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安妮·塞克斯頓（Anne Sexton，1928--1974），美國(guó)著名女詩(shī)人。1967年因詩(shī)集《生或死》獲得普利策獎(jiǎng)。她是現(xiàn)代婦女解放運(yùn)動(dòng)的先驅(qū)之一， 美國(guó)著名自白派詩(shī)人。生前曾患有精神病，詩(shī)歌創(chuàng)作起初是心理醫(yī)師教給她的一種精神康復(fù)手段。她的詩(shī)作敏銳、坦誠(chéng)、有力，充滿著不可思議的視野和意象。1974年自殺身亡。 奧斯維辛之后 憤怒，
像鉤子一般黑，
罹降于我。
每一天,
每個(gè)納粹
在，早晨八點(diǎn)擄走,一個(gè)嬰兒
扔進(jìn)他的煎鍋里
炒了當(dāng)早餐。
而死亡用不經(jīng)意的眼神旁觀
并剔著指甲蓋下的土。
人是魔鬼，
我高聲道。
人是一朵花
應(yīng)被焚燒掉，
我高聲道。
人
是只滿是泥漿的鳥
我高聲道。
而死亡用不經(jīng)意的眼神旁觀
還撓著他的肛門。
人，長(zhǎng)著很小的粉紅腳趾，
長(zhǎng)著能開創(chuàng)奇跡的指頭
不是一座神廟
而是一間茅廁，
我高聲道。
讓人呵再舉不起他的茶杯。
讓人呵再無法著書立傳。
讓人呵再也穿不上他的鞋。
讓人呵再也抬不起眼睛，
在一個(gè)柔和的七月夜晚。
再也不。再也不。再也不。再也不。再也不。
我高聲道出那些事物。
我乞求上帝不要聽見。 (那顆晴空 譯)
After Auschwitz
Anger,
as blackn as a hook,
overtakes me.
Each day,
each Nazi
took,at 8:00 A.M.,a baby
and sauteed him for breakfast
in his frying pan.
And death looks on with a casual eye
and picks at the dirt under his fingernail.
Man is evil,
I say aloud.
Man is a flower
that should be burnt,
I say aloud.
Man
is a bird full of mud,
I say aloud.
And death looks on with a casual eye
and scratches his anus.
Man with his small pink toes,
with his miraculous fingers
is not a temple
but an outhouse,
I say aloud.
Let man never again raise his teacup.
Let man never again write a book.
Let man never again put on his shoe.
Let man never again raise his eyes,
on a soft July night.
Never.Never. Never.Never.Never.
I say those things aloud.
I beg the Lord not to hear.
真理死者知曉
致慈母，生于1902年3月，卒于1959年3月
致嚴(yán)父，生于1900年2月，卒于1959年6月
去了，我說著并步出教堂，
拒絕同僵直的送殯隊(duì)走向墓園，
還是讓死者獨(dú)自乘靈車前往。
這是六月。我已在勇敢中疲倦。
我們駛向科德角。太陽淌盡
天邊光輝之時(shí)我追尋我自己，
海水搖擺著過來像一扇鐵門
繼而我們靠岸。在另一國(guó)度中人們死去。
我親愛的，風(fēng)像石頭一般塌陷
自白色之心的水中，而當(dāng)我們觸摸
我們?nèi)贿M(jìn)入觸摸。沒有人孤單。
人們因這一點(diǎn)死去，或諸如這么多。
那么死者又怎樣？他們沒有穿鞋
躺在石頭船里。如若大海停住
他們不像海而更像石頭。他們拒絕
被祝福，喉嚨，眼睛和關(guān)節(jié)骨。
1960—1962
(那顆晴空 譯) 選自詩(shī)人詩(shī)集《我所有可愛的人》
（All My Pretty Ones，1962）
The Truth The Dead Know
For my Mother, born March 1902,died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900,died June 1959
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June.I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape.I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely.No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead?They lie without shoes
in the stone boats.They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped.They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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