2024几首翻译诗(10)

韩鲁珩

马卡蒂表亲

作者：杰克·里卡弗伦特

翻译：韩鲁珩

倘若你到了三十九岁还未结婚，

我们的祖母会讲

马尼拉那个有精神病的阿姨，

她在一个厚靴子里搅拌速溶咖啡。

一些姜糖是祖母

为如此坦白时刻准备的。

还有那条过敏手链，

她空闲的手把它在手腕上的慢慢旋转。

“听着，”她说，但她的注意力

却是聚在在脱口秀上。

厨房里，铸铁锅的蒸汽轰响。

当你二十八岁时，

在你的论文答辩结束之际，

第一个送到你面前的女人，

额边有颗蓝痣，

在她说话时微微抖动。

第二个在你父母的厨房，

在一盘煮花生的旁边：“我常做这样的梦？

世界？随意结束？”她和你没有缘分。

卧室里没有亲热，

她对你大腿上妊娠纹的恶心。

来自其他省份的亲戚赞美

这样的女人之美。通常，你发现她们

穿着西装在化妆品公司里工作。

不能弹班杜里亚，不会唱昆迪曼。

但电视总是开着。自1986年夏天开始，

它成了你听到的另一个枯萎的声音，

你为单身付出你的精力。

倘若你到了三十九岁还未结婚，

你将不再关心你粗大的汗毛孔，

你的兜齿，扁平的鼻子。你会看到

糖渍姜在丝绸玫瑰上漫延，

在铺满精神病阿姨照片的桌上，

像个浑浊的魔像，

砸碎屋里的每个无咖啡因的杯子，

留下黏土的痕迹。她只能在左耳听见耶稣，

记得马尼拉就像一幅康丁斯基的画：线条、半圆、

方块和线条。“总有一天会这样”

——我们的祖母，挥舞着破旧的尼龙袜，

白内障，弯曲的背影，说——“你会是如此。”

当你作为一名学生，在马拉卡宁宫前游行，

在突袭、失踪和伊梅尔达的鞋子之前，

时间已经开始折叠，

如今它坐在抽屉里，

脖子太小，毛料让人厌恶，堆积而杂乱。

当辛塔阿姨看她的连续剧时，

她不坐下。她目不转睛地盯着空气。

她的家居服，磨损且渐薄，轻轻移动。

她把那些乱发梳理整齐。

Makati cousin

Jake Ricafrente

If you hit thirty-nine without marrying,

our grandmother will tell

of the schizophrenic aunt in Manila

stirring instant coffee in a padded boot.

There are gingery candies our grandmother

reserves for such occasions of candor.

There is the allergy bracelet whose twirl

around her wrist she slows with a free hand.

“Listen,” she says, but her attention

is always tuned to talk shows.

Steam roars from a cast iron pot in the kitchen.

The first woman they brought to you at twenty-eight,

at the end of your dissertation defense,

had a bluish mole by her temple

that twitched when she talked.

The second said, over a plate of boiled peanuts

in your parents’ kitchen: “I always have these dreams?

of the world? casually ending?” It didn’t work with her.

There were inhospitalities in the bedroom,

her queasiness at the stretch marks tallied on your thigh.

Relatives from other provinces praised

the beauty of such women. Mostly, you found them

laboring in pantsuits at cosmetics companies.

None could play banduria. None could sing kundiman.

But the TV was always on. Since the summer of 1986,

it had been, another withering voice

you hear and pay your wifeless attention.

If you hit thirty-nine without marrying,

you will stop caring about your gaping pores,

your overbite, your flat nose. You will see

the candied ginger crawling sugared across silk roses,

across the tabletop tiled with photographs

of the schizophrenic aunt, like a murky golem,

smashing every decaf-stained mug in the house,

leaving clay trails. She hears Jesus only in her left ear,

remembers Manila like a Kandinsky: lines, half-circles,

squares, and lines. “That’s what will happen one day”

—our grandmother, brandishing ripped nylons,

cataracts, and bent back, says—“to you.”

When you, a student, marched on Malacañang Palace

before the raids, the disappearances, and Imelda’s shoes,

time had already begun its folding

and now it sits in a drawer,

the neck too small, the wool distasteful, piled and unwieldy.

When Auntie Sinta watches her teleseryes,

she does not sit. She stares in space.

Her housecoat, worn and thinning, shifts.

She twists unruly hairs back into place.

城市的灯火

作者：露西·拉科姆

翻译：韩鲁珩

星空下家家户户苏醒

没有向上的声音打破宁静。

夜幕依旧掩藏五光十色的万象

数里之遥闪烁城市的闪亮。

低空弥漫柔和的星光，

它比高出的辉耀更加无瑕；

家乡的星辰像双眼穿过暗夜，

每一次闪耀都是一朵火花。

上方闪亮的灯，下面闪烁的灯；

遥远的光辉，熟悉的光芒：

一只眼从创世之穹俯视，

看见它们孩子们的窗光。

谁在那遥远的空间中栖息？

谁的明亮火把点燃朦胧的天空？

他们在举着烛光引导迷路的我们，

灵魂的开拓者是否刚刚离开了我们？

没有未知的回应，

也没有一束光自成的照明。

上天透过尘世的夜暗示，

城市的灯火充满柔情：

情感交织在倾诉一半的故事，

微弱苍白的期望之中，

终将如阳光般一样完美

破碎的光线融合为世界的光明。

The City Lights

Lucy Larcom

Underneath the stars the houses are awake;

Upward comes no sound my silent watch to break.

Night has hid the street, with all its motley sights;

Miles around, afar, shine out the city lights:Stars that softly glimmer in a lower sky,

Dearer than, the glories unexplored on high;

Home-stars, that, like eyes, are glistening through the dark,

With a human tremor wavers every spark.Glittering lamps above and twinkling lamps below;

The remote, strange splendor, the familiar glow:

One Eye, looking downward from creation’s dome,

Sees in both, his children’s window-lights of home.Who have dwellings there, in avenues of space?

Whose clear torches kindle through the vague sky-place?

Are they holding tapers, us, astray, to guide,

spirit-pioneers, who lately left our side?Never drops an answer from those worlds unknown:

Yet no ray is shining for itself alone.

Hints of heaven gleam upward, through our earthly nights;

Tremulous with pathos are the city lights:—Tremulous with pathos of a half-told tale:

Through therein hope flickers, burning low and pale,

It shall win completeness perfect as the sun:

Broken rays shall mingle, earth and heaven be one.

简介《城市的灯火》收录于露西·拉科姆的《诗歌作品》（霍顿、米夫林与公司，1884年）。在她与朋友、诗人兼编辑约翰·格林利夫·惠蒂尔的书信往来中，露西·拉科姆思考了詹姆斯·拉塞尔·洛威尔在《大西洋月刊》上发表的《教诲诗的起源》，以及她自己的诗学，并在1857年10月30日写道：“我相信只有一种美，是真理的双生，蕴含着所有甜美、深邃和高贵的微妙本质，无论在文学、道德、宗教还是日常生活中。我认为，如果诗歌不再传递道德教训，它将失去灵魂；当然，没有人希望它变得‘说教’。但是，如果必须有讲道，我宁愿听到诗意的而不是平淡无味的讲道。人们对讲道的真正反对不就是这个吗？如果自然的诗意和人类崇高的言语被留给自己发挥作用，如果人们愿意倾听它们，还有什么需要其他的讲道？”

诗的精神

作者：亨利·瓦兹华斯·朗费罗

翻译：韩鲁珩

在这片森林里，有一种宁静的精神，

它栖居在温柔的南风吹拂的地方；

在白刺树下，阳光洒落的空地上，

野花盛开，甚至，轻吻柔和的空气，

阳光下叶子舒展在棕榈树上。

带着温柔而慷慨的声音

耳中充满精致美好的思想，

在晨星快速升起时

围着金围巾奔跑在灰色的山丘上；

或者披着斗篷、黄昏中踏着沙土

西门外，野草凄凉

寂静中离开，精神轻盈地流淌

在银色小溪流淌的绿色山谷里

连绵水流倾泻出白色的瀑布；

在虬结的森林中轻声喃喃，

在苔藓覆盖的石头间滑行中带着不穷的笑声。

在那永恒的山丘上，

它的足迹频繁出现，裹挟自己

在风暴的黑暗刺绣中，

与严厉、强劲的风呼喊。

静谧威严的深邃森林

它的存在将你的思想从尘土中提升，

如同绿色树木的顶，

向往阳光和清新的空气翱翔。

因此，才华横溢的吟游诗人

总是钟爱那宁静的阴影。

对他们而言，一切都是激昂声音

树林的华丽，金色的阳光、

花朵、叶子、奔流的小河、

蓝天、银云和温柔的微风，

还有那倾斜的高地，

黄昏时分斜阳照射的林坡，

透过破碎树冠俯瞰的天空，

山峦、崩塌的悬崖和阳光洼地，

远方的湖泊、喷泉和巍峨的树木，

用懒散的音节反复吟咏着

它们古老的诗意传说。

这就是那甜美的精神，充盈

世界；在这些任性随意的青春年华中，

我那忙碌的想象常常化身为

自然中美好光明的形象；

是我们在梦中崇拜的天国形态，

它染红野鸟翅膀，冲刷云彩。

夕阳西下，在她温柔的眼中，

是四月的天空，变幻的光影，

当它披上五月的蓝色时，

她的唇角盛开着芬芳的红玫瑰。

她的头发如夏日树木的披肩，

在暮色中变得棕褐，

在她的脸颊上，

绽放着秋日天空的色彩，

变化莫测一般的美丽。

她的呼吸如同温柔的春风，

从晨露沾湿的花朵中飘来，

充满了它们的芬芳，给人愉悦；

她那银铃一般的声音

是夏鸟的美丽的音乐，

在深夜中响起，带着热情的节律。

The Spirit of Poetry

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where’er the gentle southwind blows;

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.With what a tender and impassioned voice

It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,

When the fast ushering star of morning comes

O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve

In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,Departs with silent pace! That spirit movesIn the green valley, where the silver brook,

From its full laver, pours the white cascade;

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amidThe silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.For them there was an eloquent voice in all

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunnyvale,

The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,

In many a lazy syllable, repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill

The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,

My busy fancy oft embodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty

That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms

We worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild bird’s wing and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her tender eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair

Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

To have it round us, and her silver voice

Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the till night, with its passionate cadence.

简介：

《诗的精神》收录于《亨利·瓦兹华斯·朗费罗诗集》（霍顿、米夫林公司，1886年）中的“早期诗歌”部分。当埃德加·爱伦·坡于1841年5月3日写信给朗费罗时，这位诗人说道：“我无法抑制自己，想借此机会，向《夜之颂歌》、《围城》和《盔甲中的骷髅》的作者表达我对其天赋的热切钦佩，这可能是我唯一的机会。”在《亨利·瓦兹华斯·朗费罗》（霍顿、米夫林公司，1902年）一书中，作家、废奴主义者和政治家托马斯·温索思·希金森继续说道：“然而，朗费罗早期诗歌的批评共识在于其本身的简朴，这种简朴使它们在当时及此后始终贴近大众的心灵。”