白雪与红玫瑰

【美】黛博拉·格里格  陈子弘  译

门外那头熊，恳请我们为他
拍打以便抖落身上那层冰雪，
原来他竟是被诅咒的王子——
姐姐和我很久后才得知的细节

我们用扫帚为他清理，然后并肩躺下，
苍白的月牙钉上他广阔暗色皮毛。
红玫说，在火光下他的毛皮闪闪发光，
但在我眼中丝毫也看不出来有什么

不同，在我手心捏热了硬币后
把有女王头像那一面压在紧靠
窗户那些叶子上结的冰上面。
眼睛大的开口处，冰凉的泪融化，

我是否看到有东西从森林深处逃脱？
我看不清，只看出一只动物知道——
如果算它知道——迷路猎人会怎么做：
这样的夜晚，任何温暖都可以救命。

所以，在林子之中，一个人会睡在
自己杀死的野兽体内，等待破晓光
照亮通往任何一个空地的道路。
走向一间小屋，就像那间红玫瑰与

白玫瑰朝向窗户的小屋，
血红与雪花的远亲
她们争抢着要姐姐的剪刀
大手大脚花钱，吸引好伙伴。

刻花玻璃花瓶精致但不适合粗糙桌子
桌上摆着面包和两个人要看的书，
插花应该在举办优雅的聚会，
而我们总是缄默而粗鲁地阅读——

玫瑰，读的是某人的红皮革封面游记；
而我读的是下一个季节的植物志，
书中，“裸露”表示“没有专门鳞片”，
“柔嫩”意味着“不耐寒”，

作者其实很留意那些像他
一样的人：“如果天气太冷，
不能在户外读，就把这本书
留着回温暖的家里看。”

阴影在蓝色的雪地上蔓延，
但足够斜射的光线穿透了，
一个人工池塘，装点宫殿地面
从内部，缓慢融化着，

冰晶重新长成花朵和尖刺，
就像人们收获它们一样，
将水锯成冰块，搬到在雪橇上，
明天就会拖到冰窖里去。

那棵望着一切的树，在流泪？
但又明显不是在流泪。
树叶的叶痕是单独的吗？
其实每个节上有两处或更多。

那头熊，那个久违的夜晚？
他是两兄弟中的一个。
一个选了与玫瑰结婚，
曾经是动物的那个选择了我。

风摇晃着马利筋草的拳头，
直到它被拨开，掉落一小撮
毛绒绒的半便士铜板，一个接一个，
每个都被风带到远方，并落地生根。

【诗人简介】黛博拉·格里格（Debora Greger，1949- ）美国诗人，已出版多部诗集，她的创作主题广泛，涉及神话、历史与日常生活，其作品风格独特，善于通过简洁的语言和意象揭示深刻的情感。她获得了众多荣誉和奖项，包括古根海姆基金会奖学金、国家艺术基金会奖学金、美国艺术与文学学院文学奖、彼得·I·B·拉万年轻诗人奖、阿米·洛厄尔诗歌旅行奖学金等。

DEBORA GREGER

Snow White and Rose Red

The bear at the door, begging
to be beaten free of his snowy coat,
was a king’s son under a curse,
detail my sister and I learned long after

we scoured him with brooms and then lay down,
pale crescents pinned to his vast dark.
Rose claimed that in firelight
his fur glittered, but I saw no more

than before, when a coin warmed in my hand
pressed a queen’s profile into the ice
grown in fronds against the window.
In the eye-size opening melted tear by cool tear,

had I seen something break from the forest’s deep ranks?
I saw nothing beyond an animal knowing—
if it be knowing—what a lost hunter does:
on such a night any warmth will do.

So in the heart of a wood a man will sleep
inside the beast he’s slain, waiting daybreak
to illumine the way toward any clearing.
Toward a cottage like the one where red roses

and white clambered to the window,
the sanguine and the snowflake’s distant kin
spendthrift with promise of good company
as they vied for my sister’s shears.

In a cut-glass vase too fine for the rough table
on which lay bread and books for two,
a bouquet would hold its salon
while as always we rudely, mutely read—

Rose, someone's travels bound in red morocco;
I, botany for the season ahead,
where "naked" meant "without specialized scales,"
and "tender": "not enduring winter,"

the author looking out for those
after his own heart: “If it is too cold
to read in the field, save this
for the warmth of home.”

Shadows unroll across the bluing snow
but enough oblique light has pierced
a man-made pond gracing the palace grounds
that, out of a slow, internal melting,

ice crystals regrow into bloom and thorn
as men harvest them, sawing the water
into frozen bales, loading sledges
tomorrow will drag to the icehouse.

The tree overlooking this—is it weeping?
Not markedly weeping.
Are the leaf scars solitary?
There are two or more at each node.

The bear, that long-lost night?
He was one of two brothers.
One picked Rose to wed,
the one who had been animal chose me.

Wind rattles a fist of milkweed
until it’s prised open, loosing a handful
of tufted ha’pennies one by one,
that each be borne far off and root where it falls.

                        from The New Yorker