Sonnet for the Chickens
by Tom Healy
The picture of elegance, my grandfather.
I wanted his photograph in the dictionary.
Alone of the men I knew as a kid,
he always wore a shirt with a collar,
always shined his shoes. Equanimity
in a family on the run from itself.
He amazed me once with a cardboard box
of baby chicks, each in a small square as if
he’d waved a wand over a carton of eggs.
A fuzz of feathers, beaks and fragile lives.
No more afraid than all of us, he said.
Just sit with them, tell them apart, listen.
Only if you see someone, can you become
someone. Long gone, he still is and they are.
献给雏鸡的十四行诗
——汤姆·希利
忒绿 译
优雅的象征，我的祖父。
我希望他的照片能被收进词典里。
在我小时候认识的男人中，
只有他总是穿着带领子的衬衫，
总是擦得锃亮的皮鞋。在一个相互逃避的
家庭里，难得的镇定自若。
有一次，他的一个纸箱让我惊讶不已，
里面的分格里是一只只的雏鸡，仿佛
他对一盒鸡蛋施了魔法。
一团团毛绒绒，尖嘴和赢弱的生命。
我们都怀着同样的恐惧，他说。
只需与它们坐在一起，分辨它们，静听。
只有看见某个人，你才能成为某个人。
虽已久远，他仍在，它们也在。
试想一位女诗人如何写诗的
忒绿 作
烛光
摇曳一杯普罗旺斯
红，或许绿的
空旷的宫殿
女王坐在鸾凤椅上
仆人伏跪脚下，听训
“一千零一号，起身回话！”
众头颅里，一颗抬起来
由于远
嘴脸与眉眼恍惚 一团雾
