范姜 春韭的網隙Fannjiang CJ's areola

2009年5月31日 星期日

"The Whitsun Weddings" by Philip Larkin


Philip Larkin photo from Philip Larkin (1922–1985)". The Poetry Archive.


Philip Larkin [wiki]
The Philip Larkin Society
Philip Larkin (1922–1985)". The Poetry Archive.
A tribute to the late poet Philip Larkin [The Guardian]
拉金詩選 陳黎‧張芬齡 譯


"The Whitsun Weddings" by Philip Larkin

The Whitsun Weddings
That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles island,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displace the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewelry-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochers that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafes
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed abroad: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots. and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
-An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,
And someone running up to bowl -and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Traveling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.



聖靈降臨節的婚禮(The Whitsun Weddings)陳黎/譯

聖靈降臨節彼日,我出發遲遲:
一直要等到
陽光普照的星期六下午一點二十分左右
我們空了四分之三的火車才姍姍開出,
車窗盡閉,座褥皆熱,所有
匆忙的感覺都消失了。我們自
房子的背部奔馳過,穿過一街
眩目的風簾,聞到魚塢的味道,自那兒
河流開始它寬闊的水面,
天空,林肯郡與河水相接一色。

整個下午,出入於熟睡好幾哩的
內陸的高熱,
我們向南維持一緩慢且時停的曲線。
行經農野,陰影短小的牛隻,以及
浮著層層工業泡沫的運河;
稀奇地閃過一間溫室:樹籬下浸
又上升:草的味道斷斷續續地
取代了扣死的車廂布的惡臭
一直等到新奇而無可名之的下一個城鎮,
挾其數以畝計的廢車逼近。

起初,我不曾注意到這些婚禮
帶來的熱鬧
在我們停靠的每一個車站:陽光破壞了
對發生在陰影底下事的興致,
我把長而清冷的月臺上邊的叫聲、風笛聲
誤認做搬夫在搬弄郵件
因此照樣看我的書。然而,等車子開動
我們跟他們錯身而過,穿著效仿時髦的女孩子
傻笑,頭抹髮油,從腳跟到面紗,
躊躇不定地楞在那兒,看著我們離去,

彷彿站在事件的盡尾向
仍然活下去的
某樣東西揮手告別。驚訝著,我乃
更快,更好奇地在下一站把頭探出去,
以迥異的角度重新察視這事;
禮服底下繫著寬皮帶並且皺紋
滿額的父親;肥胖大嗓門的母親;
高聲說粗話的舅舅;以及那些電燙髮,
尼龍手套,仿製的珠寶,
使女孩們看起來和他人怪不相同的

檸檬綠,淡紫,以及橄欖黃的顏色。
是的,從咖啡店
以及調車場那邊的酒宴廳,以及懸旗結綵的
轎車宴會別館,婚禮之日
逐漸接近尾聲了。沿著整條鐵路線
一對對新人登上車來:其他的人圍在旁邊;
最後的五彩碎紙跟忠告一起被丟出,
而在我們開動的當兒,每張臉似乎都在為他
所見到的別離下定義:孩子們為無聊而
縐眉頭,父親們則從不曾有過

如此巨大而純然滑稽的成功;
女人分享了
秘密,彷彿一場愉快的葬禮;
在另一方面,女孩們目睹了一次宗教性的創傷,更加
抓緊她們的手提包。我們終於鬆了一口氣,
滿載他們所見到的一切,拖著
塊塊凝血的蒸汽,急急趕向倫敦。
眼前田野變做建築區,大馬路上
搖曳著白楊樹的長影,而在
大約五十分鐘,也就是幾幾乎乎

只能讓你整理好帽子,並且說
「我快累死了」
的時間裡,有一打的婚姻進行著。
他們凝視窗外的風景,肩並肩坐著
──經過一間戲院,一座冷卻塔,
有人跑向前投球──而沒有人
想到那些他們永遠不會碰到的其他的人,
或者他們的生命如何也都含有這個時辰。
我想到陽光下開展的倫敦,
它的郵遞區像一方一方的麥子被包裹著:

我們目標那裡。而當我們衝馳過
光亮的欄柵
經過靜止的普爾門車,一牆牆暗黑的青苔
走近我們,事情幾乎巳結束了,這不堅實的
旅行的巧合;而它所連結的一切
也準備跟著變化所帶來的全部力量
鬆開掉。我們再一次緩慢下來,
而當拉緊的剎車急急剎住,有一種
掉落的感覺突然迸出,彷彿一陣箭
自看不見處射來,在什麼地方化做了雨。




"The Whitsun Weddings" by Philip Larkin

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2009年5月29日 星期五

Анна Ахматова - Муза (Anna Akhmatova - The Muse)


Akhmatova in 1922 (Portrait by Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin)

Anna Akhmatova [wiki]
Russian and English text side by side, translated by Andrey Kneller
Anna Akhmatova [poets.org]
some english Translations
中文譯詩
Elaine Feinstein's Anna of the Russias the life of Anna Akhmatova (2005)



Muse

When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient,
Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread.
What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation,
When compared with the gentle piper's tread?

And she came in, threw out the mantle's edges,
Declined to me with a sincere heed.
I say to her, "Did you dictate the Pages
Of Hell to Dante?" She answers, "Yes, I did."


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2000
Edited by Orit Bonver, August 2000



another English translation version by Elaine Feinstein
The Muse

At night, as I wait for her coming, my life
Seems to hang by a thread. What are
Youth, honours, freedom to me
Compared with the flute in her hand.

Look, here she is. She throws back her veil
And fixes her eyes upon me with serenity.
I ask, 'Are you the one whom Dante
Heard dictate the Inferno?' She answers 'Yes'.
1924



Анна Ахматова - Муза (Anna Akhmatova - The Muse)

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2009年5月27日 星期三

Self-Portrait by Adam Zagajewski


Adam Zagajewski photo from poets.org


Adam Zagajewski [wiki]
Adam Zagajewski [poets.org]
Adam Zagajewski [poetryfoundation.org]
Adam Zagajewski [a Biography]
亚当·扎加耶夫斯基(Adam Zagajewski)十二首 [中文介紹和譯詩/黄灿然]


Self-Portrait
by Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh
from poets.org

Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers--but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife's face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don't know.
I'm truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that--so far--
belongs to me.


自画像 黄灿然 译
文章来源于 中国艺术批评:

  
在电脑、一支笔和一台打字机之间,
我的半天过去了。有一天半个世纪也会这么过去。
我住在陌生的城市,有时候跟陌生人
谈论对我是陌生的事情。
我听很多音乐:巴赫、马勒、萧邦、肖斯塔科维奇。
我在音乐中看到三种元素:软弱、力量和痛苦。
第四种没有名字。
我读诗人,活着和死去的,他们教会我
坚定、信仰和骄傲。我试图理解
伟大的哲学家们——但往往只抓住
他们宝贵思想的一鳞半爪。
我喜欢在巴黎街头长时间散步,
观看我的同类们被嫉妒、愤怒
和欲望所驱策,充满活力;喜欢追踪一枚硬币
从一只手传到另一只手,慢慢地
磨损它的圆形(皇帝的侧面像已被擦掉)。
我身边树木不表达什么
除了一种绿色、淡漠的完美。
黑鸟在田野踱步,
耐心地等待着,像西班牙寡妇。
我已不再年轻,但总有人更年老。
我喜欢沉睡,沉睡时我就停止存在;
喜欢骑着自行车在乡村道路上飞驰,杨树和房屋
在阳光灿烂的日子里溶化成一团团。
有时候在展览馆里画对我说话,
反讽会突然消失。
我爱看妻子的面孔。
每个星期天给父亲打电话。
每隔一星期跟朋友们见面,
从而证明我的忠诚。
我的祖国摆脱了一个恶魔的束缚。我希望
接着会有另一次解放。
我能帮得上忙吗?我不知道。
我肯定不是大海的儿子,
像安东尼奥·马查多写到自己时所说的,
而是空气、薄荷和大提琴的儿子,
而高尚世界的所有道路并非
都与迄今属于我的生活
交叉而过。


Literary Festival - Adam Zagajewski 1:06 mins

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