独家授权首译 □ 王鹫（外一首） [英]帕斯卡尔•葩蒂 殷晓媛译

“这是一场文学史上的盛大壮举——一系列璀璨夺目的诗章。

它们纷披着超现实光芒燃烧。”

——PBS Bulletin蒂姆•利阿德特&沃纳•格罗阿克

（评帕斯卡尔•葩蒂诗集《亚马逊丛林中的母亲》）

王鹫（外一首）

[英]帕斯卡尔•葩蒂

殷晓媛译

王鹫

它仿佛最初是从平流层

撕扯下来的一片天穹残片,

举目眺望那一隅

我将它称作“亡灵之域”

它的信使向我的方位滑翔而下

星津横缀的貂皮斗篷与黝黑翅翼舒展如巨扇

偶栖于一株木棉冠盖下

踟蹰飞檐之间

令我回想起往昔的所居

你曾说一阵狂风就能掀翻它的屋顶

屋内那些留归来世的家具——

和你横陈在桌面

那胎儿般蜷缩的骷髅骨架

王鹫啄穿它们

它们的喙部翻搅你的肝肠

它们的头颅为棱镜所着色

白色眼球笼罩彤红光晕

光芒之王者

一度以璀璨星斗为头冠

死亡的啮噬者

如今带来你血肉的块垒

最初腐臭难耐 而后芳香四溢

蝇虫嗡鸣着折返最初的蛹，蛆虫瑟缩回未孵之卵

当我嗅闻时 自你死后迂回不去的崩朽之气便涌入鼻息

谁又通晓灵性的移花接木之术

如今你了无生息之躯

竟渐渐温然生香

当日你的遗容朝向东升的旭日

你的亲人也从朔方杂沓而至

他们的泪雨攀升回眼眶

手绢自行折叠回他们的口袋

他们彼此拥抱 将你抬回小屋

拔除填塞于你心窝

与肠渠中的香草

一只逆向的画笔抹去庇佑我远离邪祟的

胭脂树红染料[1]

令我披上猩红的豹衣

外科医生们到来了，摩拳擦掌，戴着血污淋漓的白手套与绿色口罩

褪下你的衣物

弭合横跨你腹部的缝线

一把解剖刀删去它留下的切痕

碘酒的污渍从你皮肤上拂去

你宛如倒数着数字苏醒  当你数到1

麻醉师的针头弹出你手背上的套管

轮床滑回到走廊中

而镇静剂失去它的效力

现在你已回到病室中，精神病药物从你的血管

被吸回盐水瓶

毒剂倒涌入针管；药丸从你舌尾冒出

又飞回护士手心

你昔年的牙嵌回它们的牙床

经血重新来潮

皱纹肆意舒展开去

你的白发赭色重临

现在是最艰难的部分,

“亡灵之域”在头顶上空浮动

当你一帧帧被时光治愈

我逐渐返老还童

直到变成呱呱坠地的婴童

躺在你大腿的双垛之间,一条长藤

将我连向你的肚脐

当我发出第一声啼哭 猛吸一口空气

那木棉树在我身旁潸然倾泻满树火红花朵

我被一种力托起,托举回你子宫下沿

在那里我面朝东方 蜷成胚胎的姿态

王鹫们追踪我进入此间

有人用解剖刀切开了我的屋顶

我紧紧拉上眼帘 眼球缩回眼窝

然后它们便消失无踪

嘴唇合上并黏连一体

耳朵不再能听到你的心跳

只余下寂静孤悬

我已经一路返回到不能再远。我妊娠中的母亲

现在你必须履行你该做的：你曾经告诉我

精神病医生对你说的话：

你永远不该要孩子

你那时悲伤哽咽，而我在我那两用房间的客厅里

从捧着的黑色电话那头安慰着你

那些王鹫跟随我一生。某些夜晚我醒来

它们那群星般闪烁的头颅就高悬在我头顶

正如我躺进在你体内那一刻，我的五脏六腑在黑暗中煜煜生光

犹如一匣匣在劫难逃的珠宝

——选自诗集《亚马逊丛林中的母亲》（血斧出版社，2017）

附原文:

King Vultures

It starts as a fragment of sky

that detaches itself from the stratosphere,

something in my eye as I look up.

I call it the Land of the Dead,

its messenger gliding towards me,

star-ermine cape scalloped with black wings,

to land at the foot of the kapok tree

between buttresses

that remind me of the house we lived in once –

you said a gale had ripped off its roof.

Furniture inside for the afterlife –

and you laid out on the table,

as keleton curled like a foetus

that the king vultures pierce,

their beaks inside your bowel,

their heads painted with prisms,

their white eyes haloed with red.

Kings of light

who once wore the constellations as headdresses,

death eaters

now bringing up lumps of your flesh,

putrid at first, then sweet.

Flies buzz back to their pupas, maggots shrink into eggs.

If I sniff I can smell the stink that’s followed me ever since you died.

Who knows what the mind can do

but here your corpse

is becoming fragrant,

your face pointed east where the sun rises

as our family arrives,

their tears flowing up, back into their eyes,

their tissues folded into pockets.

They hug each other then carry you

into the hut, remove the herbs

packed in your heart, your intestines.

A brush paints backwards, removing the annatto dye

that’s protected me against your ghost,

dressing me in red jaguar clothes.

Now the surgeons arrive, scrub their hands, peel on stained

white gloves and green masks

and unpick the stitches across your abdomen,

a scalpel erases its cut,

iodine is wiped off your skin.

You wake as you are counting backwards. When you get to one,

the anaesthetist’s needle pops out of the cannula on your hand

and as the gurney is wheeled down corridors

these dative wears off.

Now you’re back in the ward, anti-psychotics

sucked out of your blood into the saline drip.

Poisons rush up syringes; pills appear on your tongue

and fly back into nurses’ hands.

Your teeth plant themselves in your gums

and you menstruate.

Wrinkles smooth themselves out

as your hair grows auburn.

Here comes the hard part, the Land of the Dead

floating just above my head

because all along as you’ve been healing

I’ve been getting smaller until

I’m a newborn, resting against

the buttress of your thigh, a liana

linking me to you from my navel.

The kapok tree drops a shower of red blooms around me

as I cry out and take a sharp breath.

I’m lifted up, lowered into the ledge of your womb

where Isettle in a foetal position facing east.

The king vultures have followed me in

and someone is zipping up my roof with a scalpel.

I squeeze my eyelids shut and my eyes sink into their sockets

then vanish.

My lips close and fuse.

My ears no longer hear your heart.

Silence.

I’ve gone back as far as I can. You must do the work now

my pregnant mother, you who once told me

what your psychiatrist said – that

you should never have had children.

You were crying at the time and I consoled you

in the hall of my bedsit, cradling the black phone.

The vultures stayed with me all my life. I wake some nights

and their starry heads are above me, as they were

when Ilay inside you, my organs shining in the dark

like caskets of jewels to be plundered.

Pascale Petit from Mama Amazonica (Bloodaxe, 2017)

电影：The Curious Case of Benjamin Button（剧照）

蜂鸟私语者

让这场打开我母亲身体的手术

比蜂鸟私语者的手势来得轻柔

让他拉起她腹部的外墙

寻到那些未被手术刀切割的璞玉浑金

让他以昵称命名它们中的每一部分：

他的hummers（英语）、他的oiseaux mouches（法语）

他的beija-flores（葡萄牙语）和colibris（拉丁语）[1]，

以及他早已束之高阁的爱称“hooded visorbearer”[2]

让他以水晶的仪器校正它们

将滴管顺着每一只的喉咙放下

探测它们的胃部是否丰盈

是否贮满细小的昆虫与蜘蛛卵

与举世罕见的奇异兰花所酿的花蜜

让他安抚它们，当它们如漆的明眸

转向并凝视他。让它们温静从容

他好剥开她们的裙摆 测量它们的翅膀

从羽尖上拭去血污

让他清洁它们的饰领与胸部

它们将绚然如新 生机焕发

让母亲的森林精灵与空气精灵

隐士与印加人，蓝宝石

她红宝石与黄晶质地的幼蚊

重新练习飞翔 就在当场

——前进、后退, 在它们丝质的小隔间中

盘旋和亢奋着

让它们可溶的束身衣

在设定的时间脱落。让这个男人

再扣合上我母亲的身体

确定每支飞羽完好无缺

将她放归康复室 平安落地

——选自诗集《亚马逊丛林中的母亲》（血斧出版社，2017）

译者注：

[1]hummers、oiseaux mouches、beija-flores、colibris是蜂鸟在各语种中的名/别称。

[2]hooded visorbearer：拉丁文Colibri Lumachelle，蜂鸟的一种。

附原文：

The Hummingbird Whisperer

Let the surgeon who opens my mother

be tender as a hummingbird whisperer.

Let him pull back the walls of her abdomen

and see uncut jewels under his knife.

Let him have a pet name for each part –

his hummers, oiseaux mouches,

his beija-flores,colibris, his almost

extinct hooded visorbearer.

Let him handle them with crystal instruments,

easing droppers down each throat

to check their stomach contents are rich

in micro insects and spider eggs,

the nectar of never-before-seen orchids.

Let him soothe them as their black eyes

turn to watch him. Let them be so calm he can

unwrap their dressings to measure their wings

and wipe blood from their feathers.

Let him clean each gorget and crest

so the colours shine with health.

Let mymother’s dryads and sylphs,

hermits and Incas, her sapphires,

herruby-topaz moustiques,

practise flying again – forwards, backwards,

on the spot, hovering and hyperactive

to the last in their silk compartments.

Let their dissolvable strait jackets

drop off at the appointed time. Let

the man who closes my mother’s body

checkthat each flight feather is intact

and return her to the recovery room to land safely.

Pascale Petit from Mama Amazonica (Bloodaxe, 2017)

本作品由作者独家授权、殷晓媛首译，未经本公众号书面同意，原文/译文不得转载或以任何形式使用。作者及译者保留追究法律责任的权利。