我长久以来都不大了解刊在New Yorker上的诗， 总觉得除了偶尔献出特殊技巧之外， 多半都没什麽特色，或是保留太多东西 。 简言之，我看不懂。 想请教板上的各位， 特别转录最新期的诗。 Vijay Seshadri, Visiting Paris They were in the scullery talking. The meadow had to be sold to pay their riotous expenses; then the woods by the river, with its tangled banks and snags elbowing out of the water, had to go; and then the summer house where they talked— all that was left of an estate once so big a man riding fast on a fast horse couldn’t cross it in a day. Genevieve. Hortense. Meme. The family’s last born, whose pale name is inscribed on the rolls of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. As in the fresco of the Virgin, where the copper in the pigment oxidizes to trace a thin green cicatrix along a seam of Her red tunic, a suspicion of one another furrowed their consanguine, averted faces. Why go anywhere at all when it rains like this, when the trees are sloppy and hooded and the foot sinks to the ankle in the muddy lane? I didn’t stay for the end of the conversation. I was wanted in Paris. Paris, astounded by my splendor and charmed by my excitable manner, waited to open its arms to me. -- 中诗版 poem 英诗版 poetry 网志 http://www.wretch.cc/blog/spacedunce5 --

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