精美英文诗歌：La Coursier de Jeanne D'Arc

yuci010 · 發表於 2016-6-20 15:10:19

　　You know that they burned her horse
　　before her. Though it is not recorded，
　　you know that they burned her Percheron
　　first， before her eyes， because you
　　know that story， so old that story，
　　the routine story， carried to its
　　extreme， of the cruelty that can make
　　of what a woman hears a silence，
　　that can make of what a woman sees
　　a lie. She had no son for them to burn，
　　for them to take from her in the world
　　not of her making and put to its pyre，
　　so they layered a greater one in front of
　　where she was staked to her own——
　　as you have seen her pictured sometimes，
　　her eyes raised to the sky. But they were
　　not raised. This is yet one of their lies.
　　They were not closed. Though her hands
　　were bound behind her， and her feet were
　　bound deep in what would become fire，
　　she watched. Of greenwood stakes
　　head-high and thicker than a man's waist
　　they laced the narrow corral that would not
　　burn until flesh had burned， until
　　bone was burning， and laid it thick
　　with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur，
　　kindling and logs——and ran a ramp
　　up to its height from where the gray horse
　　waited， his dapples making of his flesh
　　a living metal， layers of life
　　through which the light shone out
　　in places as it seems to through the flesh
　　of certain fish， a light she knew
　　as purest， coming， like that， from within.
　　Not flinching， not praying， she looked
　　the last time on the body she knew
　　better than the flesh of any man， or child，
　　or woman， having long since left the lap
　　of her mother——the chest with its
　　perfect plates of muscle， the neck
　　with its perfect， prow-like curve，
　　the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft
　　pennoned with the silk of his tail.
　　Having ridden as they did together
　　——those places， that hard， that long——
　　their eyes found easiest that day
　　the way to each other， their bodies
　　wedded in a sacrament unmediated
　　by man. With fire they drove him
　　up the ramp and off into the pyre
　　and tossed the flame in with him.
　　This was the last chance they gave her
　　to recant her world， in which their power
　　came not from God. Unmoved， the Men
　　of God began watching him burn， and better，
　　watching her watch him burn， hearing
　　the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror，
　　his crashing in the wood， the groan
　　of stakes that held， the silverblack hide，
　　the pricked ears catching first
　　like driest bark， and the eyes.
　　and she knew， by this agony， that she
　　might choose to live still， if she would
　　but make her sign on the parchment
　　they would lay before her， which now
　　would include this new truth： that it
　　did not happen， this death in the circle，
　　the rearing， plunging， raging， the splendid
　　armour-colored head raised one last time
　　above the flames before they took him
　　——like any game untended on the spit——into
　　their yellow-green， their blackening red.

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[英文] 精美英文诗歌：La Coursier de Jeanne D'Arc

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