本帖最后由 雨荷风 于 2015-10-7 11:46 编辑
克雷格.雷恩的《洋葱,记忆》汉译及解读
原作:Craig Raine
作者:靳乾、Elwyn
洋葱,记忆
(1)
离婚了,但终究又成了朋友,
我们一起散步在老地方,
映衬在蔚蓝的天空里天气晴朗。
我们嬉笑着停了下来
这些史前、锯齿状的小型恐龙雕塑
在泥泞的拖拉机的车辙里
被砍得的支离破碎。
(2)
在草地上,有个年轻的格拉斯.费尔班克斯
在未点燃的栗座枝形吊灯上摇荡,
藐视着市政当局的长矛——
树干周围那独有的一排
生着锈血迹斑斑
绿色的,黏腻的阴茎们弯曲朝天,浪漫
一阵狂风,破旧的旗子在杆子上引燃。
(3)
在村里的面包店里
油酥点心这些婴孩
奶般嫩白转为干壳尸体
从摇篮到棺材——还没来得及交涉
闪电般,静悄悄地
全部了断。
(4)
今夜,马蹄莲合拢着
收在金色押花的纸巾里,
清新而又洗濯地如此新鲜。
而那些壳质的剑兰,秘密地
在翠绿的装甲板的花托中
暗红色的花肉已被显露。
这未下锅的鲱鱼眨着泛泪的眼睛。
蜡烛颤抖悸动。
播放在百代唱片里的小提琴手
穿着晚礼服哈腰点头。
(5)
外面的树正弯下腰不遗余力地
讨好着风:那闪着露珠的菖兰
被夷平了它们的肚腩
那山楂花边的裙摆也毫无招架之力
在冰箱里,心型的果冻
努力的保持平衡感。
(6)
我切着洋葱,你封着衣服
安静的回音——汁肉——
白色的肌理挨着白色的肌理
亲密交叠的肌肤
飒飒声中完结了那些绸缎。
只有一颗纽扣没有钉,用破旧的线缝上
洋葱啊,记忆
令我哭泣。
(7)
因为这一切难以名状,
钟表在自己的面前举手投降,
温柔地结结巴巴的吐出两语三言——
我们,分分又合合,
重复着铭记于心的未完成的动作。
(8)
而后,我在凉衣绳上跌跌撞撞——
无头的躯体,无面的情人,我的朋友们。
The Onion, Memory
(1)
Divorced, but friends again at last,
we walk old ground together
in bright blue uncomplicated weather.
We laugh and pause
to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs,
prehistoric, crenelated, cast
between the tractor ruts in mud.
(2)
On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks,
swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier,
defies the corporation spears--
a single rank around the bole,
rusty with blood.
Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance
A gust--the old flag blazes on its pole.
(3)
In the village bakery
the pastry babies pass
from milky slump to crusty cadaver,
from crib to coffin--without palaver.
All's over in a flash,
too silently...
(4)
Tonight the arum lilies fold
back napkins monogrammed in gold,
crisp and laundered fresh.
Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly,
reveal the crimson flower-flesh
inside their emerald armor plate.
The uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye.
The candles palpitate.
The Oistrakhs bow and scrape
in evening dress, on Emi-tape.
(5)
Outside the trees are bending over backwards
to please the wind : the shining sword
grass flattens on its belly.
The white-thorn's frillies offer no resistance.
In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly
strives to keep a sense of balance.
(6)
I slice up the onions. You sew up a dress.
This is the quiet echo--flesh--
white muscle on white muscle,
intimately folded skin,
finished with a satin rustle.
One button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread.
It is the onion, memory,
that makes me cry.
(7)
Because there's everything and nothing to be said,
the clock with hands held up before its face,
stammers softly on, trying to complete a phrase--
while we, together and apart,
repeat unfinished gestures got by heart.
(8)
And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line--
headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.
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