■空白

当我来到我母亲的房子

在她过世后的第二天

那里已经变成了

带有未解之谜的博物馆

从公共图书馆借阅的书

还有两周时间到期

吃了一半的千层面

剩在冰箱里。一支香烟

尚未燃尽。还有一口

唇印红酒在椅子旁边的

酒杯里。最后

一支蓝色比克笔

在周日的填字游戏中

经过多次失败后

写满了横竖空格

它看起来有点沾沾自喜

终于赢得了一次胜利。

Blank

by George Bilgere

When I came to my mother’s house

the day after she had died

it was already a museum of her

unfinished gestures. The mysteries

from the public library, due

in two weeks. The half-eaten square

of lasagna in the fridge.

The half-burned wreckage

of her last cigarette,

and one red swallow

of wine in a lipsticked

glass beside her chair.

Finally, a blue Bic

on a couple of downs

and acrosses left blank

in the Sunday crossword,

which actually had the audacity

to look a little smug

at having, for once, won.

■第一对乳房

我遇到它

在1969年夏天。

晚上10点左右。

我和一个女孩

坐在费尔蒙公园长椅上，

月光下。

我觉得情况很有利，

我们都17岁了，

已经接吻快一个月。

一切都在向目标推进。

此外，夜晚温暖，

弥漫着紫丁香的气味。

凭一己之力

我单手破解了

胸罩上的盲文。地球上，

一切寂静无声。一股

巨大的热量进入我的手掌。

一切显得如此托勒密。

一个星期后，

有人将登陆月球。

他们在那光影柔和的地面上

蹦蹦跳跳地走了一会儿，

然后离开了。

但一切都不一样了。

The First Breast

by George Bilgere

I encountered it

in the summer of 1969.

Probably around 10 at night.

This girl and I

were on a bench at Fairmont Park

under the moon.

I felt the conditions were propitious

in that we were both 17

and we had been kissing our way toward this

for about a month.

Furthermore, the night was warm

and smelled of lilacs.

Singlehandedly

I cracked the Braille

of her bra. On Earth

it was perfectly quiet.

Into my palm

came the great hot weight.

It was all so Ptolemaic.

In a week

some men would set down

on the moon.

They clomped around for awhile

on the pale softness,

and left.

But things would never be the same.

■艾克

他们提及艾森豪威尔的方式

让我开始注意到

邻桌的两个老家伙。

我父亲就是这么称呼的，

他已经40年没说一句话了。

很高兴知道这个词

还在流传，就像

一枚稀有硬币的初版。

我父亲说艾克，

就像他正在为夜间的炎热

原汁原味地勾勒出乐曲的质感。

像蝉鸣、蟋蟀声，

或纸牌忽响忽落的飞舞声

在某家电视台里播放着。

这是上世纪中叶

圣路易斯装有纱帘的门廊内

不可或缺的声音。

艾克，

他笑着说，笑声中透露出

他很了解这个人并且喜欢他。

艾克，一个剪裁整齐的轻快音节，

整个时代被压缩其中，

像一颗恒星的内核密度惊人，

像卡西迪牛仔

眨眼示意那样自由和友好

像一艘平静的龙骨船

驶过五十年代，

完美地避开了海藻和藤壶。

那种带有轻佻意味的微弱颤音，

无疑将为每一个

政客的名字增添光彩。

我母亲说黑鬼

也一样流利，尽管

女佣在场时从来不说。

她说得那么娴熟，

带着一种对历史内涵

轻松领悟的随意

就像艾克一样，这个词

你也已经很少听到了。

译注：艾克，为美国第34任总统德怀特·戴维·艾森豪威尔的昵称。

Ike

by George Bilgere

It’s the way they say Eisenhower

That makes me tune in

To the two old guys at the next table.

That’s how my father said it,

And he hasn’t said a word in forty years.

So it’s good to know the word

Is still in circulation, like a rare coin,

A first edition.

My father said Ike

As ifhe were nailing down

The precise, original texture ofa hot night

In mid-century St. Louis, the sound

As essential to evenings out

On the screened-in porch

As cicadas, crickets, or the Cards

Ebbing and flowing on somebody’s radio.

Ike,

He said, with a knowing chuckle

That made it perfectly clear

He knew the man intimately, and liked him.

Ike: a sharp, crew-cut syllable

In which an entire era was compressed

With the terrific density ofa star’s core,

A sound as open and friendly

As Hopalong Cassidy’s wink, a clean keel

Cutting through the fifties, beautifully free

Of the seaweed and barnacles, the faint,

Ironic frisson that would come

To round out the name

Of every politician. My mother

Could say nigger

Just as fluently, though never

When the maid was around. She said it

Like she meant it, with an ease

And casual mastery

That embraced an entire history.

Like Ike, it’s a word

You don’t hear much anymore.

■皇家牌

邓肯皇家悠悠球，

六十年代早期的五毛店

和超市玩具区均有售，可以买到四种颜色。

红色。黄色。蓝色。我想大概还有绿色。

面饰浮雕图案是一朵精美的法国百合花。

真是一个适合女王的悠悠球！

与之前的溜溜球不同，它配备了不锈钢轴！

以前的溜溜球全都木制轴心，

高摩擦系数使得像 “睡觉”

和 “遛狗” 这样的花招，几乎无法实现。

那些五十年代的溜溜球仅仅能溜溜球而已！

然后，史普特尼克出现了，特氟龙也来了。

然后，在某个地方，一位英俊的新总统

在其中扮演了某种角色——

女士们，先生们，

我向你们介绍悠悠球，皇家牌！

可塑又完美，可爱又结实，

口袋大小，一个掌中宝，一美元一个。

就这样，我们进入了太空时代，狗和人

遨游太空，但我的父母离婚了，

像旋转体一样各自在轨道上远去。

我的父亲因醉酒而失重摇晃。

青春期悄悄来临，痘子冒了出来。

古巴导弹指向我们，

用它的小脑袋指着，瞧：就这样！

大工厂开始生产悠悠球，邓肯皇家牌悠悠球，

为了美国那些迷失的十岁孩子们。

在接下来的一整年或两年里，

我们漫步于绿色的中西部大街，在榆树

和原子弹的阴影下。我们的妈妈

抽着骆驼烟，因焦虑

而成了不安的辐射体。

我们的总统纹丝不动，死在了

米罗华电子公司生产的电视机上。

没有什么可以保护我们，没有什么可以依靠，

可以抓住的只有一个巴掌大小的红色

或金色的不锈钢轴的神器般的

美丽铸造的邓肯皇家悠悠球，

用我们的小手神奇地旋转着，

去做爬行者。

飞碟，飞越瀑布。

摇篮。

幼犬训练。

环游世界。

分裂原子。

射击

月球。

Imperial

by George Bilgere

The Duncan Imperial Yo-Yo,

available in the toy aisles of five & dimes

and supermarkets of the early sixties in perhaps four colors.

Red. Yellow. Blue, I think. And green.

An elegant fleur-de-lis embossed on the face.

A yo-yo fit for a queen!

Unlike previous yo-yos it had a stainless steel axle!

Previous yo-yos sufiered from wooden axles,

high friction coefficients making tricks like “sleeping”

or “walking the dog” damn near impossible.

All those fifties-era yo-yos could do was yo-yo!

Then along came Sputnik, maybe Teflon

was in there somewhere, a handsome new president—

and ladies and gentlemen, I give you

the Imperial!

Plastic and perfect. Solid and sweet.

Palm-sized, pocket-sized, one dollar, one yo-yo.

Thus we entered the Space Age, dogs and men

in orbit, my parents divorced and spinning off,

my father weightless in booze. Puberty rising

like a zit, Cuban missiles pointing

their little heads at us, and voila!

The great factories began to extrude

yo-yos, Duncan Imperials

for the lost ten-year-olds of America,

and for a whole year or two we walked

the green Midwestern avenues in the shadow

of elm trees and the Bomb, as our moms smoked

Camels and turned radioactive, the grainy president

died on the Magnavox,

and nothing to protect us, nothing to hold onto,

but a palm-sized red or gold-colored, stainless steel-axled,

talismanic and gorgeously extruded

Duncan Imperial Yo-Yo,

spinning magically from our small hands

 to do

 The Creeper.

 The Flying Saucer. Over the Falls.

Rock the Cradle and Loop

 de Loop.

Round the World.

 Split The Atom.

 Shoot

the Moon.

■天气

我的父亲经常把我举起来

到天花板上

用他那双大手，然后问，

上面的天气怎么样？

天气很好，那感觉真好，

被他揽在手心。他的笑脸

从下方世界升起。他的呼吸

夹着苏格兰威士忌和香烟的气息。

当他站在尘世时，

我哼唱着摇篮曲回敬他，

哦，爸爸，我那伟岸的

白衬衫父亲下班回家了，

他的金手表和婚戒

熠熠闪光。他把我高高

举在他头顶，尽他所能，

在他的力量衰竭之前。

今晚

我发现自己站在这个尘世，

我的小男孩在我手中被举起，

在天花板下翱翔，

他睁大双眼，目光已投向远方。

有个男人在发问，一次次问他，

那里的天气怎么样？

Weather

by George Bilgere

My father would lift me

to the ceiling in his big hands

and ask, How’s the weather up there?

And it was good, the weather

of being in his hands, his breath

of scotch and cigarettes, his face

smiling from the world below.

O daddy, was the lullaby I sang

back down to him as he stood on earth,

my great, white-shirted father, home

from work, his gold wristwatch

and wedding band gleaming

as he held me above him

for as long as he could,

before his strength failed

down there in the world I find myself

standing in tonight, my little boy

looking down from his flight

below the ceiling, cradled in my hands,

his eyes wide and already staring

into the distance beyond the man

asking him again and again,

How’s the weather up there?

■午夜时分

喝完最后一杯威士忌后，

我的父亲便会起身，

满头大汗，从壁炉前的靠背椅上，

摸索着走向书房墙壁，

那里悬挂着我们家

珍视的正宗布谷鸟钟

宛若稀世珍宝，

它装在一个箱子里，

从被轰炸的德国运来，终于安了家。

我那疯疯癫癫的姑妈坚信

一个身穿纳粹军装的男人

定有某种过人之处，

于是把这钟从半个地球之外带到了这里。

布谷鸟蜷缩在它的小门后面。

我的父亲，这位巨大齿轮的操纵工，

拉起铁链

和链子上挂着的铁质钟摆，

然后走上楼梯
进入黑暗中，

我母亲就静卧在那里。

Midnight

by George Bilgere

Bald head sweating

with his last whiskey,

my father would rise

from his wing chair

before the fire

and navigate his way

to the study wall

where our prized

authentic cuckoo clock

hung like a rare head

at the end of its voyage

from bombed-out Germany in

 a box my mad aunt,

who believed there was

something about a man

in a Nazi uniform,

had lugged halfway

around the world.

The cuckoo cowered

behind its little door.

My father, huge

winder of tiny gears,

pulled the chains

with their iron fruit,

then headed up the stairs

into the darkness

where my mother lay.

■锻造

我还记得看着父亲如何在车道上停下来，

因为我的三轮车

挡了他去车库的路

以及他是怎么解决这个问题的。

他抓住手把拉起三轮车，

把它砸向我们最新款的

家用旅行车的挡风玻璃，

他的脸因苏格兰威士忌而红扑扑的，

他的黑色领带和夹克

也在努力拍打着三轮车。

随着一次次砸下和安全玻璃的软化，

三轮车向着车厢内部越推越深。

三轮车和挡风玻璃的坚韧性

值得称赞，它们之间的斗争

显得非常有意义——在正午时分，

在我们安静的郊区街道上，

挡风玻璃是铁砧，三轮车

是锤子，婚姻是熔炉，失败

在炎热中闪耀，经过锤炼，慢慢成形。

The Forge

by George Bilgere

I remember watching my father stop

halfway up the driveway because my tricycle

was blocking the way to the garage,

and how he solved the problem

by picking up the tricycle by the handlebars

and smashing it through the windshield

of our brand new family station wagon,

his face red with scotch, his black tie

and jacket flapping with effort, the tricycle

making its way a little farther with each blow

into the roomy interior of the latest model

as the safety glass relented, the tricycle

and the windshield both praiseworthy

in their toughness, the struggle between them

somehow making perfect sense

in midday on our quiet suburban street,

the windshield the anvil, the trike the hammer,

the marriage the forge, and failure

glowing in the heat, beaten

and tempered, slowly taking shape.

■倒垃圾

我记得小时候看到父亲出去倒垃圾

在寒冷的黎明时分，

一边拖着发臭的垃圾桶，

一边骂骂咧咧，

我心想，这种事
我可永远都不会做。

在其他方面，我是个模范儿子。

站在镜子前看他刮胡子，

轻轻将温热的面霜拍在脸颊上，

我梦想着有一把自己的剃须刀。

还有属于自己的胡须。

当阅读周末晚报时，他会眉开眼笑，

一只眼睛因烟雾和坏消息而眯起，

这让我在还未学会阅读时

就跟着他看起了有趣的东西

我的眼睛毫无顾忌地睁开着。

他灵巧地用单手扶正了软呢帽的帽檐，

同时又调整了一下角度和倾斜度，

这一幕让我遗憾，

那顶帽子，就像我的父亲一样，

已经消失不见。

连同那剃刀和磨刀皮，

一碗泡沫丰富的凝乳。

就连香烟和周末晚报

也被淘汰，成为过去。

这些就是今天早上，

我在拖着臭烘烘的垃圾桶

到人行道时，心中哀痛的那些损失。

Taking Out the Trash
by George Bilgere

I remember as a child
watching my father take out the trash
at the frozen crack of dawn, cursing
as he dragged the stinking cans to the curb,
and thinking, that's not something
I'm ever going to do.

In other ways I was a model son,
standing at the mirror as he shaved,
dabbing the warm cream on my cheek,
dreaming of a razor
and whiskers of my very own.

Watching him light up
as he read the Sunday paper,
one eye squinted against smoke
and bad news, had me reading the funnies
before I could even read, my eye
squinted against nothing.

And the deft, one-handed way
he straightened his fedora's brim,
while at the same time
adjusting the coordinates
of rake and tilt,
makes me regret that the hat,
like my father, has vanished,

along with the strop and razor,
and lathery bowl of curds.
Even smoking, and the Sunday paper
are on their way out.

These are the losses I'm mourning
this morning as I drag the stinking
trash cans to the curb.

■血腥插图

有人送了一本关于鲸鱼的

插图书给我的孩子，

他每天都拿着它来找我，

要求我们一起翻阅

了解书中最大的蓝鲸，

最凶猛的但风度翩翩的虎鲸，

以及有着鲸须和吹气孔的

眼神温和仁慈的抹香鲸。

这些都没问题，人人喜欢鲸鱼。

但是作为一个男孩，他当然想

专注于他所说的“血腥页面”，

那些让他叫喊的画面。

只有两页，插在书的中间

像意外插入的一剂现实剂。

在那里，巨大的鲸鱼

在柴油绞盘车的作用下崩溃了，

被拖到日本拖网渔船的甲板上，

血从鱼叉击中的伤口

喷涌而出。我想向前翻页，

看海豚在海洋世界中翻筋斗，

但是他想看到的是，

大海兽被剥夺了霸权，在血海中

被带着鲜红刀片、戴着表帽、

抽着烟的矮个子男人们

活生生地剥皮。他们

在长途航行中赚了大钱，

然后回家，渴望妻子的抚摸，

渴望把自己的孩子抱在膝上。

◇Blood Pages

by George Bilgere

Someone gave my little boy

this illustrated book about whales

and every day he carries it to me,

demanding we read through its pages

about the biggest whales, the blue ones,

and the fiercest whales, the suave

orcas in their tuxes, and the mild

sperm whales with their baleen

and blow holes and benevolent gaze.

Which is fine. Everyone likes whales,

but of course being a boy

he wants to focus on the "blood pages,"

as he calls them, just two of them

inserted like an accidental dose

of reality in the middle of the book,

where the great whales are hauled up

like minnows onto the decks

of the Japanese trawlers, their strength

broken against the diesel winches,

blood pouring from the smoking wounds

where the harpoons struck and exploded.

I want to page forward to the dolphins

somersaulting above Sea World, but he

wants to see leviathan stripped

of his lordliness, skinned

alive on an ocean of blood

by small men with their scarlet blades,

their watch caps and cigarettes,

making good money on the long cruise

but nonetheless longing for home,

for the touch of their wives,

for their own children on their laps.

■所求即所获

电视上有档节目叫

《所求即所获》。

观众可以来信

要求看一些稀奇古怪的东西，

比如世界上最厉害的弹弓能手。

我每周都看,

在我们那台不起眼的摩托罗拉电视机上,

不过我现在能记得的，

只剩弹弓能手的那期节目。

我记得他是个成年人，

住在像新泽西这样的普通地方。

在十步或二十步远的地方，

他能用一颗弹珠击碎另一颗弹珠。

他能准确击中

抛向空中的银币。他就是那种

我想要的父亲，

百发百中，从不失手。

现在我想起他，也许他早已作古，

或者老态龙钟，满头白发，

他的天赋被遗忘了

只是长椅上的又一个老家伙

坐在劳德代尔堡公园，

为医疗保险忧心忡忡，感激着

洒在背上的阳光，他的弹弓

在这个新世界里再也没有用武之地

You Asked For It

by George Bilgere

There was a show on TV called
You Asked For It. Viewers would write in
and ask to see unusual things, such as
the world’s greatest slingshot expert.
I watched it every week
on our humble Motorola, although
the only episode I can remember now
is the one about the slingshot expert.

He was a grown man, as I recall,
and he lived in an ordinary place like New Jersey.
At a distance of ten or twenty paces
he could pulverize one marble with another.
He could hit a silver dollar
tossed into the air. He was the kind
of father I wanted to have,
an expert shot, never missing.

And I think of him now, perhaps long dead,
or frail and gray, his gift forgotten.
Just another old guy on a park bench
in Fort Lauderdale, fretting about Medicare,
grateful for the sun on his back, his slingshot
useless in this new world.

✍️译者：谢君，1968 年出生于浙江萧山，田野考察者，写作者。已著诗集《谢君诗选》《宁静中的狂欢》《光亮传》《穿行于大理石》。译著《美国诗歌发现》。长篇小说《航空演习》《翠湖之波》《山水逸事》。