臧棣诗歌一组 | 附英译

英译：顾爱玲，王敖

新诗的百年孤独

关于你的诗——

我猜想，它比你本人

更适应这里的自然环境。

它绕开了遗传这一关。

它吸收营养时，像一株晃动的玉米，

它睡觉时，像一只怀孕的野狗。

它散步时，像一条小河流过

横匾般的铁路桥。

它解雇了语言，

理由是语言工作得太认真了。

它煽了服务对象一巴掌。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锅里指挥

豌豆的不宣而战。

这些豌豆尽管圆润，饱满，

但还不是词语。

关于我和你的关系，

你的诗是一幢还没有租出去的房子。

现场如此空荡，

就好像戒指是在别的地方拣到的。

沿着篱墙，它甚至结出了美味的丝瓜；

和我从早市上买回的，一样鲜嫩，

一样乖巧于色情的小掌故。

它是生活中的生活。

它惊异于你回来的次数，

而我，尽量避免打听你曾去过哪里。

这就是你的诗。

是的，有一瞬间，它几乎不是你写的。

 译诗手机横持阅读效果更佳

The One Hundred Years of Solitude of Modern Chinese Poetry 

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

美丽的菠菜不曾把你

藏在它们的绿衬衣里。

你甚至没有穿过

任何一种绿颜色的衬衣，

你回避了这样的形象；

而我能更清楚地记得

你沉默的肉体就像

一粒极端的种子。

为什么菠菜看起来

是美丽的？为什么

我知道你会想到

但不会提出这样的问题？

我冲洗菠菜时感到 

它们碧绿的质量摸上去 

就像是我和植物的孩子。

如此，菠菜回答了

我们怎样才能在我们的生活中

看见对他们来说

似乎并不存在的天使的问题。

菠菜的美丽是脆弱的 

当我们面对一个只有五十平方米的

标准的空间时，鲜明的菠菜

是最脆弱的政治。表面上，

它们有些零乱，不易清理；

它们的美丽也可以说

是由繁琐的力量来维持的；

而它们的营养纠正了

它们的价格，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.

咏物诗

窗台上摆放着三个松塔。

每个松塔的大小

几乎完全相同，

不过，颜色却有深有浅。

每个松塔都比我握紧的拳头

要大上不止一轮。

但我并不感到难堪，我已看出

我的拳头也是一座宝塔。

颜色深的松塔是

今年才从树上掉下的，

颜色浅的，我不便作出判断，

但我知道，它还没有浅过时间之灰。

我也知道松鼠

是如何从那浅色中获得启发

而制作它们的小皮衣的。

浅，曾经是秘诀，现在仍然是。

每个松塔都有自己的来历，

不过，其中也有一小部分

属于来历不明。诗，也是如此。

并且，诗，不会窒息于这样的悖论。

而我正写着的诗，暗恋上

松塔那层次分明的结构——

它要求带它去看我拣拾松塔的地方，

它要求回到红松的树巅。

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. 

细浪

在我和四只小松鼠之间，

约有三十米宽，一排浪

从绿阴的小毯子下醒来，

细得就像颤动的跳绳。

曾经被死死捆住的东西

就这样溶解着，

溶解在细浪举出的例子中。

而这样的听政会并不是每年都有。

又一排浪更细，澄清了

一尾鲤鱼的来路，

它无辜于慢悠悠，就像我初恋时

写过的一封笨拙的信。

被催眠的事物看上去

就像是被征服了，而我受困于

什么是赢得？与自我争论时，

我记起了我是如何被再次捆紧的。

另一排细浪则细得需要

撒上一把碘盐。

我推敲着你留下的种子，

它们预言了隐蔽的丰收。

岸上，橄榄树的树叶

正洗着一副好牌。偶尔

我们也有机会加入进去，

出牌时，你的手像只跳进水里的青蛙。

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，因这小湖

而有了一个明确的边界。

喜鹊在低空巡逻，顺便放任一下

爱的歌喉。高大的雪松像界碑，

无名在青春的秘密中。

你也许还没有学会使用我们的秘密，

但你不可能没有秘密。

于是，刺猬像信使，将你的工作范围

扩大到茂密的灌木林中。

请回忆一下，宇宙是如何变小的。

这将是非常重要的一环。

我们的宇宙，因这小湖

参与了你的工作而开始变小——

小到你可以直接拥有我的整个天空；

小到你的身体就是我的世界，

而我欢迎这样的改变；小到你可以不必化装，

就能自如地进出我的天地，如同

这只小刺猬来到漆黑的湖畔。

小到仔细一看，噫，原来你就是

我身体里的那块试金石。

No Name Lake

Your world, because of this little lake,

has a clearly defined border.

Magpies patrol the sky, casually letting

their love songs slip out. Tall cedars are like border signs,

nameless with the secrets of youth.

Chances are you haven’t mastered how to use our secrets,

but you can’t not have secrets.

So the hedgehog is a messenger, expanding your work

out into the thick underbrush.

Please remember how the universe is shrinking.

This step is vital.

Our universe began to get small because this small lake

joined in your work –

so small you can have my whole sky,

so small your body is my world,

but I welcome this change. So small you needn’t disguise yourself,

you can come and go from my world as you please, just like this little hedgehog

comes to the pitch black bank of the lake.

So small that when one looks carefully – ah, it turns out you really are

my body’s touchstone.