Follow the Bits of Bread 尾随一路面包屑
Part III. Women 第三章：女人 (ii)
She imitated "I sweat, I cough
I have cavities"
And then she began melancholic
She took the cold hurt in Bleu for a wishful daze in "Blue"
Really, she is like any other woman
And I shut the door behind me, light-footed
她学着“我会流汗，会咳嗽
我也有蛀牙”
于是就忧伤了起来
她将《蓝》的冷痛读成《蓝色情挑》的迷离
真的和别的女人也没什么不同
所以我随手关门，脚步轻松
Binoche has strong upper-arms
But a delicate face
Her breasts are modest
I love all the ways she takes off her clothes
From whatever angle
比诺什上臂粗壮
可脸蛋精致
乳房也小巧
她所有脱衣服的方式和角度
都令我喜爱
Whenever I think of a woman
I’ll also think of a plant to match her
If a word jumps out of the blue
And claims to be her name
I’ll be doomed to lover her forever
我每想到一个女人
都要同时想一种植物与她匹配
如果还有一个字或词跳出来自称
是她的名字
那么我注定一直爱她
The delicate woman I have been so familiar
Turns old, suddenly, upon a chance meeting
And the man who has been living with her day and night
Sees nothing
我熟悉得那么细致的女人
竟会突然老了
和她朝夕相伴的男人
没这样的想法么
When the night deepens to the deepest depth
My imagination becomes so darkened
That your posture in sleep does not show
夜深到不能再深的时候
我的想象也黑了
她的睡姿无法显现
She frees her hands that wrap around my arm
Walks over, bends down and places
Several coins into the casket
Before a street artist
How can I not love this woman
放开勾着我臂弯的手，走过去
蹲下，给一个街头艺人几枚硬币
这个女人，我无法放弃
Friday, August 28, 2009
Plath: The Bee Meeting
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 176
The Bee Meeting
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers--
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.
Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,
Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins
Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?
I am exhausted, I am exhausted--
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.
3 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第176 首
养蜂集会
在桥头迎接我的这些人，是谁？是同村居民——
教区长、产婆、教堂司事、蜜蜂代理商。
身穿无袖连衣裙，我无遮无挡，
而他们都戴手套、穿防护服，为何没人告诉我？
他们微笑，取下别在古老的帽子上的面纱。
我像鸡脖子一样赤裸，难道没人爱我？
还好，蜜蜂会秘书走来，穿着店员的白外套，
扣紧我手腕上的滚边袖和从脖子到膝盖的缝隙。
现在，我是马利筋的穗须，蜜蜂注意不到了。
它们嗅不到我的恐惧、我的恐惧、我的恐惧。
现在，哪个是教区长？那个黑衣人？
哪个是产婆？那是她的蓝外套？
每个人都在点头，一只黑色方框，都是披甲挂胄的骑士，
粗棉布的胸甲，结，系在腋窝下。
他们的微笑与嗓音一直在变。我被领着穿过一片豆田。
一条条锡箔像人一样眨眼，
羽毛刷在豆花的海洋中左右挥闪着手掌，
乳脂似的豆花长着黑眼睛，豆叶如烦厌的心。
卷须拽起的那一串，是鲜血的凝块？
不，不，那是猩红的花，终有一天可以食用。
现在他们给我戴一顶时髦的白色意大利草帽，
一块黑面纱配我的脸，把我造就成他们的一员。
领我走向修剪整齐的树林，排成一圈的蜂箱。
是不是山楂树散发出如此难闻的味道？
山楂树不育的身躯，麻醉着它的孩子。
是否正在进行一项手术？
我的邻居们正是在等待手术师，
这幽灵，戴着绿色防护帽、
光洁的手套、一身白套服。
这是屠户、杂货商、邮差？我认识的某人？
我跑不了了，我已生根，荆豆
以它黄色的豆荚和尖长的硬壳刺痛我。
我无法逃跑，一旦逃跑，就得永远逃跑。
白色蜂房温婉，如处女蜂，
封住她的孵巢、她的蜂蜜，柔声嗡鸣。
烟雾缭绕，若丝巾飘曳于树林。
蜂群的头脑认为这是一切的终结。
先遣队冲来了，带着歇斯底里的机动性。
如果我纹丝不动，它们会以为我是欧芹，
轻信的脑袋，免于它们的敌意，
我甚至没有点头，灌木丛中的要人。
村民们打开蜂室，搜捕蜂后。
她在躲藏？在吃蜜？她很聪明。
她老了，老了，老了，她必须再活一年，对此她很清楚。
而在指节似的蜂巢中，新一代处女蜂
梦想着她们注定获胜的决斗。
一道蜡帘隔开她们，无法婚飞，
那女凶手腾飞，驶入钟爱她的天堂。
村民们移动着处女蜂，不会有杀戮。
老蜂后拒不现身，竟如此毫不领情？
我已筋疲力尽，筋疲力尽——
白柱子站在飞刀闪过时的眩晕中。
我是魔术师的女助手，不畏缩。
村民正卸下伪装，互相握手。
树丛中那只白色长箱子是谁的，他们完成了什么，我为何这么冷。
1962年10月3日
译按：
有这首诗开始的五首诗具有内在的联系，组成一个小系列，被认为是Plath最重要的成熟诗作，尤其第一、三首更是受到所有的评家关注。撇开纯私人生活事件外，这第一首诗中显然让人读到作家霍桑（Hawthorne）的短篇小说The Minister’s Black Veil和Young Goodman Brown（译为《教长的黑面纱》《年轻的古德曼• 布朗》或《年轻的好人布朗》）的黑面纱和神秘的入教仪式。而第5节中的“山楂“的英文原文是hawthorn，很可能是暗示霍桑。
罗德之妻悲戚地回首Sodom 时In the Old Testament, Abraham's nephew, whose wife was turned into a pillar of salt when she looked back as they fled Sodom.又见Gomorrah哥摩拉An ancient city of Palestine near Sodom, possibly covered by the waters of the Dead Sea. According to the Old Testament, the city was destroyed by fire because of its wickedness.
No. 176
The Bee Meeting
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers--
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.
Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,
Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins
Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?
I am exhausted, I am exhausted--
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.
3 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第176 首
养蜂集会
在桥头迎接我的这些人，是谁？是同村居民——
教区长、产婆、教堂司事、蜜蜂代理商。
身穿无袖连衣裙，我无遮无挡，
而他们都戴手套、穿防护服，为何没人告诉我？
他们微笑，取下别在古老的帽子上的面纱。
我像鸡脖子一样赤裸，难道没人爱我？
还好，蜜蜂会秘书走来，穿着店员的白外套，
扣紧我手腕上的滚边袖和从脖子到膝盖的缝隙。
现在，我是马利筋的穗须，蜜蜂注意不到了。
它们嗅不到我的恐惧、我的恐惧、我的恐惧。
现在，哪个是教区长？那个黑衣人？
哪个是产婆？那是她的蓝外套？
每个人都在点头，一只黑色方框，都是披甲挂胄的骑士，
粗棉布的胸甲，结，系在腋窝下。
他们的微笑与嗓音一直在变。我被领着穿过一片豆田。
一条条锡箔像人一样眨眼，
羽毛刷在豆花的海洋中左右挥闪着手掌，
乳脂似的豆花长着黑眼睛，豆叶如烦厌的心。
卷须拽起的那一串，是鲜血的凝块？
不，不，那是猩红的花，终有一天可以食用。
现在他们给我戴一顶时髦的白色意大利草帽，
一块黑面纱配我的脸，把我造就成他们的一员。
领我走向修剪整齐的树林，排成一圈的蜂箱。
是不是山楂树散发出如此难闻的味道？
山楂树不育的身躯，麻醉着它的孩子。
是否正在进行一项手术？
我的邻居们正是在等待手术师，
这幽灵，戴着绿色防护帽、
光洁的手套、一身白套服。
这是屠户、杂货商、邮差？我认识的某人？
我跑不了了，我已生根，荆豆
以它黄色的豆荚和尖长的硬壳刺痛我。
我无法逃跑，一旦逃跑，就得永远逃跑。
白色蜂房温婉，如处女蜂，
封住她的孵巢、她的蜂蜜，柔声嗡鸣。
烟雾缭绕，若丝巾飘曳于树林。
蜂群的头脑认为这是一切的终结。
先遣队冲来了，带着歇斯底里的机动性。
如果我纹丝不动，它们会以为我是欧芹，
轻信的脑袋，免于它们的敌意，
我甚至没有点头，灌木丛中的要人。
村民们打开蜂室，搜捕蜂后。
她在躲藏？在吃蜜？她很聪明。
她老了，老了，老了，她必须再活一年，对此她很清楚。
而在指节似的蜂巢中，新一代处女蜂
梦想着她们注定获胜的决斗。
一道蜡帘隔开她们，无法婚飞，
那女凶手腾飞，驶入钟爱她的天堂。
村民们移动着处女蜂，不会有杀戮。
老蜂后拒不现身，竟如此毫不领情？
我已筋疲力尽，筋疲力尽——
白柱子站在飞刀闪过时的眩晕中。
我是魔术师的女助手，不畏缩。
村民正卸下伪装，互相握手。
树丛中那只白色长箱子是谁的，他们完成了什么，我为何这么冷。
1962年10月3日
译按：
有这首诗开始的五首诗具有内在的联系，组成一个小系列，被认为是Plath最重要的成熟诗作，尤其第一、三首更是受到所有的评家关注。撇开纯私人生活事件外，这第一首诗中显然让人读到作家霍桑（Hawthorne）的短篇小说The Minister’s Black Veil和Young Goodman Brown（译为《教长的黑面纱》《年轻的古德曼• 布朗》或《年轻的好人布朗》）的黑面纱和神秘的入教仪式。而第5节中的“山楂“的英文原文是hawthorn，很可能是暗示霍桑。
罗德之妻悲戚地回首Sodom 时In the Old Testament, Abraham's nephew, whose wife was turned into a pillar of salt when she looked back as they fled Sodom.又见Gomorrah哥摩拉An ancient city of Palestine near Sodom, possibly covered by the waters of the Dead Sea. According to the Old Testament, the city was destroyed by fire because of its wickedness.
Plath: The Arrival of the Bee Box
Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 177
The Arrival of the Bee Box
I ordered this, this clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed than nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
The box is only temporary.
4 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第177首
蜂箱送到
这是我订购的，一口干净的木箱
椅子般方方正正，重，几乎难以搬起。
想说这是一个侏儒的棺材，
一个很结实的婴孩，
可它里面有翻了天的喧嚣。
箱子锁着，它很危险。
我必须忍着它，过一夜，
可我无法离开它。
没有窗子，所以我看不到里面有什么。
只有一个小小的栅格，没有出口。
我眼睛贴着栅格。
很黑，很黑，
感觉是蠕动的贩运出境的非洲人
细小干瘪的手，
黑上加黑，愤怒地攀爬。
我如何才能把它们放出去？
最令我抓狂的是那噪音，
那么多听不清的音节。
好像一群罗马愚民，
单个地看，很小，可是聚集一起，天呐！
我耳听狂怒的拉丁语。
我不是凯撒。
我真的是订购了一箱燥狂病人。
可以退回。
可以任它们死掉，只要不喂食物，我是主人。
我在想它们有多饿。
我在想如果我打开锁、退后、化为一棵树，
它们会不会忘记我。
那儿有金链花树，垂下金黄的廊柱，
和樱桃似的衬裙。
它们可能立刻忽略我，
我这身月白套装和葬礼面纱。
我又不是蜂蜜的源泉，
它们为何还要冲我而来？
明天，我将做遂人心愿的上帝，还它们自由。
箱子，只是暂时的。
1962年10月4日
No. 177
The Arrival of the Bee Box
I ordered this, this clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed than nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
The box is only temporary.
4 October 1962
普拉斯《诗全编》
第177首
蜂箱送到
这是我订购的，一口干净的木箱
椅子般方方正正，重，几乎难以搬起。
想说这是一个侏儒的棺材，
一个很结实的婴孩，
可它里面有翻了天的喧嚣。
箱子锁着，它很危险。
我必须忍着它，过一夜，
可我无法离开它。
没有窗子，所以我看不到里面有什么。
只有一个小小的栅格，没有出口。
我眼睛贴着栅格。
很黑，很黑，
感觉是蠕动的贩运出境的非洲人
细小干瘪的手，
黑上加黑，愤怒地攀爬。
我如何才能把它们放出去？
最令我抓狂的是那噪音，
那么多听不清的音节。
好像一群罗马愚民，
单个地看，很小，可是聚集一起，天呐！
我耳听狂怒的拉丁语。
我不是凯撒。
我真的是订购了一箱燥狂病人。
可以退回。
可以任它们死掉，只要不喂食物，我是主人。
我在想它们有多饿。
我在想如果我打开锁、退后、化为一棵树，
它们会不会忘记我。
那儿有金链花树，垂下金黄的廊柱，
和樱桃似的衬裙。
它们可能立刻忽略我，
我这身月白套装和葬礼面纱。
我又不是蜂蜜的源泉，
它们为何还要冲我而来？
明天，我将做遂人心愿的上帝，还它们自由。
箱子，只是暂时的。
1962年10月4日
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Fan Jinghua: Follow the Bits of Bread (III) Women
Follow the Bits of Bread 尾随一路面包屑
Part III. Women 第三章：女人
She hangs her hands onto the insensitive shoulders
Taken into a photo
Which she dubs as "mutual attachment"
I have a sudden wish not to be a human
她搭在那个没感觉的肩上
拍照
题注成“相依”
我突然觉得自己不属于人类
She looks at the man puffing out smoke
Mesmerized
Her eyes look like a pair of glass mugs
My heart aches for her
她看着那个男人吐出的烟
发怔
眼神像杯子一样
我为她心疼
I follow a low-riser, staring
At the two pearl-like splinters
On her black
G-string
Until she disappears behind the door of a boutique
跟着一个低腰裤，看黑色的
G-string上
有两个亮晶晶的珠子
侧目送她转入一家店
For a one-week holiday
She buys three sets of sexy lingerie
Also, she gets her hair flat ironed
为了一周短假
她买了三套性感内衣
还将头发烫直
Nothing more likeable than her
At the moment of falling into sleep
When her hips loom white in the semi-dark
Nothing aches a heart more than her
At the moment of daybreak
When her hips loom white in the semi-dark
最喜她刚刚睡沉
屁股在幽暗中轮廓分明的白
最忧伤的是
天将破晓，她的屁股
在幽暗中轮廓分明的白
Part III. Women 第三章：女人
She hangs her hands onto the insensitive shoulders
Taken into a photo
Which she dubs as "mutual attachment"
I have a sudden wish not to be a human
她搭在那个没感觉的肩上
拍照
题注成“相依”
我突然觉得自己不属于人类
She looks at the man puffing out smoke
Mesmerized
Her eyes look like a pair of glass mugs
My heart aches for her
她看着那个男人吐出的烟
发怔
眼神像杯子一样
我为她心疼
I follow a low-riser, staring
At the two pearl-like splinters
On her black
G-string
Until she disappears behind the door of a boutique
跟着一个低腰裤，看黑色的
G-string上
有两个亮晶晶的珠子
侧目送她转入一家店
For a one-week holiday
She buys three sets of sexy lingerie
Also, she gets her hair flat ironed
为了一周短假
她买了三套性感内衣
还将头发烫直
Nothing more likeable than her
At the moment of falling into sleep
When her hips loom white in the semi-dark
Nothing aches a heart more than her
At the moment of daybreak
When her hips loom white in the semi-dark
最喜她刚刚睡沉
屁股在幽暗中轮廓分明的白
最忧伤的是
天将破晓，她的屁股
在幽暗中轮廓分明的白
Chinese Valentine's Day
Double Seventh Day
Today (Aug. 26) is Chinese traditional festival, The Double Seventh (Day) (Lunar calendar the seventh day of the seventh month). People now tend to name it Chinese Valentine’s Day. The tradition tells that today young girls may find their future husband in dreams. Naturally, there is legend or myth behind this. I wrote of this before in two poems ("Double-Seven Eve" and "Queen of Heaven")
The Weaving Maid was a fairy in the Heaven who loved the Cowherd on the human world, so she descended. They lived together for a few years, happily, with two children. The Queen of Heaven was angered and called back the Maid. The Cowherd put their children in the baskets and shouldered them with a pole, so he began chasing her. The Queen of the Heaven saw that the Cowherd was fast approaching, she pulled out her hair clasp and drew behind her a deep gut. It became the Heavenly River. The Cowherd could do nothing but stationed there, staring at the Weaving Maid who stared herself into a star too. The Queen of the Heaven allowed them to meet, once for a year, on the Seventh day of the Seventh (Lunar) Month, which is today The Double Seventh (Day or Festival). They could meet each other only on the river without a bridge, and fortunately magpies use their wings to build a bridge. The name of magpie in Chinese is “Happy Bird” (an auspicious bird) and that is why there are always magpies as a motif in Chinese paintings.
The existing earliest poem and perhaps one of the most famous is this poem:
迢迢牵牛星，皎皎河汉女。
纤纤擢素手，札札弄机杼。
终日不成章，泣涕零如雨。
河汉清且浅，相去复几许。
盈盈一水间，脉脉不得语。
迢far 迢far 牵lead牛cow星star
皎white, bright皎 河river汉the Galaxy女maid
纤纤fine擢pull素white, snowy手hand
札札scrunching sound弄play机machine杼shuttle
终end日day不no成achieve章colored silk
泣weep涕tear零fall如like雨rain
河river汉Galaxy清clear且and浅shallow
相from去away复how几many许approximately
盈full盈 full 一one 水water间between
脉脉deeply affectionate不no 得can语say
Far and distant in the Sky hangs the Cowherd Star
Far and distant in the Sky hangs the Cowherd Star,
Bright on the Heavenly River floats the Weaving Maid:
Graceful and delicate her snowy hands pull out
The shuttles that make tedious scrunching sounds.
The day’s ended, and she can weave not a piece,
Her tears falling like broken rain-strings.
How clear and shallow the Galaxy River looks,
But how they are kept away from each other:
There is only a river between them, and yet
No words can get across despite their deep love.
The Chinese celebrate this day for a long long time, and this song was written during the Han Dynasty and collected into “19 Antique Poems”, which was the second known collection of poems after The Book of Songs (edited by Confucius). It was believed that Han Wu Emperor Liu Che (156BC-78AD) ordered the officials to collect fold songs, and later became the Music Bureau poems. It was during this time that the poem came to be recorded.
By the way, this Liu Che was known to the westerners perhaps by Ezra Pound’s famous poem of the same title "Liu Ch'e," which was a rewriting of this emperor’s poem entitled "AN Elegy of a Weeping Cicada for Fallen Leaves" (落叶哀婵曲). Pound’s poem reads:
The rustling of the silk is discontinued,
Dust drifts over the court-yard,
There is no sound of foot-fall, and the leaves
Scurry into heaps and lie still,
And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:
A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
BTW, I find a pretty handicraft (not a paper-cutting, but a paper-tearing). This retired teacher from Henan is making his paper artwork by tearing with his bare hands. In the artwork, you can see the Ox with two children, the lovers on the bridge of magpies.
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