为进一步繁荣新时代诗歌，推动汉语诗歌走向世界，激励本土诗人们创作出具有世界影响力的优秀作品，中国诗歌网与美国华盛顿PATHSHARERS BOOKS（出版有季刊21st Century Chinese Poetry）合作开展汉诗英译活动。《诗刊》每期刊登的诗作及中国诗歌网“每日好诗”中的佳作，将有机会被译成英语，刊于21st Century Chinese Poetry，并在中国诗歌网做专题展示。
Bedside Letter—To Shen Nianju
by Zhao Jun
A Pushkin for my adolescent years,
bound in a gold cover. To soothe
the puberty years. It didn't induce
that "young Werther" kind of sorrows but rather
saved a youth from the backwater country: in reciting
love poems, the rural-urban gap was bridged,
filling the gulf between hearts. These verses, with
summer insects' chirping at the edge of the town
chimed together for evening prayers, allowing me
to calmly study the stylish girls even if they were
the captain's daughters. I became the gentleman
in that book, prolonging a duel which would not exist.
What far-off memory now: A red thumbprint on
"A Hundred Years of Solitude"! By the weeping willows along Yingxi River,
I inhaled the sweet smell of romanticism. Like mud
pecked away by swallows, or the low eaves delivered to
the iron gut of the excavator, those infinitely disappearing
rice paddies replaced by modern housing,
dense population stacked in dwelling cubes
until downtown youths no longer believed
in poetry from Russia, nor even talked kindly about
the adolescents dipped in Russian romanticism.
Some twenty years later, you, a Pushkin go-between
carried me from far away back home,
to those displaced, stowed-away pillows and blankets.
As my lips echoed the verse into local dialect, I was unaware
you were here, too, in your lonely adolescent years, without
even a similar comfort. You sat in the dimly-lit editor's office,
a ferryman who delivered that bright light to me.
This is a time for tears: the lonelier we are,
the more potent is poetry to enchant our bleak life,
to defy the thought that we're destined for mediocrity. In the cold, in exile,
you never extinguished the flames. And we,
in times when conformity rules, will be a swift sword, made of bronze,
bursting out a piercing shine, to guard against amnesia.
双城之夏 天 元
Summer In Two Cities
by Tian Yuan
In the past summer signaled its arrival
through the Banyan trees' silky aerial roots.
Monsoon came onshore the Indian Ocean,
and they played a symphony as soon as our ears perk up.
I walked outside and learned about herbal brew
when Banyans exuded the aroma of a precious medicinal plant;
both my rain boots and the red cotton flowers were great soup bowls.
In the tropical forest by the library
a twig occasionally fell on my umbrella,
the sound struck me same as a little monk was awaken by
his master knocking on his head, with the words:
just a quick shut-eye, summer is here.
Is it already summer?
China Rose piles on bright new colors,
irises and plantain lilies are a head above all others.
The air-conditioner in the office reads 18 on the panel,
the same number as when I was in Guangdong eight years ago.
With a hint of heat, we dialed it to the coldest;
and when it got really hot, the reading calmly settled at 26,
same as in Beijing, where I am now.
The southerly travels up Baoding, Xingtai, and Shijiazhuang,
sending dense catkins to mix with dust in the air.
It's like watching an old TV. The fresh strawberries
are the only cure for sore eyes.
Beijing's metabolism has sped up,
earthy atmosphere, fervent articles, and clinging catkins
all have only a few days to live.
Summer is untenable, he
works up a sweat hopping south to north,
carrying me from a water city to a city built of mud.
Pilgrimage to Chang'An
by Gu Nian of Shaanxi
Starting from the first brick, every part of Chang'an is real.
Like spring grass,
it once wilted, but renewed in Bai Xiangshan's poetry*.
Moss peeling off, a chunk at a time, the city walls
send the years off to somewhere faraway.
The moon sits high, over the city alone, like a teardrop.
The wanderers at night wander like phantoms. Darkness
stretches out at the heel of the city wall, for as far as one can
see. The wind chimes tremble under the doorway, giving a hint of starlight.
"I am a man on the road, dew on my eyelashes."
Chang'an burns under the moon. I say I feel cold.
I would like to set up camp in Chang'an, but I dare not say it.
Chang'an is a modifier, permeating my heaven and earth.
Note: Bai Xiangshan, Chinese poet, also known as Bai Juyi, CE 772-846
by Liu Yanghe
After dinner, I go out for ice latte
with friends. We drink while planting
cigarette butts in a mini-pot filled with
coffee grounds, one section after another—
We plant our contemporaries into the history of literature,
between puffs, we recount the air crashes
when modern poetry took off. Every time we swallow a piece of
cheese or salad, we grumble about
an unsavory or a sweet event. Eventually we got
tired of the sad stories, too many tribal
feelings and feuds, and internal conflicts.
In-between, there are inevitable
pauses and silence while the cheery laughter
from our next table spills over, sort of melodramatic,
touching on the absurdity of everyday life:
We will continue to plant, to cultivate
our spent curiosity about history; we have no reason not to
plant Li Jinfa's Light Rain* into the Drum Tower,
to mix with the bell chime; the calamitous years need to be there, too.
We plant and plant, until all spaces are occupied.
Fortunately, I planted these
somewhat interesting words, or perhaps they are only bland…
Note: * Light Rain, poetry collection by Li Jinfa, Chinese poet (b. 1900 Guangdong -1976 New York)
我和我自己 干 沙
ME AND MYSELF
By Gan Sha
Sometimes I want to tell myself some home truths,
I suddenly feel touched
as if having met an almsgiver.
Sometimes I want to run away from the city,
to be alone to ponder,
I want to speak out loud what's in my heart,
to hear it for myself.
Sometimes I am caught in a mesh of intrigues,
causing me to cease to exist,
only by shouting out loud, waking myself up,
that I know I am still here.
Sometimes I want to buddy punch myself
like running into a long-absent friend.
“汉诗英译” 同步更新于美国“21st Century Chinese Poetry”网站
一 键 关 注