Poems by Kwame Dawes

On the occasion of India's ascension to the top of world cricket

At dawn, in khaki cashmere
and pure cotton white
flapping in the winter air
he stares into the trees
translating the quarrel of ravens,
the music of Tagore.
 
The cricket news is good;
he can die in peace beyond
the boundaries of play.
 
Things are slipping into white
these days; somewhere
the soft insistence of his woman's
voice, the clatter of pots
the scent of ghee.
 
He is listening to the music
of the ravens, their secrets
of the living and the dead—
this is how an old man dreams:
he returns to first things,
everything growing white around him
whiter and whiter as the endless sky.

老人

当印度上升到世界板球顶峰

黎明，穿着
在冬季空氣中飘动的
土黃色絨和 純白的棉花
他凝視樹群
翻譯着烏鴉的喧嚣，
泰戈爾的音樂。

板球有好消息;
他可以和平的死去，超越
比赛的邊界。

而今事情陷入
白色;某处
柔软而顽固的他的女人的
聲音，锅的敲打
酥油的香。

他在聽烏鴉的
音樂，他們的秘密
生和死的秘密 --
老人是这样做梦的：
他回到最初，
他周圍的一切在变白，
越來越白如同無盡的天空。

The finish of all monuments is marble—
light inside the stone—the impervious skin,
smooth as dreams. A prince understands
the cool healing of stone on fevered soles;
the marble holds the cool of winters
through the insufferable monsoons.
 
The king's son builds his legacy
on red sandstone—the marble
crown that will withstand centuries
of slaughter and forgetting.  
 
You show me the riches
of your civilization—the wounds
are the marks of survival and wisdom.
 
We carry our wounds, too, but find
late at night over dahl and curried banana flowers
the cool marble of kept friendships underfoot.

大理石

所有纪念碑的表面都是大理石 --
光在石頭裡面 -- 不可滲透的皮膚，
光滑如夢。王子懂得
涼爽的石头如何愈合發燒的脚底;
在難以忍受的雨季
大理石保留着冬天的涼爽。

國王的兒子在紅色砂岩上
创建他的传奇 -- 大理石
王冠，將經受百年
屠杀和遺忘。

你指给我看你的文明
的珍宝 -- 傷口
是生存和智慧的痕迹。

我們也带着傷，但是
深夜在達爾和咖哩香蕉花中
发现清涼的，能保持深藏友誼的大理石。

for Sudeep, Priti and Aria

Of course you knew there was a poem in this,
the way the soft glowing wood floors and solid
antique furniture picked up at a steal from a small
store in the country dealing in the remains
of noble homes and temples—the even architecture
of fine lattice work, the grace of doorways,
the spirit still in the wood below the heavy
stain of linseed and dark oils—the way the warmth
leads to the gleam and clean assurance of the kitchen—
that long narrow corridor of steel and crockery,
the dangling pans, the humming fridge, the clean
efficient stove, the buzzing microwave, the counters
festooned with dahl, mounds of basmati rice,
flowered pots warm with stews of floating eggs
and plump aubergines bloated with the finest
curries, a silver bowl of warm chapattis—all this
overseen by the silhouette slip of a woman,
her thin arm constantly moving a wayward
fall of her hair as she moves quietly between
the shadow and light spilling in green and blue
from the narrow window at the end of room.
 
You would have known there was a poem
in the choices you made, building this house  
even as things crumbled around you—building
it as if full of faith that to make a dream of concrete
and marble is the same as the magic of forgiveness.
I can hear you guiding strangers through
the corridors, pointing to the symbols of home—
the assurances, the comforts, the promises in the wood's
give and take telling of how, seasoned by centuries
of weather, it bends to the humidity of monsoon
days, storing the wetness for the dry months
of constant drought, before the dumb weight
of winter—the property of love, its capacity
to follow the unreliable contours of our life.
You grin at the reliability of meals, the priestly
cleanliness of the hands that must turn the raw
into heavenly meals for gods and mere mortals—
the simple expectation of the same in the steel,
stainless, accessible and constantly sure.
 
Perhaps this is not, after all, the poem you wrote
into the labors of growing this house, but I arrive
inside it as I arrive inside your poems, walking
along the corridors, fingering the photos lining
the wall of the staircase, tracing the initials S.P.A
on the elegantly simple stain glass signature (opaque
and transparent shades of white) over the stairway,
and it is like touching you as you slip in and out
of the music of your words—I know there is blood
and bone inside each sound, I know, too, that there
are rooms I have not entered and must only imagine
as sanctuaries, the places of prayer and deepest fear.
On the roof, there is a small stage for poets and dancers
to frolic to the sounds of sitar and tabla or a saxophone
wailing into the wide open sky of Delhi.  You wait until
my last night before you lead me to this place of dreams,
and I understand how quiet you become, as if here
only silence can repeat the year of shadows and warmth
you have lived, only silence and the hum of traffic
and breathing of a city where millions must find home.

J街的房子，C R公園，新德里

為 Sudeep，Priti和Aria 而作

當然，你知道这里有一首詩，
泛著柔和的光的木地板和结实的
仿古家具，廉价从一家
處理高尚住宅和寺廟的遗存
的小商店买到 -- 出色的格子里
平衡的构造，優雅的門道，
在亞麻和其它黑色油重染的木头中
精神依然 -- 溫暖指向
廚房的闪光和清潔的保證 --
那狹長的鋼鐵和陶器的走廊，
懸空的鍋，哼鸣的冰箱，清潔
高效的爐灶，熱鬧的微波炉，柜台
滿是達爾，成堆的巴斯馬蒂大米，
花绘的炖锅溫热，里面漂着雞蛋
和臃腫，充满最好的咖哩的
茄子，銀缽里暖的印度面包-- 這一切
都由一个瘦小的女人的輪廓監督，
她瘦弱的手臂不斷移動任性
落下的頭髮，她安静的在
陰影和從房間尽头狹窄的窗口
溢出的綠色和藍色的光中移动。

你會知道这里曾经有过一首詩
在你所做的選擇中，建造這座房子
即使你身邊的事情崩潰 -- 建造
它彷彿充滿了这样的信心: 制作一个
混凝土和大理石的梦就像寬恕的魔力。
我能聽到你指導陌生人通過
走廊，指著家的符號 --
保證，舒適，木材的模糊的故事
中的承諾，如何，体验着百年的
天氣，它因雨季的濕度彎曲，
在冬季啞的重量前，為幹個月
不斷的乾旱存儲濕度 --
愛情的特征，它遵循我們的生活
的不可靠的輪廓的能力。
你因膳食的可靠而嬉笑，祭司般
潔淨的雙手能把生腥变为
天堂的膳食以予神和凡人 --
單纯的期望着同样的鋼，
不生銹，便利，始终可靠。

或許這不是，到底，你寫进
建造這座房子的勞動中的诗，但我走
进它裡面就像我走进你的詩，
沿著走廊走着，抚摸樓梯
牆上的照片，循着在優雅而簡單
染色玻璃上的簽名縮寫 SPA
（不透明和透明色調的白），
就像觸摸你，当你滑进又滑出
你的話语的音樂 -- 我知道每個聲音
里有血和肉，我也知道，有些
房間我還沒有進入过，而只能想像
為圣地，祈禱和最深的恐懼的场所。
在屋頂上，有一個小舞台可以让詩人和舞者
嬉鬧，和着西塔琴和塔布拉或薩克斯管
对着敞開的德里天空哭泣的声音。你等著，直到
我最后的夜，当你领我到這個夢想的地方，
当我明白你變得安靜，彷彿在這裡
只有沉默可以重複當年你所生活過的
陰影和溫暖，只有沉默和交通的哼鸣
和那座百萬人必須寻找家园的城市的呼吸。

Softly history suggests itself in the gloom.
The monument to the dead against
a smoke-filled sky—such splendid
silence; the dialect of stone.  This
park is where the dead are numbered
among the darting parrots; the hum
of prayers, the dome, as if God himself
has found retreat and rest here.
A woman sits on the uneven marble
of some dead queen—it is what queens
do, they die, turning indifference
into guilt, and their men build
monuments of regret. She, too,
must contemplate the treachery
of love; and outside, Delhi's wood
fires fill the air with incense.  It is
cold in winter, our wools and cottons
caress our skins. We drag warmth
in.  This company explains
at the glory of the tombs of emperors
who calculated the path of the moon
into equations of immortality.
Now we carry our sins and hurts
in us, overshadowed by the stone
monuments: somehow everything feels
trite—the vacancy of our quibbling.
I want to be at peace with this park
tonight—this is the kind of thing
one thinks, as if the park cares—
it has been dumb to the useless
intimations of centuries; better fools
have found shelter here. A gentle
boy, giddy with tomorrow dances
between us, and we do not whisper
secrets, but we lighten our talk,
we speak of myths, of the ancient
hubris of lovers passionate with need;
nothing of the dry staleness of a marriage
struggling to name itself after so much
hurt. The boy smiles, spinning,
spinning among the stones.
In this instance, we call it cool
ease, a kind of indifference—you say
you feel no remorse.   We know
you are lying. He is your son,
your wife has drifted into the dark;
in a month you will tell me the sordid
details of separation and betrayal.
At midnight, our company leaves
the compound, entering
the chaotic city; the ordinariness
of our lives, our skins slowly drying
after the dew damp air of the garden.

LODI公園夜景

淡淡的歷史在黑暗中隐现。
为死者而立的纪念碑對着
充满煙霧的天空 - 如此燦爛
的沉默; 石頭的语言。這
公園里死者在穿梭
的鸚鵡之間排列; 祈禱的
嗡嗡聲，圓頂，彷彿上帝自己
發現可以退到這裡休息。
一個女人坐在死去的王后
參差不齊的大理石上 - 王后
总是這樣，她們死去，变冷漠
為罪过，他們的男人建造
遺憾的紀念碑。她也一樣，
必須考慮愛的背叛; 外面，德里木
火的香薰着空气。冬天
寒冷，我們的羊毛和棉花
呵護我們的皮膚。我們拖进
溫暖。同行的人讲解着
帝王陵墓的輝煌，
他们曾将月亮的路徑
算入不朽的方程。
現在我們带着我們的罪和体内的
傷害，被石头紀念碑的阴影
所掩盖：无名的一切感到
陳腐 -- 我們的狡辯的空虚。
今晚我想与這個公園保持
和平 -- 我们总是这样想，
仿佛公園会在乎 --
它已对世纪的無用的暗示
毫无反应; 更出色的傻子
已经在這裡找到住所。溫和
男孩，因明天而頭暈，舞在
我們之間，我們不轻声
秘语，但我們減輕我們的談話，
我們講神話，講上古残存的
戀人們渴切的激情;
掠过陈旧干燥的婚姻
奮力在這麼多傷害后为自己
命名。男孩微笑，在石頭群里
旋转，旋转。
在這種情況下，我們叫它酷酷的
轻松，一種无所谓 -- 你說
你覺得沒有悔恨。我們知道
你在撒謊。他是你的兒子，
你的妻子已漂入了黑暗;
在一個月內你會告訴我齷齪的
分離和背叛的細節。
午夜時分，我们这群人
离开大院，進入
混亂的城市; 我們的生活
的平凡，我們的皮膚慢慢乾燥
花園里露水潮濕的空氣不再。