臧棣詩歌一組 | 附英譯

英譯：顧愛玲，王敖

新詩的百年孤獨

關於你的詩——

我猜想，它比你本人

更適應這裡的自然環境。

它繞開了遺傳這一關。

它吸收營養時，像一株晃動的玉米，

它睡覺時，像一隻懷孕的野狗。

它散步時，像一條小河流過

橫匾般的鐵路橋。

它解僱了語言，

理由是語言工作得太認真了。

它煽了服務對象一巴掌。它褪下了

格律的避孕套。它暴露了不可能。

它就像一把木勺在不粘鍋里指揮

豌豆的不宣而戰。

這些豌豆儘管圓潤，飽滿，

但還不是詞語。

關於我和你的關係，

你的詩是一幢還沒有租出去的房子。

現場如此空蕩，

就好像戒指是在別的地方揀到的。

沿著籬牆，它甚至結出了美味的絲瓜；

和我從早市上買回的，一樣鮮嫩，

一樣乖巧於色情的小掌故。

它是生活中的生活。

它驚異於你回來的次數，

而我，盡量避免打聽你曾去過哪裡。

這就是你的詩。

是的，有一瞬間，它幾乎不是你寫的。

譯詩手機橫持閱讀效果更佳

About your poetry –

I』m guessing it adapts to the environment

better than you do.

It』s avoided the problem of inheritance.

Digesting its food, it』s like swaying corn,

asleep, it』s like a pregnant wild dog.

Out for a stroll, it』s a stream flowing

past the plaque-like railroad bridge.

It fires language

because language takes work too seriously.

It slaps the customer. It pulls off

the condom of prosody. It reveals impossibility.

It』s like a wooden spoon in a nonstick pan

commanding the peas』 undeclared war.

These peas are round and plump,

but they still aren』t words.

About the relationship between you and me,

your poetry is an unrented house.

Right now the scene is so empty

it』s like a ring picked out somewhere else.

Along the wall, at least it brings out spongegourds

like those I bought at the morning market, fresh and tender,

clever enough for erotic stories.

It is the life inside of life.

It』s astonished by the number of times you』ve returned.

I try my best not to ask where you』ve been.

This poem is yours.

Yes, for a moment, it almost seemed not your writing.

菠菜

美麗的菠菜不曾把你

藏在它們的綠襯衣里。

你甚至沒有穿過

任何一種綠顏色的襯衣，

你迴避了這樣的形象；

而我能更清楚地記得

你沉默的肉體就像

一粒極端的種子。

為什麼菠菜看起來

是美麗的？為什麼

我知道你會想到

但不會提出這樣的問題？

我沖洗菠菜時感到

它們碧綠的質量摸上去

就像是我和植物的孩子。

如此，菠菜回答了

我們怎樣才能在我們的生活中

看見對他們來說

似乎並不存在的天使的問題。

菠菜的美麗是脆弱的

當我們面對一個只有五十平方米的

標準的空間時，鮮明的菠菜

是最脆弱的政治。表面上，

它們有些零亂，不易清理；

它們的美麗也可以說

是由繁瑣的力量來維持的；

而它們的營養糾正了

它們的價格，不左也不右。

Spinach

This beautiful spinach hasn』t once

hidden you in its green shirt.

You have never worn

any green shirts at all.

You avoid this kind of image –

yet I can clearly remember

your silent flesh resembled

a seed at its apex.

Why does spinach look

beautiful? Why

do I know you will think

this question, but won』t ask it?

Washing spinach, I feel

its deep green quality

is like a child I had with the plant.

So spinach answers the question

of how we can see in our lives

angels that others say don』t exist.

The beauty of spinach is weak –

when we face the mere fifty square meters

of standard living space, this vivid spinach

is the weakest politics. On the surface

a bit wild, difficult to clean –

its beauty one might say

is sustained by the power of little irritations.

Yet its nourishment determines

its value, not to the left nor to the right.

詠物詩

窗台上擺放著三個松塔。

每個松塔的大小

幾乎完全相同，

不過，顏色卻有深有淺。

每個松塔都比我握緊的拳頭

要大上不止一輪。

但我並不感到難堪，我已看出

我的拳頭也是一座寶塔。

顏色深的松塔是

今年才從樹上掉下的，

顏色淺的，我不便作出判斷，

但我知道，它還沒有淺過時間之灰。

我也知道松鼠

是如何從那淺色中獲得啟發

而製作它們的小皮衣的。

淺，曾經是秘訣，現在仍然是。

每個松塔都有自己的來歷，

不過，其中也有一小部分

屬於來歷不明。詩，也是如此。

並且，詩，不會窒息於這樣的悖論。

而我正寫著的詩，暗戀上

松塔那層次分明的結構——

它要求帶它去看我揀拾松塔的地方，

它要求回到紅松的樹巔。

Ode

Three pinecones are arranged on the windowsill.

Each pinecone

seems exactly the same size,

yet one is dark and one pale.

Each pinecone is more than a ring larger

than my clenched fist.

But I don』t feel embarrassed, I already see

my fist is a pagoda.

The darker pinecone

dropped from the tree this year.

The paler one, I shouldn』t really judge,

but I know it isn』t paler than the dust of time.

I also see how the squirrels

were inspired by that pale color

to make their little leather jackets.

Paleness was once a secret recipe. It still is.

Each pinecone has its own origin,

but a little part

of the origin is unclear. Poetry is like this too.

Moreover, poetry won』t suffocate in this kind of paradox.

Yet the poem I』m writing is secretly in love

with the pinecones』 well-defined layers –

it demands to be taken to the place I pick up pinecones,

it demands to be returned to the top of the red pines.

細浪

在我和四隻小松鼠之間，

約有三十米寬，一排浪

從綠陰的小毯子下醒來，

細得就像顫動的跳繩。

曾經被死死捆住的東西

就這樣溶解著，

溶解在細浪舉出的例子中。

而這樣的聽政會並不是每年都有。

又一排浪更細，澄清了

一尾鯉魚的來路，

它無辜於慢悠悠，就像我初戀時

寫過的一封笨拙的信。

被催眠的事物看上去

就像是被征服了，而我受困於

什麼是贏得？與自我爭論時，

我記起了我是如何被再次捆緊的。

另一排細浪則細得需要

撒上一把碘鹽。

我推敲著你留下的種子，

它們預言了隱蔽的豐收。

岸上，橄欖樹的樹葉

正洗著一副好牌。偶爾

我們也有機會加入進去，

出牌時，你的手像只跳進水裡的青蛙。

Ripples

In between the four little squirrels and me,

a line of waves thirty meters wide

rises from the small green carpet,

thin enough to waver like a jump rope.

Things that were once bound tightly

dissolve like this,

dissolve in the example raised by the ripples.

And we won』t hold court like this every year.

Another line of even smaller ripples, clarifying

the path of an arriving carp –

its innocence comes from leisure, like the awkward letter

I wrote to my first love.

A mesmerized object seems

like it』s been conquered, but I am troubled

by what it means to win. And when I debate myself,

I remember how it is I』m bound up again.

Another line of ripples are so delicate

they need a sprinkling of iodized salt.

I think over the seeds you left behind –

they predict a hidden harvest.

On the bank, the leaves of an olive tree

shuffle a set of cards. Occasionally,

we have the chance to join in too –

drawing a card, your hand is like a frog jumping into water.

未名湖

你的天地，因這小湖

而有了一個明確的邊界。

喜鵲在低空巡邏，順便放任一下

愛的歌喉。高大的雪松像界碑，

無名在青春的秘密中。

你也許還沒有學會使用我們的秘密，

但你不可能沒有秘密。

於是，刺蝟像信使，將你的工作範圍

擴大到茂密的灌木林中。

請回憶一下，宇宙是如何變小的。

這將是非常重要的一環。

我們的宇宙，因這小湖

參與了你的工作而開始變小——

小到你可以直接擁有我的整個天空；

小到你的身體就是我的世界，

而我歡迎這樣的改變；小到你可以不必化裝，

就能自如地進出我的天地，如同

這隻小刺蝟來到漆黑的湖畔。

小到仔細一看，噫，原來你就是

我身體里的那塊試金石。

No Name Lake