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A hundred people came to my class
2007-01-29 01:22:17
A hundred people came to my class
A hundred teachers of English rushed into my class,
sitting in every corner of the room, or standing
by the doors. My bewildered heart found no peace,
until I beheld the encouraging eyes of my head-teacher.
A hundred people sit in my class, in a cold winter day
in central China, where there was no heating.
I stepped onto the platform, and helloed to them loudly, as they
were asking for each other’s names and laughing,
And taking photos like at a press conference.
My students disappeared, turning out only
when a question being raised and they shouted back
the correct answer, or as they clapped for the performance
given by students borrowed from other classes.
I hid in the microphone and got lost soon into the PowerPoint,
But the lesson continued on the right track as directed,
disappointing no one who nosed in, even the critical experts.
Notes: this poem was first written on a demo lesson given by a high school teacher in Huai'an Jiangsu Province, and complished this afternoon.
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翻译Steve McOrmond“Focus”，请指正。
2007-01-14 17:34:21
Focus
By Steve McOrmond
The man, staked out
on the steps of the Starbucks,
clapping his hands, stamping his feet
to ward off the cold, is not
a scarecrow, my disembodied
conscience, nor a woodblock by Dürer.
He is not the human condition.
It’s snowing, huge wet flakes
sticking to the man’s coat,
muffling the traffic sounds.
All those cars streaming
almost silently into the core.
I’m not quite awake yet,
haven’t sipped from the cup
that urges me to be exceptional.
Fumbling in my pocket for change,
finding only a fiver, I hand it over
gingerly, bracing myself
for the collision of charity and guilt,
gratitude and shame; how my gaze
skids across his face, his across mine,
fishtailing to avoid the eyes.
注视（1）
斯蒂文•麦克奥蒙德（诗）/ 小枪（译）
那个人，僵硬地站在
星巴克门前的台阶上
一边搓手，一边跺脚
以驱走寒冷，他不是
一个稻草人，也不是
杜勒（2）的木刻画，我顿时迷惘
他不该是人类的处境
天下着雪，大片的雪花
落附在他的外套上
屏蔽了交通的嘈杂
所有那些汽车都
几乎沉默地流向那个中心
我还没有清醒
也没有从那只促使我
成为异类的杯子中啜饮
伸手去兜里摸索一些零钱
却只找到一张五元的钞票
小心翼翼地递过去
强抑住，施舍与内疚
感激与羞愧，在心中的碰撞
我的注视滑过他的脸庞，他的移过我的
如鱼尾扫过，以避开彼此的眼睛
译注：
（1）本诗作者斯蒂夫•麦克奥蒙德（Steve McOrmond），加拿大青年诗人，其诗作散见于加拿大各种文学报刊杂志，以及澳大利亚Jacket网站和英国nthposition网站。麦克奥蒙德的诗亲切自然，饱含热情，并且形象鲜明。他曾获得过格劳德•兰普尔德纪念奖提名（the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award）。有诗入选《炙热呼吸2：加拿大新诗人诗选》（Nightwood, 2004）。出版诗集《倾斜时代》（Lean Days, 2004）和《此后的启蒙》（Primer on the Hereafter 2006）。
（2）阿尔布雷蒂•杜勒（Albrecht Dürer，1471-1528），德国油画家、版画家、雕塑家和建筑师。作品有木刻组画《启示录》、油画《四圣图》等。
另外有两个问题请教大家：
（1）请问大家怎么理解“the core”，我请教了英国威尔士大学的一位教授，她说是“Hub，city centre, heart/essence/central axis的意思。我简单译作“那个中心”，刻意模糊，不知道是否恰当。
（2）最后一句“to avoid the eyes”我理解是避开彼此的双眼，请问大家，是不是“我”在避开他的双眼”。
谢谢各位，请指教。
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翻译李拜天《病中书》
2007-01-09 17:58:39
Lines written in sickness
By Li Baitian
I think about wars, blasts, tsunamis, segregation walls,
Nuclear crisis, and terrorists,
And all such issues.
I am sick, and must take the doctor’s advice,
To keep a blank head, or
To think about some irrelevant matters to avoid headache.
I think about the happiness and anecdotes of emperors, officials,
Presidents, PMs, landlords, merchants, and politicians.
About history, tradition, the past and the future.
My thought runs wildly and unconstrainedly.
I’m not a hermit, who can live a reclusive life, but,
As long as I landed on reality, I’d got a splitting headache.
病中书
李拜天
我想到战争、爆炸、海啸、隔离墙
核危机、恐怖分子......
想诸如此类的许多重大问题
我在病中，我必须接受医生的建议
让脑子保持一片空白
想这些远在万里的事情,以免让脑袋疼痛
我想到帝王、将相、总统、外长
地主、商人、政客们的幸福和逸闻
想到历史、传统、过去和将来
我天马行空、无边无际
我不是遁世的隐士，只是此时
一触及现实，病中的我就头痛欲裂
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Poems by R S Thomas
2006-12-24 17:53:50
Welsh History
We were a people taut for war; the hills
Were no harder, the thin grass
Clothed them more warmly than the coarse
Shirts our small bones.
We fought, and were always in retreat,
Like snow thawing upon the slopes
Of Mynydd Mawr; and yet the stranger
Never found our ultimate stand
In the thick woods, declaiming verse
To the sharp prompting of the harp.
Our kings died, or they were slain
By the old treachery at the ford.
Our bards perished, driven form the halls
Of nobles by the thorn and bramble.
We were a people bred on legends,
Warming our hands at the red past.
The great were ashamed of our loose rags
Clinging stubbornly to the proud tree
Of blood and birth; our lean bellies
And mud houses were a proof
Of our ineptitude for life.
We were a people wasting ourselves
In fruitless battles for our masters,
In lands to which we had no claim,
With men for whom we felt no hatred.
We were a people, and are so yet,
When we have finished quarrelling for crumbs
Under the table, or gnawing the bones
Of a dead culture, we will arise,
Armed, but not in the old way.
A Country
At fifty he was still trying to deceive
Himself. He went out at night,
Imagining the dark country
Between the border and the coast
Was still Wales; the old language
Come to him on the wind’s lips;
There were intimations of farms
Whose calendar was a green hill.
And yet under such skies the land
Had no more right to its name
Than a corpse had; self-given wounds
Wasted it. It lay like a bone
Thrown aside and of no use
For anything except shame to gnaw.
WelshVillage
There was a window
I stood by
in a Welsh village,
myself looking in and he
out, the framed soldier,
waiting for the return
home never to be.
I was along again,
no – was it last week?
not only the soldier
gone, but the house gone, too.
R.S. Thomas (1913 – 2000 )
Acclaimed poet and priest who lamented the ‘cultural suicide’ of his homeland.Bleaker than a spoil heap in a blizzard, R.S. Thomas’s literary output was much as the poet himself appeared to the outside world. He sought refuge in the rural Welsh heartland from where he lambasted his countrymen and modern life in general.
In Welsh Landscape he wrote of “an impotent people, sick with inbreeding, worrying the carcase of an old song”. It is one of his most famous lines, uncompromising, coruscating and unlikely ever to be adopted as marketing slogan.Not that R.S would care. God and the countryside were his great inspirations.“God moves in mysterious ways” he often said “and putting a dog collar on R.S. Thomas was very mysterious indeed.”
Although a parish priest, serving in numerous parishes in North and Mid Wales,he cast a sometimes forbidding figure. The sentiments expressed in his angrier poems tended towards the extreme along with some of his political views.He was a fervent Welsh nationalist and republican who considered Plaid Cymru’s recognition of the British state unacceptable and supported political violence including the burning down of English-owned holiday homes. Yet he married an Englishwoman (“love conquers all”), spoke English with a cut glass Oxford accent, sent his son to public school and accepted the Queen’s Poetry Medal.
R.S. Thomas did not learn Welsh until well into adulthood. Too late, he maintained, to write poetry in the language. Apart from his autobiography Neb (Nobody) and some prose, he worked entirely in English while also lamenting the decline – he called it ‘suicide’- of the old language.
Despite the teeming contradictions, hinting perhaps at the darkly mischievous sense of humour to which he treated his friends, the strength of his poetry should ensure his appeal to future generations.
In his preface to R.S. Thomas’s Song At The Year"s Turning, John Betjeman wrote; "The name which has the honour to introduce this fine poet to a wider public will be forgotten long before that of RS Thomas."
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英译汉诗几首练笔（沈尹默，汪静之，冯至，蓝海文）
2006-12-23 19:21:32
月 夜
沈尹默
霜风呼呼地吹着
月光命名的照着
我和一株顶高的树并排站着
并不靠着
Moonlit night
By Shen Yinmo
The cold wind blows hard,
The moonlight is bright,
Beside a tall tree I stand,
Not willing to lean upon it.
过伊家门
汪静之
我冒犯了人们的指摘，
一步一回头地瞟我意中人；
我怎样欣慰而胆寒呵。
Passing her house
By Wang Jingzhi
I ignored their entire censure,
Glancing at my love once and again.
How excited and worried I was!
绿衣人
冯至
一个绿衣邮夫，
低着头儿走路，
也有时看看路旁。
他的面貌很平常，
——大半安于他的生活，
不带着一点悲伤。
谁也不注意他
日日的来来往往。
但，他小小的手中，
拿了些梦中人的运命。
当他正在敲人家的门时，
谁又留神或想，
“这家人可怕的时候到了！”
——1921.4.21.北京路上
Green man
By Feng Zhi
The postman in green,
Walks on, down-looking,
Sometimes over sideways.
In his commonplace face,
Possibly due to a content life,
Finds no clue of sadness.
Who cares about, day after day,
He goes to and fro on his own way?
But in his hands,
Are some dreamers’ fate.
As on the man’s door he knocks,
Who ever thinks of –
“The terrible time comes!”
翻译蓝海文诗歌两首
蓝海文，本名蓝田，广东大埔县湖寮人，1942年出生。国际桂冠诗人，文学博士。世界华文诗人协会会长，香港诗人协会会长，<<香港诗刊>>社长，已出版《蓝海文抒情诗》、《我是风》、《中华史诗》、《寓言诗一百首》等诗集。
Three Moons
I have three moons
One’s in the sky,
One in the water,
and one on my pillows.
One crescent,
One plenilune,
One square.
The crescent is in the world’s end.
The plenilune hangs above my home land.
The square, rising from my dreams,
heals my wound.
三个月亮
我有三个月亮
一个在空中
一个在水里
一个在枕上
一个缺
一个圆
一个方
缺在天涯
圆在故乡
方 从梦中起来
安抚我的创伤
Apple Tree
I am
a Chinese apple tree.
The eastern spirit is
my strong backbone,
though there’re some branches
from the western.
lotus or maple,
peach or appl
all grow up in me.
In east wind,
I chant Confucius’s song
In west wind,
I sing Amitabha on and on.
In my blood
are myths.
Whoever touches
will be nationalized.
My roots
grow deep and wide,
downwards
and to all sides
take in nutrition that
my body needs.
I am
a Chinese apple tree,
returned at last after
my round-world trip.
Air in the East Sea is thin.
Soil in the South Sea is dry.
Water in the West Sea is too salty.
Sun in the North Sea is too scorching.
The only comfortable is
my own place.
苹果树
我是
中国的苹果树
以东方的精神
作我硕大的支柱
身上虽然有些
西方的枝叶
是枫是荷
是苹是桃
都在一树里成熟
东风里
唱过之乎者也
西风中
唱过阿弥陀佛
我的血液
充满神奇
谁与我接触
都要归化我族
我的根
既深且广
向纵深
向四方
吸取我需要的
物质
我是
中国的苹果树
环游了世界
终于回到中土
东海的空气稀薄
南海的土壤干枯
西海的水份太咸
北海的阳光有毒
还是自己的水土
舒服
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