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“The Province of the Saved”, Emily Dickinson

The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art – To save –
Through Skill obtained in Themselves –
The Science of the Grave

No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution – in Himself –
That Man – be qualified

To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new –
Mistake Defeat for Death – Each time –
Till acclimated – to –

读 Hart Crane 书信 一

这段时间在读 Hart Crane: Complete Poems & Selected Letters 中书信部分。最初读到 Crane 在 Wallace Stevens 以及 T.S.Eliot 之后,当时也并没有读懂多少;不过后来逐渐对他的诗产生了新的理解,也想更多了解他的经历。

Hart Crane 在 1899 年出生于美国俄亥俄州,1932 年于墨西哥湾跳海自杀。在短暂且时常艰难的一生中,他留下了诗集 White Buildings 与长诗 The Bridge, 被批评家 Harold Bloom 称为二十世纪最伟大的美国诗人之一。他早期深受 T.S.Eliot 启发,欣赏其诗歌中的技巧,却不满于其负面、悲观的情绪。与之相反,Crane 想要表达出时代中积极的精神。然而如一位朋友与我聊天时说到,他的文学信念与生活经历呈现一种悲剧的对比。也会想到之前在卡夫卡日记中读到的一段话(近似):「我在小说中想象最深的绝望,为了在生活中经历它们时有所准备…」

Crane 早期书信中最打动我的,是他对诗歌的爱与信念。在1924年一封给父亲 Clarence Arthur Crane 信的末尾,他这样写道:

… And in closing I would like to just ask you to think some time, —try to imagine working for the pure love of simply making something beautiful,—something that maybe can’t be sold or used to help sell anything else, but that is simply a communication between man and man, a bond of understanding and human enlightenment—which is what a real work of art is. If you do that, then maybe you will see why I am not so foolish after all to have followed what seems sometimes only a faint star. I only ask to leave behind me something that the future may find valuable, and it takes a bit of sacrifice sometimes in order to give the thing that you know is in yourself and worth giving. I shall make every sacrifice toward that end.

「仅为造出某种美的事物的爱而工作,人与人间的交流,理解的纽带与人的启迪……真正的艺术作品」,这也是我相信的。无论诗歌,绘画,还是音乐,感受到启迪的时刻也都是获得新的视觉、听觉的时刻,产生新的联系、纽带的时刻:与做出这些作品的人,与历史以及世界。同时,出于对这些体验的感激,会想要去做类似的事,带给他人自己曾感有的感到,创造新的联系与启迪。对我来说,这才是真正意义上的工作。以及「去追逐一颗黯淡的星……我将为此付出一切需要的牺牲」……

Crane 对诗歌的信念可以追溯到很早。1917年与父亲的信中写到:

I shall really without doubt be one of the foremost poets in America if I am enabled to devote enough time to my art.

同年另一封信中:

These next four or five years mean a great deal to me. During this time I must master a technique of writing;—reading a tremendous amount,—for these are the years when I must have time for that, and must survey a great deal of the work of the masters;—and thirdly must I be in a fair way to establish a market for my own wares.

另一方面,克兰很早就对工作有了某种认识。1919年给朋友 William Wright 的信中写到

… I agree with you that for such as ourselves business life is not to be scorned. The commercial aspect is the most prominent characteristic of America and we all must bow to it sooner or later. I do not think, though, that this of necessity involves our complete surrender of everything else nobler and better in our aspirations. Illusions are falling away from everything I look at lately. At present the world takes on the look of a desert,— a devastation to my eyes, and I am finding it rather hard at best. Still there is something of a satisfaction in the development of one’s consciousness even though it is painful. There is a certain freedom gained,— a lot of things pass out of one’s concern that before mattered a great deal. One feels more freedom and the result is not by any means predominantly negative…

虽然在中间说「目前的世界就像沙漠」,但在最后提到了「对此现实的认识能够带来一种自由」。

另一封1920年给 Gorham Munson 的信中:

…The modern artist has got to harden himself, and the walls of an ivory tower are too delicate and brittle a coat of mail for substitute. The keen and most sensitive edges will result from this “hardening” process. If you will pardon a more personal approach, I think that you would do better to think less about aesthetics in the abstract,— in fact, forget all about aesthetics, and apply yourself closely to a conscious observation of the details of existence, plain psychology, etc. If you ARE an artist then, you will create spontaneously. But I pray for both of us,— let us be keen and humorous scientists anyway. And I would rather act my little tragedy without tears, although I would insist upon a tortured countenance and all sleekness pared off the muscles.

后半段也展现了与之前相似的乐观。

只是越往后读,越了解到他工作的困难与生活的困窘。Crane 高中时退学来到纽约,尝试寻找广告撰写员的工作(这也是他后来大部分工作的内容)。然而找到一份工作并不容易,求职几个月也无结果是常发生的事;一旦开始工作,工作的无聊与劳累又使他无法坚持太久。因此克兰常常手头拮据,给父母写信要求寄钱,需要在信中说明自身要求的正当性;或是后来给朋友写信借钱,有时不可避免地影响到与朋友的友谊。动荡的生活无疑令他耗费了不少时间与精力,或许也导致了酗酒等行为。

这一点上让我想到了与他近乎相反的史蒂文斯。哈佛毕业生,在纽约短暂尝试记者工作后学习法律并成为律师,随后在不同的法律公司合作,最终成为 Hartford 保险公司的 vice-president, 职业生涯平稳且成功。克兰与史蒂文斯,各自的诗歌风格与生活经历之间,是否存在某种关系?Crane 像兰波,visionary, prophetic, 短暂而激烈的生活;史蒂文斯则更像一个哲学家,precise, eloquent, 延续到晚年的持续发展…

两人生前最后的诗中片段:

And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.

– Hart Crane, “The Broken Tower”

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

– Wallace Stevens, “Of Mere Being”

“Tea at the Palaz of Hoon” Wallace Stevens

七月底翻译了这一首。当时感到译得很生硬,与原诗相比时感到很强的挫败感。不过现在过了一段时间回头看,或许也有作为译文以外的价值。

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

不更少因为在紫色中我降下
西方的天空,穿过你所称为
最孤单的空气,不更少是我自己。

是什么油膏洒上我胡须?
是什么赞歌在我耳边嗡鸣?
是什么海的浪潮在那里扫过我?

从我心中金色的油膏如雨落下,
我的耳朵造出呼啸的赞歌并听见。
我自己即是海的界限:

我是我行走在其中的世界,我所看到
或听见或触碰到的仅来自我自己;
而在那里我发现自己更真实也更奇异。

‘My Grandmother’s love letters’ by Hart Crane

There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?”

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

很喜欢的一首 Hart Crane, 试着翻译了一下:

今夜没有星星
不属于记忆。
而记忆的空间却那么多
在细雨松弛的环绕里。

甚至有足够的空间
给信,曾属于我母亲的母亲
伊丽莎白,
它们长久被压在
屋顶的一角
让它们棕黄,柔软
可能像雪一般融化。

在这空间的宽广里
脚步必须轻盈。
一切都悬在一丝看不见的白发上。
它颤抖如桦条在空气中织网。

而我问自己:

「你手指是否足够长,来演奏
仅有回响的古老琴键:
这沉默是否足够强
将音乐带回它的源头
并再次回到你
如回到她?」

但我愿领着祖母挽起她的手
经过这许多她或许不会懂的事;
当我跌撞着。而雨在屋上继续
以一种温和、怜悯的笑声。

十二月

Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one pain
 
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in vain

简单而真实。我也是这么想的。

「野ざらし紀行」与两首汉诗

1. 「明ぼのやしら魚しろきこと一寸」
Alain Walter 在注释里提到了杜甫的两句诗:「白小群分命,天然二寸魚」,很喜欢。后来查了一下全诗,诗名就叫做《白小》

白小群分命 天然二寸魚
細微霑水族 風俗当園蔬
入肆銀花乱 傾箱雪片虚
生成猶拾卵 尽取義何如

末尾两句也非常好呢,回到了开始的「命」与「天然」。

2.
几周前读到这里:

独吉野の奥に辿りけるに、まことに山深く、白雲峰に重り、煙雨谷を埋んで、山賤の家処々に小さく、西に木を伐音東に響き、院々の鐘の声は心の底にこたふ。

注释中提到了「伐木丁丁(zhēng zhēng)山更幽」这句,搜索之后发现又是一首杜甫:《題張氏隱居二首 其一》

春山無伴獨相求,伐木丁丁山更幽。
澗道馀寒曆冰雪,石門斜日到林丘。
不貪夜識金銀氣,遠害朝看麋鹿游。
乘興杳然迷出處,對君疑是泛虛舟。

「乘興杳然迷出處,對君疑是泛虛舟」让我有点想起「夜闌更秉燭,相對如夢寐」。

上周日不知为何突然想翻一翻《诗经》(实际上是电子版),然后很神奇地看到了这首:

伐木丁丁,鳥鳴嚶嚶。出自幽谷,遷于喬木。嚶其鳴矣,求其友聲。相彼鳥矣,猶求友聲。矧伊人矣,不求友生?神之聽之,終和且平。

伐木許許,釃酒有藇!既有肥羜,以速諸父。寧適不來,微我弗顧。於粲灑掃,陳饋八簋。既有肥牡,以速諸舅。寧適不來,微我有咎。

伐木於阪,釃酒有衍。籩豆有踐,兄弟無遠。民之失德,乾餱以愆。有酒湑我,無酒酤我。坎坎鼓我,蹲蹲舞我。迨我暇矣,飲此湑矣。

第一章美得让人觉得陌生:「神之聽之,終和且平」。

后二章我不认识的字太多,所以只能大概理解。即使看了注释也没有拉近距离感,和读到荷马史诗里祭祀与宴会描写时感觉相似。但是「坎坎鼓我,蹲蹲舞我」让我忍不住笑了出来。想象着实在是很生动。

「有酒湑我,無酒酤我。坎坎鼓我,蹲蹲舞我」,末章这四个以「我」结束的句子,像是对第二章中「諸父」与「诸舅」微妙态度的应答。这里的「我」可以是复数,不过单数却更有趣:「我」虽独自一人,却用诗创造出复数的「我」。重复着的语音,像是在一种不断加快的节奏中体会到忘我(忘记只有我在场)的喜悦;如梦境一般,在「迨我暇矣,飲此湑矣」的等待中延续下去。

The Fish , and Bishop’s Style

英语课的期末论文,晚上刚写完。。直接复制过来的所以可能有一些错误。

Elizabeth Bishop is a great poet with her own distinct style. Her poems may seem ordinary at first sight, but as Marianne Moore said, “Elizabeth Bishop is spectacular in being unspectacular”. In this essay, I shall discuss the style of Bishop’s poetry, focusing on The Fish. And investigate how her favourite poets, like Herbert, Baudelaire and Hopkins have influenced her style.

Herbert & Imagery

The Anglican poet George Herbert is Bishop’s lifelong favourite, though she is by no means religious. Bishop did not have much appreciation for the average Christian for their “dogmatic, judgmental, and condescending ” attitude. (somewhat ironical for the name “Bishop”) In contrast, Herbert’s devoutness can speak to her, and his rich imagery influenced Bishop significantly.

Prayer(I), one of my favourite poems of Herbert, can serve as an example:

Prayer the church’s banquet, angel’s age,
         God’s breath in man returning to his birth,
         The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth

Engine against th’ Almighty, sinner’s tow’r,
          Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,…

This sonnet is profuse in images, some more concrete(reversed thunder, sinner’s tower), and some more abstract(heart in pilgrimage, angel’s age). Herbert constantly shifts his vision between the abstract and the concrete, whose fusion gives birth to magnificent images, and thus he has built a bridge between words and God.

In The Fish, we can easily notice the abundance of images, the painterly depiction of a fishing scene filled with minute details. We can also notice the fusion of concrete imagery and abstract imagery:

where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

When I read these lines for the first time, I’m dazzled by its verbal power that I saw rainbows in front my eyes. Yet the rainbow here is not simply an optical phenomenon, it reminds us of the rainbow that God set as a sign of his covenant with the Earth. We can even say that the oil is related to olive oil, which is burned in offerings for peace. The biblical touch of these two images foretells the narrator’s letting go of the fish, and makes it an exceptional act.

A further example of this “binocular vision” similar to Herbert:

Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age…

Beside aiding the description of the fish’s skin, “wallpaper” and “roses” create a sense of interior space. The interior of what? The interior of the narrator. We can see that not all the descriptions in the beginning of the poem are related to the narrative. Instead, they reveal more about the narrator’s way of perception, about how she makes associations of past experiences and current observations. We witness her lifting the fish from the sea of her memory, and opens up herself in her inspection of the fish. Looking into the shallow eyes of the fish, will she see her own image?

Baudelaire & The Disgusting

Baudelaire is famous (sometimes infamous) for his faithful description in Fleur du Mal about the ugly, disgusting sights. While he sings in Correspondences,

There are perfumes as cool as the flesh of children,
Sweet as oboes, green as meadows

He does not shun away from the prostitutes and corpses, all those things that constitute the urban landscape of modernity. As he continues in the same poem:

— And others are corrupt, and rich, triumphant,
With power to expand into infinity,
Like amber and incense, musk, benzoin,
That sing the ecstasy of the soul and senses.

Elizabeth Bishop is no poet for the pretty things as well. Her observations are keen, and she did not limit her sight to the beautiful things. She deals with the ugly and horrible with an equally poised attitude, observes it with the same precision and imagination. This neutral perspective make them less disgusting, even endowed with a singular aura. As in The Fish, the big fish infested with sea-lice are in fact very repugnant, if you did find a photograph of it. But when reading the poem we may find it “respectable”, with its “five-haired beard of wisdom, trailing from his aching jaw”.

A boat whose engine and bailers are rusted, whose thwarts are sun-cracked, must be very disagreeable. However, when we read the poem, we are fascinated by the rainbow spread over them, that we can temporarily forget their disagreeableness. Though not identical to Baudelaire, the coexistence of beauty and ugly in Bishop’s poem is truly spectacular.

Marianne Moore & Observation

Bishop considered Marianne Moore to be one of the most important poets in 20th century America, whose poetry is characterized by acute descriptions of people, places and animals. Interestingly, Moore has a poem named “The Fish” as well:

wade
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself like

an
injured fan…

One can feel the difference between their styles of description: Moore’s style is more aesthetic, probing the dazzling details of a underwater world of fish, crab and barnacles without any trace of human. However, Bishop’s description is more or “revealing” in the sense that the fish in her poem does not simply exist, it is recreated through her observation, imagination and action. The fish is observed as it is being caught by the narrator, and then we follow her perspective while she was facing the fish. Descriptions of the fish are accompanied by her own actions:“I thought of the the coarse white flesh”, and “I looked into his eyes”, etc. Her looking at the fish did not only serve for aesthetic purposes, but it actually lead to “And I let the fish go” in the end. As I mentioned in section I, in the inspection of the fish, there is simultaneously an opening up of the narrator’s self.

It is true that self-forgetfulness, of which Marianne Moore is a master, is necessary for keen observations, yet sometimes too much self-forgetfulness can make the poem less “animated”. As Bishop’s friend and Vassar peer Mary McCarthy put it:“I think there is something a bit too demure about Marianne Moore, and there’s nothing demure about Elizabeth Bishop.” On the other hand, excessive self-awareness can lead to overly confessional poems, which Bishop detested. Bishop found a balance between self-awareness and self-forgetfulness, which enables her to disclose her self through her observations subtly, as she once said:“…[Writing] is a question of using the poet’s proper materials, with which he’s equipped by nature, … —to express something not of them—something, I suppose, spiritual…”

Supplement: Gerard Manley Hopkins & Sprung Rhythm

To be honest, when reading “The Fish” for the first time, I know nothing about “sprung rhythm”, and didn’t pay much attention to its form nor meter. However, I did feel its rhythm and internal structure, and the power they generates.

Later I learnt that Hopkins is one of Bishop’s favourite poets, and he has a significant influence upon her style. Bishop discovered Hopkins at the age of thirteen, and during her years at Vassar College her fondness for Hopkins deepened, culminating in an essay about the poet. In her essay, she analyzed “sprung rhythm”, the irregular prosody developed by Hopkins. In sprung rhythm, the first syllable of a foot is stressed and may be followed by a variable number of unstressed syllables.

She then connect sprung rhythm with action, for verse based on sprung rhythm will have “an enormous increase in the variations possible for setting it up”, and therefore an increase in “action”, by which she seems to mean greater rhythmic variation and a corresponding surge of verbal energy.

In “The Fish”, we can find such rhythm at work.

I caught a tremendous fish

and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.

The initial line is iambic trimeter, but the remaining lines may best be scanned as sprung rhythm, especially ‘half out of water, with my hook’. Moreover, the adjacent stressed syllables across the line break is a device frequently used by Hopkins.

Though I don’t have the necessary knowledge and training to scan the meter independently, I am aware that some seemingly plain poems are actually embedded with careful formal considerations. And in order to obtain a thorougher understanding of the poem, the sensibility to form and meter is absolutely necessary.

References

informal references…
1. Conversations with Elizabeth Bishop, University Press of Mississippi, 1996
2. Elizabeth Bishop and Gerard Manley Hopkins
3. On “The Fish”

Frost: Neither Out Far Nor In Deep

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be—
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?

By Robert Frost

英语课上读到的一首诗。老师与我的理解正好相反,我感觉语气是肯定的,老师觉得是否定的。当然这只是两种简单的可能性,说实话在上课前我还真没想到第二种可能。

我个人还是比较喜欢这一首的。读得时候联想到很多。文本上,在海边的一种非现实图景,想到 L’Étranger, 以及最近在读的 Thomas l’obscur. 后者的开篇极其独特。

图像上,有一点想到 Magritte, 虽然与特定的作品无关,但那种“悬置”的感觉,以及背向的观察者,都有一些共鸣。
the-infinite-recognition-19631

更主要的是 Manet. 去年读过 Foucault 关于 Manet 的一本小册子,印象深刻。其中提到了画中人物视线的方向。比如说这幅 Gare Saint-Lazare

1257px-Edouard_Manet_-_Le_Chemin_de_fer_-_Google_Art_Project

啊真是太美了!

右边的小女孩朝着栏杆外望去(was that ever a bar?), 然而被雾气遮挡,我们并不能看见她在看什么,或者她能看见什么(they cannot look out far)

寻找这样的 connections 或者说 resonances 是最快乐的事情之一。

Wallace Stevens: Of Mere Being

Of Mere Being
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Of Mere Being 是我很喜欢的一首诗。这篇是我英语课的小论文,仅供参考。

Of Mere Being is one of Stevens’s most memorable poems and one of his last, written before entering hospital for surgery in April 1955 (Eleanor Cook).

There are mainly two images in the poem: the palm and the phoenix.

In regard of the ubiquity of palm in Stevens’s poems, Harold Bloom mentions that palm is also an image of Sufism: God used a lump of red clay left over after the making of Adam to make a palm tree. Therefore the palm is primal: it’s present even before the advent of human words and meaning. This resonates with the inhuman song of the bird in the second stanza. In addition, the scientific name of date palm is Phoenix dactylifera, thus there is an literal connection between palm and the phoenix.

The first stanza opens with: “The palm at the end of the mind”. “End” here may refers to the spatial end of mind, the limit of our thoughts. Or it can be the temporal end of mind at the end of life, as this is the last poem of Stevens. “Bronze decor” in the third line indicates the scene is at sunset, it also reminds one of the grandeurs of bronze sculptures. A palm tree rises in bronze decor, beyond the last thought. We feel the palm’s towering existence, and at the same time wonder what is this place at the end of mind, what is there beyond the last thought? The transcendental, the imaginal? And by what means can we get there?

“A gold-feathered bird, sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song”. These three lines strike me with their singular tone. This gold-feathered bird, the phoenix, is a fierce bird that burns itself at death and then rises anew from the ashes. At the end of the mind, it sings an foreign song, which makes it more mystical and solemn, reminding me of William Blake’s “The Tyger”. We also notice a further semblance between the tyger and the bird is that they are both bathed in fire.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Fearful as they are, their symmetry and inhuman songs propels us to question “who made thee, who formed thy symmetry”? That is to say, who is the creator the phoenix? Is it of human nature, as God? Then why is its song inhuman? Or can it be something beyond our comprehension, the mere being that eludes description, that constantly inspires awe and desire? A symbol of beauty, a symbol of the sublime?

After all, whether we understand the inhuman song of the phoenix and their mystical nature or not may actually be of little matter, for the third stanza reads: “You know then that it is not the reason / That makes us happy or unhappy.” This sentence is rather confusing to me, and can be interpreted in numerous ways. We could say that the song is not the reason that makes us happen or unhappy. It has no direct influence upon our emotions, but may have influenced us in more profound ways.

I tend to read these two lines differently, that what makes us happy or unhappy is not our making meaning of the songs, but the mere being of the song itself, as “The bird sings, its feathers shine”. That is to say, our perception of the bird moves us, yet through a subtle and inexpressible way. We cannot articulate its meaning, yet we can most certainly feel the power of its being, its sublimity.

This reminds me of reading Merleau-Ponty. I remember him saying that the perception of the world is difficult, and that we are often too eager to arrive at the meaning, the essence of things that we run past the appearances, which are thought to be superficial, but are actually very rich and illuminating. His examples are the paintings of Cézanne, and I think great paintings and poems share the same property that they cannot be “tamed”, nor to be reduced to a single meaning. We can feel the full power of their being only when we stay on the surface to explore its intricate topology, to behold the manifold possibilities of interpretation, together with its inherent ambiguities and paradoxes at the same time, instead of securing ourselves with some convenient “meanings”.

The last stanza goes back to the first, in a circular motion. We usually say “The branches move in the wind”, but here “The mind moves slowly in the branches” reverses the order of words and renders the palm’s being more self-sufficient. The last line reads: “The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down”. It seems a moment and an eternity, as the fire-fangled feathers dangle down in space. “Fire-fangled” comes from combining “fire-fang”(caught by fire) and “new-fangled”(new, but derisory). It creates a double meaning of “burned” and “inclined to take fire”, implying that the phoenix could be dying or rising from birth. One can simultaneously feel a sense of repose and motion here. These are the last words of a master, and a masterpiece by itself.

Now we look back at the title, and we can see that the word “mere”, apart from its common connotation of “simply, just”, can also mean “very, essential”. I think “Of Mere Being” is such a poem that can bring us one step closer to the “Mere Being”, and it’s one of my favourite poems of Stevens.

January First – Octavio Paz

The year’s doors open
like those of language,
toward the unknown.
Last night you told me:
                                        tomorrow
we shall have to think up signs,
sketch a landscape, fabricate a plan
on the double page
of day and paper.
Tomorrow, we shall have to invent,
once more,
the reality of this world.

I opened my eyes late.
For a second of a second
I felt what the Aztec felt,
on the crest of the promontory,
lying in wait
for the time’s uncertain return
through cracks in the horizon.

But no, the year had returned.
It filled all the room
and my look almost touched it.
Time, with no help from us,
had placed
in exactly the same order as yesterday
houses in the empty street,
snow on the houses,
silence on the snow.

You were beside me,
still asleep.
The day had invented you
but you hadn’t yet accepted
being invented by the day.
––Nor possibly by being invented, either.
You were in another day.

You were beside me
and I saw you, like the snow,
asleep among appearances.
Time, with no help from us,
invents houses, streets, trees
and sleeping women.

When you open your eyes
we’ll walk, once more,
among the hours and their inventions.
We’ll walk among appearances
and bear witness to time and its conjugations.
Perhaps we’ll open the day’s doors.
And then we shall enter the unknown.

Translated from the Spanish by Elizabeth Bishop with the author

读到这首诗很偶然。其实是三月在亚马逊买墨水(J.Herbin Perle Noire)的时候,为了免运费顺便买的。收到之后并没有立刻开始看,因为学校里在读的书也很多。昨天上课前突然想起,翻到了这首,非常喜欢。网上只有 Bishop 的译文,我个人更喜欢书里的 Weinberg 译文。不过差别并不大。