一、Epilogue
Truly， my Satan， thou art but a dunce，
And dost not know the garment from the man；
Every harlot was a virgin once，
Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan．
Tho' thou art worship'd by the names divine
Of Jesus and Jehovah， thou art still
The Son of Morn in weary Night's decline，
The lost traveller's dream under the hill．
二、A process in the weather of the heart
A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry； the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb．
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day； blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm．
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness； and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out．
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light； the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land．
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit； and half drops down，
Slow in a sleeping wind．
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry； the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye．
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost； each mothered child
Sits in their double shade．
A process blows the moon into the sun，
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin；
And the heart gives up its dead．
三、Epitaph
by Eric Pankey
Beyond the traceries of the auroras，
The fires of tattered sea foam，
The ghost－terrain of submerged icebergs；
Beyond a cinder dome's black sands，
Beyond peninsula and archipelago，
Archipelago and far－flung islands，
You have made of exile a homeland，
Voyager， and of that chosen depth， a repose．
The eel shimmers and the dogfish darts，
A dance of crisscrosses and trespasses
Through distillate glints and nacreous silts，
And the sun， like fronds of royal palm
Wind－torn， tossed， lashes upon the wake，
But no lamplight mars or bleaches your realm，
A dark of sediment， spawn， slough， and lees，
Runoff， pitch－black， from the rivers of Psalms．
四、Cachoeira
by Marilyn Nelson
We slept， woke， breakfasted， and met the man
we'd hired as a tour guide， with a van
and driver， for the day． We were to drive
to Cachoeira， where the sisters live：
the famous Sisterhood of the Good Death，
founded by former slaves in the nineteenth
century． "Negroes of the Higher Ground，"
they called themselves， the governesses who found
ed the Sisterhood as a way to serve the poor．
Their motto， "Aiye Orun，" names the door
between this world and the other， kept ajar．
They teach that death is relative： We rise
to dance again． Locally canonized，
they lead quiet， celibate， nunnish lives，
joining after they've been mothers and wives，
at between fifty and seventy years of age：
a sisterhood of sages in matronage．
We drove on Salvador's four－lane boulevards，
past unpainted cement houses， and billboards，
and pedestrians wearing plastic shoes，
and little shops， and streets， and avenues，
a park， a mall ． ． ． Our guide was excellent：
fluent in English， and intelligent，
willing to answer questions patiently
and to wait out our jokes． The history
of Salvador flew past． At Tororo
we slowed as much as the traffic would allow，
to see the Orixas dancing on the lake
in their bright skirts． The road we took
sped past high－rise apartment neighborhoods，
then scattered shacks， then nothing but deep woods
of trees I didn't recognize and lands
that seemed to be untouched by human hands．
We stopped in a village， where it was market day．
We walked among the crowds， taller than they
and kilos heavier， tasting jackfruit
and boiled peanuts， embraced by absolute，
respectful welcome， like visiting gods
whose very presence is good news． Our guide
suggested a rest stop． We were sipping Coke
when a man came into the shop and quietly spoke
to our guide， who translated his request：
Would we come to his nightclub， be his guests?
We didn't understand， but shrugged and went
a few doors down the street． "What does he want?"
we asked． The club hadn't been opened yet；
by inviting us in， the owner hoped to get
our blessings for it． Which we humbly gave：
visiting rich American descendants of slaves．
For hours we drove through a deep wilderness，
laughing like children on a field－trip bus．
We made a side trip to the family home
of Bahia's favorite daughter and son，
the Velosos， Bethania and Caetano，
in the small town of Santo Amaro．
The greenery flew by until the descent
into a river valley． There we went
to a nice little restaurant to dine
on octopus stew， rice， manioc， and wine．
Then we crossed a rickety bridge behind a dray
drawn by a donkey， and wended our way，
at last， to Cachoeira， an old town
of colonial buildings， universally tan
and shuttered， darkly lining narrow streets．
A tethered rooster pecked around our feet
in the souvenir shop． At the convent
I wondered what the statues really meant：
Was it Mary， or was it Yemanja
in the chapel， blue－robed， over the altar?
Was it Mary on the glass－enclosed bier，
her blue robe gold－embroidered， pearls in her hair，
or was it the Orixa of the sea?
There were no Sisters around for us to see；
they were in solitude， preparing for the Feast
of the Assumption， when the Virgin passed
painlessly from this world into the next，
Aiye to Orun． Posters showed them decked
out for their big Assumption Day parade，
big， handsome mamas wearing Orixa beads，
white turbans and blouses， red shawls， black skirts．
The man in their gift shop was an expert
on the Sisters' long struggle to find a way
to serve the Christian Church and Candombl ．
The eldest Sister is called "the Perpetual Judge"；
every seventh year， she becomes the bridge
on which the Virgin Mary crosses back，
sorrowing love incarnate in a black
ninety－odd－year－old woman facing death
and saying Magnificat with every breath．
We drove out of the valley looking back
on lightbulbs which intensified the thick，
incomprehensible， mysterious
darkness of the unknown． Grown serious
and silent in our air－conditioned van，
we rode back into the quotidian．
五、Episode
by Irving Feldman
Their quarrel sent them reeling from the house．
Anything， just get on the road and get away．
Driven out， they drove． ． ． miles into countryside，
confined and bickering， then cold， polite；
she read a book， or looked out at hillside pastures；
once， faraway life came close， and they stopped
in mist for muddy， slow cows at a crossing，
then， tilted， shuddering， a tractor came across；
coldly silent other hours of trees after trees
interspersed with straggling villages——then hot；
her voice pulsing， tempestuous， against the dash，
buffeted， blew up； the slammed her hand down， hard．
"You let it happen——you know you did．
And you make me the bad one——all the time！
I won't stand for it another second．" And then，
irrationally， "Look at me， I'm talking to you！"
What half－faced her was mulish， scolded sullenness
——who gripped the wheel and to scare her drove faster，
scaring himself； he felt out of control， dangerous．
Downhill， the road darkened， dropped out of sight．
At the bottom， racing toward them， three lights，
and trees． ． ． ． Remember this， remember this，
she thought， the last thing I will ever see．
Diner， tavern， café， whatever it was．
The car spun suddenly into the parking lot．
She grabbed at the key， threw it out． Shaken， they sat
——while their momentum went on raging down the road．
They knew they might have been killed——by each other，
had someone been up to just one more dare．
六、A Quick One Before I Go
There comes a time in every man's life
when he thinks： I have never had a single
original thought in my life
including this one & therefore I shall
eliminate all ideas from my poems
which shall consist of cats， rice， rain
baseball cards， fire escapes， hanging plants
red brick houses where I shall give up booze
and organized religion even if it means
despair is a logical possibility that can't
be disproved I shall concentrate on the five
senses and what they half perceive and half
create， the green street signs with white
letters on them the body next to mine
asleep while I think these thoughts
that I want to eliminate like nostalgia
0 was there ever a man who felt as I do
like a pronoun out of step with all the other
floating signifiers no things but in words
an orange T－shirt a lime green awning
[英文歌歌词]