Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme--

那些有如神助的结构、情节和韵脚——

why are they no help to me now

为什么现在于我已无用处，

I want to make

当我要创造

something imagined, not recalled?

一种想象而成而非回忆出来的东西？

I hear the noise of my own voice:

我听得到我自己说话如聒噪：

The painter's vision is not a lens,

画家的灵视绝非一个透镜，

it trembles to caress the light.

它摩挲光线便会颤抖。

But sometimes everything I write

但有时我眼光的技巧陈俗，

with the threadbare art of my eye

以此写出的一切

seems a snapshot,

看似一张快照，

lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,

刺激、应景、花哨、按组贴签，

heightened from life,

从生活中拔高，

yet paralyzed by fact.

但又被事实瘫痪。

All's misalliance.

一切都是失当的联盟。

Yet why not say what happened?

然而为何不直说发生了什么？

Pray for the grace of accuracy

祈求达到维米尔的准确所具有的

Vermeer gave to the sun's illumination

优雅，他那个满溢思念的女孩

stealing like the tide across a map

受到太阳的启示，被他描绘得

to his girl solid with yearning.

犹如潮水流经一张地图。

We are poor passing facts,

我们都是仓促而过的可怜事实，

warned by that to give

受到这事警示，要让

each figure in the photograph

照片中的每一个形象

his living name.

具有一个活生生的名字。