加载中…米沃什读小林一茶：在这人间世，我们行走在地狱屋顶，凝视着繁花
(2019-01-26 12:00:54) 读日本诗人小林一茶（1762-1826）
“一个好世界——
几滴水落下
一滴，两滴”
寥寥几笔即成。
白雾浩渺寂静，
行于山中，
鹅叫唤，
辘轳吱呀作响，
水珠汇于屋檐。
（译注：读小林一茶的俳句，诗人不禁想起故乡立陶宛的维尔诺，“白雾，辘轳，鹅叫，屋檐”皆是诗人的回忆）
也或许是那另一间房屋。
大海潜隐，
雾气直到正午
才在大雨中从红杉树枝滴落，
低沉的汽笛声在海湾轰响。
（注：诗人从回忆回到了现实，此时诗人身处美国旧金山海湾）
诗有这些用处但也仅此而已。
因为我们不了解说话的人，
他的筋骨如何，
他皮肤的毛孔，
他内心的感受。
不知道这是不是Szlembark村，
我们常在那里发现蝾螈，
它颜色鲜艳就像Teresa Roszkowska的长裙，
或另一块陆地或别的名字。
Kotarbinski, Zawada, Erin, Melanie，
无人见于此诗，仿佛此诗之存在仰赖于
人与地方的消失。
（译注：Szlembark，波兰南部村庄； Teresa Roszkowska（1904-1992
），服装设计师，女演员；Kotarbinski, Zawada, Erin, Melanie，皆为波兰人名。）
“一只布谷鸟呼唤
对着我，对着山，
对着我，对着山。”
坐在岩壁上的棚屋下
他聆听峡谷中瀑布喧哗，
面前层峦耸翠，
夕阳侵染其中，
他于是想：布谷鸟的声音怎么
总能四处听闻？
这不符合万物的秩序。
“在这人间世
我们行走在地狱屋顶
凝视着繁花”
去领会而不道出。
人以此忘却。
被道出的坚固自身。
未被道出的趋于空无。
舌头被售予触感。
我们人类延续，凭靠着温暖与柔软：
我的小兔子，我的小熊，我的小猫...
只是除了寒冷黎明里的颤抖，
对来日的恐惧，
监察的鞭笞。
只是除了严冬的街道，
全地寂寥无人，
良心的惩罚。
只是除了。
伯克利，1978 年
参考英译：
Reading the Japanese Poet Issa(1762-1826)
A Good World--
few drops fall
by ones, by twos
A few strokes of ink and there it is.
Great stillness of white fog,
waking up in the mountains,
geese calling,
a well hoist creaking,
and the droplets forming on the eaves.
Or perhaps that other house.
The invisible ocean,
fog until noon
dripping in a heavy rain from the boughs of the
redwoods,
sirens droning below on the bay.
Poetry can do that much and no more.
For we cannot really know the man who speaks,
what his bones and sinews are like,
the porosity of his skin,
how he feels inside.
And whether this is the village of Szlembark
above which we used to find salamanders,
garishly colored like the dresses of Teresa Roszkowska,
or another continent and different names.
Kotarbinski, Zawada, Erin, Melanie.
No people in this poem. As if it subsisted
by the very disappearance of places and people.
A cuckoo calls
for me, for the mountain,
for me, for the mountain
Sitting under his lean-to on a rocky ledge
listening to a waterfall hum in the gorge,
he had before him the folds of a wooden mountain
and the setting sun which touched it
and he thought: how is it that the voice of the cuckoo
always turns either here or there?
This could as well not be in the order of things.
In this world
we walk on the roof of Hell
gazing at flowers.
To know and not to speak.
In that way one forgets.
What is pronounced strengthens itself.
What is not pronounced tends to nonexistence.
The tongue is sold out to the sense of touch.
Our human kind persists by warmth and softness:
my little rabbit, my little bear, my kitten.
Anything but a shiver in the freezing dawn
and fear of oncoming day
and the overseer’s whip.
Anything but winter streets
and nobody on the whole earth
and the penalty of consciousness.
Anything but.
Berkeley, 1978
喜欢
0
赠金笔