独白

【美】克拉克·库利奇　陈子弘 译

我说过什么？我说过什么？
我可以告诉你发生了什么。它
意味着什么，但不是全部。是有点多。
有点多不代表很多。这取决于
我可不可以忍受。我记不得了。
有什么好处呢。没人……上次我……
这里当然没人。一个也没有。
许多都没有了，溜走了，散了，过去了，
消失了，并不坏。必定如此。他们告诉你
事情，但你记不住。
如果他们愿意，有些事会告诉你，
但那不会持久。徘徊。徘徊
并非完全停下来。停留什么？我无法
想明白。我可以试着记住
想好要告诉你什么，如此留在这里
就不会那么难。不会。

这儿有证据。有人把它冒充成
一把黑色重锤。过关了。一个
稍纵即逝的念头，随着时间也许会。但用
一种威慑来开启这个问题。像我这样。
我绝不会对今天在此明天又发生的事
妄加评判。你喜欢它，它就拥有你。
微笑。谈论。看看有线电视是否
都合适。加入带来很多安慰。
你看到他们如此而他们也让你等着。
他们是白边，边缘，擦到一点关键的
毫厘。我想把一些东西放在身边。
为迟来的月份准备点什么。太阳
发出万丈光芒，普照的时刻。他们无法
都习得并吸收。甚至麦子也一样。
一行又一行。夹在中间，时不时
又一种压力。月亮不会
被驯。我们不是为了娱乐而处事。
我们应该独处，我肯定也会这么说。

夜晚。这个地方一直开敞。
封闭的空间全都散落在铲子上。
书籍，壁炉架留下的空位，或者飞蛾。
让我们用一个概念并以此构建。
如果你有记忆。你可以毫无压力运用任何东西，
无需决定。那种相似性。
保龄球瓶在聚光灯黄色的光晕中倒下。
我当时告诉他，我说没有
安排的人必须站在雨中。不受
玷污。现在粘稠物开始从电池
渗出，最后一束光束打向左上方。那个不值
一提的念头脚离开了鞋，就是
离开了。在这散步时光最后的微光中
假装感觉还不错。要求那微不足道的
事情要清楚讲出来。

得在地下室最字典的地方弯腰。
有可能在皮奥里亚附近失语吗？
颤抖。夜葡萄干，狗儿带来我和停车
标志。摆脱这些词语，不指望看到它们
无计划地变稀薄病到位。一个声音
不会将它的结局梯级化。停止演戏，
停止音量，又惊又怒。母亲，那个
儿童节奏的母亲，日落的标志不要进入其中。
踏板踩到气喘吁吁。我住在这月亮附近
的屋里。

一场宽阔干燥沉闷的冬天，云层
压低。我一直无法看到它。
我不得不离开。去结清账单。
站在小山上直到沙子翻新。
我不知道。我做着几乎完结的事。
在街角空地没有期待。他们都
下来了，饱足其中。然后光线像液体般
在画面中闪烁。词语像排成行的图钉。
你取下它们，放好。这很显然。
没哪个蠢猪能招架得住。我只是有点享受，
稍取了些许。站在地平线之前。
站在太阳下。灯光下这一瞬。我本可以
早就搞好这一切，但我
却力有不逮。

它带我进入陌生的世界，
每次我起个过门，惯常的过门。
超越意图，多于我所想，超越
我不得不说的话，但从不是我本意
想要的。世界再次向我袭来。
我稍微一动，这把椅子就吱吱作响。
我从没想过它需要修一下。
我想等待。我暗自思量。
我想忽略掉但我从未想过。
当你想要说它时，你最好认真点，不会
有同样的结果。放过无恙。
放过失败。

一个没有彩带飘扬的世界，你说你
这么想？一点也没有。窗台上
一只剑龙，黄铜，晨光，收拢。我走
下走廊然后回头，我的思绪不会
攥住我。我得从头开始重新
打量我自己。我得在想象中
建造巨大的砂石走廊然后
推平它们。半明半暗，晚间的
风暴，意料之中的生硬中断。
我会让你看到那是什么样子，我半带犹豫
不想这么做。我有我的骄傲，我有
我的眼睛，你最先注意到的，其实最后
一个才消逝。它就在那里，白昼胜迹在窗框内
沿地平线径直奔去。而夜晚野蛮人，
恰当的约定，奔跑红宝石车灯。

其实这无关乎这只杯子是否叠加在
另一个杯子上。实际上，这是一个
拘束的问题。刺耳的喇叭一声炸响。
我的椅子。拘束是一种不假思索
就知道东西该押往何处的直觉。
那东西从你手中飞入它们的处所。
一切都那么对。你无需多想
任何人怎么定，尽管曾是你妻子做的。
毫无疑问。物品被带入归处时的
静默。你，一操盘手。然后你伸展
双臂，尽可能伸展，再没有什么
需要触碰。对啊。
炉子上那是什么？如此静默
而你错过了那份乐趣。

地下有钻石。我
想着它们。然后我飞起来。
我伸出手，那里什么都没有。
惊奇。成为缺席的操盘手。

你很坚实，全无立足之地。
没雾。无思绪。女主人在哪里？
床垫？渴望的或多或少的简而
言之？全都沉下去了，完蛋了。
未见削弱的管制还在扩大没有暴跌。
但没有暴跌，我们在哪里？
今天天气很好。止血带。架子。银汞齐。

如果你能搬走，我会过得更好。
我们可以分享。药膏在窗台上。
这些是我的椅子。带靠背的那些。
还有榆树，不用管它们，窗户
是够的。你坐在窗边。把手放在我
希望放的地方。我也待你如斯。那些
陈年思绪，同样也很宁静。我像
你能由着我那样能干。我像你一样稳定。
桌子底下有橘子。那些日子我们从不
吃东西。我们共有的一种恐惧。
低声细语。不如说是尖叫。那些
阿拉伯部落呢？棉花软糖账单呢？
平板配重？如果我把这些
都写下来会如何？它会花费我什么？
你会如何待我？那些橄榄
从管子里滚下来，又掉进火里。
你想要一张那损毁的牛车照片。
我记了太多东西。你也是。
我们沿着墙壁，各种杂物，床铺着手。
我们被耗尽。

一个人有所需。我厌恶那些东西，
把你内心搅得四分五裂，寒如冬日。
我不想要这里的人了，那些人，
那些朋友。让他们在自己的枝桠上
飞过吧。我的意思是
被囚禁。这篇文字被封存在石灰井里。
有一件神秘事体必须要保存。
我必须活着去听那些话。我将沉默。

译注：
1.克拉克·库利奇（也译为柯立芝）的《独白》是一首充满挑战性、内容密集且深刻内省的诗作，它拒绝被轻易归类或赋予单一、确定的解读。这首诗体现了语言诗派的许多特征，而库利奇正是该运动的重要推动者。这意味着诗作往往更注重语言的声音与质感、其内在特性以及语言展开的过程，而非清晰的叙事或明确的含义。这篇“独白”更像是与自身思想、记忆以及表达行为的内在搏斗，而非与外部听众的对话。作者往往通过语言的解构和意象的并置，探索存在、记忆、情感和孤独等主题。读者需要通过自己的经验和想象力来理解和感受诗歌的意义。
2.月亮不会被驯，原文为The moon will not train，此处月亮的train这个动作用了与前面a sort of strain的strain发音和拼写的相似性，译者认为作者运用了英文诗中的音韵关联和语义转化，引导或暗示意义上的联系或反差，从而挑战读者习惯性的线性阅读和意义建构。中文读者可能无法直接感受到strain和train之间的音韵关联，译者此处在译文中使用了“被驯”变相与train的一般含义训练的训来对等这种音韵关联和语义转化。
3.有可能在皮奥里亚附近失语吗？原文Possible to have it be aporia near Peoria?在美式英语中Peoria常被用来指代平凡乏味的美国中西部小镇，这是一个真实存在的美国城市，位于伊利诺伊州。这一句充满了音韵游戏、地理位置的特定指代、以及哲学概念的并置。Aporia (失语/困境)又与Peoria (皮奥里亚)发音近似。这一句也暗示了深层矛盾或言语困境可能渗透到最日常、最平凡的生活中，或者说，即使在最普通的地方，也可能遭遇无法言喻的死胡同。
4.女主人，原文为mistress，该词有多个义项，在当代英语的解释中还有权威、有掌控力及高手女人的意思，至于有情妇含义的解释在正式表达上已显过时了。当然，作者此处选这个词实际上是玩了个语音梗，该词与同一行开头的Misless读音相似。
5.银汞齐，原文amalgam，指汞与其他金属形成的合金，以前牙科填充材料常用到银汞齐，锡汞齐曾被用于镜子镀银。原文仅指汞合金，为了声音效果译者选用了银汞齐。
6.平板配重（weighted planks）是指用于增加平板支撑（plank）练习的强度，通过增加额外的重量来提高训练的难度和强度的一种健身器材，分别可能用配重背心或配重片或沙袋哑铃来实现。

诗人简介：克拉克·库利奇（Clark Coolidge，1939年2月26日—）是美国实验诗人与爵士乐手，生于罗德岛普罗维登斯。他与语言诗派和纽约学派关系密切，诗作以探索语言的音韵、句法与节奏著称，强调词语的“硬度、密度、音形、向量力与透明/不透明度”。其作品常融入对洞穴、地质、爵士乐、凯鲁亚克等多元主题的兴趣，展现语言的音乐性与非传统意义。库利奇出版了五十余部诗集，包括《Flag Flutter & U.S. Electric》（1966）、《The Crystal Text》（1986）与《To the Cold Heart》（2021）。他曾为KPFA电台制作实验音频节目，并与菲利普·古斯顿等艺术家合作。他现居加州佩塔卢马，持续以其独特的语言实验影响美国先锋诗歌。

CLARK COOLIDGE

A Monologue

What did I say? What did I say?
I could tell you what’s going on. What it
means but not all of it. Just a lot.
A lot doesn’t mean much. It’s whatever
I can stand or not. I can’t remember.
What’s the good of it. Nobody...The last time I...
There’s nobody here of course. Not a bit of it.
Lots of it went away, by, came loose, went past,
gone away, not bad. Necessarily. They tell you
things but you don’t remember them.
There’s something they could tell you if they would
but it wouldn’t stand. Lingering. To linger
is not to stay exactly. Stay what? I can’t
think what exactly. I could try to remember
to think of what to tell you and then it wouldn’t
be so hard to stay here. Without.

There’s the evidence. It was passed off by
somebody as a black maul. Passed. A passing
fancy that in time may. But open
the question with a deterrent. Like me.
I'd never pass judgement on the here today done
again tomorrow. You like it and it has you.
Smile. Talk about. See to it that the cables
all appropriate. Joining in takes a lot of solace.
You see them about it and they tell you to wait too.
They’re a margin, marginal, tangent to the main
ounce. I'd like to put something by me.
Something for a late month. The time the sun
turned out a ton all broadcast. They couldn’t
all find out to take in. Not even the wheat.
Rows and rows. Sandwiched between and now
and again a sort of strain. The moon will
not train. We’re not solved to entertain.
We’re to keep to ourselves and I'd say so surely too.

Night. It’s always open in this place.
Closed in spaces all up in a shovel scatter.
Books, the andirons left a space for, or moths.
Let’s have a notion and build from there.
You'd carry anything with little strain, less decision,
if you had the memory. The likeness.
Duckpins blow over in yellow pools of torch.
And I told him then, I said the man without
assignment must stand in the rain. Without
spoil. Now the tar gets to leak from the
battery last beam up to the left. The notion
that’s not worth its shoe leaves its slots for
departures. Nice to pretend in this last
light out the walking hour. Demand of the
little import it be stated.

Got to bend in the basement most dictionary place.
Possible to have it be aporia near Peoria?
A quiver. Night raisin the dogs bring me and stop
signs. Get rid of these words and not hoping see
them thin into place without plan. A voice
does not terrace its ends. Stop theater,
ceasing volume, raging stun. The mother, the mother
of the child rhyme, sunset sign not enter into it.
Pedal out of breath. I live near this moon
by the house.

A broad dry thudding winter with the clouds
cladding down. I haven’t been able to see it.
I’ve had to make away. To settle up the bill.
To stand in a hill until the sands remake.
I don’t know. I do what’s nearly already made.
No expectations on a corner lot. They’ve all
come down, sated among. Then the light’s fluid
flashes in the frame. Words like brads lined up.
You take them down, settle them. Apparent, this.
No mug would parry. I half way enjoy it,
take a scad or two. Before the horizon.
Before the sun. In a lamp’s nick. I could
have made it all up before but I had the
miles on dwindling.

It leads me into a world of strangeness,
everytime I open a lick, a statutory lick.
Beyond intent, more than I thought, beyond
what I had to say, but never what I meant
to have. The world came around on me again.
This chair squeaks, when I move only slightly.
I hadn’t thought it to be in need of a touch.
I thought to wait. I thought to myself.
I thought to pass but I never thought it.
When you think to say it you better mean it, none of
this turning out the same. Passing all right.
Passing failure.

A world all out of streamers, you say you
think? None of it. A stegosaurus on a
windowsill, brass, morning sun, collected. I walk
down the hall and turn back, my thought won’t
hold me. I’d have to measure myself back
from the first one. I’d have to erect
great sand corridors in imagination and
turn them down. Half-light, storms in
the evening, expectable stiff interruptions.
I'll show you what it’s like, half-hoping I
won’t have to. I have my pride, I have
my eyes, the first thing you notice, the last
one to go. There it stands, the monument
to daylight, heading straight along the horizon in
the window frame. And at night savages,
fitting appointments, ruby running lights.

Actually it’s not a matter of the cup’s being on top
of the other cup. Actually it’s a matter of
the putting away. An awful horn went off.
My chair. The putting away is a matter of
knowing without thinking where things go.
The things fly from your hands into their slots.
It’s so right. You don’t have to think of
anyone deciding, though it’s your wife did once.
No doubt. Stillness of things entering their
places. You, an agent. And then you stretch
out your arms to as far as they go and nothing
more needs a touch. It’s right.
What’s that on the stove? And so still
you miss the pleasure.

There are diamonds under the ground. I
think about them. Then I go flying.
I reach out my hands and there’s nothing there.
Wonder. To be the agent of absence.

You're solid, of absolutely no standing at all.
Mistless. Thoughtless. Where is the mistress?
The mattress? The longings and more or less
the short of it? All gone down and out over.
Diminishless widening thrall without the plummet.
But without the plummet where are we?
Nice today. Tourniquet. Shelf. Amalgam.

I could live better if you would move over.
We could share. The ointment is on the ledge.
These are my chairs. The ones with the seat back.
And the elms, no caring for them, the windows
enough. You sit by one. Put your hands where
I wish. Do the same to you. Thoughts of
a vintage, a quietness same. I am as
able as you’d give me leave. I am as stable.
There are oranges under the table. We never
ate in those days. We shared a common fear.
Muttering. Rather the screams. What about
the Arab tribes? The marshmallow bill?
The weighted planks? What if I wrote
this all out? What would it take me?
How would you take me? The olives
that rolled down the tube and plunged into the fire.
The oxcart wreck you wanted a picture of.
I remember too much. And you too.
We start out along the walls, the stuff, the beds.
We are consumed.

A man needs. I hate that stuff,
it screws your mind four ways from winter.
I don’t want the people here, the persons,
the friends. Let them make their fly-bys
out on their limbs. I mean to be
incarcerated. This writing sealed in limedwell.
There is a mystery that must be preserved.
I must live to hear the words. I will not speak.

                      from O.blek