英诗汉译：诗人醒来

武夷山

诗人醒来

作者：m. nourbeSe Philip

译者：武夷山©

诗人醒来

诗人们某天早晨醒来

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现所有的词语都离开了

遁入无尽头的暗夜

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现

正如母亲在他们小时候警告过的那样

有些词语对于他们的舌头是太重了

舌头抬不动它们

承受不了言语的重负

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现

如同鸟儿逃离燃烧的田野

他们的词语就这么飞走了

没有任何词语来谈论事情不应该如何

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现他们的词语成为碎片

如同两千磅炸弹轰炸后的众多尸体

诗人们爬呀，翻找呀

这儿找，那儿找，到处找

在废墟下找，试图找到一个词，一个字母，一个短语

诗人们醒来后发现一些似乎无足轻重的词

如“the”“和”“这”“那”

连这些无足轻重的词都被毁了

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现除了无足轻重的词

像“真相”这样的严肃庄重的词也消失了

诗人们醒来

于某天早晨

诗人们醒来后发现连谎言都跑了

匆匆离去

明亮灯光下有那么多害虫

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现

无话可说

无话可说他们怎么能算是诗人呢？

诗人们某天早晨醒来后就拼命想一些词

什么“大屠杀”“战争”“残忍”“历史”啦

什么“惩罚”“报应”啦

诗人们某天早晨醒来后发现这些重要的词都死了

它们无关紧要

躺在排水沟里

他们，那天和那些天的早晨醒来的诗人们，怎么可以

做那些事？

（诗人们做了什么？）

诗人们那天早晨醒来

啥事没做

无话可说

在某天早晨醒来时

那天早晨

在词语缺席的情况下

在沉默缺席的情况下

沉默总是缺席

诗人们互相打量

问道

没有词语了那我们是谁？

失去了沉默

我们如何作证？

在诗人们醒来的那天早晨

他们发现所有词语都逃离

惊恐地逃离

震惊地逃离

恐怖地逃离

那天早晨

当他们醒来后发现所有词语都逃离

好比汗液从毛孔下涌出

词语逃离他们

（忘记老鼠逃离沉船的隐喻吧）

他们，那天早晨醒来的诗人们

因词语缺席而淹死

是他们自己的词语啊

在词语缺席的情况下

在沉默中。沉默就是缺席

或许，那天早晨诗人们

是与痛失亲人者一道醒来的

或许那天早晨

诗人们哭了

博主注： 作者N nourbeSe philip 女士l968年在加勒比海地区的新印度群岛大学获得经济学学士学位，1970年在加拿大西安大略大学获得政治学硕士学位，1973年在西安大略大学获得法学博士学位。然后，她在多伦多市从事律师工作7年，在此期间她创作了两部诗集。从1983年起，她放弃律师工作，将更多时间投入文学创作。   

原诗发表于The Yale Review（耶鲁评论）杂志，见https://yalereview.org/article/m-nourbese-philip-poets-awoke。

LitHub网站2024年12月24日发表了一篇文章，50 Contemporary Poets on the Best Poems they Read in 2024（50位当代诗人谈他们在2024年读过的最棒的诗）。“诗人醒来”是该文所推介的诗歌之一。推介这首诗歌的两位，一是美国女诗人Maggie Millner，她认为，“诗人醒来”深刻思考了在危机时刻语言不敷应用的问题。另外，作者还思考了一个常想常新的问题：如何做到通过一首主要不是靠词语而是靠无语状态打造出来的诗歌来揭露见证暴行。另一位美国华裔诗人是Victoria Chang（维多利亚.张），她1970年生于底特律，父亲是工程师，母亲是教师，两人都是从中国台湾移民到美国的。她说，“诗人醒来”最妙的是，通过语言探索了语言之边界或极限。

原诗如下：

The Poets Awoke

m. nourbeSe philip

The poets awoke

The poets awoke one morning

The poets awoke one morning to find

The poets awoke one morning to find that all their words had left them

Fleeing into the blackness of night that had no end

The poets awoke one morning and found

As their mothers had warned when they were children

That there were some words too heavy for their tongues

For their tongues to lift

To carry the burden of speech

The poets awoke one morning and found

Like birds fleeing a burning field

Their words had simply up and flown away

No words to talk about what should not be

The poets awoke one morning and found their words smashed to smithereens

Like so many bodies under two-thousand-pound bombs

The poets scrambled, scrabbled

Here, there, everywhere

Under rubble, trying to find a word, a letter, a phrase

The poets awoke to find that words that appeared so inconsequential

“the” “and” “but” “this” “that”

Even those had been destroyed

The poets awoke one morning to find that along with that

More portentous words like “truth” had disappeared

The poets awoke

One morning

The poets awoke to find that even lies had gone

Scurrying away

So much vermin under bright lights

The poets awoke one morning to find that there was nothing

Nothing to say

And how could they be poets with nothing to say?

The poets awoke one morning thinking of words

Like “carnage” and “war” and “brutality” and “history”

Like “punishment” and “retribution”

The poets awoke one morning to find those important words dead

Of no consequence

Lying in the gutter

How could they, the poets who awoke that morning, those mornings

Do what poets do?

(And what do poets do?)

The poets awoke that morning

To nothing

To no words

On awaking one morning

That morning

In the absence of words

In the absence of silence

The silence that is always

Absence

The poets turn to each other

Then turn to face the world

To ask

Who are we without our words?

Without our silences

How do we witness?

On the morning that the poets awoke

to find that all their words had fled

In consternation

In shock

In horror

That morning

When they awoke to find that all their words had fled

Like sweat pouring out of their pores

Had fled them

(Forget rats on a sinking ship)

They, the poets who awoke that morning

Were drowned in the absence of words

Their own words

In the absence of silence

In the silence that is absence

Perhaps that morning the poets awoke

Along with those who are bereft

Perhaps that morning

The poets cried

M. NOURBESE PHILIP is an unembedded poet-without-ambition who was born in Tobago and lives in Toronto. The author of several works of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and drama, she remains humbled by the risk-based act of faith that is the practice of poetry.