看电影《黑蝶漫舞 Black Butterflies (2011)》，读诗。
南非女诗人英格丽琼蔻（Ingrid Jonker）著有诗集《黑蝶漫舞》。
她的诗歌在中文圈很难找到，翻译就更加少了。
先收录，慢慢看。
About Ingrid Jonker
Read best Ingrid Jonker poems. She was a South African poet. Although she wrote in Afrikaans, her poems have been widely translated into other languages. Jonker has reached iconic status in South Africa and is often called the South African Sylvia Plath, owing to the intensity of her work and the tragic course of her turbulent life. Here are below some of her most famous poems.
《尼杨加死去的孩子》
那孩子没死…
他对着呐喊非洲的母亲挥拳相向…
那孩子没死…
没死在兰加，也没死在尼杨加…
没死在奥兰多，也没死在夏普威尔…
更没死在腓力比的警察局…
即使他头中枪、躺在地上…
那孩子只想在尼杨加艳阳下玩耍…
那孩子本该茁壮成人、踏遍全非洲…
那孩子可以长大、旅程环游全天下…
毋须任何通行证…
THE CHILD WHO WAS SHOT DEAD BY SOLDIERS IN NYANGA
The child is not dead The child lifts his fists against his mother Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath Of freedom and the veld In the locations of the cordoned heart The child lifts his fists against his father in the march of the generations who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath of righteousness and blood in the streets of his embattled pride The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville nor at the police station at Philippi where he lies with a bullet through his brain The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers on guard with rifles Saracens and batons the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere the child grown to a man treks through all Africa the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world Without a pass
BITTERBESSIE DAGBREEK
Bitterbessie dagbreek bitterbessie son ʼn spieël het gebreek tussen my en hom Soek ek na die grootpad om daarlangs te draf oral draai die paadjies van sy woorde af Dennebos herinnering dennebos vergeet het ek ook verdwaal trap ek in my leed Papegaai-bont eggo kierang kierang my totdat ek bedroë weer die koggel kry Eggo is geen antwoord antwoord hy alom bitterbessie dagbreek bitterbessie son
BITTER-BERRY DAYBREAK
Bitter-berry daybreak bitter-berry sun a mirror has broken between me and him I try to find the highway perhaps to run away but everywhere the footpaths of his words lead me astray Pinewood remember pinewood forget however much I lose my way I step on my regret Parrot-coloured echo tricks me tricks me on until I turn beguiled to retrieve the mocking song Echo gives no answer he answers everyone bitter-berry daybreak bitter-berry sun
JY’T MY GEKIERANG
Jy't my gekierang Dolie
jy't my gefop
my hart o appelliefie
verdroë in sy dop
Die predikant sê agge nee
my ma sê agga gwaan
my ouma dink weg wêreld
waar kom ons ook vandaan
Maar Dolie bokkie baby
jy't my verstoot
al maak ek ook my daggies
nes kuikens vir jou groot
Al gee ek jou die dagbreek
se rooywang-vy
jy't laasnag - o my attatjie!
met ‘n ander man gevry
My brakhond en my mak uil
tjank groot en wyd
maar Dolie bokkie baby
ons tjank een woord altyd
YOU HAVE TRICKED ME
You've tricked me Dolie you've cheated me like hell my heart o little gooseberry has shrivelled in its shell The pastors say oh surely no my mum says go away my granny thinks oh heavens our help has gone astray But Dolie bokkie baby you turned me down it's true in vain I grow my little days like chickens all for you No matter that I offer you a fig with day-break's tan last night o my attatjie you had another man My tame owl and my mongrel they howl through nights and days but Dolie bokkie baby we howl one word always
TOEMAAR DIE DONKER MAN
vir Simone Op die groen voetpad van die horison ver om die aarde skat, stap 'n ou man wat 'n oop maan dra in sy hare Nagtegaal in sy hart jasmyn gepluk vir sy oop knoopsgat en 'n rug gebuk aan sy jare. Wat maak hy, mammie? Hy roep die kriekies Hy roep die swart stilte wat sing soos die biesies, my hart en die sterre wat klop tok-tok liefling, soos die klein toktokkies in hul fyn-ver kring. Wat is sy naam, mammie? Sy naam is Sjuut Sy naam is Slaap Meneer Vergeet uit die land van Vaak Sy naam is toe maar hy heet, my lam Toe maar, die donker man Mammie . . . Toe maar, die donker man
HUSH NOW, THE DARKLING MAN
for Simone On the green footpath of the horizon far around the earth little one, an old man trudges who wears an open moon in his hair Nightingale in his heart jasmin plucked for his buttonhole and a back bowed down by his years. What's he doing, mummy? He calls the crickets He calls the black silence that sings like the rushes, my sweet and the stars which throb knock-knock my love, like the tiny little beetles in their thin far ring. What's his name, mummy? His name is Hush His name is Sleep Mister Forget from the Land of Dream His name is hush he's called, my sweet Hush now, the darkling man Mummy… Hush now, the darkling man
DIE KIND WAT DOOD GESKIET IS DEUR SOLDATE BY NYANGA
Die kind is nie dood nie die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy moeder wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur van vryheid en heide in die lokasies van die omsingelde hart Die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy vader in die optog van die generasies wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur van geregtigheid en bloed in die strate van sy gewapende trots Die kind is nie dood nie nòg by Langa nòg by Nyanga nòg by Orlando nòg by Sharpeville nòg by die polisiestasie in Philippi waar hy lê met 'n koeël deur sy kop Die kind is die skaduwee van die soldate op wag met gewere sarasene en knuppels die kind is teenwoordig by alle vergaderings en wetgewings die kind loer deur die vensters van huise en in die harte van moeders die kind wat net wou speel in die son by Nyanga is orals die kind wat 'n man geword het trek deur die ganse Afrika die kind wat 'n reus geword het reis deur die hele wêreld Sonder 'n pas
MADELIEFIES IN NAMAKWALAND
Waarom luister ons nog na de antwoorde van die madeliefies op die wind op die son wat het geword van die kokkewietjies Agter die geslote voorkop waar miskien nog 'n takkie tuimel van 'n verdrinkte lente Agter my gesneuwelde woord Agter ons verdeelde huis Agter die hart gesluit teen homself Agter draadheinings, kampe, lokasies Agter die stilte waar onbekende tale val soos klokke by 'n begrafenis Agter ons verskeurde land sit die groen hotnotsgot van die veld en ons hoor nog verdwaasd klein blou Namakwaland-madeliefie iets antwoord, iets glo, iets weet.
DAISIES IN NAMAQUALAND
Why do we still listen to the answers given by the daisies to the wind to the sun what has become of the little kokkewiets Behind the closed forehead where perhaps a twig still tumbles from a drowned springtime Behind my word killed in action Behind our divided home Behind the heart locked against itself Behind wire fences, camps, locations Behind the silence where foreign languages fall like bells at a funeral Behind our land torn apart sits the green mantis of the veld and dazed we still hear small blue Namaqualand daisy answering something, believing something, knowing something.
ONTVLUGTING
Uit hierdie Valkenburg het ek ontvlug en dink my nou in Gordonsbaai terug: Ek speel met paddavisse in 'n stroom en kerf swastikas in 'n rooikransboom Ek is die hond wat op die strande draf en dom-allenig teen die aandwind blaf Ek is die seevoël wat verhongerd daal en dooie nagte opdis as 'n maal Die god wat jou geskep het uit die wind sodat my smart in jou volmaaktheid vind: My lyk lê uitgespoel in wier en gras op al die plekke waar ons eenmaal was.
ESCAPE
From this Valkenburg have I run away and in my thoughts return to Gordon's Bay: I play with tadpoles swimming free carve swastikas in a red-krantz tree I am the dog that slinks from beach to beach barks dumb-alone against the evening breeze I am the gull that swoops in famished flights to serve up meals of long-dead nights The god who shaped you from the wind and dew to find fulfilment of my pain in you: Washed out my body lies in weed and grass in all the places where we once did pass.
KORRELTJIE SAND
Korreltjie korreltjie sand klippie gerol in my hand klippie gesteek in my sak word korreltjie klein en plat Sonnetjie groot in die blou ek maak net ‘n ogie van jou blink in my korreltjie klippie dit is genoeg vir die rukkie Kindjie wat skreeu uit die skoot niks in die wêreld is groot stilletjies lag nou en praat stilte in Doodloopstraat Wêreldjie rond en aardblou korreltjie maak ek van jou huisie met deur en twee skrefies tuintjie met blou madeliefies Pyltjie geveer in verskiet liefde verklein in die niet Timmerman bou aan ‘n kis Ek maak my gereed vir die Niks Korreltjie klein is my woord korreltjie niks is my dood
LITTLE GRAIN OF SAND
Grain little grain of sand pebble rolled in my hand pebble thrust in my pocket a keepsake for a locket Little sun big in the blue a granule I make out of you shine in my pebble little grain for the moment that's all I can gain Baby that screams from the womb nothing is big in this tomb quietly laugh now and speak silence in dead-end street Little world round and earth-blue make a mere eye out of you house with a door and two slits a garden where everything fits Small arrow feathered into space love fades away from its place Carpenter seals a coffin that's bought I ready myself for the nought Small grain of sand is my word, my breath small grain of nought is my death
以下来自（Ingrid Jonker）
25 December 1960
Ward one-hundred-and-thirty in the passage on the right.
It’s five in the morning for the milk-cart
has gone with its horses, eyes gleaming
in the bayonets of the street lights.
The twenty-fifth of December nineteen-sixty.
The children sleep
in Christmas stockings between satellites
hobby-horses, revolvers and toffees
Sleep, before the sirens of the sun
before the bombers which are butterflies
sleep in your Christmas stockings and candles.
On Hospital Hill stands a blazing tree.
Ward one-hundred-and-thirty in the passage on the right.
“Sure he drank a bottle of brandy
and lay hours in an oxygen tent.
You know he was an alcoholic from
his first glass.” (Look, the gleam
of day’s bright gun-barrel aims over the city!)
“A yes but, he once said himself
he had a harking after his dead God.
His final words? No
he just lay quiet, and with eyes wide.”
Ward one-hundred-and-thirty. He has been
attended to, eyes closed, hands already folded,
the whole of the room like an upraised shield.
And on the window-sill and against the light
the mantis in unending prayer.
Begin Summer
Ingrid Jonker
Begin summer and the sea
a cracked-open quince
the sky like a child’s
balloon
far above the water
Under the umbrellas
like stripy sugarsticks
ants of people
and the gay laugh of the bay
has teeth of gold
Child with the yellow bucket
and the forgotten pigtail
your mouth surely is a little bell
tiny tongue for a clapper
You play in the sun all day
like a ukulele
Ek herhaal jou (I repeat you)
I repeat you
Without beginning or end,
I repeat your body.
The day has a thin shadow
and the night yellow crosses
the landscape without regard
and the people a row candles
while I repeat you
with my breasts
that reforms the hollows of your hands
L’Art poetique
Om myself weg te bêre soos ‘n geheim
in ‘n slaap van lammers en van steggies
Om myself te bêre
in die saluut van ‘n groot skip
Weg te bêre
in die geweld van ‘n eenvoudige herinnering
in jou verdrinkte hande
om myself weg te bêre in my woord
My omhelsing het my verdubbel
My omhelsing het my verdubbel
my borste roep na mekaar
die twee kopspelende maats
en my hande omsluit my geheime
in ‘n kamer ver weg
agter die gestorte herfs
kyk jou oë verbaad
na die spieël van jou lyf
Ontvlugting
Uit hierdie Valkenburg het ek ontvlug
en dink my nou in Gordonsbaai terug:
Ek speel met paddavisse in ‘n stroom
en kerf swastikas in ‘n rookransboom
Ek is die hond wat op die strande draf
en dom-allenig teen die aandwind blaf
Ek is die seevoël wat verhongerd dwaal
en dooie nagte opdig as ‘n maal
Die god wat jou geskep het uit die wind
sodat my smart in jou volmaaktheid vind:
My lyk lê uitgespoel in wier en gras
op al die plekke waar ons eenmaal was.
The child is not dead
Ingrid Jonker
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart
The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride
The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain
The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass
The Face of Love
Your face is the face of all the others
before you and after you and
your eyes calm as a blue
dawn breaking time on time
herdsman of the clouds
sentinel of white iridescent beauty
the landscape of your contesses mouth
that I have explored
keeps the secret of a smile
like small white villages beyond the
mountains
and your heartbeats the measure of
their ecstasy
There is no question of beginning
there is no question of possession
there is no question of death
face of my beloved
the face of love.
This journey
This journey which obliterates your image
torn blood-angel thrown to the dogs
this landscape is deserted as my forehead
wound of the roses
I have wanted to see you walk without chains
I longed to see your face open and free
your broken face and dry as the mud
wound of the earth
in the nights of absence without eyes
I have cried to see you carry a real star
I have cried to see the blue sky and to hear
one word from life
bitter angel untrue with a flame in your mouth
I have placed two swallows under your armpits
and drawn a secret cross on your face
for the man
of whom you had reminded me once.
