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张杰:《给诗人冯新伟》(西思翎 译)

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空中键盘 发表于 2017-5-27 05:01:18 | 显示全部楼层 |阅读模式
本帖最后由 空中键盘 于 2017-5-27 05:08 编辑

张杰:《给诗人冯新伟》(Jan Siesling 译
Zhang Jie (China): To Feng Xin Wei

杨 劳伦斯 西思翎 (美国)译
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling (USA)


诗人简介: (Zhang Jie)

  张杰,1971年生,河南平顶山人,曾用笔名张木木。毕业于平顶山学院。1995年曾去广州工作一年,后返平顶山市工作。90年代开始写作。2001年春创办诗歌民刊《爆炸》(2001-2004年出纸刊4期)。2003年7月下旬至2009年6月中旬居在北京。2009年6月-2011年3月居马来西亚吉隆坡。现居平顶山市。著有诗集《琴房》。著有中篇小说《G城人》。

The Poet.

  Zhang Jie is a Chinese poet born in 1971 in Ping Ding Shan, Henan. Writing since the 1990ies, he uses also the pseudonym Zhang Mu Mu. After graduation from Ping Ding Shan College, he found work in Guang Zhou in 1995, but after a year returned to Ping Ding Shan to dedicate himself to writing principally. In the spring of 2001 he founded the poetry magazine 《Explosion》, annually publishing (paper) issues until 2004. From late July 2003 till mid June 2009 he lived in Beijing and from then till March 2011 in self-imposed exile in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Actually he is back in Ping Ding Shan and directs the site Airkeyboard on Poemlife.com. He published a book of poems 《Piano Room》 and a novel 《G city People》.


Jan Siesling 简介:

  杨 劳伦斯 西思翎(Jan Laurens Siesling) 是艺术史学者和著有小说和诗歌的作家、诗人。他的小说常处理艺术,他的艺术的书是处理诗意灵感。他是一个语言的人,在他的自由时间他喜欢翻译,从一种喜爱的语言到另一种。中文很可能变成他的将来的挑战。他生于荷兰,从阿姆斯特丹自由大学取得博士学位。他在法国生活很多年,他的书大多是用法语写的。现在他半年在欧洲,半年在美国。他最近的书《艺术是更多》,是一个非传统的历代的西方艺术史。


Biographical Note

  Jan Laurens Siesling is an art historian and a writer of fiction and poetry.  His novels often deal with art and his books on art deal with the poetry behind artistic inspiration. He is a man of languages and in his free time he likes to do translations from one beloved language into another. Chinese is likely to become his future challenge. He was born in the Netherlands and he obtained his degrees from the Free University of Amsterdam. He lived in France for many years and most of his books were written in French. Now he spends half of the year in Europe, the other half in America. His most recent book, Art is More, is an unconventional history of Western art through the ages.


To Feng Xin Wei

In the great black earth, the night again descending on Lushan,
You were like the lone lantern stumbling on,
Since long the fertilizer plant was closed, since long you were fired,
This is the triptych of a destiny: darkness, lone light, joblessness.

The dust whirling up on People’s Road, the chaos of crowds,
You changed your mind like a wild swan, your voice into a quill,
On the white wall of your bedroom you wrote: “Before the sky is dark,
Complete a new work, you have much time to kill.” 1

Woebegone you stepped far behind the mirror,
Our world let you down, and your poetic aims with that.
Your experience was that there is no substitute for suffering.
Like Poseidon the sea god, you bear the heavy load of the waves.

You live in a house of wine, under the table the floor is covered with bottles,
The house smells of wine, you said: “Come, brother,
Let me get you two bundles of poems,” at
Your bedside under the lonely light, dark and damp –

A spider’s web had made a sort of night sky against the ceiling,
We all live in our helpless webs.
You said: “at the worst we pay for it with the rest of our life,” 2
You read poems to me under the lonely lightbulb, the excitement

Made you breathe heavily, a ferocious tiger or a whale emerging from the deep.
Yellowing fans were flying saucers, overlooking the demonic planet of the
Lonely poet. I believed I felt the universe split in two
By shock, you must have convoked the god of poetry himself.

We then climbed to the roof, of the county’s central village
The observatory, north of the sheep’s pen, pervading the night with its smell,
With the help of your glasses you identified vague groups of stars,
Large clusters of them stare at you since long, and ignore you.

The moon was low and seemed to sink into a sublunary bedroom.
The cypress in the courtyard, moving like drunken,
Its fingers as fine as if stitching, pointed at the stars. A hawthorn
Threw its silence over the sleep of the sheep, while the Jiao Zhi

Train mooed lower than a cowherd, and far away a tower crane,
A gigantic gun, aimed at high buildings crazily popping up.
We were like the night train under November stars moving.
The water of the Xia Wa released the sweet smell of mud.

Your roof, the squalid cave wrapped in cold night,
The spider’s web, the peeling ceiling, the ragged walls,
The greasy wires, the rough sand concrete floors,
The lost mirror of the wardrobe, the missing mat for a bed.

Dust covered the table, like the dust of time,
A ghost bends over it often and writes, turning in circles,
In the dark room the owner, often sitting in the chair, motionless
In a somber cave, like oblivious in still water a black fish.

The house is packed with Tao Er River brandy boxes, you shout
Loudly: “Tao Er River”, like calling the god of the Changbai Mountain,
But there is no redemption from the god – those books though
Make a pile at your bedside, a form of revolution.

Tonight we will sleep in the turmoil of this revolution,
A useless revolution it is, we are always the turmoil’s victim.
Later that night in the window, the sky collapses, the poplar shuffles darkly
Like a space shuttle until, king of the night, the rooster, calls for dawn.

As early as nine, going down Xia Wa Street we come across the big iron mantis,
Its giant arms hanging steel bars; we walk by these iron limbs,
The sky becomes a white cave, like lit by LED lights, countless torches,
Buoys float by us, the detectors as usual drifting off.

_____
1 This is a quote from Feng Xin Wei’s poem “A Poet in the Golden Week”.
2 A quote from Feng Xin Wei’s poem “A Nude Song”.

Zhang Jie, 2016-11-08
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling 2017-05-23


张杰:《给诗人冯新伟》

在黑色的大地上,夜又降临了鲁山,
你像一盏跌跌撞撞的孤灯,
化肥厂早已破产,你也早已下岗,
这是一个命运的三件套:黑暗,孤灯和失业。

尘土飞扬的人民路,混乱的人群,
你像变卦的野天鹅,喉头化为笔,
在你的卧室白墙上,写上“趁天黑前,
完成一首新作,有的是时间供你消磨”①。

你埋头走在一个幽深的镜框里,
这个世界辜负了你,一个诗人的美意。
你所经历的是你无法替换的苦难。
你像海神波塞冬,承受住了重载的海浪。

你已住在酒屋,桌下满是酒瓶,
屋中满是酒香,你说“来,老弟,
我给你整理出两套诗”,就在
你床头的孤灯下,黑暗又潮湿——

蛛网在天花板扭曲成小小的天网,
而我们就活在这无可奈何的网下。
你说“大不了把余生全赔进去”②,
你在孤灯里为我读诗,因为激动

喘着气,犹如一头猛虎或浮出深海的鲸鱼。
发黄的扇叶像个飞碟,望着这颗魔鬼星球上
孤寂的诗人。我似乎感到了宇宙分裂的
震撼,那一定是你感召到了飞过的诗神。

我们又走上屋顶,这是县城城中村的
瞭望台,北面的羊圈,在夜晚膻味弥漫,
你戴上眼镜,辨认着模糊的星群,
大片的星团,早已把你凝望,又忘却。

月亮低的,似乎沉入人间的睡房。
院中的雪松,像喝醉的醉汉,举着
刺绣的细手,指着星空。那山楂树
在歇息的羊群上沉默,焦枝线上

火车牛群一样低鸣,远处,塔吊
像一把巨大的手枪,指着疯长的楼群。
我们像夜行列车驶过繁星下的十一月夜。
下洼的水,带着混浊的甜味。

你的屋顶,寒夜笼罩的贫民窟,
蛛网,掉皮的天花板,破烂的墙,
油污的电线,粗糙,沙愣愣的水泥地面,
丢了镜子的衣柜,没有垫子的床。

灰尘落满的桌子,像积尘的时代,
一个幽灵时常在那里伏案写作,转圈,
而昏暗屋子的主人,时常呆坐在椅中,
如同昏暗洞穴里,在静水里走神的黑鱼。

屋中堆满洮儿河酒的酒箱,你大声
喊出“洮儿河”,像呼喊长白山的山神,
但山神也无法救赎什么——那些书,
堆垒上你的床头,像闹了一场革命。

今晚我们就要睡在这革命的漩涡中,
漩涡是无益的,我们永远是漩涡的牺牲品。
后夜的窗外,是倒塌的天空,夜杨哗哗
似飞船,黑夜的帝王,雄鸡,呼叫着黎明。

早九点,下洼街中横着大铁螳螂,
巨臂吊着钢筋,我们从铁臂下走过,
天空的洞穴变白,像LED灯,无数火把,
浮标流过我们,探测器一般飘散着出发。


——
注:①引句摘自冯新伟《一个诗人在黄金周》一诗;
  ②引句摘自冯新伟《裸体之歌》一诗。
                             2016.11.8

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