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托马斯•温茨洛瓦诗5首

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李以亮 发表于 2013-12-4 18:32:32 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式
本帖最后由 得一忘二 于 2013-12-8 19:23 编辑

托马斯•温茨洛瓦诗5首
(立陶宛)托马斯•温茨洛瓦
李以亮 译





     一个卑下、不诚实的十年
                      ——W.H.奥登

夏季漫过城市。
窗口反射灰尘。
暖暖的葡萄酒滴入
冒气的高脚杯。
在太阳渐弱的光里,
空气增加了香气
稠密如西里尔字母
使狭窄的运河转暗。

你在这里寻求什么,诗人?
古老的阳台,剥落的
石膏上被抹去文字,
一个化为尘土的世界,
一道戈尔迪结①被解开,
粉笔,走道和林地,
门口的泥浆,楼梯,
垃圾,半掩的门。

手势,生活和声音
在这里曾是同一的,
喧嚣的人群如今使用
一种被改变的语言。
六月晃动着白光,
盲目的钙化的大脑
无法理解
失去的时间。

年代变乱着人们的
口音,句法和建筑,
太阳落到柱子上,
青铜在壁龛里微笑。
也许惟有贫穷和饥饿
仍然抵制着年代,
也许惟有恐惧和阴影
是它留给我们青春的全部。

在恐惧中变换着游泳
像一条深海里的鱼。
恐惧长存于此,
远比身体耐久。
和平的圆形的广场
体味着中午的烟雾。
粉笔,走道和石膏,
剥落的石膏上的文字。

惟有少数几枚铜钱
保留了生活的变化,
时间将它们留下,通过一家
本地的荒谬银行清点出来。
旋律和手势突然停止。
大街朝后街转过身去。
真奇怪,我们相遇
比预期的早。

不是在耶霍塞哈特河谷,
不是在忘川的岸边树林,
甚至不是在真空的宇宙——
开尔文和贝克勒尔②
像神一样统治着这里。
温暖的酒仍在滴下。
失眠的云浮动
在炎热、白色的六月。

人群和它的声音继续漂浮,
但我们手艺的分量一如昨天
将恐惧集中在一个词里,
赋予时间意义。
惟有灰尘和声音颤抖。
而声音却不必知道
多少真理已被纳入
它的辐射和孤独中。

————
译注:

①戈尔迪结(Gordian knot),语出古希腊传说戈尔迪(Gordius)是公元前四世纪小亚细亚的一个国王,他将牛车的车辕和车轭用一根绳子打了死结,声称谁能打开谁就可以称王亚洲。这个结到了公元前三世纪才由亚历山大大帝以佩剑把它斩开。此后便指“难以解决的难题”。
②开尔文,爱尔兰热力学家。贝克勒尔,法国物理学家,首先发现铀的放射现象。  


                ... a low dishonest decade...
                                     W.H. Auden

Summer inundates the city.
Windows reflect only dust.
Into the smoky chalice
Drips warmed wine.
The air is spiced
By the fading gold of cupolas in the sun,
Silt like Cyrillic letters
Darkens the narrow canal.

What do you seek here, poet?
An old balcony, the text
Erased from the falling plaster,
A world turned to dust.
The Gordian knot is untied,
Chalk, pavement and timber,
Mud in the gateway, staircase
Garbage, doors ajar.

Where once gesture,
Life and sound were one,
Roaring crowds now employ
An altered language.
June flutters white,
And the blind calcifying brain
Cannot comprehend
All the time lost.

The age colors accents,
Syntax and architecture,
Sun droplets on the columns,
The bronze smile in the niche.
Perhaps only poverty and hunger
Still resist the age,
Perhaps only fear and a shadow
Are all that is left of our youth.

Adjust to swimming in fear
As a fish in the ocean.
Fear is long-lived here,
Far more durable than bodies.
Peaceful circular squares
Savor the midday smoke.
Chalk, pavement and gypsum,
Characters on falling plaster.

Only a few copper coins
Remain of life – the change,
Left over from time, counted out
By the local bank of the absurd.
Melody and gesture stop dead.
The avenues turn their backs to the sidestreets.
Strange that we met
Earlier than we expected –

Not in the Valley of Jehosephat,
Not in the woods by Lethe's banks,
Not even in the airless universe,
Where Kelvin and Becquerel
Rule as gods.
Warmed wine still drips.
Clouds of insomnia float
Over the hot white June.

The crowd and its sound float on,
But the weight of our craft stays the same –
To concentrate fear in a word,
To transform time into meaning.
Only the dust quavers, only the voice.
It is not for the voice to know
How much truth can fit
In its radiance and solitude.

Translated by Violeta Kelertas and Gregory M. Grazevich


献给一个婴儿


命运只唤回命运,
死亡唤回死亡。一个孩子的经历
不同,也许更为简单:
他长成,重复着创世纪。
在摇篮里仿佛在伯利恒的马槽,
他感觉到光,很快是黑暗,
他学会区别拱顶和深渊,
大陆缓缓移动脱离海洋的无限
(等同于他和母亲)。然后
他识别草,太阳,和月亮,
硬头鳟以及乌鸦的
队伍,游荡在天空。
他以蹒跚的五官,驯服
正午的栗木柱
黑桤木,雪,黑线鳕,马达
一只梦想的家养的狼
而这狼仍在森林里,保留着
不确定的恐惧。词语就这样到来,
还有意识,随词语一起
生长,在高处重复着“随它去”,
将自身嵌入一个奇怪的意思
突然怀疑,黑暗就是我们自身,
虽然光仍存在于我们头顶。
此后他与这个世界的亲缘
超过与生养者之间的关系。
一根秘密的绞线将他束缚于介子,
煤和钻石,束缚于亚马逊河,
水星和天使长,
森林和雌鹿。
事物在他面前俯首,另一些
升起,在回声四起的荒原
在失去的乐园和喇叭之间
他醒来,将宇宙注满,
它既是沙漏也是沙,
如乔治•赫伯特①所言。常常
他似乎接近一个门槛
——诗行交叉,音符共同作用,
存在或许即将企及它的目标。
我们这些此前经历过创世纪的人,
只能以死亡回答。

我们比他年长我们已经知道
音符会消耗,诗行会磨损,
发音气室存不住声音
书写粉碎在纸上。
只有很少时候,在盲目的希望中
我们偶然遭遇记忆里
热情的事物。它试图代表
不朽,但它并不能,并不总
能。让我们还是感谢它吧。
无论如何,它带来力量,
在我们步入低谷的时候,暮色
四合,此时最好沉默,
因为我们仍不知道,上帝的脸庞
是否出现在那深邃的所在。

————
译注
①乔治•赫伯特(George Herbert 1593 –1633) ,威尔士诗人。



DEDICATED TO AN INFANT

Fate recalls only fate,
Death – only death. A child's experience
Is other, probably simpler:
He matures, repeating Genesis.
In his cradle as though in the manger at Bethlehem,
He feels light, and soon darkness,
Learns to differentiate a vault from an abyss,
The continent edges away from the infinity of the sea
(Congruent with his mother). Later
He recognizes grass, the sun, and the moon,
The trout's rainbow and the army
Of crows, wandering the skies above,
With halting sensations he tames
Mid-day chestnut columns
The black alder, snow, haddock, a motor,
A dreaming household wolf
And the wolf in the forest, which remains
An indefinable fear. That is how the word comes close,
And the consciousness grows together with the word,
Repeating in a high space "let it be",
Inserting itself into a strange meaning
Suddenly suspicious, that the dark – is ourselves,
Although the light exists above us.
From then on his kinship with the world
Is stronger than with those who begot him.
A secret strand ties him to the mesons,
Coal and diamonds, to the Amazon,
Mercury, the archangel, Birnam's
Cruel forest and the doe of Cerynea.
Objects bow before him, and others
Rise up to him. In the resonant wasteland
Between paradise lost and the trumpet
He awakens, brimming with the universe,
Together being both the sand clock and the sand,
As George Herbert had said. And often
It seems to him that he is near that threshold
Where lines cross, notes concur,
And – it would seem that – being reaches its goal.
And we who experienced that Genesis before,
Can only answer with death.

We are older than he and we know already
That notes wear out, that lines break off,
That air's chambers don't hold sound
And that writing crumbles on paper.
Only rarely, by accident do we meet
In blind hope, compassion for objects
In memory. It tries to stand in for
Immortality, but not does not always
Manage. Let us give thanks for that too.
Whatever you say, it gives strength,
When we descend into the valley, surrounded
By night, about which it is better to be silent,
Because we still do not know if God
Is there upon the face of the deep.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



对岸


在椴树的喧嚣下,在石头堤岸前,
在一条湍急如台伯河的激流旁,
我和两位长须年轻人饮着吉尔伯酒。
薄暮中——酒杯的叮当声,烟雾。
但我不了解他们。我认识他们的父辈。

一代超过另一代。录音机发出
颤音和噪声。我的两位对话者
想要了解我沉思过的问题:
受难和怜悯是否还有意义;如果
不循任何规则,艺术是否会得幸存。

我曾是和他们一样的人,但神意
赋予我一种奇异的命运:这,当然
不比其他人的更好。我知道恶
从来不会消失,但一个人至少可以努力
消除盲目;而诗,比梦应该更有意义。

在夏天,我常在黎明前醒来,
我感到,(没有畏惧),新的一代
继承词典、云、废墟、盐
和面包的时刻,正在接近。
而我将被授予的一切不过是自由。



UŽUPIS

In the confusion of linden trees, before the stone embankment,
above the rushing current, similar to the Tiber,
with two young bearded men I drink "Gilbey's".
Twilight, the ringing of glasses, and smoke.
I don't know them. I knew their parents.

What of it. The generations pass. The dictaphone
rustles and catches. My companions
are interested in exactly what I was interested in once:
Whether suffering and mercy have any meaning
and whether art will survive if there are no rules.

I was like them, until I was destined to a strange
fate, no better than anyone else's,
and I know that evil never dies,
but that blindness can be enlightened,
and that a poem's lines are worth more than a dream.

In the summer I'm often up before the dawn
and without fear I feel how the time is drawing near
when the new generations will inherit the dictionary,
the clouds, the ruins, salt, and bread,
and I will be left with nothing, except freedom.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


一条评论


首先,虽然困难,要爱语言,虽然它被作践,在报纸上
在充满谎言的讣告里,在乏味的黑暗卧室,
在告密者的文字里,在集市的叫声里,在战壕里,
在病房的恶臭里,在三流剧院,

在讯问室,在盥洗室的墙上。
在灰色楼房里,那里金属防护网
保护着楼梯井,它不为人控制,而是这个世纪
在诡秘地选择,何时你的死亡令会到来,

这语言,几乎崩毁,充斥喧哗
与骚动。所以,要爱语言,
这和我们一起发配到地球上的东西,也许
从此,即使最原始的词语也活在

它之中,尽管它天生在另一个宇宙。
它被赋予我们,让我们区别于粘土,
棕榈,画眉,或许还区别于天使。
如此,给命名对象,我们得以清楚地感知它们。

那些试图返回失去空间的人,
清洗他们的语言,应该懂得
他们几乎肯定已失去。因为大门,
如我们所知,消失得比你靠近更快,

所得等于所失,建立起来的事物
很易被摧毁。如此,也不应想着
进入别人的天堂(天堂有很多)。
到达天堂的人都会擦净脚印并将钥匙远远扔掉。

他们说你只是一个工具。你被献给了
一种权力,你不能面对它,否则你会失明。
并不完全是这样。你会在梦中爬上雅各的梯子,
你摸索着,使出你没有的力量,没有防护网,

直到上面某个人发现你(也许不会)。有时,
他移到你身边,和你交换几个词语,
改变元音,检查词法,程度。
这种情况很少,但也确实发生,

然后你感觉你创造的一切,都还不错,
因为字母漂浮在页面上,如同浮冰在河里,
灌木,堤防,一个城市,突然进入视野。
而谁会读到它(如果还有人读),你甚至不必知道。



A COMMENT

First of all, even if it is hard, love the language,
degraded in newspaper columns, obituaries filled with lies,
in stuffy dark bedrooms, the secret agent's typing, the screams in the market-place,
in the trenches, the stench of hospital rooms, third-rate theaters,

interrogator's cells, on the walls of bathroom stalls.
In gray buildings where the bottom of the stairwell
Is guarded by tin nets, controlled not by man, but by winks
chosen by the century, when the order comes for you to die,

practically dismantled, hoarse, filled with sound
and fury. Therefore, love the language,
exiled to the earth together with us, because
maybe even then the first word

lives in it, having been born in another universe.
It was given us, so that we might be distinguished from clay,
Palms, and the thrush, and maybe even from angels.
Naming them, we see objects clearly.

They who try to return to a lost space,
by cleaning up language, must understand,
that they will almost certainly lose. Because the door,
as it is known, disappears faster than you move closer.

A gift is like a loss; what is constructed
will soon be demolished. In that same way, you will not
step into a foreign paradise (because there are many paradises).
When one reaches it the traces of one's feet are erased and the key lost.

They say, you are only a tool. A power, that would blind you,
were you to look in its face, dictates your actions.
It's not completely like that. You will climb Jacob's ladder in your dreams,
groping, concentrating your strength, that you don't have, not protected by the net,
while someone from above will greet you (or maybe not greet you). Sometimes,
having shoved you aside, he rebuilds several words,
changes your voice, checks your syntax, the degree.
It happens rarely, but it does happen,

and then you feel that what you have created – is good,
because the letters float along on a page, like the sludge
in a river, and suddenly the bush brightens, the shoreline, the city.
And who will read it (if they read it at all) is not for you to know.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



感恩节


斜坡下的池塘浊臭而具金属光泽。
马群在多棘的草地啃噬。
八个女人围着桌子忙碌
在秋天和大平原①的中心,俄亥俄的
周末因露水而饱和。
河谷里枫树呈现锈色(或许是一辆被覆盖的马车,
我不清楚)。光线越来越
模糊,在威斯康辛,达科他,俄勒冈,

在猎户星座。神的雪崩
在失去的土地。荒芜的空间
使律动的心破碎。
让我们感谢这新的土地。
它稠密得我无法穿透,但富于生气。
我也太稠密它无法穿透我,但我不得不承认
一只上了年纪的狗在这里比在老家
更容易认出奥德修斯②。

感谢那些我以不知疲倦的大脑
也无法跟上的答案,
感谢我新喝到的水,
未来的草。吹拂其上的
耐心的风。感谢异乡的墓,
不再那么可怕地沉重的石头,
感谢非存在。感谢你③:从空虚里
重造了存在。也惟有你能。

感谢黑人的音乐。感谢这样的事实
一天包含了一切。
物体,适应了暗处的存在
将它们复制于大西洋此岸。
三只钟暂停在角落。
不再担心犯错,视网膜看到
锁、桌布、星辰
在各自的位置一如童年时所在。


————
译注
①此处特指美国中西部的大平原。
②典出荷马史诗《奥德赛》。
③此处原文大写,特指“神”。



THANKSGIVING DAY

The pond on the slope is stagnant and metallic.
The horses nibble at the prickly lawn.
Eight women busy themselves around the table
In the center of Autumn and the Great Plains. The Ohio
Weekend is saturated with dew.
In the valley the maple turns a rust color (or is it a covered wagon? –
I can't tell). The light thickens in
Wisconsin, Dakota, Oregon

And Orion. The Lord's avalanche
Over lost land. While the barren space
Crumbles the heart in rhythmic beats.
Let us give thanks for this new land.
It is too dense for me to see through, but it is alive.
I am too dense for it to see through me, but I have to admit
That an old dog would recognize Odysseus
More easily here than in his homeland.

I give thanks for the answers that
My sleep-deprived brain can't keep up with,
For the new water that I drink,
For the grass that will be. For the patient wind
Above them. For a grave in a foreign land.
For the not-so-terrible weight of foreign stones,
For non-being. For the fact that from non-being
Thou canst recreate being. If only thou wouldest too.

For the music of black spheres. For the fact
That this day has contained it all.
Accustomed to being in shadow, objects
Copy themselves onto this side of the Atlantic.
Three clocks pause in the corners.
The retina, not afraid of being mistaken,
Finds the lock, the table cloth, the stars
In the same places where they had been in childhood.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis





温茨洛瓦简介

托马斯•温茨洛瓦(Tomas Venclova 1937-),立陶宛诗人,学者,翻译家。前苏联桂冠诗人的叛逆之子,地下诗歌领军人物,流亡美国。曾与波兰诗人米沃什和俄罗斯诗人布罗茨基结为好友,“布罗茨基圈”最后一位在世诗人。1977-1980 年在伯克利加州大学执教,1985 年在耶鲁大学获文学博士,并留校任教至今。1997 年出版的首部英译诗集《冬日对话》奠定了他在欧美文学中的地位。
 楼主| 李以亮 发表于 2013-12-5 08:41:26 | 显示全部楼层
其中有2首我读到两个不同的英译版本,汉译时参照过。附于此:

The Opposite Shore
by Tomas Venclova


Under an uproar of lindens, before the stone
embankment, by a fast current like the Tiber,
I am drinking Gilbey’s with two bearded men.
In the twilight—the jingle of glasses, smoke.
But we have never met. I knew their parents.

A generation overtakes another. The tape-recorder
warbles and crackles. My two interlocutors
want to know about questions I once pondered:
whether there is meaning to suffering and mercy—
whether art can survive if it obeys no rules.

I was the same as them, but destiny accorded
me a strange fate: this, of course, is no better
than any other. I know evil never disappears,
but one can at least strive to dispel blindness—
and poetry is more meaningful than dreams.

In summertime, I often wake before dawn,
sensing, without fear, the time is drawing
close when others will inherit the dictionary,
along with clouds, ruins, salt and bread.
And freedom is all that I will be granted.


translated from the Lithuanian by Ellen Hinsey


COMMENTARY

First of all, though it's hard, love language, humbled in newspapers,
in obituaries saturated with lies, the darkness of stuffy bedrooms,
in the informer's typewriting, the cry at the bazaar, trenches,
in the stench of hospital wards, in third-rate theatres,

in investigative offices, on lavatory walls.
In the gray buildings, where steel nets preserve
the bottom of the stair cage, so that not man, but the century
will choose the moment when dying is allowed,

this language, almost collapsed, littered with sound
and fury. That's it, to love language,
banished to earth along with us, since
even then the primordial word is reflected

in it, as though born in another universe.
It was given to us so that we could be different from clay,
the palm, the thrush, maybe even from angels,
so that, naming objects, we could perceive them clearly.

Those who try to return to the lost space,
cleansing their language, should understand
that they will almost surely lose. Because the doors,
as we know, recede faster than you can approach them,

the gift is equal to loss; that which is built
will be destroyed quickly. Nor should one go
into someone else's heaven (since there are many). Whoever reaches
authentic heaven wipes out his footsteps and tosses the key away.

They say you are only a tool. You are dictated by
a force, which you can't face head-on, or you'll go blind.
That's not exactly the case. You'll climb Jacob s ladder in a dream,
groping, using strength you don't have, not protected by the net,

until someone up above finds you (or maybe doesn t). Sometimes,
moving you aside, he transposes two or three words,
changes a vowel, tightens the syntax, the degree.
This happens very rarely, but it does happen,

and then you become the one who saw that it was good,
since letters float across the page like sludge on a river,
and suddenly bushes, an embankment, a city emerge into view.
And who reads this (if anyone), you do not even have to know.

Translated by Diana Senechal
得一忘二 发表于 2013-12-8 19:24:47 | 显示全部楼层
编辑了一下,将英文分别附在汉译后面了。
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