。
这是中国人的方式，
不是风水，也不是宗教，只是某种风俗
但这事我从未见过，所以感到很奇怪。
四道门，四个杯子，
和每天早晨
地板上断蛇似的香灰。
凯伦，她每晚都会说，
声音不大，怕我听见，
我知道你是个好人。你仍在这座房子里。
没问题，但你的家人不在这里了。
你去找他们吧。
第八天，连续的闷热结束了，
我除去花园里四季不断的杂草，
从我的书桌望去
余下的夏季和秋天，
初霜已过。
Closing
The former owner's wife died in this bedroom.
He told me before closing-thinking that Chinese like my wife
would see an omen in that. My wife laughed,
said to thank him, but I forgot: the weather
had been sweltering, a football player
died from heat, and I was worried
about my movers keeling over,
boxes, vans, inspections.
No time for ghosts.
She'd been a lean figure on the block, the late Mrs.
running by, long-legged first steps of her daily miles,
and a tender mother, so the new neighbor later
told me. She worked out of the home,
not fifty, then liver cancer(she never drank)
stilled her in a year.
She'd manicured her flowerbed, cared for it
like her children, watched it
from her desk-which her husband left for me,
too old and big and not-antique to move.
I write there now and watch the yard she saw.
It's not a deal breaker, I joked when he asked
about my wife's beliefs, then thought perhaps
I'd spoken in bad taste. But we shook hands and the flowerbed,
the bedroom, the house weren't his anymore.
For the next seven nights my wife
would light a joss stick
and plant it in a drinking glass-our best set,
one glass to each entrance to the place
(what spirits, I wondered, would come and go
through the garage?). It was the Chinese way,
not feng shui, not religion, but some practice
I'd never seen before, thus felt surprise.
Four doors, four glasses,
and each morning
the broken snake of ashes on the floor.
Karen, she'd said each night,
but not loud, not for me to hear,
I know you were a good person. You're still
in this house. That's ok. Your family isn't here.
You can go to them.
The eighth day, the long hot spell broke,
and I weeded the perennial bed,
watched it from my desk
the rest of the summer and fall,
and past the first frost.
【湖边的牛羊】（节选）
河北大学外文系英语82-1班 常虹 译
牛群
持续慢板
母牛们都已从他们每日的食草中存活下来了。
他们爬上牧场里
那座余晖下的小山丘。
从他们的凝视中，必定能看出一丝寒意。
从他们鼻孔呼出的气又回到空气中。
远处的湖是一片平坦, 有时明亮,
有时灰绿色与彼岸相得益彰;
但牛群喝的水却储存在一只旧浴缸。
他们辩不出山榉木、橡树、
苔藓和常春藤缠绕的树干。
牛群似乎在移动，
遍布于小山丘的上上下下。
他们确实在移动。也许还没有
从他们行走的睡眠中醒来。
深情板
一头黑牛用鼻子蹭另一个的脖子，
相对于肥硕的身子，他们的脚显得太小了。
其中一只低头咀嚼一棵无叶树的低枝，
(因为这是早春4月),
而另一只的头被树皮刮伤了。
它们虽同时往下跑，但却混乱无序。
空气跟随着他们流走了;
它们在跑,可一点声音都没有
远处的水仙花簇
（牛群忽略了花丛，花丛也无视他们的存在）
越过带刺的铁丝网和砾石小路，草坪、
阳台或是朝南的窗口, 全都听不到他们的声音
他们似乎睡着了,但从来没有真正的睡着过，
他们不像孩子们那样玩耍，也不像孩子们般甜睡。
激情快板
我承认我是在观察他们，
尽管我不是农场主，也很少喝牛奶，
不曾也不会去触碰它们。
牛群们难以描述,
形成于他们独自的黑与白，
默默睁大的眼睛，仿佛对这无形境地充满兴趣。
当中的一个用一条腿蹭着另一条腿，像狗一样，
他们踩着舞步，慢慢地扭动着屁股，尾巴飕飕在空中摆动，
缓慢从容而且自信地完成他们的表演。
我慢慢地看着他们移进了
我二楼那朝南的窗框,
用心刻意地描述他们的从容，
和我可能会听到的那些撕扯草根的声音
如果我再走近一点，走下楼梯
走向远处更加宽广的翠绿河流，
我可以发挥对他们更多的想象。
Lakeside with Sheep and Cows
Cows
Adagio Sostenuto
The Holsteins have survived their day of grass.
They climb the odd evening hill
in a pasture not like a park.
From their gaze a line of cold must pass.
From their nostrils breath returns to air.
The lake is a flat place, beyond, sometimes bright,
Sometimes gray-green to match the other shore;
Water is an old bathtub half inside the fence.
They can’t recognize beech, oak,
moss cover, ivy-wound trunks.
The cows appear to be moving,
up the hill and down.
And they are moving. They have perhaps
not awakened from their walking sleep.
Intimissimo
A black cow nuzzles another’s neck,
their feet too small for their stocked bodies.
One cranes to the low branch of a leafless tree
( for this is early April),
another scrapes a head against bark.
They descend in the same line, but not the same order.
The air that follows them flows away;
they make no sound that can be heard
from beyond the clusters of daffodils
( which they ignore, which ignore them),
from past the barbed wire and the gravel path, the lawn,
the porch, the front door or south – facing window.
They seem to be asleep but never are,
not like children playing, or children sleeping.
allegro agitato
I admit I’m watching them,
though I’m no farmer and drink little milk,
have never touched them and wouldn’t now.
The cows resist description,
become their black and white,
eyes dumbly open as if interested in shapelessness.
One scratches a leg with another leg, like a dog,
They dance and butt slowly, tails swish air,
a confident amble all an act.
I’m seeing them move within the frame
of my south facing window, second floor,
and have taken this time
to describe their deliberation,
the tearing out of grass I could hear
If I drew closer, down the stairs
and out to verdant river wider than the world
I can imagine for them.
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