约翰·西阿第(John Ciardi)

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  • Nona Domenica Garnaro

    Nona Domenica Garnaro sits in the sun

    on the step of her house in Calabria.

    There are seven men and four women in the village

    who call her Mama, and the orange trees

    fountain their blooms down all the hill and valley.

    No one can see more memory from this step

    than Nona Domenica. When she folds her hands

    in her lap they fall together

    like two Christs fallen from a driftwood shrine.

    All their weathers are twisted into them.

    There is that art in them that will not be carved

    but can only be waited for. These hands are not

    sad nor happy nor tired nor strong. They are simply

    complete. They lie still in her lap

    and she sits waiting quietly in the sun

    for what will happen, as for example, a petal

    may blow down on the wind and lie across

    both of her thumbs, and she look down at it.

    The Catalpa

    The catalpa’s white week is ending there

    in its corner of my yard. It has its arms full

    of its own flowering now, but the least air

    spins off a petal and a breeze lets fall

    whole coronations. There is not much more

    of what this is. Is every gladness quick?

    That tree‚s a nuisance, really. Long before

    the summer‚s out, its beans, long as a stick,

    will start to shed. And every year one limb

    cracks without falling off and hangs there dead

    till I get up and risk my neck to trim

    what it knows how to lose but not to shed.

    I keep it only for this one white pass.

    The end of June‚s its garden; July, its Fall;

    all else, the world remembering what it was

    in the seven days of its visible miracle.

    What should I keep if averages were all?

    True or False

    Real emeralds are worth more than synthetics

    but the only way to tell one from the other

    is to heat them to a stated temperature,

    then tap. When it's done properly

    the real one shatters.

    I have no emeralds.

    I was told this about them by a woman

    who said someone had told her: True or false,

    I have held my own palmful of bright breakage

    from a truth too late. I know the principle.

    诗需要你自己去感悟,一千个读者一千个哈姆雷特!

    再推荐几个网站:http://www.***.org/poet.php/prmPID/680

    http://falcon.jmu.edu/~ramseyil/ciardi.htm

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