现代主义以来的世界译诗：废纸篓（下）
现代主义以来的世界译诗：废纸篓（上）
Jaime Gil de Biedma
ARTE POETICA
A Vicente Aleixandre
La nostalgia del sol en los terrados,
en el muro color paloma de cemento
— sin embargo tan vívido — y el frío
repentino que casi sobrecoge.
La dulzura, el calor de los labios a solas
en medio de la calle familiar
igual que un gran salón, donde acudieran
multitudes lejanas como seres queridos.
Y sobre todo el vértigo del tiempo,
el gran boquete abriéndose hacia dentro del alma
mientras arriba sobrenadan promesas
que desmayan, lo mismo que si espumas.
Es sin duda el momento de pensar
que el hccho de estar vivo exige algo,
acaso heroicidades — o basta, simplemente,
alguna humilde cosa común
cuya corteza de materia terrestre
tratar entre los dedos, con un poco de fe?
Palabras, por ejemplo.
Palabras de familia gastadas tibiamente.
ARS POETICA
For Vicente Aleixandre
The longing for sun on roof terraces,
on the pigeon-hued concrete wall —
yet what colors — and the abrupt
chill that almost startles.
The sweetness, warmth of lips alone
in the middle of a street cozy
as a big living room where faraway
crowds come together as loved ones.
And above all, the whirling of time’s
great gap spiraling in toward the spirit
while overhead, promises float by
fizzling out like foam.
No doubt the moment’s come to realize
just being alive demands something,
lofty deeds, maybe — or simply, is some
common everyday thing enough,
one whose crust of earthy stuff
fingers can fashion with a little faith?
Words, for instance.
Household words worn warm with use.
艺术诗学
致文森特·阿莱克桑德雷
在屋顶露台上对太阳的渴望，
在鸽色的水泥墙上——
但什么颜色——和这突发的
寒意使人几乎吓了一跳。
街道中间仅仅嘴唇的
芳香和温暖舒适地
像一间大起居室，在那里远处的
人群就像相爱的人一样聚集。
而最重要的是，时间那巨大裂口上的
漩涡盘旋着朝精神绕紧
在而头顶，漂浮而过的誓言
发出泡沫般的嘶嘶声。
无疑这一刻已经意识到
仅仅活着需要一些东西，
也许，崇高的行为——或简单地，那些
普通的日常事物就足够了，
谁的以泥质材料作外壳的手指
能制成一个小小的信仰？
比如说，词语。
家喻户晓的词语在使用中被磨得发烫。
Antonio Deltoro
LOS TÍMIDOS
a Javier
A veces prefiero la llama de la hornilla en la estufa a un resplandor de fuego.
Los tímidos se ocultan en la niebla
pero quieren el sol solitario de una banca tranquila.
¿Dónde, en qué lugar, está su timidez más reposada?
¿En los jardines invernales o en los parques de abril?
¿Cuál es el mes de los tímidos? ¿Cuál es su hora?
Me atraen las costumbres de los tímidos,
su pisar cuidadoso, su introducirse con el cuello crispado,
su descanso a la sombra de las miradas del prójimo, su pulcritud, su nerviosismo.
El tiempo de los hombres no vence el rubor de los tímidos.
Tropiezan por delicadeza, porque sienten todo vivo, por exceso de escrúpulos.
Porque están enamorados del rigor son inseguros;
son los exploradores de perfil de los centímetros.
Ante las puertas pierden su escaso aplomo,
ellos son la conciencia de los umbrales y las fronteras.
Boquean su silencio como los peces en la superficie de un estanque el oxígeno
y su lengua es un anzuelo de incandescencia y pudor.
Permanecen en la infancia y en la adolescencia;
a su delicadeza no la mella la edad;
de ancianos pueden sonrojarse ante su propia muerte;
lo mismo que lo hacen, a pesar de sus canas,
ante la presencia de un extraño o de una mirada femenina.
The Shy Ones
for Javier
Sometimes I prefer the stove’s pilot light to the splendor of a fire.
The shy ones hide in the mist
but want the solitary sun of a peaceful bench.
Where, in what place, does your most intimate shyness lie?
In the winter gardens or in the green parks of spring?
What is the month for shy people? What is their time?
I’m intrigued by the customs of shy people,
their careful step, their hunched introductions,
their shadowed rest from the gaze of others, their neatness, their nervousness.
The time of men cannot vanquish the shame of shy people.
They trip and fall from delicateness, because they feel everything alive, from an excess of
Scruples.
Because they love rigor they are insecure;
they explore the precision of centimeters.
In front of doors they lose their rare aplomb,
they are the conscience of limits and thresholds.
They mouth silence like fish breathe in oxygen at the surface of a tank.
Permanently stuck between infancy and adolescence,
their delicateness is unaffected by age;
when older they blush before their own death,
just as they do, despite their graying,
before a stranger or a woman’s stare.
(Traducción de Christian Viveros-Fauné)
害羞者
安东尼·德尔托罗
致哈维尔
有时我偏爱炉中的小火花胜过熊熊大火。
害羞者藏在雾里
但渴求宁静的长凳上孤独的太阳。
在哪儿，在什么地方，安放着你那最私密的羞涩？
在冬日的花园还是春天里绿色的公园？
哪一个月专属害羞的人们？他们的时间是什么？
我被他们的习俗迷住了，
他们小心翼翼的步子，他们缩头缩脑的自我介绍，
他们在别人的注视中带有阴影的安憩，他们的整洁，他们的神经质。
人类的时间不能征服害羞的人们的羞惭。
他们绊一跤，从精美中被打碎，因为在超额的顾虑中，他们发现一切都活生生的。
因为他们凡事苛求，他们没有安全感；
他们探索厘米的精确性。
在门前他们失去他们少有的沉着，
他们对边界和阈值怀着良知。
他们嘴巴沉默如同鱼类在水箱的表面吸进氧气。
长期卡在幼年和青春期之间，
他们的精美不受年龄的影响；
年老时他们为自己的死而脸红，
就像即使他们白发苍苍，
在生人或女性的注视下会是的样子。
고은 (Ko Un)
햇볕
어쩔 줄 모르겠구나
침을 삼키고
불행을 삼키자
9사상 반 평짜리 북창 감방에
고귀한 손님이 오신다
과장 순시가 아니라
저녁 무렵 한동안의 햇볕
접고 접은 딱지만하게 햇볕이 오신다
환장하겠다 첫사랑
거기에 손바닥 놓아본다
수줍은 발벗어 발가락을 쪼인다
그러다가 엎드려
비종교적으로 마른 얼굴 대고 있으면
햇볕 조각은 덧없이 미끄러진다
쇠창살 넘어 손님은 덧없이 떠난 뒤
방안은 몇 곱으로 춥다 어둡다
육군교도소 특감은 암실이다
햇볕 없이 히히 웃었다
하루는 송장 넣은 관이었고
하루는 전혀 바다였다
용하도다 거기서 사람들 몇이 살아난 것이다
살아 있다는 것은 돛단배 하나 없는 바다이기도 하구나
Sunlight
I'm utterly helpless.
I'll just have to swallow my spit
and adversity, too.
But look!
A distinguished visitor deigns to visit
my tiny, north-facing cell.
Not the chief making his rounds, no.
As evening falls, a ray of sunlight.
A gleam no bigger than a crumpled postage stamp.
I'm crazy about it! Real first love!
I try to get it to settle on the palm of my hand,
to warm the toes of my shyly bared foot.
Then as I kneel and offer it my undevout, lean face,
in a moment that scrap of sunlight slips away.
After the guest has departed through the bars
the room feels several times colder and darker.
This special cell of a military prison
is like a photographer's darkroom.
Without any sunlight I laughed like a fool.
One day it was a coffin holding a corpse.
One day it was altogether the sea. How wonderful!
A few people survive here.
Being alive is a sea
without a single sail in sight.
阳光
我完全无助。
我必须吞掉自己的痰
和自己的不幸。
但是瞧！
一位高贵的客人屈尊拜访
我那狭小、朝北的牢房。
不是首领的巡视，不。
当夜晚降临，一缕阳光。
一线还没有邮票大的闪光。
我为此而疯狂！真正第一次的爱！
我试图让它安歇在我的手掌上，
让它温暖我胆怯而坦露的脚趾。
当我跪下，向它献出我不虔诚的瘦脸，
有一瞬间那阳光的碎片滑走了。
当栅栏里的客人离去后，
房间有好几次看起来更冷、更幽暗。
这个特殊的军事监狱
就像摄影师的暗室一样。
没有任何阳光，我笑得像个傻子。
一天那曾是装着尸体的棺材。
一天那曾是整个大海。多么奇妙！
很少人从这里生还。
活着是一个大海
眼里一张帆影也没有。
Les Murray
Bottles in the Bombed City Related Poem Content Details
BY LES MURRAY
They gave the city a stroke. Its memories
are cordoned off. They could collapse on you.
Water leaks into bricks of the Workers’ century
and every meaning is blurred. No word in Roget
now squares with another. If the word is Manchester
it may be Australia, where that means sheets and towels.
To give the city a stroke, they mixed a lorryload
of henbane and meadowsweet oil and countrified her.
Now Engels supports Max, and the British Union
of beautiful ceramics is being shovelled up,
blue-green tiles of the Corn Exchange,
umber gloss bricks of the Royal Midlands Hotel.
Unmelting ice everywhere, and loosened molecules.
When the stroke came, every bottle winked at its neighbour.
莱斯·默瑞
跟诗歌内容的细节相关的被轰炸的城市中的瓶子
他们给了这城市一击。它的记忆
被隔离起来。它们会倒在你身上。
水漏进工人世纪的砖里
而一切意义都被模糊了。罗杰词典中的任何词
都不再符合别的词。如果那词是曼彻斯特
它也可能是澳大利亚，在那里它们意味着纸张和毛巾。
为了给这城市一击，他们混合了一卡车的
莨菪和绣线菊变成的石油以及俗气的女人。
现在恩格斯支持马克思，制作精美陶器的
英国工会正被铲除，
碧蓝色的谷物交易的瓷砖，
皇家中部旅馆的棕色的发光砖块。
无处不在的没有融化的冰，松开的分子。
当这一击到来，每一个瓶子都朝它的邻居眨眼。
Yehuda Amihai
אדם בחייו / יהודה עמיחי
אדם בחייו אין לו זמן שיהיה לו
זמן לכל.
ואין לו עת שתהיה לו עת
לכל חפץ. קהלת לא צדק כשאמר כך.
אדם צריך לשנוא ולאהוב בבת אחת,
באותן עיניים לבכות ובאותן עיניים לצחוק
באותן ידיים לזרוק אבנים
ובאותן ידיים לאסוף אותן,
לעשות אהבה במלחמה ומלחמה באהבה.
ולשנוא ולסלוח ולזכור ולשכוח
ולסדר ולבלבל ולאכול ולעכל
את מה שהיסטוריה ארוכה
עושה בשנים רבות מאוד.
אדם בחייו אין לו זמן.
כשהוא מאבד הוא מחפש
כשהוא מוצא הוא שוכח,
כשהוא שוכח הוא אוהב
וכשהוא אוהב הוא מתחיל לשכוח.
ונפשו למודה,
ונפשו מקצועית מאוד
רק גופו נשאר חובב
תמיד. מנסה וטועה
לא לומד ומתבלבל
שיכור ועיוור בתענוגותיו ובמכאוביו.
מות תאנים ימות בסתיו
מצומק ומלא עצמו ומתוק,
העלים מתיבשים על האדמה,
והענפים הערומים כבר מצביעים
אל המקום שבו זמן לכל.
A Man in His Life
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
人的一生
人的一生没有时间
去留下时间做所有的事。
没有足够的理由为所有的目的
寻找理由。《传道书》
在那方面是错的。
人需要同时去爱和恨，
用同一双眼睛微笑和哭泣，
用同一双手扔掉石头并集拢它们，
在战争中做爱，在爱中制作战争。
去恨去宽恕去回忆去忘却，
去整理并打乱，去吃并消化
历史
花费许多年完成的事。
人没有时间。
当他失去时他寻找，当他找到
他就忘却，当他忘却他就爱，当他爱
他就开始忘却。
他的灵魂充满酸甜苦辣，他的灵魂
是非常专职的。
只有他的躯体永远保持着
业余水平。它尝试，它错过，
昏头昏脑，没学到什么，
在它的快乐和痛苦中
迷醉而盲目。
他的死将像无花果在秋天的死，
枯萎并充满自己、充满甜味，
叶子在地上变得干枯，
空荡荡的树枝指向
尚有时间做所有事的地方。
Mahmoud Darwish
انا من هناك
محمود درويش
أنا من هناك. ولي ذكرياتٌ . ولدت كما تولد الناس. لي والدة
وبيتٌ كثير النوافذِ. لي إخوةٌ. أصدقاء. وسجنٌ بنافذة باردهْ.
ولي موجةٌ خطَِفتها النوارس. لي مشهدي الخاص. لي عُشْبةٌ زائدهْ
ولي قمرٌ في أقاصي الكلام، ورزقُ الطيور، وزيتونةٌ خالدهْ
مررتُ على الأرض قبل مرور السيوف على جسدٍ حوّلوه إلى مائدهْ.
أنا من هناك. أعيد السماء إلى أمها حين تبكي السماء على أمها،
وأبكي لتعرفني غيمةٌ عائدهْ.
تعلّمتُ كل كلام يليقُ بمحكمة الدم كي أكسر القاعدهْ
تعلّمتُ كل الكلام، وفككته كي أركب مفردةً واحدهْ
هي: الوطنُ...
I Belong There
I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird’s sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.
我属于那儿
我属于那儿。我有许多记忆。我出生一如所有人的出生。
我有一个母亲，一所有许多窗户的房子，兄弟们，朋友们，和一间有寒冷窗户的牢房！我有一片海鸥掀起的浪，一幅我自己的全景图。
我有一片繁茂的草场。在我词语的地平线深处，我有一轮月亮，鸟的口粮，和一株长生的橄榄树。
我生活在这片土地上，远在刀剑把人变为猎物之前。
我属于那儿。当天空为母亲哭泣时，我把天空还给母亲。
我哭泣以使一片返回的云可以带走我的眼泪。
为了打破规则，我学会了血的审判所需要的所有词。
我学会并拆解了所有的词，为了从它们之中抽出唯一的一个词：家园。
Paul Muldoon
Anseo
When the Master was calling the roll
At the primary school in Collegelands,
You were meant to call back Anseo
And raise your hand
As your name occurred.
Anseo, meaning here, here and now,
All present and correct,
Was the first word of Irish I spoke.
The last name on the ledger
Belonged to Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward
And was followed, as often as not,
By silence, knowing looks,
A nod and a wink, the Master's droll
'And where's our little Ward-of-court?'
I remember the first time he came back
The Master had sent him out
Along the hedges
To weigh up for himself and cut
A stick with which he would be beaten.
After a while, nothing was spoken;
He would arrive as a matter of course
With an ash-plant, a salley-rod.
Or, finally, the hazel-wand
He had whittled down to a whip-lash,
Its twist of red and yellow lacquers
Sanded and polished,
And altogether so delicately wrought
That he had engraved his initials on it.
I last met Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward
In a pub just over the Irish border.
He was living in the open,
In a secret camp
On the other side of the mountain.
He was fighting for Ireland,
Making things happen.
And he told me, Joe Ward,
Of how he had risen through the ranks
To Quartermaster, Commandant:
How every morning at parade
His volunteers would call back Anseo
And raise their hands
As their names occurred.
from Why Brownlee Left. Copyright © 1980 by Paul Muldoon
到
当学院路的小学里
老师点名的时候，
一旦叫到你的名字，
你需要回答“到”
并举起手。
到，意味着在这里，此时此地，
一切都在场并且恰当，
是我说出的第一个爱尔兰词。
名单上的最后一个名字
是约瑟夫·玛丽·普朗科特·瓦尔德，
随之，时不时地，
在寂静中，会意的脸，
点头，眨眼，老师逗趣说
“那么我们的法庭小守卫呢？”
我记得他第一次回来
老师让他去
沿着树篱称量他本人并砍回
一根用来抽打他自己的棍子。
过了一会，没人说话；
他将理所当然地带回
一截白蜡树，一根柳条。
或者最终，一根他削平了的
用来鞭打的榛木棒子，
交织着红色和黄色的涂料，
用砂纸打磨，抛光，
总之锻造得非常精致，
以至于他把自己姓名首字母刻在上面。
我最后见约瑟夫·玛丽·普朗科特·瓦尔德
是在爱尔兰边境外的一家酒吧。
他露天住着，
在山另一边的
一个秘密的宿营地。
他在为爱尔兰打仗，
使事物发生。
他，约瑟夫·瓦尔德，还告诉我
他如何在队伍中升为军需官和少校：
每天凌晨的检阅中
他的志愿兵如何回答“到”
并举起手，
当叫到他们名字的时候。
Philip Larkin
Toads
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
That's out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts-
They don't end as paupers;
Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets - and yet
No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that's the stuff
That dreams are made on:
For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,
And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.
I don't say, one bodies the other
One's spiritual truth;
But I do say it's hard to lose either,
When you have both.
癞蛤蟆
为什么要让这只癞蛤蟆
蹲伏在我的生活上？
我不能用智慧的草耙
赶走这畜生？
它用它令人恶心的毒汁
把一周中的六天污染——
仅仅为了支付一点小账！
那太不合情理了。
许多伙计以智慧为生：
讲演家，大舌子，
恶棍，帮闲，蠢汉——
最终也没饿死；
许多伙计在闾巷里活得不错
铲斗里装满火，
吃横财和听装的沙丁鱼——
他们好像很喜欢。
他们的小崽子赤着脚，
他们不会说话的老婆
像惠比特犬一样皮包骨头——但也
没有人真的挨饿。
啊，我要是有足够的勇气
大口喊一声管你丫退休金！
但我非常清楚地知道，那正是
做梦所需要的材料：
因为一些跟癞蛤蟆很像的东西
也蹲伏在我体内；
它的臀部像狗屎运一样重，
像雪一样冰，
并且永远不会允许我
为自己的前程溜须拍马
一气呵成地得到
名声、女孩和财富。
我不是说，一个体现
另一个的精神真实；
我是说，当两者都有时，
你很难将任意一个丢弃。
Bonus:
This Be The Verse Related Poem Content Details
BY PHILIP LARKIN
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
这就是诗
他们搞糟了你，你妈和你爹。
他们不是故意的，但事已至此。
他们用自己的错误填满你
并且添加些别的，为你特属。
但是轮到他们自己，他们也是被搞糟的
被穿戴过时帽子和外套的蠢货，
那些一半时间浑身是刺
一半时间扼着对方咽喉的人。
人向人递交不幸。
它像沿海大陆架一样加深。
尽早走出来吧，
自己不要生任何孩子。
Yves Bonnefoy
La rapidité des nuages
Le lit, la vitre auprès, la vallée, le ciel,
La magnifique rapidité de ces nuages.
La griffe de la pluie sur la vitre, soudain,
Comme si le néant paraphait le monde.
Dans mon rêve d'hier
Le grain d'autres années brûlait par flammes courtes
Sur le sol carrelé, mais sans chaleur.
Nos pieds nus l'écartaient comme une eau limpide.
O mon amie,
Comme était faible la distance entre nos corps !
La lame de l'épée du temps qui rôde
Y eût cherché en vain le lieu pour vaincre.
云速 博纳富瓦/作 陈力川/译
床，旁边的窗玻璃，山谷，天空，
美丽的云速。
窗玻璃上雨抓过的痕迹，瞬间，
好像虚无在人世间的签名。
在我昨日的梦中
往年的谷粒燃烧，短促的火焰，
在瓷砖地上，没有热量。
我们赤裸的脚将它分开如清澈的水。
啊 我的朋友，
我们身体之间的距离是何等微小！
时间的剑刃，转来转去
徒然寻找取胜的地方。
The swiftness of the clouds
The bed, the window-pane beside it, the valley, the sky,
The splendid swiftness of the clouds.
The rain's sudden clawing at the window pane
As though the void were leaving its seal upon the world.
In my dream yesterday,
The seeds of your past burned up in brief
Cold flames on the floor tiles, our bare feet
Pushed them aside like limpid water.
O my beloved,
How feeble was that distance between our bodies!
The blade of time's prowling sword
Would have sought there in vain a place to conquer.
(translated by Lisa Sapinkopf)
云的灵敏
床，旁边的窗玻璃，山谷，天空，
云的壮观的灵敏。
雨对窗玻璃突然的挠
仿佛虚空在世界上留下自己的封印。
在我昨日的梦里，
你的往事的种子在地板砖上
燃起短促而冰冷的火焰，我们的赤脚
把它们摊开好像清澈的水。
哦，亲爱的，
我们身体间的距离是多么微弱！
时间那潜伏的剑的锋刃
本会在那儿徒然地寻找一个可以征服的地点。
Adam Zagajewski
Don't Allow the Lucid Moment to Dissolve
TRANSLATED BY RENATA GORCZYNSKI
Don't allow the lucid moment to dissolve
Let the radiant thought last in stillness
though the page is almost filled and the flame flickers
We haven't risen yet to the level of ourselves
Knowledge grows slowly like a wisdom tooth
The stature of a man is still notched
high up on a white door
From far off, the joyful voice of a trumpet
and of a song rolled up like a cat
What passes doesn't fall into a void
A stoker is still feeding coal into the fire
Don't allow the lucid moment to dissolve
On a hard dry substance
you have to engrave the truth
不要让透明的时刻消逝
不要让透明的时刻消逝
让灵光乍现的思想在沉静中持续
尽管纸张已快填满而火焰闪烁
我们至今尚未达到我们自己的水平
知识像智齿一样缓慢生长
人的身高仍然在一扇
白门的高处留下凹槽
从远处，一只喇叭和一首歌
的欢乐的声音像蹑足的猫
经过的并不落入虚空
司炉工还在为火炉喂煤
不要让透明的时刻消逝
于一种生硬干枯的物质中
你应该铭记真理
Miroslav Holub
Moucha
Sedĕla na kmeni vrby
Pozorujíc
kus bitvy u Kresčaku,
řev,
supĕní,
sténání,
dupoty a pády.
Za čtrnáctého útoku
francouzské jízdy
se spářila
s hnĕdookým mušákem
z Vadincourtu.
Třela si nožky
na rozpáraném koni,
přemýšlejíc
o nesmrtelnosti much.
S ulehčením usedla
na modrý jazyk
vévody z Clairvaux.
Kdyz padlo tícho
a jenom šepot rozkladu
obcházel tĕla
a nĕkolik rukou a nohou
se ještĕ škubavĕ rvalo pod bukem,
začala klást vejce
na jediné oko
Johanna Uhra,
zbrojmistra králova.
A přitom ji sezobl rorýs
prchající
z hořících Estrées.
The fly
She sat on a willow-trunk
watching
part of the battle of Crecy,
the shouts,
the gasps,
the groans,
the tramping and the tumbling.
During the fourteenth charge
of the French cavalry
she mated
with a brown-eyed male fly
from Vadincourt.
She rubbed her legs together
as she sat on a disembowelled horse
meditating
on the immortality of flies.
With relief she alighted
on the blue tongue
of the Duke of Clervaux.
When silence settled
and only the whisper of decay
softly circled the bodies
and only
a few arms and legs
still twitched jerkily under the trees,
she began to lay her eggs
on the single eye
of Johann Uhr,
the Royal Armourer.
And thus it was
that she was eaten by a swift
fleeing
from the fires of Estrees.
trans. George Theiner
苍蝇
她坐在一株柳树干上
望着
克雷西的一个战区，
呼喊，
喘息，
呻吟，
踩踏和跌倒。
在法国骑兵
第十四次的猛攻期间
她和一个
来自瓦登库尔的
褐眼睛的雄蝇配对。
她不停地搓着腿
当她坐在一匹开了膛的马身上
沉思着
苍蝇的不朽。
她安然飞落在
克莱弗公爵
青色的舌头上。
当沉默降临
只有腐朽的私语
轻柔地环绕着身体，
只有
少量胳膊和腿
在树下痉挛般地抽搐着，
她开始在约翰·乌尔，
皇家军械师
的单眼上
产卵。
就这样她
她被一只正从埃特雷大火
逃离的
蜥蜴吃掉。
Alexander Kushner
Poems are anachronisms. And soon they’ll disappear.
It seems laughable to insist still on that bird-like
Twittering to which Archilochus woke us so early,
And that clings still, like some thistle-creature.
Farewell, speaking in measure. Prose is here to relieve you.
So what if the newcomer has no Muse? Your lyric ardor
Stands out like a pose against this backdrop
Of relentless newspapers and magazines.
I was drinking with a prose-writer. All the while
He was telling me stories. As ever, a story bears the impress
Of a particular worldview, but a verse line lives
Without purpose, flies like the swallow, freely, at will.
And it is clearly impossible to imagine iambs
In the third millennium. What would it do with them?
That’s how it goes. How could I mourn so small a loss?
No, don’t complain, mourn and burn, right down into the dark.
诗是时代错误。不久它们就会消失。
坚持阿尔齐洛科斯这么早唤醒我们的
鸟般的唧唧叫似乎是可笑的，
它冷静地固守着，像蓟般的生物。
再见，按分寸说话。散文可以帮你解围。
万一新来者没有缪斯呢？你的抒情热忱
脱颖而出就像与作为背景的冷酷的
报纸杂志相抗衡的一个姿势。
我曾与一个散文作家共饮。他始终
在给我讲故事。一直以来，一个故事给人一种
传达独特世界观的印象，但诗句却不靠
意图存活，像燕子一样飞，自由，随兴。
显然，不能想象第三个千年的
抑扬格。那个时代要这些作什么？
这是不言而喻的。我该如何哀悼如此小的一个损失？
不，别抱怨，哀悼并燃烧吧，一路朝黑暗里去。
Tomaž Šalamun
LJUDSKA
Vsak pravi pesnik je pošast.
Glas uničuje in ljudi.
Petje zgraditi tehniko, ki uničuje
zemljo, da nas ne bi jedli črvi.
Pijanček proda plašč.
Lopov proda mater.
Samo pesnik proda dušo, da jo
loči od telesa, ki ga ljubi.
FOLK SONG
Every true poet is a monster.
He destroys people and their speech.
His singing elevates a technique that wipes out
the earth so we are not eaten by worms.
The drunk sells his coat.
The thief sells his mother.
Only the poet sells his soul to separate it
from the body that he loves.
© Translation: 2002, Charles Simic
民歌
每个真正的诗人都是怪物。
他破坏人类和他们的语言。
他的歌唱提升了一门抹平世界
以防我们被虫吃掉的技艺。
喝醉的出卖自己的外套。
小偷出卖自己的母亲。
只有诗人出卖自己的灵魂，把它
和他所爱的身体分开。
Nuno Júdice
A pressão dos mercados
Emprestem-me palavras para o poema; ou dêem-me
sílabas a crédito, para que as ponha a render
no mercado. Mas sobem-me a cotação da metáfora,
para que me limite a imagens simples, as mais
baratas, as que ninguém quer: uma flor? Um perfume
do campo? Aquelas ondas que rebentam, umas
atrás da outras, sem pedir juros a quem as vê?
É que as palavras estão caras. Folheio dicionários
em busca de palavras pequenas, as que custem
menos a pagar, para que não exijam reembolsos
se as meter, ao desbarato, no fim do verso. O
problema é que as rimas me irão custar o dobro,
e por muito que corra os mercados o que me
propõem está acima das minhas posses, sem recobro.
E quando me vierem pedir o que tenho de pagar,
a quantos por cento o terei de dar? Abro a carteira,
esvazio os bolsos, vou às contas, e tudo vazio: símbolos,
a zero; alegorias, esgotadas; metáforas, nem uma.
A quem recorrer? que fundo de emergência poética
me irá salvar? Então, no fim, resta-me uma sílaba – o ar –
ao menos com ela ninguém me impedirá de respirar.
Market pressures
Lend me words for the poem; or give me
syllables on credit, so I can invest them
in the market. But the price of metaphor is up,
restricting me to simple images, the cheapest,
those nobody wants: a flower? The smell
of the countryside? Waves that break, one after the other,
without asking for interest from onlookers?
The cost of words is high. I leaf through dictionaries
in search of small words, those costing less
to pay back, so I’m not asked for reimbursement
if I place them, at random, at the end of the line. The
problem is that for rhymes I´ll be charged twice as much
and no matter where I look whatever's on offer
I can’t afford, when it comes to the crunch.
And when it comes time to pay back,
what then would the rates be? I open my wallet,
turn my pockets inside out, look at the balance, it's all empty:
symbols, zero; allegories, sold out; metaphors, not even one.
Whom shall I ask for help? What fund of poetic emergency
will rescue me? In the end, there’s one syllable left – air –
I’ve got it and no one can prevent me breathing.
Translated by Ana Hudson
市场压力
为诗借给我词汇；或者给我
音节的信用贷款，如此我能在市场上
投资它们。但隐喻的价格上涨，
把我限制在简单的意象里，最廉价的，
那些没人想要的：一朵花？农村的
味道？一圈接一圈被打破的水波，
不必向围观者索要利息？
词语的成本很高。我一页页翻过词典
寻找小一点的词，那些需要偿还
更少费用的，所以我并不索赔，
如果我把它们随意地放在一行的末尾。问题是
对于尾韵来说我要付出双倍的代价，
而不管我在哪儿找，不管待售的词有哪些，
我都买不起，在关键的时候。
到了要还钱的时候，
那时的利率是多少？我打开钱包，
彻底搜查自己的口袋，找寻余额，却全是空的：
象征，零；讽喻，售罄；隐喻，一个也不剩。
我该向谁求助？哪个诗歌应急基金
会营救我？最终，只剩一个音节—空气—
我得到它，没有人能阻止我呼吸。
（完）
Jaime Gil de Biedma
ARTE POETICA
A Vicente Aleixandre
La nostalgia del sol en los terrados,
en el muro color paloma de cemento
— sin embargo tan vívido — y el frío
repentino que casi sobrecoge.
La dulzura, el calor de los labios a solas
en medio de la calle familiar
igual que un gran salón, donde acudieran
multitudes lejanas como seres queridos.
Y sobre todo el vértigo del tiempo,
el gran boquete abriéndose hacia dentro del alma
mientras arriba sobrenadan promesas
que desmayan, lo mismo que si espumas.
Es sin duda el momento de pensar
que el hccho de estar vivo exige algo,
acaso heroicidades — o basta, simplemente,
alguna humilde cosa común
cuya corteza de materia terrestre
tratar entre los dedos, con un poco de fe?
Palabras, por ejemplo.
Palabras de familia gastadas tibiamente.
ARS POETICA
For Vicente Aleixandre
The longing for sun on roof terraces,
on the pigeon-hued concrete wall —
yet what colors — and the abrupt
chill that almost startles.
The sweetness, warmth of lips alone
in the middle of a street cozy
as a big living room where faraway
crowds come together as loved ones.
And above all, the whirling of time’s
great gap spiraling in toward the spirit
while overhead, promises float by
fizzling out like foam.
No doubt the moment’s come to realize
just being alive demands something,
lofty deeds, maybe — or simply, is some
common everyday thing enough,
one whose crust of earthy stuff
fingers can fashion with a little faith?
Words, for instance.
Household words worn warm with use.
艺术诗学
致文森特·阿莱克桑德雷
在屋顶露台上对太阳的渴望，
在鸽色的水泥墙上——
但什么颜色——和这突发的
寒意使人几乎吓了一跳。
街道中间仅仅嘴唇的
芳香和温暖舒适地
像一间大起居室，在那里远处的
人群就像相爱的人一样聚集。
而最重要的是，时间那巨大裂口上的
漩涡盘旋着朝精神绕紧
在而头顶，漂浮而过的誓言
发出泡沫般的嘶嘶声。
无疑这一刻已经意识到
仅仅活着需要一些东西，
也许，崇高的行为——或简单地，那些
普通的日常事物就足够了，
谁的以泥质材料作外壳的手指
能制成一个小小的信仰？
比如说，词语。
家喻户晓的词语在使用中被磨得发烫。
Antonio Deltoro
LOS TÍMIDOS
a Javier
A veces prefiero la llama de la hornilla en la estufa a un resplandor de fuego.
Los tímidos se ocultan en la niebla
pero quieren el sol solitario de una banca tranquila.
¿Dónde, en qué lugar, está su timidez más reposada?
¿En los jardines invernales o en los parques de abril?
¿Cuál es el mes de los tímidos? ¿Cuál es su hora?
Me atraen las costumbres de los tímidos,
su pisar cuidadoso, su introducirse con el cuello crispado,
su descanso a la sombra de las miradas del prójimo, su pulcritud, su nerviosismo.
El tiempo de los hombres no vence el rubor de los tímidos.
Tropiezan por delicadeza, porque sienten todo vivo, por exceso de escrúpulos.
Porque están enamorados del rigor son inseguros;
son los exploradores de perfil de los centímetros.
Ante las puertas pierden su escaso aplomo,
ellos son la conciencia de los umbrales y las fronteras.
Boquean su silencio como los peces en la superficie de un estanque el oxígeno
y su lengua es un anzuelo de incandescencia y pudor.
Permanecen en la infancia y en la adolescencia;
a su delicadeza no la mella la edad;
de ancianos pueden sonrojarse ante su propia muerte;
lo mismo que lo hacen, a pesar de sus canas,
ante la presencia de un extraño o de una mirada femenina.
The Shy Ones
for Javier
Sometimes I prefer the stove’s pilot light to the splendor of a fire.
The shy ones hide in the mist
but want the solitary sun of a peaceful bench.
Where, in what place, does your most intimate shyness lie?
In the winter gardens or in the green parks of spring?
What is the month for shy people? What is their time?
I’m intrigued by the customs of shy people,
their careful step, their hunched introductions,
their shadowed rest from the gaze of others, their neatness, their nervousness.
The time of men cannot vanquish the shame of shy people.
They trip and fall from delicateness, because they feel everything alive, from an excess of
Scruples.
Because they love rigor they are insecure;
they explore the precision of centimeters.
In front of doors they lose their rare aplomb,
they are the conscience of limits and thresholds.
They mouth silence like fish breathe in oxygen at the surface of a tank.
Permanently stuck between infancy and adolescence,
their delicateness is unaffected by age;
when older they blush before their own death,
just as they do, despite their graying,
before a stranger or a woman’s stare.
(Traducción de Christian Viveros-Fauné)
害羞者
安东尼·德尔托罗
致哈维尔
有时我偏爱炉中的小火花胜过熊熊大火。
害羞者藏在雾里
但渴求宁静的长凳上孤独的太阳。
在哪儿，在什么地方，安放着你那最私密的羞涩？
在冬日的花园还是春天里绿色的公园？
哪一个月专属害羞的人们？他们的时间是什么？
我被他们的习俗迷住了，
他们小心翼翼的步子，他们缩头缩脑的自我介绍，
他们在别人的注视中带有阴影的安憩，他们的整洁，他们的神经质。
人类的时间不能征服害羞的人们的羞惭。
他们绊一跤，从精美中被打碎，因为在超额的顾虑中，他们发现一切都活生生的。
因为他们凡事苛求，他们没有安全感；
他们探索厘米的精确性。
在门前他们失去他们少有的沉着，
他们对边界和阈值怀着良知。
他们嘴巴沉默如同鱼类在水箱的表面吸进氧气。
长期卡在幼年和青春期之间，
他们的精美不受年龄的影响；
年老时他们为自己的死而脸红，
就像即使他们白发苍苍，
在生人或女性的注视下会是的样子。
고은 (Ko Un)
햇볕
어쩔 줄 모르겠구나
침을 삼키고
불행을 삼키자
9사상 반 평짜리 북창 감방에
고귀한 손님이 오신다
과장 순시가 아니라
저녁 무렵 한동안의 햇볕
접고 접은 딱지만하게 햇볕이 오신다
환장하겠다 첫사랑
거기에 손바닥 놓아본다
수줍은 발벗어 발가락을 쪼인다
그러다가 엎드려
비종교적으로 마른 얼굴 대고 있으면
햇볕 조각은 덧없이 미끄러진다
쇠창살 넘어 손님은 덧없이 떠난 뒤
방안은 몇 곱으로 춥다 어둡다
육군교도소 특감은 암실이다
햇볕 없이 히히 웃었다
하루는 송장 넣은 관이었고
하루는 전혀 바다였다
용하도다 거기서 사람들 몇이 살아난 것이다
살아 있다는 것은 돛단배 하나 없는 바다이기도 하구나
Sunlight
I'm utterly helpless.
I'll just have to swallow my spit
and adversity, too.
But look!
A distinguished visitor deigns to visit
my tiny, north-facing cell.
Not the chief making his rounds, no.
As evening falls, a ray of sunlight.
A gleam no bigger than a crumpled postage stamp.
I'm crazy about it! Real first love!
I try to get it to settle on the palm of my hand,
to warm the toes of my shyly bared foot.
Then as I kneel and offer it my undevout, lean face,
in a moment that scrap of sunlight slips away.
After the guest has departed through the bars
the room feels several times colder and darker.
This special cell of a military prison
is like a photographer's darkroom.
Without any sunlight I laughed like a fool.
One day it was a coffin holding a corpse.
One day it was altogether the sea. How wonderful!
A few people survive here.
Being alive is a sea
without a single sail in sight.
阳光
我完全无助。
我必须吞掉自己的痰
和自己的不幸。
但是瞧！
一位高贵的客人屈尊拜访
我那狭小、朝北的牢房。
不是首领的巡视，不。
当夜晚降临，一缕阳光。
一线还没有邮票大的闪光。
我为此而疯狂！真正第一次的爱！
我试图让它安歇在我的手掌上，
让它温暖我胆怯而坦露的脚趾。
当我跪下，向它献出我不虔诚的瘦脸，
有一瞬间那阳光的碎片滑走了。
当栅栏里的客人离去后，
房间有好几次看起来更冷、更幽暗。
这个特殊的军事监狱
就像摄影师的暗室一样。
没有任何阳光，我笑得像个傻子。
一天那曾是装着尸体的棺材。
一天那曾是整个大海。多么奇妙！
很少人从这里生还。
活着是一个大海
眼里一张帆影也没有。
Les Murray
Bottles in the Bombed City Related Poem Content Details
BY LES MURRAY
They gave the city a stroke. Its memories
are cordoned off. They could collapse on you.
Water leaks into bricks of the Workers’ century
and every meaning is blurred. No word in Roget
now squares with another. If the word is Manchester
it may be Australia, where that means sheets and towels.
To give the city a stroke, they mixed a lorryload
of henbane and meadowsweet oil and countrified her.
Now Engels supports Max, and the British Union
of beautiful ceramics is being shovelled up,
blue-green tiles of the Corn Exchange,
umber gloss bricks of the Royal Midlands Hotel.
Unmelting ice everywhere, and loosened molecules.
When the stroke came, every bottle winked at its neighbour.
莱斯·默瑞
跟诗歌内容的细节相关的被轰炸的城市中的瓶子
他们给了这城市一击。它的记忆
被隔离起来。它们会倒在你身上。
水漏进工人世纪的砖里
而一切意义都被模糊了。罗杰词典中的任何词
都不再符合别的词。如果那词是曼彻斯特
它也可能是澳大利亚，在那里它们意味着纸张和毛巾。
为了给这城市一击，他们混合了一卡车的
莨菪和绣线菊变成的石油以及俗气的女人。
现在恩格斯支持马克思，制作精美陶器的
英国工会正被铲除，
碧蓝色的谷物交易的瓷砖，
皇家中部旅馆的棕色的发光砖块。
无处不在的没有融化的冰，松开的分子。
当这一击到来，每一个瓶子都朝它的邻居眨眼。
Yehuda Amihai
אדם בחייו / יהודה עמיחי
אדם בחייו אין לו זמן שיהיה לו
זמן לכל.
ואין לו עת שתהיה לו עת
לכל חפץ. קהלת לא צדק כשאמר כך.
אדם צריך לשנוא ולאהוב בבת אחת,
באותן עיניים לבכות ובאותן עיניים לצחוק
באותן ידיים לזרוק אבנים
ובאותן ידיים לאסוף אותן,
לעשות אהבה במלחמה ומלחמה באהבה.
ולשנוא ולסלוח ולזכור ולשכוח
ולסדר ולבלבל ולאכול ולעכל
את מה שהיסטוריה ארוכה
עושה בשנים רבות מאוד.
אדם בחייו אין לו זמן.
כשהוא מאבד הוא מחפש
כשהוא מוצא הוא שוכח,
כשהוא שוכח הוא אוהב
וכשהוא אוהב הוא מתחיל לשכוח.
ונפשו למודה,
ונפשו מקצועית מאוד
רק גופו נשאר חובב
תמיד. מנסה וטועה
לא לומד ומתבלבל
שיכור ועיוור בתענוגותיו ובמכאוביו.
מות תאנים ימות בסתיו
מצומק ומלא עצמו ומתוק,
העלים מתיבשים על האדמה,
והענפים הערומים כבר מצביעים
אל המקום שבו זמן לכל.
A Man in His Life
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
人的一生
人的一生没有时间
去留下时间做所有的事。
没有足够的理由为所有的目的
寻找理由。《传道书》
在那方面是错的。
人需要同时去爱和恨，
用同一双眼睛微笑和哭泣，
用同一双手扔掉石头并集拢它们，
在战争中做爱，在爱中制作战争。
去恨去宽恕去回忆去忘却，
去整理并打乱，去吃并消化
历史
花费许多年完成的事。
人没有时间。
当他失去时他寻找，当他找到
他就忘却，当他忘却他就爱，当他爱
他就开始忘却。
他的灵魂充满酸甜苦辣，他的灵魂
是非常专职的。
只有他的躯体永远保持着
业余水平。它尝试，它错过，
昏头昏脑，没学到什么，
在它的快乐和痛苦中
迷醉而盲目。
他的死将像无花果在秋天的死，
枯萎并充满自己、充满甜味，
叶子在地上变得干枯，
空荡荡的树枝指向
尚有时间做所有事的地方。
Mahmoud Darwish
انا من هناك
محمود درويش
أنا من هناك. ولي ذكرياتٌ . ولدت كما تولد الناس. لي والدة
وبيتٌ كثير النوافذِ. لي إخوةٌ. أصدقاء. وسجنٌ بنافذة باردهْ.
ولي موجةٌ خطَِفتها النوارس. لي مشهدي الخاص. لي عُشْبةٌ زائدهْ
ولي قمرٌ في أقاصي الكلام، ورزقُ الطيور، وزيتونةٌ خالدهْ
مررتُ على الأرض قبل مرور السيوف على جسدٍ حوّلوه إلى مائدهْ.
أنا من هناك. أعيد السماء إلى أمها حين تبكي السماء على أمها،
وأبكي لتعرفني غيمةٌ عائدهْ.
تعلّمتُ كل كلام يليقُ بمحكمة الدم كي أكسر القاعدهْ
تعلّمتُ كل الكلام، وفككته كي أركب مفردةً واحدهْ
هي: الوطنُ...
I Belong There
I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird’s sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.
我属于那儿
我属于那儿。我有许多记忆。我出生一如所有人的出生。
我有一个母亲，一所有许多窗户的房子，兄弟们，朋友们，和一间有寒冷窗户的牢房！我有一片海鸥掀起的浪，一幅我自己的全景图。
我有一片繁茂的草场。在我词语的地平线深处，我有一轮月亮，鸟的口粮，和一株长生的橄榄树。
我生活在这片土地上，远在刀剑把人变为猎物之前。
我属于那儿。当天空为母亲哭泣时，我把天空还给母亲。
我哭泣以使一片返回的云可以带走我的眼泪。
为了打破规则，我学会了血的审判所需要的所有词。
我学会并拆解了所有的词，为了从它们之中抽出唯一的一个词：家园。
Paul Muldoon
Anseo
When the Master was calling the roll
At the primary school in Collegelands,
You were meant to call back Anseo
And raise your hand
As your name occurred.
Anseo, meaning here, here and now,
All present and correct,
Was the first word of Irish I spoke.
The last name on the ledger
Belonged to Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward
And was followed, as often as not,
By silence, knowing looks,
A nod and a wink, the Master's droll
'And where's our little Ward-of-court?'
I remember the first time he came back
The Master had sent him out
Along the hedges
To weigh up for himself and cut
A stick with which he would be beaten.
After a while, nothing was spoken;
He would arrive as a matter of course
With an ash-plant, a salley-rod.
Or, finally, the hazel-wand
He had whittled down to a whip-lash,
Its twist of red and yellow lacquers
Sanded and polished,
And altogether so delicately wrought
That he had engraved his initials on it.
I last met Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward
In a pub just over the Irish border.
He was living in the open,
In a secret camp
On the other side of the mountain.
He was fighting for Ireland,
Making things happen.
And he told me, Joe Ward,
Of how he had risen through the ranks
To Quartermaster, Commandant:
How every morning at parade
His volunteers would call back Anseo
And raise their hands
As their names occurred.
from Why Brownlee Left. Copyright © 1980 by Paul Muldoon
到
当学院路的小学里
老师点名的时候，
一旦叫到你的名字，
你需要回答“到”
并举起手。
到，意味着在这里，此时此地，
一切都在场并且恰当，
是我说出的第一个爱尔兰词。
名单上的最后一个名字
是约瑟夫·玛丽·普朗科特·瓦尔德，
随之，时不时地，
在寂静中，会意的脸，
点头，眨眼，老师逗趣说
“那么我们的法庭小守卫呢？”
我记得他第一次回来
老师让他去
沿着树篱称量他本人并砍回
一根用来抽打他自己的棍子。
过了一会，没人说话；
他将理所当然地带回
一截白蜡树，一根柳条。
或者最终，一根他削平了的
用来鞭打的榛木棒子，
交织着红色和黄色的涂料，
用砂纸打磨，抛光，
总之锻造得非常精致，
以至于他把自己姓名首字母刻在上面。
我最后见约瑟夫·玛丽·普朗科特·瓦尔德
是在爱尔兰边境外的一家酒吧。
他露天住着，
在山另一边的
一个秘密的宿营地。
他在为爱尔兰打仗，
使事物发生。
他，约瑟夫·瓦尔德，还告诉我
他如何在队伍中升为军需官和少校：
每天凌晨的检阅中
他的志愿兵如何回答“到”
并举起手，
当叫到他们名字的时候。
Philip Larkin
Toads
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
That's out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts-
They don't end as paupers;
Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets - and yet
No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that's the stuff
That dreams are made on:
For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,
And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.
I don't say, one bodies the other
One's spiritual truth;
But I do say it's hard to lose either,
When you have both.
癞蛤蟆
为什么要让这只癞蛤蟆
蹲伏在我的生活上？
我不能用智慧的草耙
赶走这畜生？
它用它令人恶心的毒汁
把一周中的六天污染——
仅仅为了支付一点小账！
那太不合情理了。
许多伙计以智慧为生：
讲演家，大舌子，
恶棍，帮闲，蠢汉——
最终也没饿死；
许多伙计在闾巷里活得不错
铲斗里装满火，
吃横财和听装的沙丁鱼——
他们好像很喜欢。
他们的小崽子赤着脚，
他们不会说话的老婆
像惠比特犬一样皮包骨头——但也
没有人真的挨饿。
啊，我要是有足够的勇气
大口喊一声管你丫退休金！
但我非常清楚地知道，那正是
做梦所需要的材料：
因为一些跟癞蛤蟆很像的东西
也蹲伏在我体内；
它的臀部像狗屎运一样重，
像雪一样冰，
并且永远不会允许我
为自己的前程溜须拍马
一气呵成地得到
名声、女孩和财富。
我不是说，一个体现
另一个的精神真实；
我是说，当两者都有时，
你很难将任意一个丢弃。
Bonus:
This Be The Verse Related Poem Content Details
BY PHILIP LARKIN
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
这就是诗
他们搞糟了你，你妈和你爹。
他们不是故意的，但事已至此。
他们用自己的错误填满你
并且添加些别的，为你特属。
但是轮到他们自己，他们也是被搞糟的
被穿戴过时帽子和外套的蠢货，
那些一半时间浑身是刺
一半时间扼着对方咽喉的人。
人向人递交不幸。
它像沿海大陆架一样加深。
尽早走出来吧，
自己不要生任何孩子。
Yves Bonnefoy
La rapidité des nuages
Le lit, la vitre auprès, la vallée, le ciel,
La magnifique rapidité de ces nuages.
La griffe de la pluie sur la vitre, soudain,
Comme si le néant paraphait le monde.
Dans mon rêve d'hier
Le grain d'autres années brûlait par flammes courtes
Sur le sol carrelé, mais sans chaleur.
Nos pieds nus l'écartaient comme une eau limpide.
O mon amie,
Comme était faible la distance entre nos corps !
La lame de l'épée du temps qui rôde
Y eût cherché en vain le lieu pour vaincre.
云速 博纳富瓦/作 陈力川/译
床，旁边的窗玻璃，山谷，天空，
美丽的云速。
窗玻璃上雨抓过的痕迹，瞬间，
好像虚无在人世间的签名。
在我昨日的梦中
往年的谷粒燃烧，短促的火焰，
在瓷砖地上，没有热量。
我们赤裸的脚将它分开如清澈的水。
啊 我的朋友，
我们身体之间的距离是何等微小！
时间的剑刃，转来转去
徒然寻找取胜的地方。
The swiftness of the clouds
The bed, the window-pane beside it, the valley, the sky,
The splendid swiftness of the clouds.
The rain's sudden clawing at the window pane
As though the void were leaving its seal upon the world.
In my dream yesterday,
The seeds of your past burned up in brief
Cold flames on the floor tiles, our bare feet
Pushed them aside like limpid water.
O my beloved,
How feeble was that distance between our bodies!
The blade of time's prowling sword
Would have sought there in vain a place to conquer.
(translated by Lisa Sapinkopf)
云的灵敏
床，旁边的窗玻璃，山谷，天空，
云的壮观的灵敏。
雨对窗玻璃突然的挠
仿佛虚空在世界上留下自己的封印。
在我昨日的梦里，
你的往事的种子在地板砖上
燃起短促而冰冷的火焰，我们的赤脚
把它们摊开好像清澈的水。
哦，亲爱的，
我们身体间的距离是多么微弱！
时间那潜伏的剑的锋刃
本会在那儿徒然地寻找一个可以征服的地点。
Adam Zagajewski
Don't Allow the Lucid Moment to Dissolve
TRANSLATED BY RENATA GORCZYNSKI
Don't allow the lucid moment to dissolve
Let the radiant thought last in stillness
though the page is almost filled and the flame flickers
We haven't risen yet to the level of ourselves
Knowledge grows slowly like a wisdom tooth
The stature of a man is still notched
high up on a white door
From far off, the joyful voice of a trumpet
and of a song rolled up like a cat
What passes doesn't fall into a void
A stoker is still feeding coal into the fire
Don't allow the lucid moment to dissolve
On a hard dry substance
you have to engrave the truth
不要让透明的时刻消逝
不要让透明的时刻消逝
让灵光乍现的思想在沉静中持续
尽管纸张已快填满而火焰闪烁
我们至今尚未达到我们自己的水平
知识像智齿一样缓慢生长
人的身高仍然在一扇
白门的高处留下凹槽
从远处，一只喇叭和一首歌
的欢乐的声音像蹑足的猫
经过的并不落入虚空
司炉工还在为火炉喂煤
不要让透明的时刻消逝
于一种生硬干枯的物质中
你应该铭记真理
Miroslav Holub
Moucha
Sedĕla na kmeni vrby
Pozorujíc
kus bitvy u Kresčaku,
řev,
supĕní,
sténání,
dupoty a pády.
Za čtrnáctého útoku
francouzské jízdy
se spářila
s hnĕdookým mušákem
z Vadincourtu.
Třela si nožky
na rozpáraném koni,
přemýšlejíc
o nesmrtelnosti much.
S ulehčením usedla
na modrý jazyk
vévody z Clairvaux.
Kdyz padlo tícho
a jenom šepot rozkladu
obcházel tĕla
a nĕkolik rukou a nohou
se ještĕ škubavĕ rvalo pod bukem,
začala klást vejce
na jediné oko
Johanna Uhra,
zbrojmistra králova.
A přitom ji sezobl rorýs
prchající
z hořících Estrées.
The fly
She sat on a willow-trunk
watching
part of the battle of Crecy,
the shouts,
the gasps,
the groans,
the tramping and the tumbling.
During the fourteenth charge
of the French cavalry
she mated
with a brown-eyed male fly
from Vadincourt.
She rubbed her legs together
as she sat on a disembowelled horse
meditating
on the immortality of flies.
With relief she alighted
on the blue tongue
of the Duke of Clervaux.
When silence settled
and only the whisper of decay
softly circled the bodies
and only
a few arms and legs
still twitched jerkily under the trees,
she began to lay her eggs
on the single eye
of Johann Uhr,
the Royal Armourer.
And thus it was
that she was eaten by a swift
fleeing
from the fires of Estrees.
trans. George Theiner
苍蝇
她坐在一株柳树干上
望着
克雷西的一个战区，
呼喊，
喘息，
呻吟，
踩踏和跌倒。
在法国骑兵
第十四次的猛攻期间
她和一个
来自瓦登库尔的
褐眼睛的雄蝇配对。
她不停地搓着腿
当她坐在一匹开了膛的马身上
沉思着
苍蝇的不朽。
她安然飞落在
克莱弗公爵
青色的舌头上。
当沉默降临
只有腐朽的私语
轻柔地环绕着身体，
只有
少量胳膊和腿
在树下痉挛般地抽搐着，
她开始在约翰·乌尔，
皇家军械师
的单眼上
产卵。
就这样她
她被一只正从埃特雷大火
逃离的
蜥蜴吃掉。
Alexander Kushner
Poems are anachronisms. And soon they’ll disappear.
It seems laughable to insist still on that bird-like
Twittering to which Archilochus woke us so early,
And that clings still, like some thistle-creature.
Farewell, speaking in measure. Prose is here to relieve you.
So what if the newcomer has no Muse? Your lyric ardor
Stands out like a pose against this backdrop
Of relentless newspapers and magazines.
I was drinking with a prose-writer. All the while
He was telling me stories. As ever, a story bears the impress
Of a particular worldview, but a verse line lives
Without purpose, flies like the swallow, freely, at will.
And it is clearly impossible to imagine iambs
In the third millennium. What would it do with them?
That’s how it goes. How could I mourn so small a loss?
No, don’t complain, mourn and burn, right down into the dark.
诗是时代错误。不久它们就会消失。
坚持阿尔齐洛科斯这么早唤醒我们的
鸟般的唧唧叫似乎是可笑的，
它冷静地固守着，像蓟般的生物。
再见，按分寸说话。散文可以帮你解围。
万一新来者没有缪斯呢？你的抒情热忱
脱颖而出就像与作为背景的冷酷的
报纸杂志相抗衡的一个姿势。
我曾与一个散文作家共饮。他始终
在给我讲故事。一直以来，一个故事给人一种
传达独特世界观的印象，但诗句却不靠
意图存活，像燕子一样飞，自由，随兴。
显然，不能想象第三个千年的
抑扬格。那个时代要这些作什么？
这是不言而喻的。我该如何哀悼如此小的一个损失？
不，别抱怨，哀悼并燃烧吧，一路朝黑暗里去。
Tomaž Šalamun
LJUDSKA
Vsak pravi pesnik je pošast.
Glas uničuje in ljudi.
Petje zgraditi tehniko, ki uničuje
zemljo, da nas ne bi jedli črvi.
Pijanček proda plašč.
Lopov proda mater.
Samo pesnik proda dušo, da jo
loči od telesa, ki ga ljubi.
FOLK SONG
Every true poet is a monster.
He destroys people and their speech.
His singing elevates a technique that wipes out
the earth so we are not eaten by worms.
The drunk sells his coat.
The thief sells his mother.
Only the poet sells his soul to separate it
from the body that he loves.
© Translation: 2002, Charles Simic
民歌
每个真正的诗人都是怪物。
他破坏人类和他们的语言。
他的歌唱提升了一门抹平世界
以防我们被虫吃掉的技艺。
喝醉的出卖自己的外套。
小偷出卖自己的母亲。
只有诗人出卖自己的灵魂，把它
和他所爱的身体分开。
Nuno Júdice
A pressão dos mercados
Emprestem-me palavras para o poema; ou dêem-me
sílabas a crédito, para que as ponha a render
no mercado. Mas sobem-me a cotação da metáfora,
para que me limite a imagens simples, as mais
baratas, as que ninguém quer: uma flor? Um perfume
do campo? Aquelas ondas que rebentam, umas
atrás da outras, sem pedir juros a quem as vê?
É que as palavras estão caras. Folheio dicionários
em busca de palavras pequenas, as que custem
menos a pagar, para que não exijam reembolsos
se as meter, ao desbarato, no fim do verso. O
problema é que as rimas me irão custar o dobro,
e por muito que corra os mercados o que me
propõem está acima das minhas posses, sem recobro.
E quando me vierem pedir o que tenho de pagar,
a quantos por cento o terei de dar? Abro a carteira,
esvazio os bolsos, vou às contas, e tudo vazio: símbolos,
a zero; alegorias, esgotadas; metáforas, nem uma.
A quem recorrer? que fundo de emergência poética
me irá salvar? Então, no fim, resta-me uma sílaba – o ar –
ao menos com ela ninguém me impedirá de respirar.
Market pressures
Lend me words for the poem; or give me
syllables on credit, so I can invest them
in the market. But the price of metaphor is up,
restricting me to simple images, the cheapest,
those nobody wants: a flower? The smell
of the countryside? Waves that break, one after the other,
without asking for interest from onlookers?
The cost of words is high. I leaf through dictionaries
in search of small words, those costing less
to pay back, so I’m not asked for reimbursement
if I place them, at random, at the end of the line. The
problem is that for rhymes I´ll be charged twice as much
and no matter where I look whatever's on offer
I can’t afford, when it comes to the crunch.
And when it comes time to pay back,
what then would the rates be? I open my wallet,
turn my pockets inside out, look at the balance, it's all empty:
symbols, zero; allegories, sold out; metaphors, not even one.
Whom shall I ask for help? What fund of poetic emergency
will rescue me? In the end, there’s one syllable left – air –
I’ve got it and no one can prevent me breathing.
Translated by Ana Hudson
市场压力
为诗借给我词汇；或者给我
音节的信用贷款，如此我能在市场上
投资它们。但隐喻的价格上涨，
把我限制在简单的意象里，最廉价的，
那些没人想要的：一朵花？农村的
味道？一圈接一圈被打破的水波，
不必向围观者索要利息？
词语的成本很高。我一页页翻过词典
寻找小一点的词，那些需要偿还
更少费用的，所以我并不索赔，
如果我把它们随意地放在一行的末尾。问题是
对于尾韵来说我要付出双倍的代价，
而不管我在哪儿找，不管待售的词有哪些，
我都买不起，在关键的时候。
到了要还钱的时候，
那时的利率是多少？我打开钱包，
彻底搜查自己的口袋，找寻余额，却全是空的：
象征，零；讽喻，售罄；隐喻，一个也不剩。
我该向谁求助？哪个诗歌应急基金
会营救我？最终，只剩一个音节—空气—
我得到它，没有人能阻止我呼吸。
（完）
