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发表于 2021-3-12 18:06
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郑伟|汉诗英译五首 ◇四十年前一幕幕 江水带走日出和日落 留下小屋和柳树 江水带走鱼虾的故事 留下空空的渔网和几颗鹅卵石 我抬头朝屋顶望去 瓦上没有留下一片去年的雪花 只有流浪的云做着白日梦 “像茄子一样开花是什么感觉?” 在我教一朵黄瓜花唱歌的时候 蜜蜂把阳光洒向我黄皮肤的脸 妈妈一大早就拿起葫芦瓢 把水从长江舀到菜园里 她整天用瓢舀水，我猜 她一定还想舀出爸爸的消息 作为园丁，妈妈深爱她的花朵 我相信在黄昏时她更爱我 晚霞红唇微闭，泛出微笑 那微笑不是某个园丁可以栽培 星星借来露珠们的小手 敲响离群索居的茉莉花的门 流星在天空写下大大的感叹号 宣布了月亮的就寝时间 白天我白等了爸爸一天 晚上我还将在梦里继续等 *英文版被收录进美国Whale Road Review 2021年春季卷 （注：此诗和另一首《风的承诺》是先用英语写、后翻译成中文，收录进Whale Road Review春季卷，计划于2021年3月出版。Whale Road Review总编Katie Manning博士在用稿通知邮件中说：“每个作者通常只能发表一首诗，但因为我们太喜爱你的这两首诗，做不到只发表一首。”） Episodes from Forty Years Ago The river carries away the sunrise and sunset. A hut and some willows are left behind. The river carries away the story of fish and shrimp. An empty net and some pebbles are left behind. I look up at the roof of the hut. Not a single snowflake of last year is left on the tile. Only a wandering cloud is daydreaming: What’s it like blossoming as an eggplant does? Bees spray sunshine over my yellow-skinned face. As I teach a yellow cucumber flower to sing. Mom’s been holding a gourd ladle since morning. She ladles water from the river to the garden. She keeps ladling water all day long. And also ladles out messages from Dad, I guess. As a gardener Mom loves her flowers with soul. I'm sure she loves me better in the twilight. A sunset glow with red lips smiles. That smile is one that no gardener cultivates. Stars have borrowed the little hands from dews. They knock at the door of the reclusive jasmine. A meteor writes a big exclamation point in the sky. It announces the bedtime for the moon. During the day I’ve waited for Dad in vain. I shall continue to wait in my dream. ◇城里卖簸箕的人 小雪，向晚，北湖路锅盔摊旁 我与一个卖簸箕的人擦肩而过 这雪夜，城市里，要个簸箕做什么 装灯火太窄，装乡愁不够深 若是置于窗台，接一夜雪摆在客厅 也缺少红梅来陪衬 我咬一口锅盔，他就喊一声“卖簸箕” 他软绵绵的声音让我感到不安，就如同 我平白无故咬缺了他的簸箕 其实，簸箕真的可以拿来装雪的 在老家，这时节，母亲已熬了麻糖 切了糍粑，都码在簸箕上风干 簸箕挨着年关的草垛，远远望去 雪一样白 *英文版发表于美国Innisfree 诗刊2020年秋季卷 （注：《城里卖簸箕的人》中文版原载《诗刊》2019年10月下半月刊。美国Innisfree Poetry Journal总编、美国著名诗人Greg McBride先生评价该诗及下一首《老电影》的英文版“清新自然，丰富的情感表述妥帖”） The Winnowing-fan Seller in the Town Snow is falling thick on the twilight When I come across a winnowing-fan seller By the side of a pancake booth. On a snowy evening in the town, What is the good of a winnowing-fan? Too narrow to hold the city lights, Too shallow to hold my homesickness. If placed in the window sill To hold enough snowflakes overnight, It still lacks a red plum blossom to foil its beauty. Each time I take a bite of the pancake, He gives forth a sound: “winnowing-fans for sale.” His soft voice makes me feel guilty, feel as if I have bitten his winnowing-fan without cause. A winnowing-fan certainly did hold snowflakes— In my hometown, before the Spring Festival Eve Mother had made sesame candy and glutinous rice cakes. She put the dainty snacks in a winnowing-fan Next to a haystack to dry; from afar I would mistake them for white snowflakes at times. ◇老电影 电影可以带我去远方 一辆旧单车也可以 朝着江水呼喊没有回声 朝一扇破门喊，也同样没有 那是1984年，洪水高过人间 爸爸撑着小船，我在门口喊他 我喊一声，他就应一声 他捞起从上游漂来的两棵树 敲掉树根上镶嵌的岩石 拿一棵做了扇新门 拿另一棵换了辆旧单车 爸爸用单车载我到邻村看电影 只见荧幕挂在两棵树之间，有些皱纹 风吹过来，荧幕就鼓起腮帮 做出爸爸喊我的样子 *英文版发表于美国Innisfree 诗刊2020年秋季卷 An Old Movie Movies can take me far away. An old bike will do, too. There is no echo as I call out to the Yangtze River, Neither is there as Papa calls out to a broken door. It was in 1984 the flood ran high above the world. Papa was harnessing a tiny boat, While I was calling out to him from the front door. He fished up two floating trees from upstream, Answering every one of my cries. Papa knocked away the little rocks embedded in the roots, Built a new door out of one tree, Traded the other tree for an old bike, And drove me to the nearby village to see a movie. The screen with some wrinkles was hung between two trees. A gust of wind blew across; the screen swelled its cheeks, Acted in the way Papa answered my cries in the flood. ◇汽笛的变奏曲 我的父亲曾是一名长江航道的船员 那时他每天会拉响汽笛，将我唤醒 他经常对我说：汽笛已刻进他皮肤里 变成皱纹、伤疤和老年斑 后来，那些笛声，有的长成我的胎记 有的变成栀子花的种子，我撒在花园 有的化作我诗句中咧嘴而笑的隐喻 如今夜深人静时，它们常常搭乘 童年的纸船，来到我湖畔的家中 有一回我忘了开窗，清早起来，只见那湖 早已睁开水汪汪的蓝眼睛 这次汽笛唤醒的是湖，而不是我 *英文版被收录进美国Third Wednesday 2021年春季卷 （注：中文版原载香港《中国流派诗刊》；Third Wednesday是美国知名综合性文学刊物，全球发行。） Variation of the Steam Whistle My father used to be a boatman on the Yangtze River. Every morning he would blow the steam whistle and wake me up. He often told me that the whistle tunes inscribed in his skin had become his wrinkles, scars and age spots. Later on some of the tunes became my birthmarks; Some became gardenia seeds and I planted them in the garden; Some became metaphors grinning in my poetic lines. Now in the dead of night, they often ride a paper boat from my childhood, heading for my home by the lake. The other day I left the window closed. Early in the morning I saw the lake opening her watery big blue eyes. The whistle had woken up the lake instead of me! ◇怀念田园小径 霜雪低于流云 却高于灰喜鹊的翅膀 杨树被灰喜鹊的翅膀锯断 我得到两面相同的年轮 而我得不到两片相同的叶子 两枚相同的雪花 世上没有什么放不下 当我还朝阳以自由之身 季节被我追得太急 索性放慢脚步，把时钟拆开 钟里阡陌纵横 多像条条田园小径 *英文版于2020年12月发表于美国Fahmidan Journal冬季卷 （注：Fahmidan Journal主编、科威特裔美国诗人Anthony R Salandy评论此诗英文版“结构和语言扣人心弦”） Missing the Paths in the Fields The snow in the sky is lower than the cloud But higher than the wings of the gray magpie When a poplar tree is sawn down by its wings I get two identical growth-rings But neither can I get two identical leaves Nor two identical snowflakes After giving the morning sun a free hand What else in the world do I grudge letting go of No need to chase the seasons too soon Just take it easy and take a clock apart Behold! The paths crisscrossed inside the clock How they resemble the paths in the fields |
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