Plath: Stings

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 178

　　　Stings
Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I

Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it

Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness'.
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?

If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush--
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column

Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.

And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?

It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin

To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone

In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,

The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her--
The mausoleum, the wax house.
　　　　　　　　　6 October 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第178首

　　蜂蜇

我空手，搬递蜂窝。
那白衣男人微笑着，空手，
我们的粗布护手整洁可爱，
手腕处的开口是百合怒放。
他与我之间

有一千个干净的蜂巢相隔，
八只黄色的杯状蜂窝，
蜂箱本身就像茶杯，
白底粉花，
我给它涂了过多的爱之彩釉

想着“可爱，可爱”。
孵巢灰暗，如贝壳化石，
令我恐惧，它们似乎很老。
我买了什么？蠕虫攒动的红木箱？
真有一只蜂后藏身其中？

就算有，她也老了，
双翅是撕裂的披肩，长长的身体
磨光了长毛绒----
可怜兮兮，赤身裸体，毫无蜂后的威仪，甚至丢人现眼。
我站到有翅膀的

毫不神奇的女性纵队里，
蜜的苦力。
我可不是苦力，
尽管多年来我吃的是尘土，
用我的浓发擦干餐盘。

我的陌生眼见着就被蒸发，
蓝色露珠从危险的皮肤上消散。
她们是否嫉恨我，
这些只会忙忙躁躁的女人，
她们的新闻只是绽开的樱桃与苜蓿？

已经基本结束。
我全盘在控。
这是我的蜂蜜机，
它将不动脑子就正常运转，
开动，在春季，如一只勤勉的处女

巡猎凝结着乳脂的花冠，
像月亮为了那象牙白的粉沫而巡猎海面。
有个第三者在旁观。
他与蜜蜂商或我都不相干。
此刻他已离去，

跳开八大步，一只可贵的替罪羊。
这是他的一只拖鞋，这儿是另一只，
这儿还有他的白麻布方巾，
他曾以此代替帽子。
他真可爱，

他挥汗如雨，
牵引着世界结出果实。
蜜蜂们识破了他，
涌向他谎言似的双唇，
乱了他的五官。

它们认为死得其所，而我
有一个自我需要寻回，一只蜂后。
她死了吗？她是否在沉睡？
她一直蛰伏在何处，
那狮红的身体、玻璃的翅膀？

此刻她骤然飞起，
比任何时候都更加恐怖，红色
伤疤划过天空，红色彗星
超越那杀害她的引擎——
这座陵墓，蜡制的房屋。
　　　　　　　1962年10月6日

译按：这首诗是所有评论家都不可能忽略的，在五首“蜜蜂诗”中也比较特别，所以对此诗有很种阐释。诗中的“角色”有养蜂人、工蜂和蜂后，诗人认同于哪一个/几个呢？本诗主题可说是压迫与解放以及死亡仪式。尤其是女性主义批评或从女性主义角度进行的批评都倾向于对主题进行如此阐释。

与本诗相关的生活事件如下：
诗人的父亲奥特（Otto）是一位小有名气的昆虫学家，有论著《大黄蜂及其生存方式》。
1961年夏季诗人夫妇在Devon买了新居，一个旧农舍及车库等。诗人开始养蜂。1962年5月18-20日，David及Assia Wevil夫妇来访，Sylvia感觉出Ted与Assia之间的有某种亲近感，所以甚为妒忌。后来，Ted确实与Assia发展出了婚外情。21日，诗人据此写出了The Rabbit Catcher和Event.
1962年6月15日，诗人写信给她的母亲Aurelia时谈到：当他们新建一个蜂房移动蜂后时，因为Ted戴帽子，所以蜜蜂飞到了他的头发中了。
1962年10月9日，完成了“蜜蜂诗”。表明想要离婚。夫妇分居。（三天后写出《老爸》，有如此诗行“如果我杀掉了一人，就等于杀掉两个——/也杀掉了那吸血鬼，他声称是你/他饮吸我的血已有一年，/已经七年，如果你真想知道。
第8-9行：这里的“杯子”对诗人有着特别的意味。在根据上注4中提到的事件所写的诗The Rabbit Catcher中有这样的诗行，“我感到一种静悄悄的忙碌不安，一种意图。/我感到双手抚摩茶缸，喑哑而生硬，/回响着那白色的瓷器。/他们那般焦急地等他，那些小小的死神！/他们等他，犹如情侣。他们刺激着他。//而我们，也有一层关系——/紧崩的绳索维系彼此，/插销栓得太深，无法根除，……”。
第9行：Plath把蜂箱漆成白色，画上一些花朵。
第3-4节：蜂后是一窝蜜蜂中唯一可以产卵的女蜂，当她变老时，她要么杀死其他处女蜂，要么被某只女蜂所杀而让位。参看《养蜂集会》的第9-10节中“新一代处女蜂//梦想着她们注定获胜的决斗。/一道蜡帘隔断了她们的新娘飞行，/这女凶向上飞翔驶入钟爱她的天堂。”
第5节第24-25行：灰姑娘形象？另外，引诱夏娃的蛇（使她有知识）被诅咒终身食土，被主耶拯救的妓女Mary Magdalene 以眼泪清洗他的脚，再以头发将它们擦干。第7-8节：性意象？
第8-10节：第38行中的应该是指Ted，参看上文中有关Plath写给她母亲的信中的内容。在此他被蜜蜂所蜇是活该的？不过，蜇人的蜜蜂都是女蜂，蜇人后也得死（为了蜂群或蜂后而牺牲？参看《饲养蜜蜂过冬》中女蜂群体为了取暖而聚集成团。“寒冷逼近。/现在它们聚集成一团，/黑色的/心智对抗着白色的一切。”）；但与蜂后交接的工蜂在交接后也要死去（为了后代还是性或蜂后而牺牲？）；但是，值得吧？
第11-12节：这里的意象恐怕Plath的读者都明白，参看《拉撒路夫人》、《闺阁》、《老爸》、《爱丽尔》等诗。
原编者注：这组诗的第一次感发始于8月2日。当时SP（Sylvia Plath）试图写一首诗，但她根本就没有最终定稿，那首诗题为《蜂蛰》。以下是从一堆修来改去的手稿中抽取出来的：（略。——译者）

Fan Jinghua: Poem for a Birthday

　　Poem for a Birthday
　　　　　　--Fulfilled Evening
The sun has sunk, sounds are drowning voices,
Joys and discontents wait for wings, like flotsam in the breast-high air,
And in different ways, parasols, dressing case, gaudy magazines coil themselves up.
On July streets, green streams of people leave no footprints behind,
And at a T junction, a trunk with green and red eyes blinks yellow.
A woman is hopscotching along the main road, and she wears a pair of fish on her ears,
The warmed smell wafting behind her hair.
A man in an orange overall with a miner’s cap follows
And takes a deep breath,
As if it is the darkening moisture on the moon.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　July 27, 2009


　　　充盈的黄昏
　　　　　　　　　为一个生日而作

夕照已沉下，声音正在淹没声音，
喜悦、郁闷，像半空中的漂浮物，在等待翅膀，
而阳伞、化妆盒、艳丽的杂志，都以独有的方式回到了自己。
七月的大街上，翠绿的人流没有脚印，
立在那丁字路口闪着黄色的，是一棵红绿灯。
一个人沿着直行道跳房子，她耳朵上挂着小鱼，
曛暖的腥味拖曳着，
一个头戴矿工帽身穿桔黄色工服的人，
深深地吸了一口，
似乎那是聚集在月亮表面的潮气。
　　　　　　　　　　2009年7月27日

Plath: The Swarm

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 179

　　　The Swarm

Somebody is shooting at something in our town—
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are they shooting at?

It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The hump of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off

In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm balls and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.

It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.

The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!

The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.

How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.

The man with gray hands smiles—
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'

Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
　　　　　　　　　　　　7 October 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第179首

　　　蜂群

有人正在我们小镇射猎什么——
沉闷的枪声响彻周日的街道。
妒忌能大开血戒，
它能制造黑色玫瑰。
他们瞄准何人射击？

他们拔刀，正式冲着你，
在滑铁卢、滑铁卢，拿破仑，
爱尔巴岛隆起于你低矮的脊背，
雪，排列起它灿灿的刀叉
一批接着一批，说着“嘘！”

嘘！这些是你对弈的象棋人，
静悄悄的象牙像。
泥泞在喉咙里蠕动，
法国军靴踏脚的石块。
俄罗斯镀金的粉红穹顶熔化在贪婪的

熔炉中，漂浮而去。浮云，浮云。
于是蜂群聚成一团，溃逃
至七十呎上空，躲进一株黑松。
必须将那团射落。砰！砰！
子弹闷哑，被当成了雷声。

蜂群以为那是上帝的声音，
赦免了喙、爪、狞笑，
那狗，黄背的，一只负重的狗，
盯着象牙似的骨头狞笑，
正如那狗群、狗群，正如每个人。

蜜蜂已经飞得那么远。七十呎高！
俄罗斯、波兰、还有德意志！
和缓的山丘、古老依旧的一片片
紫红田野，皱缩成一枚便士，
旋转着跌落河流，一条河已被跨越。

蜜蜂们争执不休，黑压压的一大团，
一只飞舞的豪猪，满身硬刺。
那个双手灰色的男人站在蜂窝下，
那是蜜蜂的梦，那蜂房式车站，
火车坚贞地沿着钢铁拱洞

出站，进站，这个国家不会终结。
砰！砰！它们应声而落
分崩离析，落向一簇常青藤。
先遣军、战车骁勇、无敌之师就这样了结！
一块红色破布，拿破仑！

最后一枚胜利勋章。
群蜂被击败，进了竖起的草帽中。
爱尔巴岛，啊，海洋上的气泡！
元帅、司令与上将的白色胸像
蠕虫似地爬进壁龛。

这具有怎样的指导意义！
喑哑的身体标着杠杠，
披着母亲法兰西的装饰布，踏上海盗刑罚的木板条
落入一座新的陵墓，
一座象牙宫殿，一株分叉的松树。

灰色双手的男人微笑了——
生意人的笑，充满浓烈的功利。
那根本不是手，
而是石棉容器。
砰！砰！“它们可能会杀了我。”

蜂蛰大如绘画图钉！
似乎蜜蜂也有尊严的观念，
一种倔强的黑色心智。
拿破仑满意了，对一切都满意了。
哦，欧洲！哦，大量的蜂蜜！
　　　　　　　1962年10月7日

Fan Jinghua: Follow the Bits of Bread (II)

Follow the Bits of Bread
尾随一路面包屑　


Part II. The Net
第二部分：网

I look at the changes of downloading speed
My values of delight and impatience change accordingly
There is a dynamic balance in this too
As time passes by, although what I am waiting for
Should have been
Letting the newly past time take me away
Along the running of the old movie

看着下载速度的变化
欣喜与不耐烦的数值交替
动态平衡，时间
就这样过去了，可我等待的
本该是
让刚才已过去的时间载着我
流经这部老电影

Open a new word file
Type on the keyboard like clicking a telegraph
"I wish I were a man from the previous dynasty
Walking in an old alley of the dynasty before
Where I met you, seeing each other’s clothes
And turning our heads for another glimpse…"
It’s a pity I did not save

打开一个空白文档
敲击键盘，像发报一样
“我希望我是前朝的男人
在前朝之前留下的巷子里
你我相遇，看见彼此的衣服
然后同时转头瞥了一眼……”
可惜我没有保存

Usually when the chat is getting better and better
We have to log off, in a hurry
Who can tell
It is reality that invades the virtuality
Or is virtuality challenging reality

经常在聊天渐入佳境时
不得不匆匆离去
不知道
这是现实对虚拟的侵犯
还是虚拟对现实的挑衅

Neither forgotten nor brought to mind
This is not memory without thinking
You are in the friends o my MSN

没忘，也曾想起
不是“不思量自难忘”
而是因为名字在好友列表上


After a period of time when we both feel long enough
There will be an off-line message
"Dear, how R U lately"
The space is virtual, the time is non-real
How have we come to this

隔一段时间，留言
“亲爱的，最近好吗”
空间是虚拟的，时间是滞后的
我们已阑珊到如此

Envisioning your body
As if it were an ambulance passing by
Danger
Is a flash of mind

想象你的胴体
有如从身边奔驰而去的救护车
危险
是一闪之念

That stubborn one
Who has been persistently wrangling with me
In the forum
Comes out with a post
After four months of lurking
Admitting I was right
Ah, how much more boring is time than man

那个固执的人
曾经不屈不挠地和我拧着
几个月后
在另一个贴子里说我是正确的
哈，时间比人还无聊

Plath: Wintering

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 180
　　　Wintering

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,

Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
And the bottles of empty glitters—
Sir So-and-so's gin.

This is the room I have never been in.
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint

Chinese yellow on appalling objects—
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,

Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees—the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin

To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.

Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,

Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,

The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women—
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　9 October 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第180首

　　越冬

这是清闲时节，无须操劳。
我已旋转产婆的吸引器，
我有自己的蜜，
整整六罐，
藏在酒窖里的六只猫眼，

在无窗的黑暗中饲养蜜蜂越冬，
在房屋的中心，
挨着上一位租户腐臭的果酱
以及许多闪光的空瓶子——
某先生的杜松子酒。

这个房间我从不曾走进。
这个房间里我以不能呼吸。
黑，像一只蝙蝠聚拢于此，
没有光，
除了火炬和它依稀的

中国黄，照着毛骨悚然的物体——
黑色的愚笨。腐朽。
收藏。
正是这些东西控制我。
并不残酷也非毫不在乎，

只是无知。
这个时节，蜜蜂必须撑下去——它们
如此迟缓，我几乎认不出它们，
士兵似地列队
向糖浆罐移动，

索赔我取自它们的蜜。
塔特莱尔牌白糖维系它们活下去，
这精炼的雪。
现在它们靠塔特莱尔牌白糖，而非花朵。
它们吸食着。寒冷逼近。

它们聚成一大团，
黑色
头脑对抗着所有的白。
雪的微笑是白皑皑的。
它肆意铺展，一哩长的躯体，像梅森牌瓷器。

在暖和的日子，它们只得将
死者运送到这样的躯体中。
蜜蜂都是女人，
使女和那位修长的皇族贵妇，
她们已驱除了男人，

那帮顽梗、迂拙、失足于歧途的粗鄙汉子。
冬季，属于女人——
那位妇人，静静地织着毛线，
在西班牙胡桃木的摇篮旁，
身体是寒冷中的球茎，喑哑得不能思索。

这箱蜜蜂能否存活，这些剑兰
能否成功封火，
进入来年？
它们会体味到什么？圣诞节的玫瑰？
蜜蜂在飞。它们体味到了春天。
　　　　　　　　　　1962年10月9日

Du Mu: Shen Xiaxian

Du Mu’s Poem “Shen Xiaxian”

　　　沈下贤
　　　　　　　杜牧
斯人清唱何人和，草径苔芜不可寻。
一夕小敷山下梦，水如环珮月如襟。

Word-by-word Exegesis 逐字注解

　　　沈Shen 下贤Xiaxian
There is no title to the name, which shows that this person had not any official affiliation.

斯this 人man 清clear 唱sing 何who 人man 和join in the chorus or reply a poem
草grass 径path 苔moss 芜weeds 不no 可able 寻search, find
一one 夕night, dusk 小little 敷Fu 山mount 下below 梦dream
水water 如alike 环circular 珮jade pendant 月moon 如alike 襟frontal piece of a garment

Translation 翻译

　　　Shen Xiaxian
　　　　　　　　by DU Mu (803-852 Late Tang Dynasty)
For this man’s unaffected voice, who can ever play a chord?
Amid the mossy paths beneath weeds, no trace of him can be found.
One night by the Little Fu mountainside may accommodate many a dream,
And water encircles like a jade pendant, and the moon is shining on your bosom.

　　I did not read this poem before, for this is not an often anthologized poem of Du Mu’s massive poetry. Today, I opened his annotated poetry, and read for about ten minutes before coming across this one. I was immediately fascinated by it.
　　I acknowledge my ignorance of the addressee Shen Xiaxian in the title, and the annotation does not tell much, except that he was a Confucian scholar and passed an imperial examination in 815 AD (and this is mot impressive as almost every such a scholar had passed a certain degree of examination). The annotation did not even mention whether he had obtained any official position, and this most probably means that he had not. However, I did find some information about him. He was especially noted for “fabulous stories” (as in Chinese term, “legendary story” refers to the fabulous, the supernatural, the romantic, which is generally about the affairs between the ghosts or animal-incarnated spirits and the human). No wonder he was especially admired by another late Tang poet Li Ho, who has been one of my favorites too.
　　This poem was written in 850 when Du Mu went to Huzhou Prefecture (Lake Prefecture) as its top official. By then, Shen could not have been dead for very long, as he passed the imperial exam in 815. The poem started with the poet’s visit to Shen’s ruined residence or rather his search for the remains, and he found that nothing was left. When the poet referred to Shen as “this man,” he was actually calling him “you” as if Shen was in front of him. The next phrase “unaffected voice” (clear singing) was referring to his stories. Therefore, “this man” was modified to refer to the man in the stories, and Du Mu read Shen’s work and found enough affinity with him to call him “you” when he went to visit Shen’s old residence. The sight at the site brought Du to a psychological presence, and this could be a good example of literary affinity or appreciation. Then, he lamented at the sight of the deserted place, because there were obviously no admirers around. Otherwise, the place could not be deserted like this. The second line further confirms that no one was worthy of his company.
　　Perhaps he lingered there for some time, maybe for the night. Then he could see the Little Fu Mount at the dusk, and imagined a scene comparable to what Shen evoked in his mind. I do not want to overuse the objective-correlative stuff to interpret Chinese poetry, for there is a fundamental problem here. No one can be sure about the subject in the last two lines: whether it was the poet who was dreaming by the foothill or was he imagining that the spirit of Shen was still living around? The former interpretation will mean that this is basically a direct expression of the poet, while the latter will mean both. When the poet Du could not find any trace left of Shen, he would conjure his spirit as he understood from his work. Again, the last line became perfect illustration of his plain clear limpid song.
　　There is a saying from an ancient philosopher that one night accommodates many lives and deaths, and this poem obviously alludes to this. The moon shines clear as if the frontal of the garment, which means that the person’s heart is clear like the moonlight, cool and pure.

　　从未读过这首诗，今天拿出《樊川诗集注》就这么翻阅着，十多分钟之后翻到了这首诗，立即被迷住了。我不知道这个沈下贤是谁，看注释也没说出什么来，后来查了一下资料知道这位在当时写了不少别具一格的传奇故事，可惜我比较无知。他在815年（元和十年，呵呵，我从不记得这些纪年方式）登进士第，而一个名字没有任何职位的称呼，说明这个沈下贤似乎没有做过官。
　　这首诗写于850年，当时杜牧去湖州任刺史，而这位沈下贤就是当地人，李商隐、李贺都写过有关他的诗。按说，沈下贤应该是死去不久，毕竟他在815年在考取进士。诗歌第一句感时，说斯人，简直就说你犹在眼前才是，说清唱，则是因为他的文章，于是斯人就成了文字中的斯人，也就是说我看你的文字，犹如见人；这才是能文者之间的情谊和理解。杜牧到了现场，眼中所见，一片荒芜，于是第二句进一步佐证了第一句中的“何人和”？于是凭吊也好，不忍去也好，他似乎在那儿呆到了晚上。
　　我们不需要用艾略特所谓的“客观对应物”来解读中国古诗，因为这里最基本的问题是，我们无法确定后两句的主语到底是谁。是否杜牧在山下流连，还是他因为读了沈下贤的传奇，所以似乎感到沈下贤的灵魂还在此处逡巡？如说是前者，那么这就是抒情诗，说的是我看到山水，看到月色，想着你就是如此的真纯。如果是后者，那么也同样令人感到一种泠泠的气质。这或许和沈的传奇气质相似。但是无论如何，这空灵的两行将怀人和此人的气质写到很到位。

Back-Translation into Contemporary Chinese 现代汉语回译

　　　沈下贤

这样的人，毫不矫作的声音，有谁能为他弹奏和弦？

在这杂草下布满绿苔的小径之间，找不到他的任何迹象。

在这小敷山下，一夜就能接待许多场梦，

而水环绕着，像玉佩，月亮在你的胸襟闪亮。

Fan Jinghua: Narcissus and Echo

　　　Narcissus and Echo

Narcissus:
　We, I, love the sight of each other, the shade, the look
　More distant than any of the beings crowded around.
　I avoid mountains, escape forests and linger over a lake.
　In pursuit or being pursued, we run across the other self;
　There is no other. How can we be separated?

Echo:
　I, we, love the sight of a cloud, its color, its shape
　More definite than a being properly attired.
　I scale mountains, climb trees and float along a weedy slope.
　In pursuit or being pursued, I, we, run around a circle;
　There is no you. How can I be separated?
　　　　　　　　　　　April 26, 2006

　　　　自恋少年与回音仙女

自恋少年：
　我们，我，爱上了彼此的影子，那神情中稍纵即逝的转变
　比簇拥于我们身边的任何生灵都更加遥远；
　我远离山峦、躲避森林，我只逡巡于这湖面。
　追求或者被追，我们总会遇见另一个自己；
　这世界没有他人，我们岂能分离？

回音仙女：
　我，我们，爱上的是云的影子，它的颜色、它的形状
　比起任何沐猴而冠的生灵都更加可感可触；
　我攀爬山峦、抚摸树梢，漂浮于一片绿草浓郁的坡地。
　追求或者被追，我，我们，围着圈子奔跑；
　这世界没有了你，我怎能被分离？
　　　　　　　　　　　2006年4月26日

Fan Jinghua: Morning Song

　　　Morning Song

When the wheat is pregnant by April wind,
The cloudlets are carp-scales on a topaz beach.
In the awns of morning rays the wheat comes into ears
And every spike is emitting the warmth of last night.
On the riverbank, reed roots rise to knees,
Some reedhead-like duck tails grow on the water,
And a few white geese are flapping wings as if to parade.
Tender leaves on the elm are still edible,
Along your garden, day-lilies are green like young cattails,
But the fennels are holding high their oilpaper umbrellas.
In a morning like this, I follow a cow like walking a pet in the early evening,
For two weeks, I have passed your threshing ground once and again.

With a throw of water, you pop into my sight, a basin in hand,
Like a pip-up by the gate, your apologetic greeting plump like your breasts,
And a smoke of white dust rises in the orange sunlight.
Oh, Lass, I do like a bowl of porridge from your caldron,
And it would be a regale to have an egg for fried elm leaves.
But the clapping of aspens cannot drown the sirens of outbound buses,
And I see distinctly I am standing in another foggy morning
Under this elm, with a wheeled portmanteau like a cow ruminating,
While your farewells are as bright as this morning’s hello.
Where I will be again, there are crowded breasts, bold but cold,
And I am not to look at faces, and no morning air
Will be so statically vibrant and saturated with cool warmth.
The scarlet clouds at nightfall will be appetizing like a sweet-and-sour fried fish,
And a dog meets another dog by the street, sniffing each other’s tail.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　April 18, 2006


　　　晨歌

四月的早晨　天空的沙滩上
碎云如刚刚出水的鲤鱼鳞
麦芒似的阳光下　麦子在孕穗
每一只都在释放着昨夜的暖气
河岸上芦竹及膝　水面栽着几只芦花鸭的屁股
几只白鹅扑棱着翅膀似乎在比赛站立
榆树的嫩叶还可以下粥
菜畦上　黄花菜也还只是一行嫩蒲似的翠绿
而茴香的发髻已在颀长的脖子上含着云雾
这样的早晨　我牵着一头老牛像陪着宠物在初夜散步
两个星期来一次次走过你家的场院

随着一盆洗脸水　你闪出院门
那片橘黄的朝阳中有一团白色的尘烟升起
你歉意的招呼声带着你胸脯一样的饱满
妹子　我真愿意从你的锅里喝一碗早粥
而清炒榆叶加上鸭蛋便已奢靡
只是河对岸沙沙作响的白杨难以阻挡远处的汽笛
我分明看见不远的另一场晨雾中
我又一次走过这棵榆树　拖着长轮子的旅行箱
在你同样灿烂的告别声中自作多情地离去
回到满街招摇而生硬的乳房丛中　不看眼睛不看脸
再没有如此晨曦充满凝止的激动和凉爽的温暖
只有黄昏的云朵像糖醋的松鼠鱼
而陌生的狗在马路边相遇　闻一闻彼此的屁股
　　　　　　　　　　　2006年4月18日晚

Plath: A Secret

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 181

　　　A Secret

A secret! A secret!
How superior.
You are blue and huge, a traffic policeman,
Holding up one palm—

A difference between us?
I have one eye, you have two.
The secret is stamped on you,
Faint, undulant watermark.

Will it show in the black detector?
Will it come out
Wavery, indelible, true
Through the African giraffe in its Edeny greenery,

The Moroccan hippopotamus?
They stare from a square, stiff frill.
They are for export,
One a fool, the other a fool.

A secret ... An extra amber
Brandy finger
Roosting and cooing 'You, you'
Behind two eyes in which nothing is reflected but monkeys.

A knife that can be taken out
To pare nails,
To lever the dirt.
'It won't hurt.'

An illegitimate baby---
That big blue head---
How it breathes in the bureau drawer!
'Is that lingerie, pet?
'It smells of salt cod, you had better
Stab a few cloves in an apple,
Make a sachet or
Do away with the bastard.

'Do away with it altogether.'
'No, no, it is happy there.'
'But it wants to get out!
Look, look! It is wanting to crawl.'
My god, there goes the stopper!
The cars in the Place de la Concorde---
Watch out!
A stampede, a stampede!

Horns twirling and jungle gutturals!
An exploded bottle of stout,
Slack foam in the lap.
You stumble out,
Dwarf baby,
The knife in your back.
'I feel weak.'
The secret is out.
　　　　　　　　10 October 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第181首

　　一个秘密

一个秘密！一个秘密！
多么高高在上。
你蔚蓝而巨大，一名交通警察，
举起一只手掌——

你我之间的区别？
我是独眼，你有一双。
秘密已烙在你的身上，
暗淡的、波动的水印。

它是否会在黑色探测器上显示？
它是否会显示出来，
隐隐绰绰、抹擦不去、真真切切，
通过伊甸园似的温室里的非洲长颈鹿、

或是摩洛哥河马而展示？
它们从一个呆板的方形装饰框中瞪着。
它们用来出口，
一只傻瓜，另一只还是傻瓜。

一个秘密……多出来的一只琥珀色
夹心糖手指，藏在眼后，
一边休息一边咕咕低语“你，你”，
那双眼中空无一物，只映照出猴子。

一把小刀，可以拿出来
修修指甲，
挖挖污垢。
“不会伤人。”

一个私生子——
那兰色的大脑袋——
在办公桌抽屉里艰难地呼吸！
“那是贴身内衣吗，乖乖？”

“它有腌鳕雨的腥味，你最好
在苹果上插几根丁香，
做一个香囊
或者干脆处理掉这孽子。

把它彻底处理干净。”
“不，不，它在那里很幸福”。
“但它还是想出来！
看哪，你看！它一直想爬！”

我的天，阻止它的来了！
协和广场上的汽车——
小心看路！
野兽奔逃，野兽奔逃！

兽角转动，丛林凄嚣！
一瓶烈性啤酒爆裂，
涣散的泡沫溅满大腿。
你跌跌撞撞地出来，

侏儒宝宝，
刀子在你后背。
“我感到虚弱。”
秘密已经泄露。
　　　　　　　　1962年10月10日

Li Yiliang: A Letter

A Poem by Li Yiliang
李以亮诗一首

　　A Letter
　　　　　　　　　　by Li Yiliang　tr. Fan Jinghua
　　　Yueyang Tower soaring high over Cloud-Dream Lake
　　　Black-Dragon River running under the distant frosty sky

Barely had I started than I felt it hard to finish this letter.
What should I say to you?
In private, I had even wished for more people to read
--But this is obviously impossible.
A letter can only say part of what can be said, like
The attempt to turn a scrambled Rubik’s cube of magic
To get one face of solid color.

This is already an indication of the order in me, that is,
There is no order. I am in pursuit,
My vision being worn down, by day and by night.
The result? It appears more like a child playing
Stone skipping, being fascinated by the transient arches over the water,
And learning to accept
The sinking of heart with the piece of stone.

For many years, I’ve been contesting against saints and sages and trying
To reconcile with evil persons. I’ve taken on the eccentricities of a genius,
But nowadays there are only self-assumed geniuses,
And they are everywhere, so I am no longer one.
For many times, I have been haunted by a dream that I wake up
In the morning only find that a scorpion is waiting
For my foot in each of my shoes under the bed.

Where is the niche of my Buddha? Whose icon do I pray to?
I need to have joy, and I need to be capable of love. Who’d like
To always write poems that present a long blank face?
I wish so much to praise the present, this sunlight on the windowsill,
As it reminds me of the south, not long ago,
The tropical, the alcohol like seawater,
The long long journey.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　Nov. 30, 2008

　　　一封信
　　　　　　　　　李以亮 (1966-)
　　　　　　黄鹤楼高云梦泽
　　　　　　黑龙江远雪霜天
一封信还没有开头，我已感到它难以结束。
我要向你说些什么？
私下里，我甚至希求着更多的人，
——但这显然不可能。
一封信只是把能说的部分说出一部分，像
把打乱的魔方旋转着
尽可能复原。

这已经暗示了我内心的秩序，也就是
没有秩序。我寻求着，
日夜熬损着我的视力，
结果更像一个儿童用石子在水面
削着水漂，陶醉于短暂而美妙的弧线，
接着让自己的心
和石子一块沉下去。

多少年了，我与圣贤对抗，
又试图与恶人和解。我染上了天才的怪癖，
——但如今，只有自以为是的天才，
他们无处不在，我不是。
多少次，我重复着一个噩梦，梦见早上
醒来，一只蝎子
在床底的鞋子里等着我。

我的佛龛在哪儿？我挂谁的圣画像？
我要有快乐，我要有爱的能力，——谁愿意
总写板着面孔的诗？
我多想赞美此刻，照耀在窗台上的阳光，
它让我回忆起不久前的南方，
热带，海水一样的酒，
漫长的旅途。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　2008.11.30.

Plath: The Applicant

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 182

　　The Applicant

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit—

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
　　　　　　　　　　11 October 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第182首

　　　申请人

首先，你是否我们的同类？
你是否装配
玻璃眼球、假牙或拐杖、
托架或钩爪、
橡皮胯骨或橡皮乳房？

是否有针脚显明你缺少部件？没有，没有？
那我们怎能给你什么东西？
别再哭哭啼啼。
张开你的手。
空的？空空如也。这儿有一只手，

可以塞满，并且乐意
端茶送水，驱散头痛，
你有话便说，它言听计从。
你可愿意把它娶走？
担保它能够

在你终老时阖上你的双眼，
并且消愁解忧。
我们量身定做新型产品。
我注意到你赤身裸体。
这套装束如何——

深黑而挺刮，但是倒也合身。
你可愿意把它娶走？
它防水又防震，还能防范
火灾以及穿透屋顶的炸弹。
相信我，它们将终身伴你左右。

现在看看你的脑袋，恕我直言，空空如也。
对此我正有一名候选。
这边来，可爱的人，走出壁橱。
瞧，你对此有何感想？
开始时赤裸如白纸一张，

但是不过二十五年，她将变成白银，
五十年后便是黄金。
一只活的玩偶，无论从何处着眼。
它会缝补，它能下厨，
它能说个不停，不停，不停。

它性能可靠，没有任何故障。
你有伤口，它就是药膏。
你有眼睛，它就是图像。
小伙子，它才是你的最后依靠。
你可愿意将它娶走，娶走，娶走。
　　　　　　　1962年10月11日

Fan Jinghua: Follow The Bits of Bread (I)

Follow The Bits of Bread
　　尾随一路面包屑

Part I: Books
第一部分：书

On my desk lies a three-tier baby bookcase
Books stand on one of its sides
As if leaning on one feet against a door frame
Luring me to draw them out from a cave

桌上，有一个横倒的小书架
书，单腿、双腿
倚门立于一排洞穴
诱惑我将它们拉出来翻阅

Faces on the spines, cheek by cheek
Or separated by names
Rilke, Woolf, Plath, Lowell, Hughes, Pound and Dante
All dead foreigners
Some staring at me, some not

书脊上的脸，并排，隔开
里尔克，伍尔芙，普拉斯
休斯，但丁，洛厄尔，庞德
都是死了的外国人
有的看我，有的不看我

I like to insert into the file of books
A couple by my acquaintances
Their modesty
Always makes me read of genuine wisdom

我惯于在案头的那排书中
插入两本熟人之作
因为他们的谦虚
我总能读到喜欢的地方


So many western books
Have made my head tilt a little
To read the titles
Of the few Chinese ones among them
那么多西文书
中间
夹着几本中文
我看书脊上的字
会稍稍侧着头

There is always
Gilded title lettering
On the black spine
For books about death
I can never finish with them

烫金的书名
必然是黑色的书脊
主题
大多与死亡有关
这样的书我总读不完


Oversize books are
To be scattered on the floor
Among spread-out journals and magazines
About fashion, manga, economy and politics
As if they are having a "lunch on the grass"

太大的书
都扔在地上
被一些定期到来的时政经济
以及漫画与时尚杂志
以各种姿势围拥
像在壁炉前举行《草地上的午餐》

Newly-purchased books
Turn me on
My wife too, but unsatisfied
Tonight

新购几本书
性趣甚浓
老婆被撩起，却未得满足
今夜

I can only bear to introduce
The books I love too much
To the few among my bosom friends
How selfish I am

太喜爱的作品
只介绍给自己喜爱的人
我真自私啊

Every woman accompanying to a bookstore
Will have her name on the inner of the front cover
For the day
And I turn to the name again and again

每个陪我买过书的女人
名字都在扉页上
和我分享那个日子
我一次又一次翻阅

If the poet is not jealous of a painter
The novelist of a dancer
The writer of a composer
Their work
I will keep aside for the time after my death

不钦佩画家的诗人
不崇拜舞蹈家的小说家
不羡慕谱曲的作家
他们的作品
可以留到我死后再读

The books that insult me most
Are not those super deluxe editions
But those thrifty ones
In the name of popularization
Of inferior paper and kitsch cover
Sell at an appalling discount
To make them really cheap

最侮辱我的不是昂贵的豪华精装本
而是那些声称为了普及
而将经典
配上流俗的封面
印刷粗劣，而且打折到
贱