It’s so hard, trying to write, be it

真困難，試圖寫作，不管是

at home, on a plane above the ocean,

在家中，還是在俯瞰海洋、橫越

over a black forest, in the evening stillness.

一片黑森林的飛機上，在黃昏的寧靜中。

Always starting afresh, reaching

總是開始時新鮮，達到

full speed and fifteen minutes later

全速，但十五分鐘後

giving up, in reluctant surrender.

就放棄，不情願地投降。

I hope that you at least can hear me,

我希望至少你可以聽見我，

—since, as you know, the theoreticians remind us

──因為，如你所知，理論家們一而再地，

insistently, almost daily, that we’ve missed

幾乎是天天提醒我們，說我們

the point, as usual we’ve skipped

搞錯了，一如往常我們沒領會

the deeper meaning, we’ve been reading

更深刻的意義，我們一直

the wrong books, alas,

讀錯書，唉，

we’ve drawn the wrong conclusions.

我們下錯結論。

They claim poetry is fundamentally impossible,

他們宣稱：詩歌在根本上是不可能的，

a poem is a hall where faces dissolve

一首詩是一個大堂，那兒眾多面孔消融

in a golden haze of spotlights, where the fierce

在聚光燈的金色迷霧裏，那兒一群

rumblings of an angry mob drown out

憤怒的烏合之眾猛烈的抱怨聲淹沒

defenseless single voices.

一個個無助的單獨聲音。

So what then? Fine words perish quickly,

那又怎樣呢？美好詞語快速消失，

ordinary words rarely persuade.

普通詞語很難服人。

All the evidence suggests silentium

所有證據表明沉默

claims only a handful of adherents.

只能擁有幾個追隨者。

Sometimes I envy the dead poets,

有時候我羨慕死去的詩人，

they no longer have “bad days,” they don’t know

他們不再有「壞日子」，他們不知道

“ennui,” they’ve parted ways with “vacancy,”

「厭煩」，他們已離開「空虛」、

“rhetoric,” rain, low-pressure zones,

「雄辯」、雨、低氣壓地帶，

they’ve stopped following the “shrewd reviews,”

他們已停止看「尖銳的評論」，

but they keep speaking to us.

但他們繼續跟我們說話。

Their doubts vanished with them,

他們的懷疑隨他們消失，

their rapture lives.

他們的狂喜活著。