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◎ 中国现当代13诗人诗选(西思翎译) (阅读3853次)



(美)西思翎(Jan Siesling)、田海燕:

    中国现当代十三诗人诗选(西思翎  英、法译)

   

宋琳:诗两首:《孩子,红鹿,水壶》《致可能的外星人》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
孟明:诗一首:《给我鲜花……》 (西思翎  英、法 译)
 
海因:诗两首:《途中》《致西思翎》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
张枣:诗一首: 《镜中》 (Jan Siesling 译)
 
周伟驰:诗一首:《河流》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
冷霜:诗两首:《〈小王子〉导读》、《傍晚读友人论诗信有作》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
张杰:诗三首:《红星渠》《写给西思翎、田海燕》《给诗人冯新伟》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
欧阳关雪:诗两首:《小岛》《致西思翎》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
北渡:诗两首:《鱼塘》《平顶山》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
杜涯:诗两首:《河流》《春天的声音》(Jan Siesling 译)
 
吕贵品:诗一首:《哭我》 (Jan Siesling 译)
 
韩东:诗三首:《温柔的部分》《美好的日子》《我们不能不爱母亲》(Jan Siesling 译)

徐玉诺:诗八首:《春天》《紫罗兰与蜜蜂》《将来之花园》《海鸥》
       《人的世界》《新歌》《踏梦》《故乡》 (西思翎  译)


(注:因专栏帖字数所限,此帖只显示诗人宋琳、孟明、海因、张枣、周伟驰、冷霜六诗人的汉诗英法译作品,其余诗人张杰、欧阳关雪、北渡、杜涯、吕贵品、韩东、徐玉诺七诗人的汉诗英译作品可登陆“诗生活网站空中键盘诗论坛”查看论坛置顶帖。手机屏幕建议横屏阅读。)

杨·劳伦斯·西思翎(Jan Laurens Siesling)简介

    杨·劳伦斯·西思翎(Jan Laurens Siesling),翻译家,艺术史学家,艺术评论家,前博物馆馆长,著有小说和诗歌。他的小说常涉及艺术,他的关于艺术的书不乏诗意。他把自己看作一个语言的人,在空闲时他喜欢翻译,从一种心爱的语言到另一种。汉语是他最后的挑战。不过,荷兰语是他的母语;他出生于荷兰,从阿姆斯特丹自由大学获得艺术史博士学位。然后他在法国建立了家园,在那里他以艺术独立讲师的身份谋生。他的大部分书是用法语写的。他现在居住在美国,除了园艺,他就是致力于写作。 他最近的书 《艺术是更多》( Art is More )已从英文版翻译为法语,荷兰语,希望不久有中文版,这本书给出了关于艺术在当代的位置和意义的非传统观点。
 
  Jan Laurens Siesling is an art historian,translator,art critic, former museum director and a writer of fiction and poetry. His novels often deal with art and his books on art don’t lack poetry. He defines himself as a man of languages and in his free time he likes to do translations from one beloved language into another. Chinese is his last challenge. Dutch is his native tongue, though; he was born in the Netherlands and he obtained his doctoral degree in art history from the Free University of Amsterdam. Then he made his home in France, where he made a living as an independent lecturer on art. Most of his books were written in French. Now he lives in the United States and, apart from gardening, he devotes himself to writing. His most recent book, Art is More, translated in French, in Dutch and hopefully soon in Chinese, is an unconventional view on the place and meaning of art in the contemporary world. 
 
田海燕简介
    田海燕,生于河南商丘。曾在兰州大学和南京航空航天大学读书。1997年去美国,2002年获路易斯安那大学-拉斐特的应用数学博士。她接下来任教于威斯康星大学-斯托特分校的数学,统计和计算机系;从2006年至今是南密西西比大学数学系教授,博士生导师,2010年起为终身教授。她喜爱艺术,诗歌,和翻译。她也收藏一点但考究的中国艺术品。
 
————
宋琳  诗两首:《孩子,红鹿,水壶》、《致可能的外星人》
Song Lin (China): 《Children, Red Deer, and the Kettle》《For Probable Aliens》
 
杨 劳伦斯 西思翎 (美国)译
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling (USA)
 
诗人简介:(Song Lin)
 
  宋琳,1956年生于福建厦门,祖籍宁德。1983年毕业于上海华东师范大学中文系。1991年移居法国,曾就读于巴黎第七大学远东系,先后在新加坡、阿根廷居留。2003年以来受聘于国内几所大学执教。目前专事写作与绘画。  
  著有诗集《城市人》(合集,学林出版社,1987年)、《门厅》(北岳文艺出版社,2000年)、《断片与骊歌》(法国MEET出版社,2006年)、《城墙与落日》(法国巴黎Caracteres出版社,2007年),《雪夜访戴》(作家出版社,2014年);  随笔集《对移动冰川的不断接近》(北京邮电大学出版社,2014年),《俄尔浦斯回头》(北京大学出版社,2014年);编有诗选《空白练习曲》(合作,牛津大学出版社,2002年)。《今天》文学杂志的诗歌编辑,《读诗》主编之一,《当代国际诗坛》编委。曾获得鹿特丹国际诗歌节奖、《上海文学》奖、东荡子诗歌奖等。
 
Poet’s profile:
 
  Song Lin, was born in 1956 in Xiamen, Fujian province, his ancestors being from Ningde. In 1983 he graduated from the Chinese Language Department of East China Normal University, Shanghai. In 1991 he moved to France, and attended the Far East Department of the University of Paris 7, after which he lived in Singapore and Argentina. Since 2003 he has been employed by several Chinese universities. At present he devotes his time to writing and painting.    
  As a poet he published between others City Folk (Xuelin Press, 1987), The Hall (Beiyue Literature and Art Publishing House, 2000), Fragments and Songs of Farewell (French translation published by Editions MEET, France, 2006), City Walls and the Setting Sun (French translation published by Editions Caractères, Paris, France, 2007), Visiting Dai on a Snowy Evening (Writers Press, 2014); a book of essays Steadily Approaching the Moving Glacier (Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications Publishing House, 2014); Orpheus Looks Back (Beijing University Publishing House, 2014). He has co-edited an anthology of contemporary Chinese poetry Blank Etudes (Oxford University Press, 2002). He is the poetry editor of the literary magazine Today, editor of Read Poetry, and serves on the Editorial Board of Contemporary International Poetry. Song Lin has won the Rotterdam Poetry International Festival Prize, the Shanghai Literary Journal Award, and the Dong Dangzi Poetry Award.
 
 
Song Lin :《Children, Red Deer, and the Kettle》 
         Translated by Jan Laurens Siesling
 
Children play on the rock in front of the house, 
Binoculars in hand they scrutinize the mountain woods. 
Would the red deer reappear, 
They’d hold their breath, and then 
Shout. I do like the body forms
Of deer: horns, hooves, fur patterns, ears alert, all.
A guest in the home of Danielle's uncle these days, 
I also like to write poetry at the kitchen table,
Taste dandelion greens, and drink more water.         
From time to time, a kid will run in, 
Hand me a wood stick, or sprinkle powder of a dry wild flower 
Over my blank paper.
At night, the mountain wrapped in snow, I in a blanket,
Red deer showed up where now were the wandering stars, 
Thirsty probably, they came to silence like me.
Only the kettle chirped and sang along.
How wonderful, this kettle here, 
Unconsciously it inhabits my imagination,  
Its ways participate in my writing,
When I am thirsty, it is there – and meets my lone desire.
Tomorrow, will the red deer come down from the mountain for water?
The children warmly debated it before going to bed.
I strike a match, and think at the beginning there was a tinsmith,
Who made this kettle with a grey crank.
 
 
《For Probable Aliens 》
 Poem: Song Lin, 1999
 Translation: Jan Laurens Siesling, 2015
 
Billions of years go by from stars being born to stars dying.
Look up to the starry sky and lo:
Nothing but a mirror of the senses,
The reflection of many an inner desire.
 
Cool as water is the night, here’s a window, sleepless people 
Lean back immersed in a sphere of celestial bodies.
Hers is the missing, the heart and its infinite wonders, 
His is the courage, the patience and the waiting.
 
There must be a bridge, over the waves of the turbulent Milky Way, 
There must be a night, illuminating endless other nights.
Billions of years, perhaps you will finally hear 
From the Weaver at her loom or the Grazing Cowherd, a long sigh. *
 
In all heaven and earth, most distant might be 
The distance between two people – from you to me. 
What after all relates us to the stars? A pale fire
Ignites between our bodies a wondrous love affair.
 
Red clouds hover over the Pacific Ocean, 
Tonight I embark and read the map of stars.
By the rugged road of stars, bright and fair, 
Come on wings of flying saucer, to me.
 
  *According to an ancient and venerable legend, two stars, Niulang and Zhinü, loved each other, against Heaven’s rules. As a punishment the Queen of Heaven sent Niulang to Earth; born as the son of peasants, he received his name Cowherd. Zhinü had to stay as the Weaving Woman in the sky, weaving the clouds, the rainbows and the seasons. One day however she descended to bathe in the lake and there met Cowherd. They married, lived a frugal but happy life in a cave and even had two children. But the angered Queen of Heaven ordered to have her come back. When Cowherd managed to follow her in her ascension, the Queen separated them and by a streak of her hairpin placed a Silver River (the Milky Way) between the desperate lovers. Only one day per year they can meet, when compassionate magpies span a celestial bridge from the one to the other. This seventh of July is Chinese Valentine Day. (translator’s note)
 
附:
 
宋琳:《孩子,红鹿,水壶》
 
孩子们在屋外的岩石上,
手举望远镜观察对山的树林。
如果红鹿再次出现了,
他们就会屏住呼吸,然后
大声叫嚷起来。我喜欢
鹿身上的一切:角,蹄子,花纹,警觉的耳轮。
在丹妮尔的叔叔家做客的这些日子里,
我也喜欢在厨房的餐桌上写诗,
品尝蒲公英的叶子,喝更多的水。
不时地,他们中的一个会跑进来,
递给我一根木棍,或把晒干的野花的细末
洒在我洁白的稿纸上。
夜里,山上有雪,我裹在毛毯中。
红鹿出现过的地方现在一颗星在漫游,
它大概渴了,像我一样变的沉默。
水壶独自唧唧歌唱。
多奇妙,身边的这只水壶,
浑然不觉间进入我的联想,
它的方式参与我的写作,
随时满足我---孤独的欲望之渴。
明天,红鹿是不是会下山喝水?
孩子们睡前热烈地争论着。
而我划亮火柴,想起最初有一个锡匠,
打制了这只灰色曲柄的水壶。
 
 
宋琳:《致可能的外星人》
 
亿万年之间,群星诞生,群星死去。
仰望星空的人在夜晚看见的 
不过是感官的镜像,
内心的诸多渴望之一。
 
夜凉如水,要有一扇窗,让未眠人 
斜倚着沉浸在天体的气氛中。
思念赋予她,心灵的无穷奥妙,
赋予他勇气,静息等待。
 
要有一座桥,横越银河的汹涌,
要有一夜,照亮别的漫漫长夜。
亿万年之间,或许你终会听见 
织女的杼机或牧牛郎的一声长叹。
 
天上人间,最最遥远的距离 
也许是两个人——从你到我。
星星与我们究竟是什么关系?苍白的火 
燃起我们身上的陌生的恋情。
 
透过太平洋上空红色的云雾,
今夜我在一条船上阅读星图。
星光的崎岖路,灿烂而甜蜜,
你快来吧,乘上飞碟向我飞来。
 
_____

孟明  诗《给我鲜花……》
西思翎(英、法译)
 
Meng Ming: Give me a flower ……
Translation Jan Laurens Siesling
 
Give me a flower, lily-of-the-valley of the month of May.
Precious Paradise and Pigalle's After Season Maids
All run at dusk to dine, when in the rain Montmartre
Like a diaphanous pear hovers over the hill.
 
Panting passers-by almost bump into each other. You hurry too 
In this scary outdoor game when suddenly
A hand emerges from the shade with a flower, ah! a hand
In an aisle, like fallen from a statue a broken arm.
 
For me that little bunch, please. ----- May lily-of-the-valley’s
Response is an antique far cry in the dark,
Confused you are, the petals float away from the sculpted hand,
The courtyard’s deserted all year long. Behind a bleak wall
 
She goes by a wind beaten loft of a former age
To a wooden floor, where she hints that I wait for the midnight bells to ring
And at no moment to forget, as the last bloom
Of wild flowering fields, between her breasts the last bouquet
Of May’s lily-of-the-valley. We shall lie down together because
It is the last time, just like children run by fields of bells in bloom,
Swaying under silver-gray skies, and she’ll lead me to
----- The wide and silver gate of new birth.
 
           (Paris, May 1991)
          (Translation May 1, 2018)
 
 
Meng Ming: Donne-moi une fleur ……
Traduction Jan Laurens Siesling
 
Donne-moi une fleur de muguet du mois de mai.
Agathe la Précieuse et autres cocottes de Pigalle un peu fanées
Partent en courant manger un coup au crépuscule, quand Montmartre
Sous la pluie devient la poire diaphane flottant sur la butte.
 
Les passants haletant se rentrent presque dedans. Toi aussi
Tu te presses dans ce jeu dangereux en plein air, quand soudain
De l’ombre surgit une main avec une fleur, ah ! une main
Dans ce couloir, tel un bras tombé d’une statue ruinée.
 
Tu désires ce petit bouquet ---- et le muguet du premier mai
Te répond d’un antique regard prolongé dans l’obscurité,
Tu hésites, les pétales s’envolent de la main sculptée,
Comme toute l’année la cour est abandonnée. Longeant un mur pâle
 
Elle passe par le vent d’une baraque d’un autre siècle jusqu’à
Un plancher de bois, m’avertit que j’attende les cloches de minuit
Et que je n’oublie point, dernière fleuraison
Des champs sauvages, entre ses seins ce dernier brin
De muguet de mai. Nous coucherons ensemble, car c’est
La dernière fois, comme en enfance on courait par les champs
De clochettes sous les cieux blancs et elle me montrera
---- la grande porte argentée d’une renaissance.
 
                (Paris, mai 1991)
               (Traduction le 1. mai, 2018)
 
 
孟明: 给我鲜花 ……
 
给我鲜花,五月的铃兰花。
玛瑙天堂和皮卡勒的秋娘
都跑到晚餐的暮色里去了,雨中的
蒙马特像一只晃动在高地的透明山梨。
 
别人的喘息从身边擦过。跑来时
那么急促,好像外面发生了骇人的游戏
黑暗中拿着花的手,啊那只手
在过道里,像个小石像断落的手臂。
 
我要一束。-----五月铃兰
这应答在黑暗里仿佛古远的交换,
令你生疑,就像花瓣从石像手上飘走,
庭院一整年空寂。经过多灰的墙
 
和走道,在一间多风的十九世纪阁楼
的木板上,她暗示我等待午夜教堂钟声
并且在那一刻别忘了,最后的
开着她的田野和双乳间,最后的一束
五月铃兰。我们可以躺下,因为
是尽头,就像儿时跑过一片盛开的铃儿花,
它们摇曳银灰色的天空她将指给我
----- 大而灰的诞生之门
 
         (1991年5月,巴黎)

______

海因   诗两首:《途中》《致西思翎》(Jan Siesling 翻译)
 
Hai Yin (China): 《En Voyage》《For Siesling》
 
杨 劳伦斯 西思翎 (美国)译
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling (USA)
 

诗人简介:(Hai Yin)
 
  海因,原名杜光学。1961年生于河南省鲁山,1980年离开故乡成了朝思暮想的城里人,并供职于某高校,任文学写作课老师。上个世纪九十年代发起并编辑民刊《阵地》,然后是北进北京、南下广东,历经近二十年漂泊最终选择了郑州,并开办一家与艺术有直接关系的传媒公司。主要作品有《小尔城》(长诗)、《世纪末措辞》、《在身体中流浪》、《太阳和它的三堆颜料》、《生活日志》、《诗经中的故乡》、《云南纳西风物志》;诗剧《会飞的污点儿》(独幕)、《一囚之歌》(四幕)以及散文随笔集《有狗的童年》、寓言故事集《海因寓言》等,作品涉及诗歌、散文(随笔)、寓言故事、话剧、歌舞剧、电影电视等。
 
Poet’s profile:
  Haiyin, is the pen name of Du Guangxue. Born in 1961 in Lushan, Henan province, he left his hometown in 1980 to become a city dweller he always dreamed of, and be employed at a higher institution to teach creative writing. During the nineties of the last century he founded the folk magazine Position, then he went north, Beijing, and then south, Guangdong. After nearly twenty years of wandering he finally chose Zhengzhou to settle and start an art related media company. His main works include Little Er City (long poem), Words for the End of a Century, Wandering in the Body, The Sun and Its Three Piles of Pigments, Life Log, The Hometown in the Book of Poetry, Records of Yunnan Naxi Sights; poetic drama Flying Little Stain (one act), A Prison Song (four acts); a collection of essays Childhood Dog, and a collection of fables Haiyin Fables. His works involve poetry, prose (essays), fables, theatre, musical, movie and TV.
 
 
Hai Yin:《En Voyage》
Translation: Jan Laurens Siesling
 
A man travels and whether his experience
Will connect him with the scenery unfolding on either side, 
No time to think about it when he boards,
To say the truth it is impossible to foresee:
Who knows the way things go on the way? As for me,
My neighbor is a youthful female in pale colors, who stepped 
So to speak right out of a yellowing photo, “nothing exceptional”,
She is bathing in the greenish light of this springtime, at first sight
One could mistake her for a symbol of spring, 
Actually not at all, she is only quietly sitting here 
As a delusion of woman, two porcelain eyes that show
Not the slightest trace of sadness, or desire
A man who sees her can’t help feeling some inner turmoil
No need for long observation to recognize 
The imprint of a maiden:
She looks eighteen years old, or twenty, thirty…? Possibly 
Even older. Is age still important here? ---
The languishing impression emanating from her body and cloths
Becomes beauty, more or less accompanied by spring’s splendor,
Albeit out of tune, these two, in dissonance.
Two different types of beauty, like when ten years ago or more
I had observed the damaged walls of my home,
I looked a long time, indeed, and a striking pattern had emerged
Moving me more than any picture in the world
All luster was gone, no fair image was to be preserved, though
To some extent confirmed
Was the ancient popular saying:
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
 
                       1996.9
 
附:
 
海因:《途中》
 
一个人在途中,他的经历与两侧的
风景是否有密切的联系,这一切
在刚上车时是来不及思考的
准确的说是想象不到:
谁又能知道途中的事情呢?我的临座
是一位刚刚褪色的少女,像一张
发黄的旧照片,与“出众”相去太远了
她被春天的绿光覆盖着,初看时
让人误认为那就是春天的象征
其实不然,她是一位坐在幻觉中的女孩儿
静静地坐在那里,两只瓷眼睛显不出
一点点的忧伤,没有愿望
看到她,人们就免不了身陷某种私情之中
不需要观察即可过目不忘的
少女形象:
她有十八岁、二十岁、三十岁......也许再
多一些,年龄还重要吗---
她的病态通过她的身体、衣着
出落成了美,与春天景象稍有联系
但又格格不入
是两种不同性质的美,就像十几年前
我看我家破损的墙壁,
看久了就有一种惊人的图案出现
比世间的任何画面都要生动
由于它不闪光,也不能有忠实的拓片流传下来
这就在某种程度上
印证了民间正在流行的一句老话:
“转眼就消失在泥土中” 
 
                             1996.9
 
 
Hai Yin:《For Siesling》
Translation: Jan Laurens Siesling
 
Sunshine all over: a gentle breeze whispers in bamboo bushes and the signs in the skies speak out clearly.
Here began a story, when the working of wine had come to its zenith, and when wave after wave
Rolled before our eyes, step by step flooding the central plains of old.
 
This story needed to be looked upon more than once; in fact it needed a faithful recorder,
There wasn’t … proper equipment fell terribly short! With my sincere excuses,
I made it up myself: our encounter became exotic theater, the flowers that bloom in the grasses of memory
Wrapped us in multiple wreathes, our intense emotion grew from pure passion into legend, a tale handed down
from ancient times. Then I had reason to speak with you face to face in my mother tongue without blushing.
 
Like in Tang verse we sat cross-legged chatting in the morning, rain drops dripping, the light hiding, now piercing,
Far away mountains were smoking, nearby frogs calling, invading and sacking our poetic mood:
I gave you a blessing, you replied with a gesture or by casting a persistent gaze at the green screen of Xiatang hills.
At last our lives returned to the classic: Zhang Jie the priest, Beidu the treasurer, and don’t forget the two
Ladies lost in thoughts, touching up their eyebrows, dormant in poetry, like the cat in the window of Mount Baixiang  
 
Siesling! That day you projected an image of Holland onto the earth of Lushan, lonesome and playful,
Lovely looking little creatures climbing like vines onto your body, questioning the overall direction
The misreading of which didn’t harm the tale’s vitality, its impact causing the body’s awakening.
So you were the poem, open to inexhaustible interpretation; and I am the obscure word overshadowed
By darkness, desperately struggling, merely to capture a man’s deeper intentions.
 
             September 5, 2016
             Zhengzhou.
 
 
附:
 
海因:《致西思翎》
 
一切都在阳光中:那里有微微的风、有竹语、以及满天游弋的天象
故事开始时,酒香已经攀爬到人生的至高点上,不久就从我们的双眼
一波波涌流出去,渐渐铺满了古老的中原
 
这是一个需要反复回望的故事,或者至少需要有忠实的记录者
但是都没有﹍﹍多么不凑手的人物道具!在深深的歉意中
我对我们的故事做了手脚:让我们的遭遇都退回到远景中,让记忆中的花草
一层层包围着我们,让我们的激情不再只是激情而是那早年理应流传下来的
轶事和传奇。这样我就有理由面对你、并手持我的母语在你的头顶肆意挥舞
 
我们盘坐在唐诗中整整交谈了一个上午,雨水淅淅沥沥,光明时隐时现
远山的氤氲,邻近的蛙鸣,把我们的诗意搅和得七零八落:
我给你一个祝福,而你把一个手势或者眼神重重的镌刻在下汤的屏幕上
终于,我们的生活回归于古典:张杰是神父、北渡是账房,还有两个
用思想描眉的女士,深深蛰伏在诗歌中,就像白香山窗台上那孤傲的猫咪。
 
西思翎,那一天荷兰的影像投射到鲁山的大地上,如此的孤独和醒目
一些可爱的小人物像藤蔓攀爬到你的肌体上,打探你的来龙和去脉
这让故事有了小小的误读和活力,让我们的肉体由于撞击而苏醒
于是,你是一首诗,正在接受莫须有的盘查和质疑;而我则是那几经
遮蔽的晦暗语词,拼命挣扎,仅仅是为了捕捉个体的本意
                                 
                 海因
             2016年9月5日于郑州
 
______

张枣:《镜中》(Jan Siesling 译)
Zhang Zao (China): 《In the Mirror》
 
杨 劳伦斯 西思翎(美)译
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling (USA)
 
 
Dear Leng Shuang,
 
  Haiyan Tian showed me your analysis of Zhang Zao’s poem “In the Mirror”. She was reading you with so much passion that I asked her to see the poem and then I decided to offer you a translation in English.
  I apologize for not having read your analysis; I will one day. For the time being I simply believe (from Haiyan) that it shows your sharp intellect, elegant style and great knowledge of Chinese poetry. But as a translator, I preferred to be as innocent as possible, a blank page. I had to confront the poem without an intermediary. Also I didn’t want to see other translations, if they exist. Please accept this one (I call it in my mind The Poet and His Muse, or The Emperor and His Muse) as a 2017 New Year’s greeting to you and through you to all the poets and friends of Poemlife.
 
     Jan Siesling
 
亲爱的冷霜,
  田海燕给我看你分析的张枣的诗“镜中”。她那样投入地读你的诗评,我就让她给我看下这首诗,于是我决定给你一个英语翻译。
  未阅读你的分析,我表示歉意;有一天我会的。现在(从海燕那里)我只管相信它显出你的敏锐的智识,优雅的风格和对中国诗歌的博学。但作为一个翻译,我宁愿我尽可能地天真,如一张空白页。我得面对这首诗,不用中介。还有,我不想看到别的翻译,如果他们存在的话。请接受这个翻译(我心中称它为“诗人和他的缪斯”或者“皇帝和他的缪斯”)作为我对你2017新年的问候,通过你我也问候Poemlife的所有诗人和朋友。  
 
  杨.西思翎

 
Zhang Zao: “In the Mirror”
 
Merely looking back on life he had regrets
And plum blossoms would be snowing down
Such as watching her swim to the other side of the river
Such as climbing a pine wood ladder
Danger can indeed strike you as beauty
Not though as watching her return from a horse ride
With fiery cheeks
Bashful. Bowing her head, responding to the emperor
A mirror is since long set up for her
Let her then sit in the mirror, where she uses to sit   
Looking out of the window, merely to remember life and regret
Plum blossoms snowing down covering all of South Mountain
 
Poem by Zhang Zao, October 1984
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling, January 10, 2017      
 
 
张枣:《镜中》
 
只要想起一生中后悔的事
梅花便落了下来
比如看她游泳到河的另一岸
比如登上一株松木梯子
危险的事固然美丽
不如看她骑马归来
面颊温暖 
羞涩。低下头, 回答着皇帝 
一面镜子永远等候她 
让她坐到镜中常坐的地方 
望着窗外, 只要想起一生中后悔的事 
梅花便落满了南山
  
_____

周伟驰诗一首:《河流》
Zhou Wei Chi (China): 《The River》
 
杨 劳伦斯 西思翎 (美)译
Translation by Jan Laurens Siesling (USA)
 
诗人简介:(Zhou Wei Chi)
 
  周伟驰,1969年生于湖南,1983年搬到广东,先后在广州中山大学和北京大学学习,于1998年获哲学博士学位。曾至加拿大Regent College和Yale University学习各一年。现在中国社会科学院世界宗教研究所工作。少年时代开始写诗,曾任中山大学诗社社长。出版有诗集《避雷针让闪电从身上经过》(南京大学出版社,2013)、《蜃景》(世界知识出版社,2008),诗论集《小回答》(北京大学出版社,2014)和《旅人的良夜》(浙江大学,2008),译诗集《第二空间》(Second Space by Czeslaw Milosz)(花城出版社,2015)、《沃伦诗选》、《梅利尔诗选》和《英美十人诗选》。
 
Poet’s profile:
 
  Zhou Wei Chi, born in 1969 in Hunan, moved in 1983 to Guangdong. He studied at the Sun Yat-sen University (Zhongshan University) and later at Beijing University to obtain his degree in 1998 as doctor of philosophy. In Canada he studied a year at Regent College and in the USA another year at Yale University. He is currently employed by the Institute of World Religions at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Zhou began writing poetry in his teenage years and served as President of the poetry society when he was at Zhongshan University. He published several collections of poetry: The lightning rod lets the lightning pass through its body (Nanjing University Press, 2013), Fata Morgana (World Knowledge Publishing House, 2008), Traveler’s Good Night (Zhejiang University Press, 2008), and essays on poetry Short Answer (Beijing University Press, 2014). He translated Second Space by the poet Czeslaw Milosz (Huacheng Publishing House, 2015), Selected Poems by Robert Penn Warren, Selected Poems by James Merrill, as well as Selected Poems by Ten British and American Poets.
 
 
Zhou Wei Chi:《The River》
 
There should be a river in your life, I often think, floating before your eyes.
A boat is not even necessary, from the pier you can see comb grass at the bottom of the water.
Absentmindedly curling, it sometimes leaves a lake, like an organ spat by an escaping fish.
Lovely River, you don't have to sing, as long as you shine before my eyes.
 
I roamed up North in open plains, a thousand miles of trees, a thousand miles of wheat, but no river.
Dark horse eyes, dark donkey eyes, under the big-leaf poplars, under the arid stars at dusk.
Stroking the animal’s fur I felt the lazy flow of the blood, too thick, almost bitter and adust.
Dust forms soil, and soil forms bricks, and bricks form cities, but no waves in human eyes.
 
Then I returned home in spring, canola violently blooming, lining tiny creeks, bordering small ponds.
And I saw you again, rising, streaming, rocking, moaning, meandering, straight again, opening,
Clear you, filthy you, sky-blue you, greasy you, delicious you, stinking you,
Shimmering light, at the curve of the cliff, at the gentle slope, beside the furrow freshly plowed.
 
Looking down from a steep mountain ridge by a timorous car window, I saw you, slender and tender,
I saw you, I spiraled down, until my hand could almost touch you and drag you back with me.
Gone far I have, but near the falls the watermill still sighs, gone far, but the waterwheel still turns,
Gone far, but seen from the sun, between the children playing at the riverbank today and once me, 
               [what’s the difference?
 
Blessed is he, who has a small river at his childhood’s door, in wind and rain under the clouds, 
           [flowing for its own sake.
Snappers flap in spring, fishers spread their nets in fall, and white long-legged cranes in summer
                       [meditate upon its surface.
When you bend over serene deep waters and the wave hits your face, it is light flocking in from all sides, 
                                      [making your heart ripple without leaving a trace.
Lovely River, deep soul River, ever chanting River, I ought to thank you, where you are there is life.
 
                      2002. 3. 15
 
附:
 
周伟驰:《河流》
 
我常常想,生活中应该有一条河,在眼前漂着。 
不一定要有船,从石墩上,可以看见水底的梳子草。 
它不经心地蜷曲着,有时留下一个湖,象鱼在逃生时吐出的一个器官。 
可爱的河,你无需唱歌,只要在我眼前闪烁。 
 
我走过北方的原野,一千里的树,一千里的麦地,但没有河。 
幽暗的马眼睛,幽暗的驴眼睛,在大叶杨树下,在黄昏干燥星下。 
抚摸着家畜的毛发我感到血在缓缓流动,带着浓度,几近干涩。 
灰尘结成土,土结成砖,砖结成城市,而人的眼里没有波浪。 
 
当我回到家乡,在春天,油菜花怒放,在小小溪旁,在小小水塘旁。 
当我再次看到你,涨着,淌着,摇着,呻吟着,曲着,挺着,张开着, 
清澈的你,龌龊的你,淡蓝的你,油腻的你,可口的你,恶臭的你, 
闪着光,在那山崖的拐弯处,在那小土坡下,在那犁开着的新鲜的沟垅旁。 
 
当我从险峻的山腰,从胆怯的车窗里向下望,我看见你,修长而柔软, 
我看见你,我一层层回旋下山,直到几乎可把手伸向你,拉着你和我一同归去。 
远去了,但那建在小瀑布边的水磨仍在响着,远去了,但水车仍在转着, 
远去了,但在太阳的眼里,今天河边玩水的孩子和昔日的我有何区别? 
 
有福的人,在你童年的门前有一条小河,风里、雨里、云朵下它自管自地流着。 
春天鲷鱼拍打,秋天渔人撒网,夏天长腿的白鹤在水面上出神。 
当你俯身流水幽深,打碎着自己的面庞,那是四面蜂涌的光,使你心漾动不留痕。 
可爱的河,性灵的河,不息地哗哗响着的河,我要感谢你,有河水的地方才有生活。
 
                                                             2002.3.15

_______

冷霜  诗两首:《〈小王子〉导读》、《傍晚读友人论诗信有作》
Leng  Shuang (China): 《“The Little Prince” Reading Guide》、《Writing at nightfall reading a letter from a friend on poetry》
 
诗人简介:( Leng  Shuang )
 
  冷霜,1973年生于新疆,1990年考入北京大学中文系,2006年获北京大学文学博士学位。做过编辑、记者,现任教于中央民族大学文学与新闻传播学院。著有诗合集《蜃景》,曾获刘丽安诗歌奖、诗建设新锐诗人奖等。
 
Poet’s Profile:
  Leng Shuang, born in Xinjiang 1973, was admitted to the Chinese Department of Beijing University in 1990; he obtained his doctor’s degree in literature there in 2006. After having been an editor and a reporter, he now teaches at the College of Liberal Arts and Journalism of the Minzu University of China (for ethnic minorities). His collection of poems “Mirage” has been awarded the Liu Lian Poetry Prize, the “Constructive Poet” award for his innovative work, and more.
 
 
Writing at nightfall reading a letter from a friend on poetry
 
Snow is falling again,
The branches grow a darker hue.
The roof likens a face with sorrowful temples,
The road’s black, wet, its borders mirror the white painted tree trunks.
Streetlights slumbering,
The snow makes the twilight shine, bathing things in pure blue ink.
 
“The power of truth should come from … …”
My attention dwindles in the middle of your phrase,
It is as if I heard your rapid Southern tongue,
In the eaves dripping the melting snow.
 
I disagree with you, in my chest emotions multiply,
In my heart I listen to heated arguments, smoke soars.
Invisible snowflakes whirl down and weigh heavy on the dusk.
When on earth will we be free from shame and guilt?
 
Leng Shuang, poet
Translation Jan Siesling (2016)
 
冷霜:《傍晚读友人论诗信有作》
 
雪又落下来了,
树枝的颜色更深。
屋顶显出愁苦的鬓角,
道路湿黑,边沿映出行道树漆白的树干。
街灯睡着,
雪使暮色发亮,使一切像洇在纯蓝墨水里。
 
“真实的力量来源于……”
我的目光停留在你的词句中,
仿佛听到你急促的南方口音,
像融雪时的檐溜。
 
我不同意你,我的心情复杂,
我听到心里有人大声争辩,烟雾腾腾。
无法看见的细雪压低了黄昏。
我们何时才能免于羞愧。
 
 
“The Little Prince” Reading Guide
 
Six times or seven the lights switch on and off. But when
On again, the actors, makeup intact, jump onto the stage from four sides, 
Bend their bodies in all directions, shooting warm wiggling shadows,
As if their roles, barely turned aside, roll down below their knees.
During a moment it’s hard to adjust, vacuous stares of the audience, applause,
Standing up, banging of the seats, spreading of primitive praise.
Two young fans walk up the stage, they hand flowers 
To friends, ask them to pose for a photo. Chaotic light rays 
Beam over the wet looking public, above the heads
Floats dust in the hot air, crowds shove to the exits belly to back to belly,
Seals upright. Outside the gates cabs pile up, shouting here yelling there, 
Backing up bumper to bumper inch by inch one by one and then off;
After so much commotion the whisper of bicycles calms down to silence. 
In the 103 trolley shelter a bunch of girls, 
Not unlike artificially modified roses, adorn the
Posters lit up in their backs. When grazed about
By their respective sheepish boyfriends, one can see their free eye
Glance into the empty street. The wind gets cold, still one or two newspaper stands
Expose the full cleavage of an élégante: at Wangfujing Avenue 
What counts is what you can see with the naked eye, at daytime, 
Fox fur boa mantles and sapphire blue ladies’ lambskin coats,
Loudly advertised, sparkling like stars. But as soon as
The sky’s closed, shop windows become black holes. Dark and empty the night, 
Containers full with what foreign garbage? A shipload a day? Where is the prow,  
Where is it all bound? Trolley 108 direction Chongwenmen. The policeman
At the Dongdan Crossing directs the traffic of deserted streets, 
Rotating it seems for his own sake. Would he be 
The switch tender of these streets? Or the lamplighter, for whom
One day equals a minute? Perhaps rather
A condensed king, his loneliness adapted
To the colors of the night, evaporating like spilled beer,
Gasping in his wife’s face when coming home. The trolley howls and rolls,
Leaving him behind, ever smaller in clouds of sand dust,
The image of perfect order like a stamp put on top of
A diminished world. What’s next? “The 106 is horrible.”  
Time and again everyone could be transformed into a volcano, squeezed
Into pure lava, but for the moment the humans manage to maintain
Their ordinary solid self. In the dark no one talks.
The road is a constrictor, swallowing a streetcar full of people going to one place.
Behind me the youthful ticket boy announces with total apathy 
The stations: for him these names are 
Eternity; a far cry from a geographer, it makes him
Sick and tired, “Get off for Swimming Pool,
No swimming pool here,” only the regretful mark of neglect. 
How he would rather be with his buddies and cite the names of his champions.
A new transfer and suddenly there is a dense crowd. It thrusts me
Against a stranger, she is a young woman. How awkward I feel.
My thoughts wander astray to the couples after the play, a play
About love, they drank the last drop of their sparkling water,
Stood very close too, and did not say a single word.
 
Leng Shuang, poet
Translation Jan Siesling (2016)
 
 
冷霜:《〈小王子〉导读》
 
大约是第六、七次,灯全部黑了。当它再次
亮起,演员们从四面跑出来,没有卸妆,
但是朝每一个方向热烈地屈身,影子扭动,
像刚刚脱掉的角色滑到膝盖以下。
一时难以适应,观众们怔怔地鼓掌,
站起身来,带动座椅发出一片简单化的评论声。
一对捧场的年轻人走上前台,向朋友们
献上鲜花,与他们合影。在杂乱的光柱中,
人群看上去湿淋淋的,头顶上飘浮着
尘土和热气,用肚皮挨挨挤挤地涌向门口,
活像海豹。门外,出租车堆在一起,大呼小叫,
有分寸地倒车,一辆接一辆开走;
一阵忙乱之后,推自行车的声音也渐平息。
聚集在103路电车的站牌下面,一些女孩
像经过陌生化处理的玫瑰花,装饰着
身后的灯箱广告。当她们为各自的
绵羊男友所啃食,你看到她们腾出眼睛来扫视
空空的大街。风凉了,一、两处报摊仍然
裸露着整加仑的乳沟:在王府井,重要的
就是你用肉眼所能看见的,白天
狐狸毛领大衣和宝石蓝羊皮女大衣
在扩音器的统治中星星般闪光。现在,
天空打烊,橱窗如洞。黑夜是什么,装满
进口垃圾的集装箱,每天一班?船头在哪里,
开往何方?108路电车开往崇文门。一名交警
在东单十字路口维持着冷清的秩序,
像是在维持自己的转动。他可算是
这条街区的灯塔看守人?或者,掌灯人,
一天等于一分钟?也许,他更像一位
缩写本的国王,一种被改编过的孤独感
仿佛跑了气儿的啤酒,与夜色混杂,
使他回去对着妻子咳嗽。电车轰响,
把他越来越小地留在扬起的灰沙里,
如同一条加盖在折价的世界之上的
笔直的命令。接下来,“106路是悲惨的”,
无数次,它把每一个人都变成火山,挤成
岩浆,但这会儿,乘客尚能保持住
常态下的固体自我。黑暗中没有人说话。
道路如蛇,吞噬满车的人去往同一个地方。
在我背后,年轻的电车售票员有气无力地
报出站名:对于他来说,这些站名
就是永恒;而与地理学家们不同,他对此
无比厌倦,“是的,从游泳池站下车
并没有游泳池”,它只是一处荒废的记号,
相比起来,他更愿意和小哥们儿一起背诵球星。
再次转车时人突然很多,我不得不与一位
陌生的少女挨得很近,我感到尴尬,
并再次想到那些散场时的情侣,在一部
有关爱情的话剧结束之后,在喝光了矿泉水
之后,也是这样挨得很近,却一言不发。
 
Translator’s remark.
 
  Leng Shuang makes no secret of his source: he puts it in the title of his poem of fifty dense lines. He presupposes that everybody knows the French story of “The Little Prince”, and it should be so, also in China. I was lucky to discover a bilingual English-Chinese edition of the tale, happy to read it again. How charming, how mysterious, how natural! It had to change my feeling about Leng’s poem, adding a layer of understanding. It justifies this note after translating. It is my pleasure to indicate a few parallels between Leng’s verses and his inspiration. In doing so I am aware that I turn the poem’s title upside down: I use the tale as a guide to get closer to the poem. From what follows, the reader is free to pick whatever seems worthwhile.
 
  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wrote his novella (for children from 8 to 88, as the old expression has it) in 1942, when he was in the USA, in exile from his fatherland, occupied by the Nazis. It came out the following year, published by an American company, in French and English. The writer was also a soldier. He had fought for his country as an aviator and now continued, while waiting for a new occasion to fly, as a self-appointed cultural diplomat: with his pen he wanted to urge the USA into a war effort sustaining the liberation of Europe and Asia. Rationally considered, this mission seemed way above the capacities of a novelist. But Antoine de Saint-Exupéry believed in miracles. He had good reasons for it, since a miracle saved his life when his plane crashed one day in the middle of the Sahara desert. “The Little Prince” is, let’s never forget, an auto-biographic tale, a miraculous story, only children can join in, and that is exactly why we recognize it as true. Truth, surprisingly, is what we don’t see. Truth shows us, like children often do, the absurdity of the adult world.
 
  Leng Shuang’s poem is not a tale, but it observes reality, one might say, with the eyes of the Little Prince. The reality is that of a modern big city, possibly Beijing, but it could be Chicago as well, or Moscow, or our own. It is a city by night, a real and cold and lonely night. There has been a play the poet has seen (perhaps “The Little Prince” adapted for the stage?) and its magic doesn’t fade with the end of the performance. It moves from the stage into the public and from there into the night over the town where the poet travels homeward. Inevitably the images from the tale invade his view of the city. They occupy his vocabulary to describe it, and create a poetic and ever so genuine (humoristic, enigmatic, oneiric) order. They send some chaotic light beams over a few telltale fragments of modern life. Here are some examples in random order: the true rose, as opposed to the defamiliarized roses on planet earth (I translated as “artificially modified”); the sheep (the grazing boys as well as the lambskin’s overcoats); the fox with its huge tail; the boa constrictor swallowing not an elephant but a trolley; the policeman lamplighter; and so on, the king of the reduced world, the geographer, the volcanos, the streetcars like micro-planets, the fountain and the well, the silence of the dark. I invite the reader to find more intriguing parallel metaphors. I couldn’t help introducing the switch tender, maybe too free a translation of the lighthouse keeper, but so close to the Little Prince’s story.
 
  Everything changes in Leng’s metamorphosis of the tale into a poem, but not the essential reality of the authentic personal dream. Something strangely human confirms itself as their basic tone. In “The Little Prince”, a moral tale, there is no moralizing. The child never accuses, because it speaks in the name of love. The adult on the contrary feels shame or guilt for the loss of innocence. That is the end of the dream. There we stand, confronted to love in a modern city. Is the questioning poet, in this cold world, no other than our heartwarming Little Prince?
                                     JLS
译者的话
  对于(冷霜:《〈小王子〉导读》)这首诗的来源,冷霜没有秘密:就把它放在了他的稠密的五十行诗的标题中。他猜想每个人都知道法国故事《小王子》 ,应该是的,在中国也是。我很幸运发现了这个故事的英中双语版,很高兴又把它读了一遍,多么迷人,微妙,和 自然。它不得不改变我对冷的诗的感受,为我增加了一层理解。它也交代了我翻译之后加的这个注解。我乐于指出一些冷的诗句及其妙想之间的相似之处。这样做时,我知道我把诗的标题颠倒了:我用这个故事为指导以更贴近诗句。以下,读者自由选取任何值得的信息。
  安托万 圣 埃克苏佩里在1942年写了他的中篇小说(给8到88岁的孩子,如古语所说),当时他在美国,是一个流放者,祖国被纳粹占领了。书第二年出来了,由美国一家公司用法语和英语出版。作者还是个军人。他作为一个飞行员为他的国家而战,现在继续着,在等待新的飞行时机的时候,他是一个自我任命的文化外交官:用笔他想敦促美国涉入一个继续解放欧洲和亚洲的战争努力。理性地考虑一下,这一使命似乎远远超过一个小说家的力所能及。不过,安托万 圣 埃克苏佩里相信奇迹。他对此有充分的理由,因为某天他的飞机在撒哈拉沙漠中坠毁是一个奇迹救了他的生命。《小王子》是,让我们永远别忘记,一个自传体的诉说,一个神奇的故事,只有孩子才能加入,而那正是为什么我们意识到它是真的。令人吃惊的是,真是我们看不见的。真,像孩子常做的那样,显示给我们成人世界的荒唐。
  冷霜的诗不是一个故事,它观察了现实,可以说是用小王子的眼睛。这是一个现代大城市的现实,可能北京,也会是芝加哥,或莫斯科,或者我们自己居住的城市。城市在夜晚,一个真实的, 冷而孤寂的夜晚。诗人看了场演出(可能是《小王子》改编成的舞台剧?),它的魔力没有随着演出的结束而褪去。这魔力从舞台游动到大众中间,又从那里进入夜晚的城市,诗人往家的方向。不可避免地,故事里的形像侵入了诗人看到的城市景象。他们占居了他描述城市的词汇,创造了一个诗意又那么真实的(幽默的,谜一般的,梦似的)条理。他们把一些混乱的光束照向一些现代生活中泄露真情的片段。这里我用随机的顺序给几个例子:真的玫瑰,相对于地球上的陌生化的玫瑰(我翻译成 “人工改变了的”); 绵羊(啃食的男友和羊皮的大衣); 有巨大尾巴的狐狸; 蟒蛇吞的不是大象而是电车; 警察掌灯人; 等等,还有缩写本的国王,地理学家,火山,微行星般的电车,泉水和井,黑暗的静寂。我邀请读者去发现更多奇妙的并行隐喻。我忍不住介绍进来扳道工,可能是对于“灯塔看守人”的太自由的一个翻译,但很接近小王子的故事。
  在冷将这个故事变形成诗时,每个东西都变了,但没有变的是真正个人梦的深层现实。一种神奇的人性的东西确认自己为它的基调。 《小王子》是一个道德的故事,但没有说教。因为是在爱里说话,孩子从不指责。反而成人为失去纯真而觉羞愧。那是梦的结束。我们站在这里,一个现代都市里,面对着爱。质疑的诗人,在这冰冷的世界,无异于温暖我们心的小王子吧?
                                                            杨 劳伦斯 西思翎
(未完)


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