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莫笑愚de午夜驪歌

一個人de獨舞——在文字構築的視覺花園。

 
 
 

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关于我

一个孤独的旅人,一个人生的探险者,一个人间过客。从东半球到西半球,从城市到城市,从落日到落日,流浪、行走、品味生活。在命运之河驾一叶扁舟,用虔诚的朝圣者灵魂,赞美荆棘、爱和死亡。

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【原創譯文】保羅.策蘭詩八首  

2014-02-05 14:30:15|  分类: 莫笑译诗 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |
【原创译文】保罗.策兰诗八首 - 莫笑愚 - 莫笑愚de午夜骊歌

 

 保羅.策蘭詩八首
     莫笑愚 譯

 

《十二年》

這線條
保留過,那
成為了真實:......你
在巴黎的房子——成為
你雙手的改裝品。
通過三次呼吸,
通過三次照耀。

...................

它在成為啞巴、成為聾子
在我們的眼睛背後。
我看見這有毒的花朵
以所有詞語和形狀的方式。
走開。來吧。
愛滿溢出它的名字:給你
它賦予給自己。

 

 

《這夜晚也》

 

更完整地,
既然雪花甚至落在這
陽光搖曳、太陽透濕的大海上,
綻放的冰在那些籃子裡
你帶進城。

你要求作為回報,
作為最後
玫瑰回家
這夜晚也想要被餵養
自這滴漏的時光。

 

 

《哦,夢的細小根須》

 

哦,夢的細小根須
你在此抱著我
不再為任何人所見,
死亡的財產。

 

鐫刻一張臉
那兒也許有演說,地球的,
熱情的,有
眼睛的事物,甚至
這裡,你蒙著眼讀我,

 

甚至
這裡,
你在此
反駁我,
朝著這封信。

 

 

《阿喀琉斯的勝利》

 

在派特洛克羅斯的故事裡
沒人生存,哪怕阿喀琉斯
他曾幾乎是個神。
派特洛克羅斯使他重生;他們穿著
同樣的鎧甲。
總是在這些友誼中
一個人伺服于另一個,一個人小於另一個:
這層級
總是明顯,儘管這傳說
無從相信——
它們來自倖存者,
這被遺棄的人。
希臘船隻著火
怎能與這損失相比?
在他的帳篷裡,阿喀琉斯
以他全部身心悲慟
而眾神看見
他是一個已死之人,一個受害者
属于那愛過的部分,
属于那凡人的部分。

 


《夜間光線》

 

我夜晚所愛之人的頭髮全部最明亮地焚烧了:
我給她送去最輕的木質棺槨。
波浪滾圓地環繞它宛如我們在羅馬的夢之圓榻;
它如我一樣戴著白色假髮並聲嘶力竭地說話:
它以我的方式說話當我許可它進入內心。
它知道一首法蘭西情歌,我在秋天唱過它
當我像一個遊客在晚間之地停留並寫信
給早晨。
一隻精緻的小船是那棺槨在感情的灌木叢裡製成。
我也在它裡面漂浮沿著血流直下,仍然比你的眼睛年輕。
現在你年輕如一隻鳥在三月雪中猝死,
現在它來到你身邊,給你唱它來自法蘭西的情歌。
你很輕:你將在我的春天安眠直到它結束。
我更輕:
在陌生人面前我歌唱。

 

 

《景观》

 

高大的楊樹——這地球的人類 !
成磅黑色的幸福——你照见它们直到死!
我看见你,姐姐,站在那光辉里。

 


《水晶》

 

不在我的唇上找你的嘴,
不在大門前等候陌生人,
不在眼睛裡為著這淚水。
七个夜更高紅色造就紅色,
七顆心更深手敲這門,
七朵玫瑰更晚濺灑這噴泉。

 

 

《科隆》

 

在科恩,一個僧侶和骨頭的小鎮,
路面用殺人的石頭的毒牙鋪成
以及破衫,密友,和醜陋的村婦;
我數著二百七十次惡臭,
全都準確定義,而數度發臭!
你統治下水道和洗漱池的甯芙仙女,
這萊茵河,它依然著名,
洗滌你的城市科隆;
但是告訴我,甯芙,什麼神聖力量
從今以後將洗滌這萊茵河?

 

(莫笑愚譯,2014-02-05于北京)

 

附英文譯文:

Twelve Years

 

The line
that remained, that
became true: . . . your
house in Paris -- become
the alterpiece of your hands.
Breathed through thrice,
shone through thrice.
...................
It's turning dumb, turning deaf
behind our eyes.
I see the poison flower
in all manner of words and shapes.
Go. Come.
Love blots out its name: to
you it ascribes itself.

 

(Tr. Michael Hamburger)

 

This Evening Also

more fully,
since snow fell even on this
sun-drifted, sun-drenched sea,
blossoms the ice in those baskets
you carry into town.
sand
you demand in return,
for the last
rose back at home
this evening also wants to be fed
out of the trickling hour.


 

O Little Root of a Dream

O little root of a dream
you hold me here
undermined by blood,
no longer visible to anyone,
property of death.

 

Curve a face
that there may be speech, of earth,
of ardor, of
things with eyes, even
here, where you read me blind,

 

even
here,
where you
refute me,
to the letter.


From: Glottal Stop: 101 Poems by Paul Celan
Copyright ?: 2000. Translated by Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh

 

 

The Triumph Of Achilles

 

In the story of Patroclus
no one survives, not even Achilles
who was nearly a god.
Patroclus resembled him; they wore
the same armor.
Always in these friendships
one serves the other, one is less than the other:
the hierarchy
is always apparant, though the legends
cannot be trusted--
their source is the survivor,
the one who has been abandoned.
What were the Greek ships on fire
compared to this loss?
In his tent, Achilles
grieved with his whole being
and the gods saw
he was a man already dead, a victim
of the part that loved,
the part that was mortal.

 

 

Night Ray

 

Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one:
to her I send the coffin of lightest wood.
Waves billow round it as round the bed of our dream in Rome;
it wears a white wig as I do and speaks hoarsely:
it talks as I do when I grant admittance to hearts.
It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn
when I stopped as a tourist in Lateland and wrote my letters
to morning.
A fine boat is that coffin carved in the coppice of feelings.
I too drift in it downbloodstream, younger still than your eye.
Now you are young as a bird dropped dead in March snow,
now it comes to you, sings you its love song from France.
You are light: you will sleep through my spring till it's over.
I am lighter:
in front of strangers I sing.


 

Landscape

 

tall poplars -- human beings of this earth!
black pounds of happiness -- you mirror them to death!
I saw you, sister, stand in that effulgence.



Crystal

 

not on my lips look for your mouth,
not in front of the gate for the stranger,
not in the eye for the tear.
seven nights higher red makes for red,
seven hearts deeper the hand knocks on the gate,
seven roses later plashes the fountain.



Cologne

 

In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?


 

 

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