诗歌：Calamus

2021-06-12 诗歌

　　诗歌欣赏：Calamus

　　IN PATHS UNTRODDEN

　　IN paths untrodden，

　　In the growths by margins of pond－waters，

　　Escaped from the life that exhibits itself，

　　From all the standards hitherto publish'd， from the pleasures，

　　profits， conformities，

　　Which too long I was offering to feed my soul，

　　Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd， clear to me that my soul，

　　That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades，

　　Here by myself away from the clank of the world，

　　Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic，

　　No longer abash'd，（for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere，）

　　Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself， yet contains all the rest，

　　Resolv'd to sing no songs to－day but those of manly attachment，

　　Projecting them along that substantial life，

　　Bequeathing hence types of athletic love，

　　Afternoon this delicious Ninth－month in my forty－first year，

　　I proceed for all who are or have been young men，

　　To tell the secret of my nights and days，

　　To celebrate the need of comrades．v请分开v

　　SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST

　　SCENTED herbage of my breast，

　　Leaves from you I glean， I write， to be perused best afterwards，

　　Tomb－ leaves， body－leaves growing up above me above death．

　　Perennial roots， tall leaves， O the winter shall not freeze you delicate leaves，

　　Every year shall you bloom again， out from where you retired

　　you shall emerge again；

　　O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you

　　or inhale your faint odor， but I believe a few will；

　　O slender leaves！ O blossoms of my blood！ I permit you to

　　tell in your own way of the heart that is under you，

　　O I do not know what you mean there underneath yourselves，

　　you are not happiness，

　　You are often more bitter than I can bear， you burn and sting me，

　　Yet you are beautiful to me you faint－tinged roots， you make me think of death，

　　Death is beautiful from you，（what indeed is finally beautiful except death and love?）

　　O I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of lovers， I think it must be for death，

　　For how calm， how solemn it grows to ascend to the atmosphere of lovers，

　　Death or life I am then indifferent， my soul declines to prefer，

　　（I am not sure but the high soul of lovers welcomes death most，）

　　Indeed O death， I think now these leaves mean precisely the same as you mean，

　　Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see！ grow up out of my breast！

　　Spring away from the conceal'd heart there！

　　Do not fold yourself so in your pink－tinged roots timid leaves！

　　Do not remain down there so ashamed， herbage of my breast！

　　Come I am determin'd to unbare this broad breast of mine， I

　　have long enough stifled and choked；

　　Emblematic and capricious blades I leave you， now you serve me not，

　　I will say what I have to say by itself，

　　I will sound myself and comrades only， I will never again

　　utter a call only their call，

　　I will raise with it immortal reverberations through the States，

　　I will give an example to lovers to take permanent shape and will through the States，

　　Through me shall the words be said to make death exhilarating．

　　Give me your tone therefore O death， that I may accord with it，

　　Give me yourself， for I see that you belong to me now above all， and are folded inseparably together， you love and death are，

　　Nor will I allow you to balk me any more with what I was calling life，

　　For now it is convey'd to me that you are the purports essential，

　　That you hide in these shifting forms of life， for reasons， and that they are mainly for you，

　　That you beyond them come forth to remain， the real reality，

　　That behind the mask of materials you patiently wait， no matter how long，

　　That you will one day perhaps take control of all，

　　That you will perhaps dissipate this entire show of appearance，

　　That may－be you are what it is all for， but it does not last so very long，

　　But you will last very long．v请分开v

　　WHOEVER YOU ARE HOLDING ME NOW IN HAND

　　WHOEVER you are holding me now in hand，

　　Without one thing all will be useless，

　　I give you fair warning before you attempt me further，

　　I am not what you supposed， but far different．

　　Who is he that would become my follower?

　　Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections

　　诗歌欣赏：By The Arno

　　The oleander on the wall

　　Grows crimson in the dawning light，

　　Though the grey shadows of the night

　　Lie yet on Florence like a pall．

　　The dew is bright upon the hill，

　　And bright the blossoms overhead，

　　But ah！ the grasshoppers have fled，

　　The little Attic song is still．

　　Only the leaves are gently stirred

　　By the soft breathing of the gale，

　　And in the almond－scented vale

　　The lonely nightingale is heard．

　　The day will make thee silent soon，

　　O nightingale sing on for love！

　　While yet upon the shadowy grove

　　Splinter the arrows of the moon．

　　Before across the silent lawn

　　In sea－green vest the morning steals，

　　And to love's frightened eyes reveals

　　The long white fingers of the dawn

　　Fast climbing up the eastern sky

　　To grasp and slay the shuddering night，

　　All careless of my heart's delight，

　　Or if the nightingale should die．

　　诗歌欣赏：Call Me Ishmael

　　by Jackson Mac Low

　　Circulation． And long long

　　Mind every

　　Interest Some how mind and every long

　　Coffin about little little

　　Money especially

　　I shore， having money about especially little

　　Cato a little little

　　Me extreme

　　I sail have me an extreme little

　　Cherish and left， left，

　　Myself extremest

　　It see hypos myself and extremest left，

　　City a land． Land．

　　Mouth； east，

　　Is spleen， hand mouth； an east， land．

　　诗歌欣赏：A Poet to His Beloved

　　I bring you with reverent hands

　　The books of my numberless dreams，

　　White woman that passion has worn

　　As the tide wears the dove－grey sands，

　　And with heart more old than the horn

　　That is brimmed from the pale fire of time：

　　White woman with numberless dreams，

　　I bring you my passionate rhyme．

　　诗歌欣赏A Purchase of Porcelain

　　Because the king

　　decrees that every Jew

　　must buy his wedding－right

　　in unsold porcelain

　　from the royal chinaworks，

　　here he stands， an amorous Jew，

　　gazing at luminous

　　suns and moons arrayed

　　on doths of velvet－blue，

　　earth that has married fire twice，

　　that has been shaped and named

　　for what it comprehends： sherbets， salads，

　　gravies， desserts． He lifts a platter fine

　　as alabaster in cathedral windows：

　　salvation， the passage of light

　　through bone． Ah， but

　　not for you， the store－man says．

　　Closeted， in shipping crates

　　are pieces no one else will buy

　　baboon fops in feathered caps，

　　chimpanzees in petticoats．

　　Visitors will later testify，

　　his home was comfortable，

　　despite the china apes

　　peering from every corner．

　　诗歌欣赏：Batuschka

　　From yonder gilded minaret

　　Beside the steel－blue Neva set，

　　I faintly catch， from time to time，

　　The sweet， aerial midnight chime——"God save the Tsar！"

　　Above the ravelins and the moats

　　Of the white citadel it floats；

　　And men in dungeons far beneath

　　Listen， and pray， and gnash their teeth——"God save the Tsar！"

　　The soft reiterations sweep

　　Across the horror of their sleep，

　　a term of endearment applied

　　to the Tsar in Russian folk－song．

　　As if some daemon in his glee

　　Were mocking at their misery——"God save the Tsar！"

　　In his Red Palace over there，

　　Wakeful， he needs must hear the prayer．

　　How can it drown the broken cries

　　Wrung from his children's agonies?——"God save the Tsar！"

　　Father they called him from of old——Batuschka！ How his heart is cold！

　　Wait till a million scourged men

　　Rise in their awful might， and then——God save the Tsar！

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