◎董繼平 譯

皮埃爾·勒韋迪（Pierre Reverdy，1889-1960），20世紀(jì)初期法國著名詩人、超現(xiàn)實(shí)主義詩歌的先驅(qū)之一，生于納博訥，1910年定居巴黎，與畢加索、阿波利奈、雅各布等人一起參加立體派活動，并大量發(fā)表實(shí)驗(yàn)性新詩，以立體主義詩人和超現(xiàn)實(shí)主義先驅(qū)而聞名。他于1926年攜家遷往梭列姆，在那里隱居30年，潛心寫作。勒韋迪所著詩集總共有二十多卷，以《散文詩》《橢圓形天窗》《屋頂上的石板》《入睡的吉它》《彩繪之星》《青天的碎片》《風(fēng)源》等尤為知名。

誰再次

在降臨的夜色中，用掛在樹上的鑰匙開啟的夜色中，吱嘎作響、閃爍、朝所有地平線以及在所有涌流里面轉(zhuǎn)動的夜色中——這里有因?yàn)闀r間的力量磨損了其背部而模糊的人，在沉歇的濃霧背景上經(jīng)過。

微雨飄落在所有正被擦掉的道路上，在慢慢改變著位置的牧草場上，在要加深夜色的樹林上——同一條線里面，什么也沒存留下來。

黑色小路引導(dǎo)我迷途地穿過濃陰；樹籬再也沒有那用一團(tuán)團(tuán)煤渣塞住的洞孔。這些灰色旗幟在每個角落卷起，這些色彩迷失在最黑暗的帶子中，這些想象的風(fēng)景被夜鳥的幾支歌所橫貫——太接近而無法想象它們可能和出現(xiàn)——碩大之獸的溫暖和運(yùn)

動——如果我們沒有真的迷失在宇宙中，如果深深的礁脈的外貌沒有反射在它們里面。

AGAIN WHO

In the night that is falling， that is opened with a key hanging from the tree and creaking， sparkling， turning towards all the horizons and in all the currents - here are vague men because of their backs worn by the forces of time， passing against a background of fog that is settling.

It is drizzling on all the roads that are being obliterated， on the meadows that are slowly changing places， on the woods to deepen the night - nothing remains in the same line.

The black footpath leads me astray through the thickets; the hedge has no more holes stopped with balls of cinders. These grey flags rolled up at each corner， these colours lost in the darkest bands， these imaginary landscapes traversed by a few songs of night birds and suddenly - too close to imagine them possible and present -the movement and the warmth of large beasts - if we are not really lost in the universe and if the aspect of the deep reefs is not reflected in them.

思想的喃喃聲

謊言的旁門樓梯上響起的腳步聲。 對著連續(xù)敲打的門、 鳴響的汽笛和遲來的車輪節(jié)拍的所有耳朵； 大門的提前關(guān)閉。

黃昏時分， 馬戲團(tuán)的平面交叉路口——馬戲團(tuán)中， 云朵在天空稠密的嗓音中被獻(xiàn)祭。 在蒸發(fā)于黑暗泉水的水的灌木叢中， 雨水松弛的手指。

迷途的提燈， 被照亮的門。 公墓中， 沒有方向的林陰道上，身著黑衣的柏樹。

MURMUR OF THOUGHTS

A sound of footsteps on the service stairs of lies. At all the ears of the beating doors， whistling sirens and all the wheelbeats of the vehicles that are late; the premature closing of gates.

At dusk， the level-crossing of the circuses in which clouds are consecrated in the congestion of celestial voices. In the bush of water evaporated from the dark springs， the loosened fingers of the rain.

The strayed lantern， the lighted door. And the black -clad cypresses in the directionless avenues of the cemetery.

有星星的人

每只手里都有一盞燈。 從鏈條的一端到樓梯。 早晨藍(lán)色的窗戶， 涂著清漆的屋頂和那比帆布下降得還低的樓梯。 因?yàn)橛写蠛Ｔ趬Ρ谂c人以及那阻止噪音的展開的夜之間。 有把波浪驅(qū)散的白船和把風(fēng)分開的太陽的翅膀。

然而最重要的是， 被刺藜用光環(huán)圍繞的額頭， 迸發(fā)出火焰的心和哭泣的眼睛——凝視敲擊天空， 開啟的門提供對空間的一瞥——那個空間里面， 死去的形態(tài)移動在被閃光的手指追溯的路上。

關(guān)閉的花園中， 樹在柵門上面——海邊的信號點(diǎn)——兩扇門朝著地平線打開——邋遢破爛的一天——逃逸， 踐踏影子， 人們——隕落在另一邊的星星。

THE MAN WITH STARS

A lamp in each hand. From one end of the chain to the stars.The blue windows of morning， the varnished roof and the stairs that go down lower than the canvas. Because there is the sea between the wall and the man and the unfolded night that stops the noise. There is the white boat that scatters the waves and the sun' s wing that divides the wind.

But， above all， the forehead haloed by thorns， the heart from which the flame emerges and the weeping eyes - the gaze knocks at the sky and the opening door affords a glimpse of the space in which dead shapes are moving on the roads traced by a luminous finger.

The trees of the closed garden are on the iron gate - the points of the signal beside the sea - the two leaves of the door open on the creaking horizon - the slipshod day - escapes and tramples on the shadows the men - the stars fallen on the other side.

重合的靈魂和軀體

房間里， 生病的精神和軀體伸挺著。 火苗刺透。

遵照隔壁房間的方向， 燈盞的三角形把自己擺正在天花板上。

那時， 所有的欲望縱橫交錯而行， 那時， 道路被阻塞。

那時， 再也沒有希望， 除了在最后一滴水里， 最后一個時辰，被舉起來的鏈條。

我用一只被高燒和我的心跳所分神的眼睛觀察三角形， 通往危險(xiǎn)本身的指南。

鏡子對面的墻上——凍結(jié)的黑色深淵， 威脅著的空寂和沉默在那里君臨統(tǒng)治， 所有尖銳的可能性——陽光那令人愉快且微笑著的風(fēng)景對著我出現(xiàn)， 光明燦爛的鐘， 從一片過于沉重的天空上的明亮的落水管上分離的色彩。

然而， 在那讓面龐保持靜止的橢圓形里， 焦慮而破爛的記憶，被永遠(yuǎn)受到限制的努力磨損得薄薄的——一個人恰恰擁有那重新豎立自己的、 到來的時間的概念， 我們運(yùn)動的界限， 雜亂地處于這已被更新的狹窄的空間內(nèi)部。

SOUL AND BODY SUPERIMPOSED

In the room the sick mind and the outstretched body.

The flame pierces.

The triangle of the lamp takes its bearings from the ceiling according to the direction of the next room.

When all despairs lay themselves across the road， blocking it.

When we have no hope left except in the last drop， the last hour， the lifted chain.

I observe the triangle of an eye distracted by fever and by the beating of the' heart that guides the danger.

On the opposite wall alongside the mirror - the black， frozen chasm in which reign the menacing void and silence， the possibility of all bites - here appear to me landscapes that are joyous and smiling with rays of sunlight， luminous bells， cries spinning along，colours given off by bright waterspouts against a sky too overcast.

But in the oval that keeps the whole face motionless and the memory disquieted， full of holes， worn out by efforts forever suppressed - we have precisely the notion of time put back， of him who comes and of the limits of our disordered movements in the narrow space already renewed.