本帖最后由 唐凯 于 2015-11-24 13:04 编辑
翻译求助(英译汉)
The poems that broke my heart are stuffed in the metal cabinet with tear-stained details of my son's diagnosis, MSA signatures of two people who once loved, and a cold stamp mark for bankruptcy. They are filed behind the victory poem of the new deed for this old house with my name and my name only.
这节诗我彻底没看懂。不敢,也不能瞎猜,特此贴上来请教论坛上的各位老师。
这是一首长诗中的一节,饱经风霜的女诗人早年在韩国教书,并带着家人居住 在韩国,这节诗写家庭中的一场变故,儿子得癌症去世了,诗人写下了此阶段 的心情。456行出现障碍,789行也随之不会理解。
在这里先向各位老师问安致谢,大家帮忙看看到底是什么意思。全诗附在下面, 也欢迎各位尝试完整地翻译,帖上来共同交流学习。标题是Where the Poems Are, 我的翻译是“诗歌存放的地方”。【唐凯 21015.11.24 于大庆 】
Where the Poems Areby Anjie Kokan
There are narratives stashed in the basement inside the pockets of a gray wool coat that kept me warm my first year teaching in Korea's bitter winter of '94.
There are plagiarized rhymes in a box on the closet shelf, old letters from a first love who wooed me with Loverboy lyrics he claimed for his own
My name is engraved in a golden sonnet once clasped around my wrist by the one I thought I would marry. It keeps quiet in the night stand drawer.
A recipe poem for the wildest rum cake you'll ever taste spins in Grandma's electric mixer which I still use, even though it's cracked and runs with only one beater.
Gossip is detailed in a rant poem (in desperate need of revision) within the tin tray Coke Girl who smiles and caters to guests.
An epic has started in the portrait of the perfect alien family, complete with planets, drawn with colored pencils by a young artist whose brother cannot speak, whose father moved out.
Lined up in the medicine cabinet, the poems that sting and suffer, but poems awaiting cotton swab dreams, too.
And on the cluttered counter, a first line on the tip of my pale rose lipstick that longs for more.
The poems that broke my heart are stuffed in the metal cabinet with tear-stained details of my son's diagnosis, MSA signatures of two people who once loved, and a cold stamp mark for bankruptcy. They are filed behind the victory poem of the new deed for this old house with my name and my name only.
There's a haiku peeping from a young girl's mirror that has linked her newly emerged curves with a vanilla moon.
A sun poem pours its cliche of light prayer every day through the beveled glass and onto my dining room floor. It keeps me going.
And blue poems hide in the nettles out back, the dying hibiscus, and the crack in the carriage house window. These blues linger among smooth sestinas of dragonflies and bee balm.
But the best poem ever, yet to be written, is brewing inside you, my love. I'd like to think we could write it together, starting now with my lipstick's first line.
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