George Franklin [USA]
The Saint of Unbelievers (and other three poems)
The saint of unbelievers does not listen to prayers.
Neither does he convey them to the angels or higher powers.
He lives a modest, reclusive life, making baskets to be sold by village children.
Their mothers send him bread on the days they bake and something for dinner on holidays.
When the winemaker is done with a barrel,
he pours off the lees and drops a bottle beside the door of the saint’s cottage.
If you go to visit, do not expect him to pray with you or even to talk.
His vows do not include silence, but he has no patience with guests.
They either want something from him or want to be able to brag that they spoke with him.
If you wish to impress the saint of unbelievers, ignore him as you pass or he passes.
Choose that moment to look at your watch and say in a loud voice, “I didn’t realize it was so late already.”
The saint may shake his head at your foolishness, but at least he will not curse you or cause others to do so.
If this happens more than once, the saint may decide you are worth a moment’s examination.
He may turn and look, first at your feet. What kind of shoes are you wearing?
Is this, he may wonder, one who walks far and sees much?
Then, he will consider your hands. What kind of work does this one do? He disdains hands without callouses.
Rarely, he will consider a face, the line of the mouth, the set of the eyes.
Like an Athenian, he trusts physiognomy, but unlike the Athenians,
he does not trust the beautiful, the symmetrical, or the pure.
He prefers faces that like Socrates’s show the gamut of vices in their gaze.
Above all, do not pretend to a virtuous expression. Those, he hates worse than cankers.
One day, a child asked him what miracles he’d performed.
Shouldn’t a saint perform miracles, heal the sick or bring the dead back to life, perhaps bring rain in a drought?
The saint laughed as though the child had told a joke with no understanding of its meaning.
The saint replied it was a miracle that he had not boxed the child’s ears and continued laughing as he walked away.
The presence of the saint makes the priests uneasy. They fear he is judging them, sending reports to heaven.
But the saint has no interest in chatting with the holy. He also has no interest in chatting with those who aspire to be holy.
A day’s walk from the saint’s cottage is a town with a railroad station and a library.
The librarian there is a freethinker, which is to say that while he does not think well, he does think broadly.
This pleases the saint so that on days when the weather is good, he will visit the library,
joke with the librarian, and threaten a blessing.
Passersby claim to hear the two of them laughing.
To Believe in Nothing
The saint of unbelievers knows it’s not easy
To believe in nothing. Humans are by nature
Trusting creatures. Perhaps it is their long infancy,
The large hands of their parents, the reassuring
Heartbeats, the mother’s bosom extended
To their lips. Humans, he says, dwell in a past
They’re unable to put behind them. The saint,
However, has noticed they do not fool themselves
Entirely. They know that if they fail to plant
Potatoes and grain, they will starve in the winter.
If they do not take shelter, they will freeze
In the cold mountain nights. They are smart
Enough not to test God too often. The saint, though,
Trusts nothing and believes in nothing. He
Provides for himself, but only as much
As necessary. To amass wealth more than
A sack of oats that has started to mold is to risk
Believing in wealth’s protection. The same
Risk applies to a house or a barn. The hut
Where the saint lives is old, and there are gaps
In the wood where the wind sings and ice
Forms on the wall. It is comforting for him
When water drips from a rafter, but it is
Not the comfort of belief. It’s only
The momentary confirmation of fact,
Of a life that doesn’t require his belief.
Once, he found the frozen carcass of a deer,
A buck with antlers showing that it had
Survived other winters. The saint salvaged
What he could and left the rest for foxes
And mice. But afterwards, he was troubled.
Is the knowledge of death itself a kind of belief?
The Dust of Books
The saint of unbelievers does not read poetry.
The librarian first tried to interest him in Rilke and Trakl,
Then Milosz, but he was unsuccessful. So many words,
Said the saint, and for what purpose? The librarian
Mounted a strong defense, replying that poetry broke
Through smug certainties, opened the reader
To realities beyond changing flat tires and pressing
The keys of a cash register. The saint shook his head.
The librarian, he said, had spent too long at the university
Breathing the dust of books, drinking coffee, and chewing
On the stubs of pencils. Reality is the cow bellowing
When the calf is twisted inside her, her blood mixed
With straw on the ground, and the farmer’s wife left
To do the butchering, the farmer drunk in the pasture.
Reality, he said, is a cough, a fever, moving
Through a village or the cold slums of a city,
Confusion on the faces of the dying. The librarian
Struggled as he listened. He asked if there was nothing
Worth preserving, worth remembering? The saint shook
His head no, and the librarian stared at an old stain
On the floor, books waiting to be reshelved. The most
Words can do, said the saint, is remind us of the clouded
Eyes of rabbits sideways in the snow or the cries
Of a shopgirl crushed by the weight of her employer’s
Belly, held by his arms, his hand over her mouth.
Then, they do have a purpose, answered the librarian.
Such as it is, acknowledged the saint.
The Saint Sometimes Misses Belief
Although he would be reluctant to admit it, the saint of unbelievers sometimes misses belief.
Not for the usual reasons, though—he’s not afraid of dying,
and he stopped looking for purpose in the world when he was still an adolescent.
What the saint regrets are the conversations he might have had,
interrogating the right or wrong of his own actions and those of others, how he might have justified living as he does,
how he would have responded to the interlocutor who says nothing but whose silence is both question and answer.
As it is, he makes do with the sounds he hears at night in his cabin, the shrieks of owls,
the wind cracking a tree limb in winter, the muffled thump of snow sliding off the roof.
In the mountains where he lives, there are spots where he can look down on a village or town, not much different from the toy railroads constructed by children. Belief, he thinks, is like these views, full of certainty that the place he observes is what it purports to be. From the top of a mountain, the various pieces fit together so easily: the store across the main street from the train station, the schoolhouse and the church, the brothel and tavern. From the top of a mountain, everything looks symmetrical. From here, it would be easy to imagine the lives of villagers moving like the automatons of medieval clocks. At the same time each day, the baker will stand outside the glass door of his shop and stare in at the oven and the brown loaves of hard-crusted bread on the counter.
The saint knows that this view from a great height is completely wrong. The baker’s wife hides the bruises on her face. The librarian tells him that the baker’s children have similar bruises, and they never stop by anymore to turn the pages of a book. The saint knows that pain is never symmetrical, and he refuses to pretend that the pieces fit together.
It is no accident, he thinks—and it is only a thought because he has learned to do without an interlocutor—that prophets and philosophers have been so fond of mountaintops. They remind him of the hikers he has seen from time to time. They wear short pants and boots and carry ridiculously large bags on their backs. They climb to the top of this or that peak and then, full of achievement, back down to the village and the train station.
Whatever they think they have learned will disappoint them.
乔治·富兰克林[美国]
不信教者的圣人（外三首）
不信教者的圣人不听祷告，
也不将之传达给天使或上位神明。
他过着简朴隐遁的生活，编些篮子让村里的孩子拿去卖。
孩子们的母亲在烤面包时会送他一些面包，节假日还会送些晚餐吃食。
当酿酒师卖完酒桶里的酒，
他会倒掉沉淀的酒渣，放一瓶残酒在圣人的小屋门口。
如果你去拜访，别指望他会与你一起祈祷，甚至闲谈。
他的誓言不包括沉默，但他对来客了无耐心。
他们要么想从他那里得到什么，要么想炫耀曾与他说过话。
如果你想给不信教者的圣人留下印象，就在他路过或你路过时无视他。
就在那一刻看看手表，大声说：“没想到都这么晚了。”
圣人可能会对你的愚蠢摇头，但至少他不会诅咒你或让别人这么做。
如果这种情况发生不止一次，圣人可能会认为你值得他片刻审视。
他可能会转身打量，先看你的脚——你穿的是什么鞋？
他可能会想，这是一个周游四海见多识广的人吗？
然后，他会观察你的手。这个人做什么工作？他鄙视没有老茧的手。
他很少会看脸、面庞的线条或眼睛的形态。
像雅典人一样，他相信面相，但又与雅典人不同，
他不相信美丽、对称或者纯洁。
他更喜欢像苏格拉底那样的脸，目光中流露出种种罪恶。
最重要的是，不要装出一副道德高尚的表情。他厌恶这些甚于疮疡。
有一天，一个孩子问他，他行过什么神迹。
圣人不该行神迹，治愈病人，起死回生，或者在干旱时普降甘霖？
圣人笑了，仿佛孩子讲了一个自己并不理解的笑话。
圣人回答说，他没有打那孩子一耳光已经是个奇迹，然后笑着走开了。
圣人的存在让牧师们不安。他们害怕他评判他们，向天堂上报。
但圣人对与圣洁者交谈毫无兴趣，也对那些渴望成为圣洁者的人毫无兴趣。
离圣人的小屋一天路程的地方，有一个小镇，那里有火车站和图书馆。
图书馆员是个自由思想者，也就是说，虽然他想得不够深，但想的足够多。
这让圣人很高兴，所以天气晴朗的时候，他会去图书馆，
和图书馆员开玩笑，并扬言要给他赐福。
路人声称听到他们俩的笑声。
无所信仰
不信教者的圣人知道，无所信仰
并不容易。人类天生是心生
信仰的生物。或许是因为他们漫长的婴儿期、
父母宽大的手掌、令人安心的心跳、
母亲的胸膛贴近他们的面庞。他说，
人类沉溺于一个他们无法
摆脱的过去。然而圣人注意到他们并未完全
欺骗自己。他们知道，如果不种土豆和谷物，
冬天就会挨饿。如果不找庇护所，
寒冷的山夜会把他们冻僵。他们足够
聪明，不会频繁试探上帝。但圣人
什么都不信仰，也什么都不信任。他
自给自足，但仅此而已。
积累超过一袋燕麦的财富——哪怕发霉，
就是冒险相信财富的保护。
同样的风险也适用于房子或谷仓。
圣人居住的小屋很旧，木板间有缝隙，
风吟唱着穿过，冰在墙上凝结。
水从椽子上滴落时，他感到安慰，
但这不是信仰的安慰，
只是对事实的短暂确认，
对一种无需他信仰的生活的确认。
有一次，他发现了一头冻死的
雄鹿，鹿角显示它熬过了一冬又一冬。
圣人尽其所能，皮肉为用，
剩下的留给了狐狸和老鼠。
但之后，他感到困扰。
对死亡本身的认知，是否也是一种信仰？
书上尘
不信教者的圣人不读诗。
图书馆员本想使其对里尔克和特拉克尔感兴趣，
然后是米沃什，但都无果而终。圣人说，
这么多文字，究竟为了什么？ 图书馆员
极力辩护，回答说，诗歌能打破
洋洋自得的确定性，让读者直面
除更换轮胎和敲击收银机键盘
之外的现实。圣人摇了摇头。
他说，图书馆员在大学里待得太久，
呼吸着书上灰尘，喝着咖啡，咬着
铅笔头。现实是母牛
在小牛难产时的哞吼，她的血
混着地上的稻草，农夫的妻子
不得不拿起屠刀，而农夫恰好醉倒不起。
他说，现实是咳嗽，是发烧，
在村庄或城市的寒冷贫民窟中蔓延，
是垂死者脸上的困惑。图书馆员
听着，一阵矛盾纠结。他问，难道没有什么
值得保存、值得铭记？圣人摇头说，
没有。图书馆员盯着地板上
一块旧污渍，还有很多书等着归架。
圣人说，文字最多只能提醒我们
兔子在雪中侧躺时浑浊的眼睛，
或是被雇主压在身下的女店员的哭喊，
他一只手捂住她的嘴，双臂如锁。
图书馆员说，文字确实有这种功能。
可不就是这样，圣人点头颔许。
圣人有时也会怀念信仰
尽管他不愿承认，但不信教者的圣人有时也会怀念信仰。
不过，并非出于寻常原因——他不怕死，早在少年时，他就不再
于人世间寻找意义。
圣人遗憾的是那些他本可以进行的对话，探讨自己或他人行为的对错，
他如何为自己这样生活辩言，
他如何回应那个对话者的一言不发，他的沉默既是提问也是回答。
事实上，晚上在小屋里听到的声音，猫头鹰的尖叫，
冬风折断树枝的脆响，雪从屋顶滑落的闷击，他都听之任之。
在他居住的山区，有些地方可以俯瞰村庄或小镇，与孩子们搭建的
轨道玩具没什么不同。他想，信仰就像这些景色，充满确定性，
他观察的地方就是它应有的样子。从山顶望去，各个部分如此轻易地
拼合在一起：火车站对面的商店、校舍和教堂、妓院和酒馆。
从山顶望去，一切都看起来对称。从这里，很容易想象村民的
生活像中世纪钟表的机械装置一样运转。每天同一时间，面包师
会站在他店铺的玻璃门外，凝视着烤箱和柜台上棕色的硬皮面包。
圣人知道，这种从高处俯瞰的视角完全错误。面包师的妻子遮起
脸上的淤青。图书馆员告诉他，面包师的孩子也有类似的伤痕，
他们再也不来翻书了。圣人知道，痛苦从来不对称，他拒绝假装
这些碎片可以拼合。
他想——只是一个想法，因为他已学会不需要对话者——
先知和哲学家如此喜爱山巅，这并非偶然。他们让他想起那些经常
看到的徒步者，穿着短裤和靴子，背着大得可笑的包，爬上这座
或那座山峰，然后满怀成就感地回到村子和火车站。
无论他们以为自己学到了什么，他们都会失望而返。
（颜海峰教授 译；Tr. Prof. Yan Haifeng）
Aboout the author
George Franklin, a famous poet, was born in Shreveport, state of Louisiana, USA, on 1953, and is the author of seven poetry collections: What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused, Remote Cities, Noise of the World, Traveling for No Good Reason, Among the Ruins/Entre las ruinas, Travels of the Angel of Sorrow, Conversaciones sobre agua/Conversations About Water (a dual-language collection in collaboration with Colombian poet Ximena Gómez), and a book of essays, Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing. He received an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University, a PhD in English & American Literature from Brandeis University, and a JD from University of Miami. He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for the literary journal Cagibi, teaches poetry classes in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez’s Último día/Last Day. In 2020, he won first prize in the Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize, and in 2023, he was the first prize winner for the W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize.
作者简介
乔治·富兰克林，美国著名诗人，1953年出生于美国路易斯安那州什里夫波特。出版诗集7部：《天使所见》《圣人拒绝的》《遥远的城市》《世界的喧嚣》《无谓的旅行》《废墟之间》和《悲伤天使的旅程》，与哥伦比亚诗人西梅娜·戈麦斯合作双语诗集《关于水的对话》。此外，还出版有散文集《诗歌与鸽子：写作短论》。富兰克林拥有哥伦比亚大学诗歌艺术硕士学位、布兰迪斯大学英美文学博士学位，以及迈阿密大学法学博士学位。他在迈阿密从事法律工作，同时担任文学期刊《小房间》的翻译编辑，并在佛罗里达州监狱教授诗歌课程。他还与作者西梅娜·戈麦斯共同翻译了她的作品《最后一天》。2020年，获得斯蒂芬·A·迪比亚塞诗歌奖一等奖，2023年荣获叶芝诗歌奖一等奖。
