Wintering
过冬

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
这是轻松时光，无事可做。

I have whirled the midwife’s extractor,
我摇动那接生婆的采蜜器，

I have my honey,
我采到了蜂蜜，

Six jars of it,
六罐蜜，

Six cat’s eyes in the wine cellar,
酒窖里的六只猫眼。

Wintering in a dark without window
在无窗户的黑暗中过冬，

At the heart of the house
这所房子的中心。

Next to the last tenant’s rancid jam
紧挨着前一个房客腐臭的果酱，

And the bottles of empty glitters——
而空空的瓶子闪烁——

Sir So-and-so’s gin.
某某先生的杜松子酒。

This is the room I have never been in.
这个房间我从未来过，

This is the room I could never breathe in.
这个房间令我难以呼吸。

The black bunched in there like a bat,
黑色积聚，像一只蝙蝠，

No light
没有光线

But the torch and its faint
只有手电筒，它微弱的

Chinese yellow on appalling objects——
中国黄落在恐怖物体上——

Black asininity. Decay.
黑色的愚钝。腐烂。

Possession.
附着鬼魂。

It is they who own me.
是它们拥有我，

Neither cruel nor indifferent,
既不残忍也不漠然，

Only ignorant.
只有忽视。

This is the time of hanging on for the bees—the bees
这是蜜蜂坚持的时光——蜜蜂们

So slow I hardly know them,
非常慢，我几乎没有注意它们，

Filing like soldiers
像战士们那样

To the syrup tin
钻进糖浆罐

To make up for the honey I’ve taken.
去填补我取过的蜂蜜。

Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
泰特莱尔白糖使它们维持生命，

The refined snow.
这精制的雪。

It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
它们赖以生存的是泰特莱尔，不是花朵。

They take it. The cold sets in.
它们吃了它。寒冷降临。

Now they ball in a mass,
现在它们聚成球状一团，

Black
黑乎乎

Mind against all that white.
对抗着所有的白色。

The smile of the snow is white.
雪的微笑是白色的。

It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
它伸展自己，一英里长犹如迈森

Into which, on warm days,
瓷器的躯体，温暖的日子，

They can only carry their dead.
它们运送死去的蜜蜂。

The bees are all women,
蜜蜂都是雌的，

Maids and the long royal lady.
工蜂和身躯修长的蜂后。

They have got rid of the men,
它们已经消灭了雄蜂，

The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
呆板的、笨拙的蹒跚者，粗野的人。

Winter is for women——
冬天是女人的——

The woman, still at her knitting,
那个女子，仍在编织，

At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
在西班牙式的胡桃木摇篮旁，

Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
她的身体似寒冷中的球茎，麻木而无法思考。

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
蜂群会活下来吗？菖兰将会

Succeed in banking their fires
成功地贮存它们的火种

To enter another year?
进入另一年？

What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
它们将品尝什么，黑儿波花吗？

The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
蜜蜂在飞。它们体味春天。

(1962/10/09. pp.217—219. No. 180)
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