【译】《纪念叶芝》 奥登 （兼怀马尔克斯）
早晨得知诺奖获得者，马尔克斯去世的消息。没有很震惊，因了解这些年来他始终在忍受着病痛，如今倒也是种解脱。但不管怎样，这世间精神的明星又熄灭了一颗。用一首从前的译诗，向先贤致敬！
【英诗汉译】
《纪念叶芝》
作者：【英、美】 W.H.奥登
译者： 张崇殷
I
他消失在冬日的衰亡里：
溪流被封冻，机场几近荒弃，
积雪扭曲了露天的雕像；
水银柱沉陷这垂死一日的口中。
哦，所有仪表都同意
他死去的当天，寒暗而阴冷。
远离他的疾病，
群狼不断奔跑过常青的树林，
农夫的河流不受时髦码头的引诱；
根据哀悼的口吻
诗人之死便与其诗分割开来。
但对他而言，这是作为自己最后一个下午，
一个充斥看护与流言的午后；
他身体的各省叛了变，
他头脑的广场也已清空，
寂静入侵城郊，
他感觉之流颓萎，成为自身的青睐者。
如今他被分散往千百个城市
完全交付给不熟悉的情感，
在另一类林中找寻幸福
并在迥异良知的法典下责罚；
一个亡者的文字
要在活人的肺腑中润色。
但在明日的重大和喧嚣里
掮客们在交易所野兽般咆哮，
穷人们遭受其习以为常的苦难，
人人都差不多在自我囚牢里坚信自由，
有几千人将会想起这一天
就像想起某一天，他做过稍不寻常的事
哦，所有仪表都同意
他死去的当天，寒暗而阴冷。
II
你像我们一样愚笨，你的天赋却幸存了
一切；富婆的教区，肉体的腐烂，
你自己。疯狂的爱尔兰伤你入诗。现在
爱尔兰的疯狂和她的气象依旧。
因诗不可使任何事发生；它幸存于
自身造就的山谷，官员们于此
绝不会想要干预，它向南奔流
在孤立与纷繁悲伤的牧场间流去，
那我们信赖和葬身的粗率城镇；诗歌存续，
是“发生”的一条门径，也是出口。
III
大地，请接纳一位尊贵的客人；
威廉 叶芝就要长久安寝。
当他业已倾尽其诗
来把爱尔兰的盒骨安置。
时间，它不能宽容
那些纯洁与英勇，
也可在一个星期里
漠然面对一个优雅的躯体。
却崇拜语言，并原谅
承载它的每个对象；
懦弱与自负，也赦免，
将其荣誉洒在脚边。
时间，持这种奇特的理由
吉卜林与其观点被宽宥，
还会原谅保罗 克洛岱尔
原谅他文笔优异。
黑暗的梦魇在笼罩
欧洲的犬狗竞声吠叫。
尚存的民族也等待着，
为彼此的仇恨所分隔；
智性上的屈辱
从每个人的脸上显露，
而怜悯的海洋静卧
在每只眼里冻结、上锁。
跟去罢，诗人。跟随正义
去往那黑夜的谷底。
用你那无拘无束的声音，
依旧劝勉我们要欢欣。
靠耕耘一片诗田
将诅咒化为藤园，
在一阵苦难的狂喜引吭，
吟诵人类徒劳的进向。
在心灵的荒漠之中，
让愈疗的清泉喷涌。
就在他时日的监牢里，
教授给自由者如何赞美。
2013.4
这首诗是奥登的代表作，也是现代诗歌很光辉的一页。
这是去年此际，我对这首诗的诠释。恰逢今日得知，马尔克斯先生去世，于此缅怀。
这首诗首节用散韵，二节起始用尾韵；第三节韵式上则回归传统的“双行体”；译本遵循原诗这一特点。
In Memory Of W.B. Yeats
W.H. Auden
I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.
Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
1939
【英诗汉译】
《纪念叶芝》
作者：【英、美】 W.H.奥登
译者： 张崇殷
I
他消失在冬日的衰亡里：
溪流被封冻，机场几近荒弃，
积雪扭曲了露天的雕像；
水银柱沉陷这垂死一日的口中。
哦，所有仪表都同意
他死去的当天，寒暗而阴冷。
远离他的疾病，
群狼不断奔跑过常青的树林，
农夫的河流不受时髦码头的引诱；
根据哀悼的口吻
诗人之死便与其诗分割开来。
但对他而言，这是作为自己最后一个下午，
一个充斥看护与流言的午后；
他身体的各省叛了变，
他头脑的广场也已清空，
寂静入侵城郊，
他感觉之流颓萎，成为自身的青睐者。
如今他被分散往千百个城市
完全交付给不熟悉的情感，
在另一类林中找寻幸福
并在迥异良知的法典下责罚；
一个亡者的文字
要在活人的肺腑中润色。
但在明日的重大和喧嚣里
掮客们在交易所野兽般咆哮，
穷人们遭受其习以为常的苦难，
人人都差不多在自我囚牢里坚信自由，
有几千人将会想起这一天
就像想起某一天，他做过稍不寻常的事
哦，所有仪表都同意
他死去的当天，寒暗而阴冷。
II
你像我们一样愚笨，你的天赋却幸存了
一切；富婆的教区，肉体的腐烂，
你自己。疯狂的爱尔兰伤你入诗。现在
爱尔兰的疯狂和她的气象依旧。
因诗不可使任何事发生；它幸存于
自身造就的山谷，官员们于此
绝不会想要干预，它向南奔流
在孤立与纷繁悲伤的牧场间流去，
那我们信赖和葬身的粗率城镇；诗歌存续，
是“发生”的一条门径，也是出口。
III
大地，请接纳一位尊贵的客人；
威廉 叶芝就要长久安寝。
当他业已倾尽其诗
来把爱尔兰的盒骨安置。
时间，它不能宽容
那些纯洁与英勇，
也可在一个星期里
漠然面对一个优雅的躯体。
却崇拜语言，并原谅
承载它的每个对象；
懦弱与自负，也赦免，
将其荣誉洒在脚边。
时间，持这种奇特的理由
吉卜林与其观点被宽宥，
还会原谅保罗 克洛岱尔
原谅他文笔优异。
黑暗的梦魇在笼罩
欧洲的犬狗竞声吠叫。
尚存的民族也等待着，
为彼此的仇恨所分隔；
智性上的屈辱
从每个人的脸上显露，
而怜悯的海洋静卧
在每只眼里冻结、上锁。
跟去罢，诗人。跟随正义
去往那黑夜的谷底。
用你那无拘无束的声音，
依旧劝勉我们要欢欣。
靠耕耘一片诗田
将诅咒化为藤园，
在一阵苦难的狂喜引吭，
吟诵人类徒劳的进向。
在心灵的荒漠之中，
让愈疗的清泉喷涌。
就在他时日的监牢里，
教授给自由者如何赞美。
2013.4
这首诗是奥登的代表作，也是现代诗歌很光辉的一页。
这是去年此际，我对这首诗的诠释。恰逢今日得知，马尔克斯先生去世，于此缅怀。
这首诗首节用散韵，二节起始用尾韵；第三节韵式上则回归传统的“双行体”；译本遵循原诗这一特点。
In Memory Of W.B. Yeats
W.H. Auden
I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.
Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
1939
