梅科克斯路

【美】马克·科恩　　陈子弘 译

                            致达拉·帕克

一位美国朋友操着厚重的英国音，
那天说我看起来心事重重，
但前方并没啥可报告的事情，
无需试探，也没啥可忏悔的。
内心的执念，是相当激烈，
相当狂热，与长椅子有关。

你从门廊就能见到，
门廊和房子一样，建于1912年。
它色调暗淡，表皮斑驳，
木条与空气显出沧桑，
邀请无生命物体迷人的空旷，
与之相比，椅子上仍有空间
可以坐得下两三人。

门廊那有把白色柳条摇椅。
我坐下。我的早年岁月
满是白色廊柱的梦，
它们就在那儿，支撑门廊的屋顶，
天花板涂成蓝色。
你可知道苍蝇能分辨颜色？
蓝色让苍蝇不敢造次
即便有靡靡肉香诱惑
让它们生出虚假自信或真实冲动。
这片区域由颜色值守。
所以完全是美丽的巧合，蓝色天花板
居然会令人愉悦。
而如果是黑色能赶走苍蝇呢？
下次走进你的画室，
我会观察苍蝇对画上色彩的反应。
昨天我有种冲动想走进
那些画的深处，
把过去永远抛在身后。

然而，我还是我，木椅让我着迷。
它靠近池塘，
雍穆而仪式感十足。
它似乎在说：“做国王真好。”
那椅子有力量能让国家诉诸暴力，
也有智慧带来深远的和平。
池塘静谧，也是人修造的。
防蝇的蓝色，浓郁、柔和、白蒙蒙的。
想象木椅上装点着皇室珠宝。

黑心金光菊和其他我完全
叫不出名的花，
装点了修剪过的小径，
连通了可以去往木椅
和池塘的径道。
有些花在那儿野生已久，
有些是画家种下的。
这些小径不易迷路，
仍可保持对选择的看重，
保持天生的好奇。透过这些路，
能看到房子的背面框架。
“像过去那样朴素，”
是美的重要部分。
停下来观察时，太阳与阴影
已为晚餐摆好桌子。若此间有伦理剧，
那么椅子可能是怀孕的房子，
也可以是棺材。接纳骄傲的父母
去思念他们逝去的父母。
果实，良于行，或默于斯，皆可容纳，
那些徘徊与退让的灰色地带
为黑色套装添了内涵。

两段人生可以坐在长椅子上达成
一致，两段需求、哲学与表达各异的
人生，却诉说相同的独立之物。
两段人生或在此相遇，如他处，
那一刻关注同一件事。
如今，长椅上的王与后无非也是
再也想不起那些周边国家名称
再也想不起敌手名字的幽灵。
有时，这对王室夫妇觉得很好。
他们看着买下旧椅子的画家，
带着他的狗奥莉安，漫步小径。

树上或有猴子乱跳，兔子
在地上游荡。它们看他停下，
四处观察、触摸，去感受和审视
白昼之心消隐于黑夜之时
或许可能长出来的画面。
如今木椅的幽魂统治者
宣布它神圣又庄严，誓言
要捍卫木椅的荣誉，即使
这意味着战争。他们召诗人
来赞美未来战士，不知
这赞美已无不复存在。
他们举杯畅饮，
奥丽安注意到一只小兔。
在消失之前，他们喊道：
“明年，同一时间，同一地点。”
太阳与阴影都消失，
而兔子看到奥丽安，于是奔向灌木丛。

雨开始落下，无处可以躲避。
太阳披着雨衣，月亮披着斗篷。
门廊与长椅之间的田野中，
有棵奇妙的柳树，
它极其女性化。它的法官与陪审团裸身，
而被告皆是盲人。
梅科克斯路已成为夏日的捷径，
阻断一个鼓励幻想的世界，一个
仅凭可能性就令人沉郁的世界。
我们就此构建某种东西，尤其是
在我们强盛时。从门廊能看见并
听见经过的车辆，它们成为顺时针
与逆时针流转的一本日记一部分，
如同司机与乘客来来去去的历史。
他们通常带着更红润的脸色离开，
有时晒伤的刺痛感又令人战栗。

最终，你只能从门廊听见车辆的声音。
树会处理这一切，无论是否有猴子。
就像你会确保奥丽安也将
在人类的余生中存活，也许会有火，
所有那些曾经看似真实的事物，
甚至历史，都可能焚毁。
届时，长椅旁或许多出个便盆，
或许椅子遭受雷击被闪电
劈成两半。或许下一代主人
会彻底移除它，除非这块地成为
博物馆院落，房子变成博物馆。

我赌的就是这个。花朵庸俗
但却迷人，这块地也就
如男女般那么迷人。
尽管明天与今天毫无关联，
椅子的激励却融进过去，
令人振奋。我想问自然是否能
抚慰人心，答案是能，
直到你知晓它在或者不在。
我思，故我祈盼，当树木
遮蔽了道路的视野时，
居住在这块地上的人
是否会像我们今天这般幸运，
而且无需依赖四叶草。
届时，宗教与亵渎或许就是一回事，
斧头劈开树木般劈开世俗之风。
若无病虫害，那棵孤独的白桦
仍会遗世独立。

生锈的手推车翻倒一旁。
仍如我所是，我庆幸画家
用得确实少。色彩比泥土重要，
水渍比泥泞中的倒影更加
重要。没有可能性的梦境，
就没有爱。抱歉弗洛伊德，这些
就像意外。爱是等待着发生的
意外。或许历史也是所有未说未讲
的事体，是所有始终被隐藏的事体。
它发生在椅子边上。池塘沉睡着，
而在另一时刻，设计融入了画面。
椅子是深知此理。

其他主人可能种过玉米和土豆，
如今只有野生浆果是可吃的东西。
我们照搬雨水，试图替代颜料来
淹没黑夜。有人被邀请了，
有人是不速之客。逃离的质感不可能。
一位刚去世的男人出现在画室的画布上，
他正穿着一条红裤子。
风景是个空房间，有个神秘问题
“分裂在何处发生？”并无简单答案。

椅子要求我们坚守历史，
暗淡失色的琐事为常人和神经病
还有那些特立独行者发明计划
与惊喜。此处的一切比文明更加
神圣，但此处的一切也极其世俗。
冬雪融化成的雨水提醒我们，
在种植和享用收成之外还需要
做更多。这片风景将被它
并未请求的毯子覆盖。木条椅子，
被埋在所有落下的积雪之下，
将挺过下一次严寒并接受数月
等待后到来的欢乐馈赠。
抓紧你的帽子。即便椅子如我们
自己一样无人保护，如祝福或罪孽
一般化为虚无，它观赏鱼儿在
一池春水中畅游，它仍能出卖灵魂。
人造池塘是它的收获。

粗糙的人类记忆，遗忘事件
却又为此颇感欣喜，将在
春天咳出冬眠幽灵时找到
立誓的地方。或可在此发生，
或足够自然地在此发生。
会有一只狗舔你的脚，
但无人能预测房子与椅子是否
仍在这里。暗淡无光的木头，多多少少
又是它不是的东西。它是个目盲但
最漂亮的孩子，而你将决定
是否注视它，是否靠近它坐下，
或触碰它温暖的肌肤，而那时
我们将哀悼雪的逝去。

译注：
1.达拉·帕克（Darragh Park，1939—2009）美国画家，以风景画和城市景观画闻名，风格受画家费尔菲尔德·波特影响，常为书籍设计封面。他是普利策奖诗人詹姆斯·舒伊勒的文学遗嘱执行人。帕克毕业于耶鲁大学（法语文学专业，辅修艺术史），后在哥伦比亚大学获得硕士学位。他曾师从长岛画家罗伯特·达什学习绘画，作品曾在布里奇汉普顿的本森画廊和纽约的蒂博尔·德·纳吉画廊展出。诗中的奥丽安是画家的狗。

诗人简介：马克·科恩（Marc Cohen，），美国诗人，生于纽约布鲁克林，长于长岛，现居纽约市与萨格港。他的诗歌以抒情与哲思著称，常探索日常与崇高的交融，风格简洁而深邃，类似哈特·克兰的安静诗篇。科恩出版诗集《未知的天空》《梅科克斯路》，作品多次入选《最佳美国诗歌》。他曾任Intuflo诗歌系列编辑，并于1990年、1992年获诗歌基金资助。《梅科克斯路》以乡村木椅为中心，探讨时间、记忆与联结，展现他对自然与人性的洞察。科恩也经营萨格港的一家酒类商店，生活与创作紧密相连。

MARC COHEN

Mecox Road

               for Darragh Park

An American friend using a thick British accent,
said I looked rather pensive that day,
but there was nothing to report from the front,
no need to test the waters or repent.
The preoccupation, quite insurgent,
quite maniacal, was with a wooden bench.

You can see it from the porch,
the porch that like the house, was built in 1912.
Its pale, grey tone, its flaky skin,
the used feeling of its slats formed by wood and air,
invite the inviting emptiness of an inanimate object,
compared to the fact that there's room
on the bench for two or three people.

There's a white wicker rocking chair on the porch.
I sat down on it. My early years had been
filled with dreams of white columns,
and there they were, bracing the roof of the porch,
its ceiling painted blue.
Did you know that flies can distinguish color?
The blue color keeps the flies
from getting too bold, even when someone's flesh
might seduce them into a false confidence or real urge.
The area is patrolled by color.
So it’s just a nice coincidence that the blue ceiling
turns out to be pleasing.
What if black was the color that kept them at bay?
Next time I walk into your studio,
I'll watch the flies react to the colors in your paintings.
Yesterday I had the urge to walk inside
the depths of those paintings,
and leave the past behind forever.

Still, being who I am, the bench preoccupied me.
It sits near to the pond,
and appears rather stately and majestic.
It seems to say, “It’s good to be king.”
That very seat has the power to move nations to violence,
and the wisdom to bring about a resounding peace.
A pond is a quiet thing. This particular pond is man-made.
The anti-fly blue is rich, soft and milky.
Imagine the bench bedecked with the crown jewels.

Black-eyed Susans and many other flowers
whose names I do not know,
help to form the mowed paths
that correspond to a way of getting to
the bench and to the pond.
Some of the flowers have been growing wild there for ages,
and some were planted by the painter.
It’s hard to get lost along those paths,
but one can still maintain the regard for choice,
and a natural curiosity. From these paths,
one can see the backside frame of the house.
“Simple as how they used to do it,”
is a large part of any beauty.
As we take the time to observe, the sun and shadows
set the table for dinner. If there’s a morality play here,
it’s that the bench could be a pregnant house,
as well as a casket. There’s room for a proud father
and mother to think about the dead fathers and mothers.
There’s room for the fruits of action and inaction,
and the grey areas of indecision and noninvolvement
that help color the black suits.

Two lives could reach an agreement while sitting on
that bench, two lives with very different needs,
very different philosophies and ways of expressing
the same independent thing.
Two lives could meet here like anywhere else,
and for a moment be concerned with the same thing.
Now the king and queen of the bench are nothing
more than ghosts who can no longer remember the names
of the countries that flanked their borders,
or recall the names of their rivals.
Sometimes the royal couple feels that this is good.
They watch the painter who bought the old bench
walk the paths with his dog Oriane.

Monkeys could be wild in those trees, rabbits
roam the grounds. They watch him stop here and there
to observe and touch, to feel and see
just what paintings might be growing there
as the heart of the day is concealed from the night.
And now the haunted rulers of the bench
declare the bench holy and divine, and promise
to defend the honor of the bench, even if
that defense means war. They call on the poets
to praise the would-be soldiers, not knowing
that this praise can no longer exist.
While they drink from their goblets,
Oriane spots a small rabbit. Before disappearing,
they call out, “Same time, same place, next year.”
The sun and shadows disappear,
and the rabbit spots Oriane and races for the brush.

It starts to rain, and no one has any protection.
The sun has a coat, the moon has a cape.
There’s a wonderful willow
in the field between the porch and bench,
it’s very feminine. His own judge and jury are naked,
the accused are all blind.
Mecox Road has become a summer shortcut,
interrupting a world that encourages fantasy,
a world that depresses with its mere possibility.
We build something from this, particularly
when we are strong. The passing cars can be seen
and heard from the porch. They become part of
a diary that moves clockwise and counterclockwise,
like the history of the beach where the drivers
and passengers arrive to and leave from.
They usually leave with more color in their faces,
and sometimes the sunburn can be chilling.

Eventually, you'll only hear the cars from the porch.
The trees will take care of that, monkeys or not.
Just like you insured that Oriane will live
for the rest of Man’s life, there may be a fire,
and everything that has appeared to be true,
even history, may be burned.
By then, the bench might have a bidet next to it,
or maybe the bench will be struck by lightning
and broken in half. Perhaps some next generation owner
will remove it altogether unless the land becomes
museum grounds, and the house becomes a museum.

This is what I’m betting on. The flowers are trite
and engaging, the property is as charming
as a man or a woman can be.
Though tomorrow has nothing to do with today,
the bench’s pep talk incorporates the past,
and is exhilarating. I asked if nature can be
soothing, and the answer was yes,
until you know that it is or isn’t there.
I think, and therefore I hope that whoever
lives on this land when the trees have ruined
the view of the road, will be as lucky as we are today,
and will not have to rely on four-leaf clovers.
By then, religion and blasphemy could be the same thing,
splitting the common wind like an axe to a tree.
Barring disease, the lone white birch
will continue to stick out from the rest.

The rusted wheelbarrow is turned upside down.
Still being who I am, I’m glad the painter
doesn’t use it much. More depends on color than dirt,
more depends on a watery footprint than its representation
cast in mud. Without the dream of possibility,
there is no love. Sorry Freud, there are such things
as accidents. Love is an accident waiting
to happen. Maybe history is everything that was never
said or told, everything that was always hidden.
It happened by the bench. The pond was sleeping,
and at another point, design entered into the picture.
The bench knows that well.

Other owners might have planted corn and potatoes,
now wild berries are the only edible things that grow here.
We imitate the rain and try to flood the night
with a few substitute colors. Some are invited,
some just drop in. The very texture of escape is impossible.
A man who just died appears on a canvas in the studio.
He is wearing a pair of red pants.
The landscape is a bare room where there is
no simple answer to the mysterious question,
“Where does the split occur?”

The bench asks that we hold fast
to our history, the pale, grey chores that invent plans
and surprises for the normal and neurotic, and for those
who are different. Everything here is more sacred than
civilization, but everything here is very civil.
The rainwater that winter turns into snow
reminds us that we must do more than plant
and eat the harvest. The landscape will be covered with
a blanket that he didn’t ask for. The slatted seat,
buried under a white confluence of everything that has fallen,
will survive the next coldness and accept the glad offerings
that wait a few months down the road.
Hold on to your hat. Even if the bench is left
unprotected like ourselves, and disintegrates into nothing
like a blessing or a sin, he can still sell his soul
while he watches ine fish swim at the springtime edge
of the pond. The man-made pond is his harvest.

A blunt, human memory, forgetful of events,
and glad to be so, will have a place to take its vows
when the springtime coughs up the ghosts
that have slept all winter. It could have happened here,
or it could be natural enough to happen here.
There will be a dog to lick your feet,
but no one can predict whether the house and bench
will still be here. The pale, grey wood is less
and more of what it isn’t. It’s a blind and most
beautiful child, and you'll be able to decide
whether to look at it or not, whether to sit down near it
or touch its warm flesh, and by then
we'll be mourning the death of the snow.

                                 from Verse