第十四周：萨拉蒙&茹迪斯 民歌&市场压力

民歌

每个真正的诗人都是怪物

他毁灭人们和他们的声音

他的歌唱创造了一种技术

彻底摧毁土地，由此我们未被虫子蚕食

醉汉出售他的外套

小偷转让他的母亲

只有诗人售卖他的灵魂，将它

和他所爱的身体分离

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.

（Tomaž Šalamun，Translated by Charles Simic）

市场压力

为写诗借我些词语吧，或者

赊我些音节，我就能用它们

在市场上投资。但是隐喻价格上涨

受限于此只能用最廉价的简单意象

那些没人想要的：一朵花？田野的

气息？不向观看者收费，一个接连

一个，突袭的巨浪？

词语的价钱太高。我翻阅字典

想找些能少付点钱的小词

这样我就不会被要求偿还

如果我把它们随意放在句末

可为了韵脚又得收我双倍钱

跑遍市场，无论售卖何物

我都买不起，落个血本无归。

到了该还钱的时候，

利率会是多少？我打开钱包，

口袋翻个底朝天，瞅瞅余额，全空空如也：

音节为零，寓言售罄，隐喻一个不剩。

我该找谁求助？哪个诗歌备用基金

能援救我？最后只剩一个音节——空气

——至少有了它，没有人能阻止我呼吸。 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.

（Nuno Júdice，Translated by Ana Hudson）

一学期的诗歌课结束，读诗译诗带来很多难得的快乐，之后还会继续下去。

贴一段写在「诌二译诗集」里的话：

这学期的诗歌课让「星期二」这个形容词又添了好多念想的画面。

很多有关诗歌的美妙时刻，不再纠结是否读懂。会心一击的瞬间就是诗。

诗是一个好东西，致幻剂和近处的星辰。对面的闪烁，

一个人走不出来时，看到诗也在这，真是莫大的慰藉。

诗，当然不是所有诗，一种存在于我中的，缺乏。