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“Tea at the Palaz of Hoon” Wallace Stevens

七月底翻译了这一首。当时感到译得很生硬,与原诗相比时感到很强的挫败感。不过现在过了一段时间回头看,或许也有作为译文以外的价值。

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

不更少因为在紫色中我降下
西方的天空,穿过你所称为
最孤单的空气,不更少是我自己。

是什么油膏洒上我胡须?
是什么赞歌在我耳边嗡鸣?
是什么海的浪潮在那里扫过我?

从我心中金色的油膏如雨落下,
我的耳朵造出呼啸的赞歌并听见。
我自己即是海的界限:

我是我行走在其中的世界,我所看到
或听见或触碰到的仅来自我自己;
而在那里我发现自己更真实也更奇异。

‘My Grandmother’s love letters’ by Hart Crane

There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?”

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

很喜欢的一首 Hart Crane, 试着翻译了一下:

今夜没有星星
不属于记忆。
而记忆的空间却那么多
在细雨松弛的环绕里。

甚至有足够的空间
给信,曾属于我母亲的母亲
伊丽莎白,
它们长久被压在
屋顶的一角
让它们棕黄,柔软
可能像雪一般融化。

在这空间的宽广里
脚步必须轻盈。
一切都悬在一丝看不见的白发上。
它颤抖如桦条在空气中织网。

而我问自己:

「你手指是否足够长,来演奏
仅有回响的古老琴键:
这沉默是否足够强
将音乐带回它的源头
并再次回到你
如回到她?」

但我愿领着祖母挽起她的手
经过这许多她或许不会懂的事;
当我跌撞着。而雨在屋上继续
以一种温和、怜悯的笑声。