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篇1
My Parents Have Come Home Laughing
by Mark Jarman
My parents have come home laughing
From the feast for Robert Burns， late， on foot;
They have leaned against graveyard walls，
Have bent double in the glittering frost，
Their bladders heavy with tea and ginger.
Burns， suspended in a drop， is flicked away
As they wipe their eyes， and is not offended.
What could offend him? Not the squeaking bagpipe
Nor the haggis which， when it was sliced， collapsed
In a meal of blood and oats
Nor the man who read a poem by Scott
As the audience hissed embarrassment
Nor the principal speaker whose topic，
"Burns' View of Crop Rotation，" was intended
For farmers， who were not present，
Nor his attempt to cover this error， reciting
The only Burns poem all evening，
"Nine Inch Will Please a Lady，" to thickening silence.
They drop their coats in the hall，
Mother first to the toilet， then Father，
And then stand giggling at the phone，
Debating a call to the States， decide no，
And the strength to keep laughing breaks
In a sigh. I hear， as their tired ribs
Press together， their bedroom door not close
And hear also a weeping from both of them
That seems not to be pain， and it comforts me
篇2
My Century
by Alan Feldman
The year I was born the atomic bomb went off.
Here I'd just begun， and someone
found the switch to turn off the world.
In the furnace-light， in the central solar fire
of that heat lamp， the future got very finite，
and it was possible to imagine time-travelers
failing to arrive， because there was no time
to arrive in. Inside the clock in the hall
heavy brass cylinders descended.
Tick-tock， the chimes changed their tune
one phrase at a time. The bomb became
a film star， its glamorous globe of smoke
searing the faces of men in beach chairs.
Someone threw up every day at school.
No time to worry about collective death，
when life itself was permeated by ordeals.
And so we grew up accepting things.
In bio we learned there were particles
cruising through us like whales through archipelagoes，
and in civics that if Hitler had gotten the bomb
he'd have used it on the inferior races，
and all this time love was etching its scars
on our skins like maps. The heavens
remained pure， except for little white slits
on the perfect blue skin that planes cut
in the icy upper air， like needles sewing.
From one， a tiny seed might fall
that would make a sun on earth.
And so the century passed， with me still in it，
books waiting on the shelves to become cinders，
what we felt locked up inside， waiting to be read，
down the long corridor of time. I was born
the year the bomb exploded. Twice
whole cities were charred like cities in the Bible，
but we didn't look back. We went on thinking
we could go on， our shapes the same，
darkened now against a background lit by fire.
Forgive me for doubting you're there，
Citizens， on your holodecks with earth wallpaper-
a shadow-toned ancestor with poorly pressed pants，
protected like a child from knowing the future.
篇3
My Aunts
by Adam Zagajewski Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Always caught up in what they called
the practical side of life
theory was for Plato，
up to their elbows in furniture， in bedding，
in cupboards and kitchen gardens，
they never neglected the lavender sachets
that turned a linen closet to a meadow.
The practical side of life，
like the Moon's unlighted face，
didn't lack for mysteries;
when Christmastime drew near，
life became pure praxis
and resided temporarily in hallways，
took refuge in suitcases and satchels.
And when somebody died it happened
even in our family， alas
my aunts， preoccupied
with death's practical side，
forgot at last about the lavender，
whose frantic scent bloomed selflessly
beneath a heavy snow of sheets.
Don't just do something， sit there.
And so I have， so I have，
the seasons curling around me like smoke，
Gone to the end of the earth and back without sound
