致他失去的情人Simon Armitage

致他失去的情人

Simon Armitage/ 刘荷辉 译

现在他们不再

互相麻烦

他可以把事情回顾，将它们列成清单

从未发生的事情，所有失去的

不可挽回的生意。

例如......例如，

他怎么也没有帮她修剪过和保存头发，也没碰过发刷

通过她的那种风格，从来不知道如何不脸红

在密切关注她的名字的秋天。

他们怎么从不像埋没的餐具一样睡觉 -

两把勺子或叉子完美地叠在一起，

或充分利用一些恶劣的天气 -

在闪电下走进烈雨，

或者在另一个驾驶时做了齿轮。

他从未如何提起指尖

阻止她的嘴唇

从突发新闻，

或品尝水果

或者为自己挑选她心中的梨，

或者把她的手举到自己的心脏

是一只小而黑暗，害怕的鸟

在她的抓力。那里受伤

或者说正确的话，

或者写出。

并且从未逃离黑色英里回到他家

在午夜之前，或者哄她衬衫的另一个按钮，

那么另一个，

或者认识她

最喜欢的颜色，

她的味道，她的味道，

从不洗澡或为她擦毛巾，

或为她涂抹肥皂，或编织她的头发

进入冰淇淋短号或蜂箱

泡沫，或行为不当，或行为不端

当他可能有，或工作梳子

没有梳子的地方，或者走回家

通过黑色的一英里拥抱一颗刺破的心脏，

在哪里受伤，在哪里受伤，或帮助她的手

他的蝴蝶心

在它的两个蓝色的一半。

从来没有哭过，

从来没有描述过

心脏的攻击，

或者在真丝衬衫下面

他的手托着她的乳房，

她的左边，像一滴情欲

心里哭泣，

在哪里疼，

或者用拇指刷上乳头的螺母，

或者从肚脐里喝下令人陶醉的酒。

或以她的名字命名为极星，

或屏蔽她脸上的面具像火焰一样，

指示灯，

或者过夜，

或者把她引回到他那个房子里，

或者说“不要问我是怎么回事

我喜欢你。

我可能会做。“

他怎么没想出防火计划，

或解开她的手，好像她的手

是一个坚实的球

银箔

并发现了一条隐藏在其中的生命线，

并测量了他自己的痕迹。

但说了一些事情并且从未意味着他们 -

任何人都可以提到的甜言蜜语。

并且没有说出他应该说的一些话，

关于心脏，它在哪里受到严重伤害，以及多久一次。

Simon Armitage，来自The Book of Matches（Faber，1993）

To His Lost Lover

Now they are no longer

any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list

of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.

For instance… for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush

through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.

How they never slept like buried cutlery –

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,

or made the most of some heavy weather –

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,

or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips

to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,

or tasted the fruit

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,

or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird

in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,

or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house

before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,

then another,

or knew her

favourite colour,

her taste, her flavour,

and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,

or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair

into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive

of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved

whenhe might have, or worked a comb

where no comb had been, or walked back home

through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,

where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand

to his butterfly heart

in its two blue halves.

And never almost cried,

and never once described

an attack of the heart,

or under a silk shirt

nursed in his hand her breast,

her left, like a tear of flesh

wept by the heart,

where it hurts,

or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,

or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.

Or christened the Pole Star in her name,

or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,

a pilot light,

or stayed the night,

or steered her back to that house of his,

or said “Don’t ask me how it is

I like you.

I just might do.”

How he never figured out a fireproof plan,

or unravelled her hand, as if her hand

were a solid ball

of silver foil

and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,

and measured the trace of his own alongside it.

But said some things and never meant them –

sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.

And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,

about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

Simon Armitage, from The Book of Matches (Faber, 1993)