[GGK] 诗集Beyond This Dark House节选（？）

Lance

闻名已久的GGK的诗集，但是一直没找到资源。
这两天搜索到有好人手打了其中几篇喜欢的：http://keilexandra.livejournal.com/126288.html
我就厚脸皮的无授权转载搬运一下留作存档了（殴
（还有一层楼贴一首不是为了骗帖数，只是为了看得明了> <）


-------------------

"Avalon," by Guy Gavriel Kay
From p.p. 36-37 of Beyond This Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay:


Avalon

'But we both knew this long ago.'

We did. The blood has ways.
Veins and arteries
communicate beneath the skin
(though I have been so careful
not to touch, you not to touch).

Still, following your eyes
away into the grass,
the question in our hesitation
is like a needle

in this downtown park,
or like sorrow
threaded (like a needle)
through desire:
what begins with us?

Among the babies and the derelicts,
mid-afternoon, a Wednesday,
caught in the rush of things,

leaves racing each other
to be green, you are
with me in a stillness,

arms around your legs,
chin on your knees,
but eyes on my again
and knowing, long ago,

what I knew long ago.
The young sun slants
from behind me,
finds your hair.

I watch you make shadows
with your hands: cool traceries,
places to hide, promises.

In this light we lay claim
to each other. You will be
here beside me on the grass
until the sun goes down in Avalon.

Lance

"Guinevere at Almesbury"
by Guy Gavriel Kay
excerpted from Beyond This Dark House [p.43-45]

    The hooded ladies here are wonderfully kind.
    They have been gentle since the day
    I first arrived, and even more so since the night
    a messenger came riding through the rain
    to say the king was dead.

    They brought me shears and watched
    in silence as I destroyed my hair.
    A circling hawk cried once and flew away
    into the trees. Will anyone believe
    in days to come how much I loved my husband?
    I sat awake that night beneath
    the dripping leaves, then under the quiet stars
    that came out after the rain moved on.

    ***

    The garden here has mild-hued flowers
    and large-leafed trees for shade.
    In the morning and at dusk songbirds
    send sweet music through the air.
    I am learning how to live without desire.

    When Lancelot came here from France
    to be the hunting hawk to Arthur's hand
    I watched myself falling into love
    and lay down at night hiding it.

    I learned. I laid a naked sword
    along my mind to bar him from my centre,
    smiling with all proper courtesy
    upon him, as on every man at court
    until we were caused to be once
    alone. I was made to see his own mask
    crumble, baring the brilliant pain behind.

    I could not hide from that.
    There was no place to hide.
    I was brought into another life
    and began to live with grief,

    for Arthur knew. He knew me as he knew
    each single star that swung about like
    pointers to his north. I heard the silence
    of his soul beside me in the dark
    and his forbearance broke
    my heart, for I loved him.

    Will anyone believe, in days to come,
    how much? I loved them both.
    For my hair, now cropped and ragged,
    all that bright aspiring
    was sundered and sent to war.

    I am learning how to live with this.
    I thought of dying more than once.
    The last time, the night that Arthur died.
    Not since. We cannot be other than
    we are. I loved two men. A kingdom
    broke for it. Something fell that was a star.
    We cannot be other than we are.

    ***

    I never dream of one of them alone.

    I see them on a forest path,
    riding together. Dappled, autumn
    leaves, a slanting sun just risen.
    Or in battle side by side
    with bloodied swords,
    in the hard north. Or talking
    a winter night away beside a fire
    in a kingdom that has not fallen.
    In those dreams I was never in Camelot.

    That pain is worst of all.
    Those images wake me, shivering,
    needing comfort, knowing there is none,
    except for this: they are not true.
    Dreams are not always true.
    It was for me, it was for me,
    it was for love of me that Camelot
    became what once it was.

    Lacking Guinevere, there is nothing there.
    And what I let make, I let destroy.

    I will die someday. I loved them both.

Lance

Poetry: "At the Death of Pan" by Guy Gavriel Kay
Excerpted from: Beyond This Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay [p.62]

    At the Death of Pan

    Where the god fell--
    mark the place with flowers,

    red for blood
    and the white . . .

    there are no rules for this,
    you know. Precedents

    are somewhat limited.
    Do something with the white.

    Clear a space as well
    for the hangers-on.

    I have no idea
    how many will be here

    or how they'll behave.
    There will be royalty so

    it does make sense
    to have a score

    of maidens immolated,
    to be on the safe side.

    For the rest--yes, white
    for the maidens! Good.

    It ought to do, it ought to do,
    if the rains hold off.

Lance

Poetry: "Shalott" by Guy Gavriel Kay
Excerpted from Beyond This Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay [p.76]:

    Shalott

    . . . and so forgetting
    what I came to say,
    I sense a shadowed loom
    in the room behind you.
    There will be no windows
    save one and, of course,
    one river only.
    Then the mirror,
    lacking, suddenly, you.
    What you are
    forces the tapestry: your hands
    shaping fables, my steps
    on the twisted stair.
    I must ride past,
    not at all myself,
    you must look down, the mirror . . .

Lance

Poetry: "The Guardians" by Guy Gavriel Kay
The last excerpt I'll be posting from Beyond This Dark House, review soon forthcoming. [p.p.102-103]


    The Guardians

        Perhaps her hair
        will fall again from a balcony,
        and she will pierce my heart
        with the sharp points of her
        tears, to keep me there.

        --Pablo Neruda


    At every entrance
    to the forest
    there are towers.

    Women wait
    at the top of stairwells
    that spiral like their hearts.

    Some are chained.
    Some would have him
    believe so.

    All are lovely enough
    to occlude the image
    of the white hart's

    wild running in the wood.
    Their hair will
    loosen

    and with movements
    of the sea
    remind him of how hard

    the way is that winds
    to the one glade that matters.
    'Oh, rescue me!'

    they will cry
    as he rides past,
    and some will be trying

    to save him. Truly.
    One or another
    is likely to succeed.

    The hart is unlikely to care,
    not even knowing
    the stalk had begun.

Lance

Ransacked

    There are no shadows
    in the dream. The sun
    is very bright. The wind
    exceeds expectation.

    Ransacked, we watch
    everything blow away
    and everything, blowing away,
    watches us recede.

    Soon, without appearing to move,
    we are far from each other,
    and I seem to have arrived
    where no one needs my love.

    The wind is done. Shadows
    slide into place, bringing stars.
    And then, in the dream, she comes,

    her hands spilling moonlight,
    to accept the sacrifice
    with the naming of her name.

Lance

"Wine," by Guy Gavriel Kay
Another excerpt today from Beyond this Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay.

    Wine

    The lights of houses
    push into the village night
    a little way and fail.

    Drifting through fog
    You strain towards windows.
    Figures move behind curtains.

    Islands of sound.
    A baby cries.
    Somewhere else

    a woman laughs
    and then stops laughing.
    Wife offered and withdrawn.

    In the morning the council houses
    will be small, curtains drab,
    women harried and wan.

    But in fog-weighted night
    the rush of tires
    is a rushing of waves,

    and unseen laughter
    incarnates mysteries
    and releases them.

Lance

"Following," by Guy Gavriel Kay
  From p. 30 of Beyond This Dark House:

    Following

    Of you in the slowly dark I'm thinking,
    feeling the twilight as music
    marred by the chord of your absence.

    One afternoon
    you lamented the curl of your hair
    and the shape of your toes.

    I told you I couldn't possibly love
    a freckled woman. And you
    were laughing. My finger found

    a blue vein running along
    your throat and followed it down,
    though I had said that if you ran

    I would not follow.
    And so I am entangled
    in a promise I may break,

    because I would have you want me,
    at the very least, enough to take
    these offerings for what they are:

    craftings in the hollow of a sleepless night,
    shot through with the discord
    of your being far away, and not mine.

Lance

Poetry: "And Diving" by Guy Gavriel Kay
Excerpted from Beyond This Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay [p.85]:


And Diving

Late night
in a cold bed,
far away.

Yesterday I dreamed
that you had died,

arcing from a bridge
to black water.

I arrived too late
and diving,

could only bring
your body back to be
whitened by moonlight.

I was crying, holding
your still hands.

Late night,
cold bed, telling myself
I do not love you,

remembering your voice,
your hands in my hair.

Lance

Poetry: "Beyond This Dark House" by Guy Gavriel Kay
The title poem of the collection, excerpted from Beyond This Dark House by Guy Gavriel Kay [p.p.91-94]:


Beyond This Dark House

1.

And I was coming home
these past two weeks,
feeling my way,
letting the pace of walking
ease over barefoot stones.
Moving again
into the rhythms of
summer on the prairie,
rediscovering the steps,
hesitations,
the afternoon languor.

Last night over coffee
someone told me
you were also home.

2.

You've walked beside me,
never knowing,
for six years now.
We've been together
in so many places
as I travelled, under skies
with doubled moons.

Beyond this dark house
a train is running away
into the night plain.
We've all had
dreams break,
fantasies we shaped.

3.

Your restless fingers
in mine. A night lane.
Streetlamps before and behind,
shadows thrown two ways,

you will tell me:
"If I think about walking,
about actually walking,
I find it hard to move my feet."

Still, a moment,
both of us,
suspended
like midsummer
at the centre of all
turning things.

You will raise your hands to my shoulders.
There may or may not be a moon.

4.

The train has long since
followed its tracked path
among the farms.

Far out in the very dark,
summer wheat is rising
from the rich, cared-for soil.

The shortest night wheels
past this window, stars
dropping behind the trees.

Somewhere there are bonfires
for St. John, somewhere
fires for the summer king.

5.

It's so late. For this,
for everything, for being still
awake beside a window.

Sure of very little tonight,
I do know, or remember,
as if from birth,

that here where we've both
returned, the yielded grain
has always been the oracle of earth.

And so it is that risen wheat
I will try now to invoke,
without any easings of use

to guide me with rounded words
out beyond light
into the swaying fields

where the silos wait.
And lacking not only words
but also an unspinning thought

to thread upon the dark,
I will ask only that
we may each be whole,

together or apart,
in this unstrange place,
under the one moon of this sky.


---------------------------------
好了~搬运结束