试译:NOT GOING TO THE NITOBI GARDENS, CHOOSING POETRY INSTEA请朋

[白水]

试译, 请朋友们切磋. 谢谢

NOT GOING TO THE NITOBI GARDENS, CHOOSING POETRY INSTEAD

By Patrick Lane


In the white coffee mug a yellow flower, nameless,

picked at dawn, her sleeping in the muscled dark, bright hair

thick with sweat. Him sitting in the wicker chair, silent,

staring at the flower with the old regret. A wasp

rages at the window, the glass between its wings and paradise,

crashes its helmet head against what it can’t reach, cedar trees,

magnolias, penstemon, and the last blooms of the foxgloves.

In the redwood tree a gray brain thinks among the branches,

a wasp nest where eggs lie in cells, each one a thought, each one

what he can only imagine. He does not open the window,

wonders instead at her dream, the click of the wasp’s blunt head on glass,

what she is translating now, what dream of hell she holds,

the click, click, click, click of the wasp, and her shifting,

the hair falling across her cheek. All this and waiting,

the wasp rested in fury on the flower, the only thing

resembling, nectar pooled below, the flower still

alive in spite of its death, and her waking, slow to the morning,

him in the wicker chair, its brittleness creaking, and

not going to her, the wasp under its bright wings, watching.


与其到霓萄碧花园,莫如写诗

诗/ Patrick Lane 译/白水
在白色的咖啡杯里一朵黄色的花, 无名
拂晓摘下, 她沉睡在昏暗, 鲜艳的
茸毛布满的露珠. 他坐在藤椅, 沉默,
惆怅地凝视着这朵花. 一只黄蜂
在窗上狂舞, 这玻璃隔开了它的翅膀和乐园,
它用头盔撞击着无法抵达的，
雪松树, 木兰花, 吊钟柳和最后盛开的毛地黄
一个灰色的脑袋在红杉树的枝条间思索,
蜂巢孕育着卵, 每一种思索,
每一种他仅有的猜测. 他没有打开这扇窗,
却诧异她的梦，黄蜂撞击着玻璃发出咔哒声，
是什么使她心神不宁, 她陷入了什么痛苦的梦境,
咔哒, 咔哒, 咔哒, 黄蜂的咔哒声, 她躲避着,
头发垂落在她的脸颊, 所有这些和等待
黄蜂躁怒地歇息在花瓣上. 唯一的事
类似, 蜜池在下面, 而花儿仍
生存在她的怨恨中为它的死和它的活. 慢慢步入黎明,
他在藤椅中, 椅子嘎嘎的响,
没有走近她, 黄蜂在它透明的翅膀下, 注视.

[kokho]

拜读 问好 ；）

。。
_________________
乒乓、摄影、诗歌

[白水]

[戴玨]

露珠不如直接翻成汗珠。thick with sweat是指布滿汗珠，并不是說絨毛很濃密。

In the redwood tree a gray brain thinks among the branches,
a wasp nest where eggs lie in cells, each one a thought, each one
what he can only imagine.
這句中文不好理解。或可這樣改一下：

一個灰色的腦袋在紅杉樹的枝條間思索，
是個蜂巢，裏面有很多蜂卵，每一個都是一種思索，
每一個他只能猜想。

最後那部分中文讀起來不通順，不過原文也比較支離破碎。

[白水]

谢谢戴玨, 我会再细琢磨.
这首诗歌感觉译的不顺

[博弈]

This is a wonderful poem, hard to translate though.
4 roles, flower, him, her, wasp, and these roles project
to, co-relate to each other in different section of
the poem. There is concept of container here, I think,
both physically and conceptually.What a nice work.

有一点庄周梦蝶的运用。只不过这里非蝶非梦，是 wasp, wasp is the wasp, is the flower, is her, is him at different time of the poem. My view.
_________________
（在不斷的審醜裡終將建立起新的審美）

[白水]

thanks a lot 博弈
i'd agree with you.
i have a strong feeling that the wasp and the flower is her or him. but i could not find wonderfil words for the translation i will try to do my best

[nobody]

不好翻，大体挺好，也有不尽如意之处，粗粗看了一下，给点管见吧。

下面的翻译似乎不准确：

每一种思索,
每一种他仅有的猜测

生存在她不顾死活的怨恨中 （愿意是虽死犹活）

最后盛开的毛地黄 （最后的毛地黄？）

却诧异她的期盼 （梦不行吗？）

所有这些和等待 （问老外然后意译）

。。。。

另外，总体欠流畅。当然这跟原诗有关。建议基于理解（求助于老外），适当打破框架，意译之，使尽量流畅，否则这翻译的功夫就失去价值了，因为不懂英文的中国人一定一头雾水。

必须承认，不好翻，您勇气可嘉呀，打死我都不翻它。
_________________
I'm nobody! Who are you?

[白水]

终于来了, 一直在等你.
看来同感, 我的胆子是大了些. 如博弈所言这是首很好的诗歌. 不知你的感觉. 我不能用眼睛从字面去体会, 却能感到体内液体和气韵的律动. 且不说被字面的桎梏所限, 就是译意,,,,,, I AM NOT SURE WHAT WILL BE HAPPEN

我再想想, 可否视死如归

[nobody]

惭愧啊。一般来说我是极其认真的人，这次花的功夫不够，因仍在忙乱中。四月12号左右就要走，且不说机票，房子，工作签证都没搞定，光是要告别的人，就排不过来了，现在就刚吃回来。撑着呢。等等等等，不一而足。

总体感觉，不好译，需要再创作。能达到一个境界，就是不看原文，也够流畅。也有迹可循。你可够如归的。当然有挑战，才有成就。当年（好像叫）裘小龙翻译“荒原“（The waste land) 就得奖了。努力吧！
_________________
I'm nobody! Who are you?

[白水]

谢谢你的建议和鼓励, 我会量力而为的.
人在它乡, 往往身不由己. 理解你的忙.到美国那个城市?说不定离TORONTO更近了, 有可能就过来玩玩, 这里诗友也不少. 不管到哪, 抽空别忘记给朋友们报个平安. 安定了别忘记贴你大作(灵魂的, )
祝你万事如意.

[nobody]

[白水]

WOW, 离我们这么近, 等天暖和点就过来, 他乡客也常回TORONTO, 大家一起去CAMPIN, 咱们点篝火, 和诗歌. 晓松和诗最快, 秋叶说不上一高兴又在沙滩上狂草他的大作了, 这还有不少诗歌爱好者呢.....
你别老贴旧作啊, 还等你们参赛呢, 把你们的移民感受也少少的施放一些, 交流交流......

[nobody]

看你写的很令人动心呢。真漫。
我呀，最大的本事，就是说几句俏皮话。
现在忙也是自己找罪受，骑虎难下呢。回头再聊。你们活的够滋润的。哈哈。
_________________
I'm nobody! Who are you?

[Lake]

快成邻居了。
_________________
the trouble with poetry is that it encourages the writing of more poetry -- Billy Collins

[白水]

改了些,请朋友们切磋. 谢谢

NOT GOING TO THE NITOBI GARDENS, CHOOSING POETRY INSTEAD

By Patrick Lane


In the white coffee mug a yellow flower, nameless,

picked at dawn, her sleeping in the muscled dark, bright hair

thick with sweat. Him sitting in the wicker chair, silent,

staring at the flower with the old regret. A wasp

rages at the window, the glass between its wings and paradise,

crashes its helmet head against what it can’t reach, cedar trees,

magnolias, penstemon, and the last blooms of the foxgloves.

In the redwood tree a gray brain thinks among the branches,

a wasp nest where eggs lie in cells, each one a thought, each one

what he can only imagine. He does not open the window,

wonders instead at her dream, the click of the wasp’s blunt head on glass,

what she is translating now, what dream of hell she holds,

the click, click, click, click of the wasp, and her shifting,

the hair falling across her cheek. All this and waiting,

the wasp rested in fury on the flower, the only thing

resembling, nectar pooled below, the flower still

alive in spite of its death, and her waking, slow to the morning,

him in the wicker chair, its brittleness creaking, and

not going to her, the wasp under its bright wings, watching.


与其到霓萄碧花园,莫如写诗

诗/ Patrick Lane 译/白水
在白色的咖啡杯里一朵黄色的花, 无名
拂晓摘下, 她沉睡在昏暗, 鲜艳的
茸毛布满的露珠. 他坐在藤椅, 沉默,
惆怅地凝视着这朵花. 一只黄蜂
在窗上狂舞, 这玻璃隔开了它的翅膀和乐园,
它用头盔撞击着无法抵达的，
雪松树, 木兰花, 吊钟柳和最后盛开的毛地黄
一个灰色的脑袋在红杉树的枝条间思索,
蜂巢孕育着卵, 每一种思索,
每一种他仅有的猜测. 他没有打开这扇窗,
却诧异她的梦，黄蜂撞击着玻璃发出咔哒声，
是什么使她心神不宁, 她陷入了什么痛苦的梦境,
咔哒, 咔哒, 咔哒, 黄蜂的咔哒声, 她躲避着,
头发垂落在她的脸颊, 所有这些和等待
黄蜂躁怒地歇息在花瓣上. 唯一的事
类似, 蜜池在下面, 而花儿仍
生存在她的怨恨中为它的死和它的活. 慢慢步入黎明,
他在藤椅中, 椅子嘎嘎的响,
没有走近她, 黄蜂在它透明的翅膀下, 注视.