Separation

BY W. S. MERWIN


Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

分居

你的离开穿过我
就像线穿针
无论我做什么都被缝上它的颜色

Digging

BY SEAMUS HEANEY


Between my finger and my thumb 
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound 
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: 
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds 
Bends low, comes up twenty years away 
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills 
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft 
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade. 
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

刨土

谁莫斯·黑倪

在我拇指和四指间
握着短粗的笔就像握着枪

窗下，传来尖锐清脆的响声
那是铲子插入都是沙砾土地的声音
我往下看看，是父亲在挖土

看到他在花圃上弯腰使劲儿的样子
记忆就飞到二十年前那么远
那时他在土豆垄上
一起一俯哈腰挖土

粗糙的靴子踩在铁锹肩上，锹把
靠着膝盖内侧使劲儿翘
土豆已经露出了一点，他把雪亮的锹尖深深插入土里
掘出新土豆让我们来捡
最爱新土豆在手里冷硬的触感

上帝让我老爹善用铁锹
就像他老爹一样

我爷爷当年在特纳家的沼泽
能比别人砍更多的塔头墩子
有一次我给他送一瓶牛奶
瓶子是用一团纸松松的塞着。他直起身
喝一口，就再哈腰接着砍
利落的一切一划，把一块密实的草墩
抡上肩膀，扛着一步一步走向深处
找更好的塔头墩子，再挖

土豆模子上的冻腥味，泥地发出的
咕叽咕叽声，整齐的切印儿
这些都沿着鲜活的根系在我的脑袋里苏醒
但是我没有铁锹来跟随前辈

在我的拇指和四指间
握着短粗的笔
我用它挖掘

My Father Sings, to My Embarrassment
BY SANDRA M. CASTILLO

at Las Villas, a small Carol City bar with a makeshift stage,
where he spends too much time drinking,
pretending he can learn to play the guitar at forty-five,
become a singer, a musician,
who writes about "Que Difícil Es...."
to live in Spanish in Miami,
a city yet to be translated,
in a restaurant where he has taken us for Cuban food,
where I sit, frozen, unable to make a sound,
where Mother smiles,
all her teeth exposed,
squeezes my hand,
where Mae and Mitzy hide
under the table shielding them from shame
with a blood-red tablecloth,
leaving my mother and me,
pale-faced, trapped by the spotlight shining in our eyes,
making it difficult for us to pretend
we do not know the man in the white suit
pointing to us.

父亲唱歌，记我的囧事
桑德拉·蔓·卡斯蒂罗

在拉斯维拉斯，一个叫颂歌城的小酒吧里有个临时舞台
他花大把时间在那儿喝酒
假装自己可以在四十五岁学会弹吉他
成为歌手，成为音乐家
就像那些写出“Que Difícil Es....”的家伙
生活在迈阿密的西班牙

一个没有中文名字的城市
他带我们去餐馆吃古巴餐
当时我僵坐着，不能发出声音
当时老妈笑着
露出了所有的牙
还使劲攥着我的手

当时梅和美琪藏在
桌子下，用血红的桌布
权当抵挡羞辱的盾牌

把我和老妈晾在那儿
被晃眼的追光灯罩住，脸煞白
这让我们都没法假装不认识他——
那个指着我们
穿白西装的男人

Spring

BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY


To what purpose, April, do you return again? 
Beauty is not enough. 
You can no longer quiet me with the redness 
Of little leaves opening stickily. 
I know what I know. 
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 
The spikes of the crocus. 
The smell of the earth is good. 
It is apparent that there is no death. 
But what does that signify? 
Not only under ground are the brains of men 
Eaten by maggots. 
Life in itself 
Is nothing, 
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 
April 
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. 

春

艾德娜·圣·文森特·米雷

四月，你为什么再次回来？
美丽应该不是全部理由

你不能再光凭着
刚刚展开粘粘的嫩红叶芽
让我闭嘴

我知我所知
太阳晒着我的脖子很热是我所知
番红花的蓓蕾
还有大地吐出芬芳

很明显没有死亡这回事儿
可那又能说明什么呢
不单只是在地下蛆虫吃着人脑

生命本身
什么都不是
一只空杯子，一段没铺地毯的楼梯
那不是你——四月，
每年沿着山坡播撒鲜花的全部理由

Introduction to Poetry
BY BILLY COLLINS

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide


or press an ear against its hive.


I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,


or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.


I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.


But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.


They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

诗之简介

比利柯林斯

我让他们举着一首诗

就像彩色幻灯片一样

对着光

或者把耳朵贴着诗的蜂巢

我说扔个老鼠到诗里

看它怎么探索出路

要么在诗之屋里游走

摸着墙找电灯开关

我让他们在

诗的表面划水

在岸边挥舞诗人的名字

可是他们只想

用绳子把诗捆绑在椅子上

刑讯逼供

他们开始拿根管子打它

要问出它到底什么意思

七律

括号内的平仄可随意。

七律
【1】七律平起首句押韵
（平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵），（仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，      （平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，      （仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，      （平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
【2】七律平起首句不押韵
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，（仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，（平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，（仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，（平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
【3】七律仄起首句押韵
（仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵），（平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，  （仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，  （平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，  （仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
【4】七律仄起首句不押韵
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，（平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，（仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。
（仄）仄（平）平平仄仄，（平）平（仄）仄仄平平（韵）。
（平）平（仄）仄平平仄，（仄）仄平平仄仄平（韵）。

“When I run after what I think I want, my days are a furnace of stress and anxiety; 
if I sit in my own place of patience, what I need flows to me, and without pain. 
From this I understand that what I want also wants me, is looking for me and attracting me. There is a great secret here for anyone who can grasp it.” ~Rumi

逐我所欲，如处炼狱
安处当下，十方供养
我所欲者，皆欲于我
我不寻它，它自寻我
密在汝边