华莱士·史蒂文斯（Wallace Stevens）

本栏主持：远 行

华莱士·史蒂文斯（Wallace Stevens）（1879-1955），生于美国宾夕法尼亚州,先后在哈佛和纽约法学院受教育。做了十几年律师后，于1934年出任康涅狄格州的哈特福德意外事故保险公司副总裁，直到退休。他除在法律和商务圈周旋之外，还是个诗人。诗集有《簧风琴》《秩序的观念》等。他的诗突发奇想，构思巧妙，不受传统意识影响。

这里介绍的这首《基韦斯特的秩序观念》，强调了人类的精神、意志、力量与文明，让大海失色，并调整、主宰了这个世界，而被人们一向颂扬的大海只是空洞地“哭泣”，而我们每个人，都是我们自身世界里的唯一工匠，我们创造自己的世界，并在里面吟唱。这首诗以一种新的“观念”，重整着世界的“秩序”……她听到的，因为她的歌唱被一字字地反馈。

也许，她所有激昂的乐句，搅动了跌宕的水和痉挛的风；

但我们听到的是她，而不是海。

基韦斯特的秩序观念

她唱得超过天才的大海。

海水的形成从不是为了思考或发音，它像一个躯体，整个身躯，飘动着空洞的衣袖；尽管模拟的动作，不休的哭泣，无休地引起哭泣，可那不是我们的声音，尽管我们理解这真实的、超人类的海洋。

大海不是装饰。 她更不是。

歌与水不是交响乐，纵使她唱的，也是

因为她是她歌曲的创作者。

那永远被遮掩的、悲惨姿势的海洋只是她漫步并歌唱的地方。

这是谁的精神？我们说，是因为我们知道它是我们曾寻找的精神，我们要一再地询问，当她歌唱的时候。

如果那只是海的暗淡的声息，升起，或甚至被许多的波涛助澜；

如果那只是外面的天空的响动，与云，沉陷的珊瑚，被水困扰，

很明显，那将是深深的大气，沉重的空气的述说，夏季的声音，在夏季里重复，无休无止，而且仅仅是声音。

然而，不仅如此，甚至不是她的声音，也不是我们的声音，在水与风无意义的穿插之间。

夸大的远方，青铜色的影子堆聚在高高的地平线上，天与海形成山峰般的大气。

是她的声音，让天空在消沉中敏锐。

她丈量了荒僻的时刻。她是这世界里唯一的工匠，她在这世界里吟唱。

当她吟唱的时候，大海自身拥有的一切，化为自身。正是她的歌，因为她的创作。而我们，当我们单独领悟到她的步伐，感知到，未曾哪个世界为她存在， 除了这个，她曾唱，正唱，与建立的世界。

瑞蒙.费尔南德斯，对我说，你是否知道，为什么，当歌唱停止，在我们返城途中，为什么如镜的灯，港湾里渔船上的灯火，当夜幕降落，倾斜在空中，主宰了夜晚，分割了海域；固定了光彩斑驳的地带和火红的桅杆；编整、深邃、陶醉了夜晚。

哦！疯狂地为顺序祈祷, 苍白的瑞蒙。

创造者的狂热调整了海的语言,制订了馥郁的入口、朦胧的星光, 以及我们自己和我们起源的语言，在幽魂的灵界里, 锐利的声音。

2010.1.2译

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.

The water never formed to mind or voice,

Like a body wholly body, fl uttering

Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion

Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,

That was not ours although we understood,

Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.

The song and water were not medleyed sound

Even if what she sang was what she heard,

Since what she sang was uttered word by word.

It may be that in all her phrases stirred

The grinding water and the gasping wind;

But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.

The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea

Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.

Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew

It was the spirit that we sought and knew

That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea

That rose, or even colored by many waves;

If it was only the outer voice of sky

And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,

However clear, it would have been deep air,

The heaving speech of air, a summer sound

Repeated in a summer without end

And sound alone. But it was more than that,More even than her voice, and ours, among

The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,

Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped

On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres

Of sky and sea.

It was her voice that made

The sky acutest at its vanishing.

She measured to the hour its solitude.

She was the single arti fi cer of the world

In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,

Whatever self it had, became the self

That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,

As we beheld her striding there alone,

Knew that there never was a world for her

Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,

Why, when the singing ended and we turned

Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,

The lights in the fi shing boats at anchor there,

As the night descended, tilting in the air,

Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,

Fixing emblazoned zones and fi ery poles,

Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,

The maker's rage to order words of the sea,

Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,

And of ourselves and of our origins,

In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.