Ogni Giorno Una Poesia

Apontamento

2011-10-22T23:22:00.000-07:00

A minha alma partiu-se como um vaso vazio.
Caiu pela escada excessivamente abaixo.
Caiu das mãos da criada descuidada.
Caiu, fez-se em mais pedaços do que havia loiça no vaso.

Asneira? Impossível? Sei lá!
Tenho mais sensações do que tinha quando me sentia eu.
Sou um espalhamento de cacos sobre um capacho por sacudir.

Fiz barulho na queda como um vaso que se partia.
Os deuses que há debruçam-se do parapeito da escada.
E fitam os cacos que a criada deles fez de mim.

Não se zanguem com ela.
São tolerantes com ela.
O que era eu um vaso vazio?

Olham os cacos absurdamente conscientes,
Mas conscientes de si mesmos, não conscientes deles.

Olham e sorriem.
Sorriem tolerantes à criada involuntária.

Alastra a grande escadaria atapetada de estrelas.
Um caco brilha, virado do exterior lustroso, entre os astros.
A minha obra? A minha alma principal? A minha vida?
Um caco.
E os deuses olham-no especialmente, pois não sabem por que ficou ali.

Álvaro de Campos

To Mark Anthony in Heaven

2011-05-30T22:05:00.000-07:00

This quiet morning light
reflected, how many times
from grass and trees and clouds
enters my north room
touching the walls with
grass and clouds and trees.
Anthony,
trees and grass and clouds.
Why did you follow
that beloved body
with your ships at Actium?
I hope it was because
you knew her inch by inch
from slanting feet upward
to the roots of her hair
and down again and that
you saw her
above the battle's fury--
clouds and trees and grass--

For then you are
listening in heaven.

William Carlos Williams

Épitaphe

2011-05-08T04:43:00.000-07:00

Il a vécu tantôt gai comme un sansonnet,
Tour à tour amoureux insoucieux et tendre,
Tantôt sombre et rêveur comme un triste Clitandre.
Un jour il entendit qu'à sa porte on sonnait.
　　
C'était la Mort! Alors il la pria d'attendre
Qu'il eut posé le point à son dernier sonnet;
Et puis sans s'émouvoir, il s'en alla s'étendre
Au fond du coffre froid où son corps frissonnait.
　　
Il était paresseux, à ce que dit l'histoire,
Il laissait trop sécher l'encre dans l'écritoire.
Il voulait tout savoir mais il n'a rien connu.
　　
Et quand vint le moment où, las de cette vie,
Un soir d'hiver, enfin l'âme lui fut ravie,
Il s'en alla disant : "Pourquoi suis-je venu?"

Gérard de Nerval

Fish Food

2011-04-06T23:46:00.001-07:00

you drank deep as Thor, did you think of milk or wine?
Did you drink blood, while you drank the salt deep?
Or see through the film of light, that sharpened your rage with its stare,
a shark, dolphin, turtle ? Did you not see the Cat
who, when Thor lifted her, unbased the cubic ground?
You would drain fathomless flagons to be slaked with vacuum
The sea's teats have suckled you, and you are sunk far
in bubble-dreams, under swaying translucent vines
of thundering interior wonder. Eagles can never now
carry parts of your body, over cupped mountains
as emblems of their anger, embers to fire self-hate
to other wonders, unfolding white flaming vistas.
Fishes now look upon you, with eyes which do not gossip.
Fishes are never shocked. Fishes will kiss you, each
fish tweak you; every kiss takes bits of you away,
till your bones alone will roll, with the Gulf Stream's swell.
So has it been already, so have the carpers and puffers
nibbled your carcass of fame, each to his liking. Now
in tides of noon, the bones of your thought-suspended structures
gleam as you intended. Noon pulled your eyes with small
magnetic headaches; the will seeped from your blood. Seeds
of meaning popped from the pods of thought. And you fall. And the unseen
churn of Time changes the pearl-hued ocean;
like a pearl-shaped drop, in a huge water-clock
falling; from came to go, from come to went. And you fell.
Waters received you. Waters of our Birth in Death dissolve you.
Now you have willed it, may the Great Wash take you.
As the Mother-Lover takes your woe away, and cleansing
grief and you away, you sleep, you do not snore.
Lie still. Your rage is gone on a bright flood
away; as, when a bad friend held out his hand
you said, "Do not talk any more. I know you meant no harm."
What was the soil whence your anger sprang, who are deaf
as the stones to the whispering flight of the Mississippi's rivers?
What did you see as you fell? What did you hear as you sank?
Did it make you drunken with hearing?
I will not ask any more. You saw or heard no evil.

John Brooks Wheelwright

Legend

2011-02-21T05:35:00.000-08:00

Enter with him
These legends, love;
For him assume
Each diverse form,
To legend native,
As legend queer;
That he may do
What these require,
Be,Love, like him
To legend true.

When he to ease
His heart's disease
Must cross in sorrow
Corrosive seas,
As dolphin go;
As cunning fox
Guide through the rocks,
Tell in his ear
The common phrase
The guardians there;
And when across
The livid marsh
Big birds pursue,
Again be true,
Between his thighs
As pony rise,
And swift as wind
Bear him away
Till cries and they
Are left behind.
But when at last,
These dangers passed,
His grown desire
Of legend tire,
Then, Love, standing
At legend's ending,
Claim your reward;
Submit your neck
To the ungrateful stroke
Of his reluctant sword,
That, starting back,
His eyes may look
Amazed on you,
Find what he wanted
Is faithful too
But disenchanted,
Love as love.

W. H. Auden

The Bight

2011-02-08T05:50:00.000-08:00

[On my birthday]

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.

Elizabeth Bishop

_______________________
大主教百年诞辰

Rimbaud and Verlaine

2011-01-23T00:20:00.000-08:00

from Preludes for Memnon

LVI

Rimbaud and Verlaine, precious pair of poets,
Genius in both (but what is genius?) playing
Chess on a marble table at an inn
With chestnut blossom falling in blond beer
And on their hair and between knight and bishop-
Sunlight squared between them on the chess-board
Cirrus in heaven, and a squeal of music
Blown from the leathern door of Ste. Sulpice-

Discussing, between moves, iamb and spondee
Anacoluthon and the open vowel
God the great peacock with his angel peacocks
And his dependent peacocks the bright stars:
Disputing too of fate as Plato loved it,
Or Sophocles, who hated and admired,
Or Socartes, who loved and was amused:

Velaine puts down his pawn upon a leaf
And closes his long eyes, which are dishonest,
And says "Rimbaud, there is one thing to do:
We must take rhetoric, and wring its neck!..."
Rimbaud considers gravely, moves his Queen;
And then removes himself to Timbuctoo

And Verlainde dead,-with all his jades and mauves;
And Rimbaud dead in Marseilles with a vision,
His leg cut off, as once before his heart;
And all reported by later lackey,
Whose virtue is his tardiness in time.

Let us describe the evening as it is:-
The stars disposed in heaven as they are:
Verlaine and Shakspere rotting, where they rot,
Rimbaud remembered, and too soon forgot;

Order in all things, logic in the dark;
Arrangement in the atom and the spark;
Time in the heart and sequence in the brain-

Such as destroyed Rimbaud and fooled Verlaine.
And let us take godhead by the neck-

And strangle it, and with it, rhetoric.

Conrad Aiken

Coplas

2011-01-02T00:39:00.000-08:00

from The Songbook of Sebastian Arrurruz
Sebastian Arrurruz: 1868 - 1922

i

'One cannot lose what one has not possessed.'
So much for that abrasive gem.
I can lose what I want. I want you.

ii

Oh my dear one, I shall grieve for you
For the rest of my life with slightly
Varying cadence, oh my dear one.

iii

Half-mocking the half-truth, I note
'The wild brevity of sensual love'.
I am shaken, even by that.

iv

It is to him I write, it is to her
I speak in contained silence. Will they be touched
By the unfamiliar passion between them?

Geoffrey Hill

细雪

2010-12-31T20:55:00.000-08:00

细雪
Eternity and a Day

穿树皮靴的人，
把我带到深邃的胡同里，
小鸭子胡同，鸭雏胡同，
鸭蛋胡同，哪一个更像真的？
我们在小鸭子胡同里找小偷。
这些坏蛋，他们骗我，
你要把他们找出来。

我要把他们找出来。
这城里天天有人跳楼，
我哥哥说他要"自刎"，
他一边说一边笑。
他们一直跳，
从一栋跳到另一栋，
乘着雨夹雪的风，
趁着没有人抬头看，
他们滑翔。

我是坏人，
但现在不是。
现在我是楚楚可怜。
人人都应该站在我面前，
透过湿润的冷看我。
坏心眼在飞转。

这湿润的冷！
正在弥漫着不清晰的城。
穿树皮靴的人，
抽打着，抽打着。

这些坏人，穿过马路
在清寒中低着他们的头。

2002年冬
马雁
___________________________
2010最后一天，在叔叔家，翻开黑白本的诗集看到的第一首诗。
R. I. P.

Verlaine

2010-09-05T00:25:00.000-07:00

La canción,
que nunca diré,
se ha dormido en mis labios.
La canción,
que nunca diré.

Sobre las madreselvas
había una luciérnaga,
y la luna picaba
con un rayo en el agua.

Entonces yo soñé,
la canción,
que nunca diré.

Canción llena de labios
y de cauces lejanos.

Canción llena de horas
perdidas en la sombra.

Canción de estrella viva
sobre un perpetuo día.

Federico Garcia Lorca

On the Portrait of Two Beautiful Young People

2010-06-12T23:31:00.000-07:00

A Brother and Sister

O I admire and sorrow! The heart’s eye grieves
Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years.
A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves,
And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is tears.

Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast:
Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blest
In one fair fall; but, for time’s aftercast,
Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest.

And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beams
Their young delightful hour do feature down
That fleeted else like day-dissolvèd dreams
Or ringlet-race on burling Barrow brown.

She leans on him with such contentment fond
As well the sister sits, would well the wife;
His looks, the soul’s own letters, see beyond,
Gaze on, and fall directly forth on life.

But ah, bright forelock, cluster that you are
Of favoured make and mind and health and youth,
Where lies your landmark, seamark, or soul’s star?
There’s none but truth can stead you. Christ is truth.

There ’s none but good can bé good, both for you
And what sways with you, maybe this sweet maid;
None good but God—a warning wavèd to
One once that was found wanting when Good weighed.

Man lives that list, that leaning in the will
No wisdom can forecast by gauge or guess,
The selfless self of self, most strange, most still,
Fast furled and all foredrawn to No or Yes.

Your feast of; that most in you earnest eye
May but call on your banes to more carouse.
Worst will the best. What worm was here, we cry,
To have havoc-pocked so, see, the hung-heavenward boughs?

Enough: corruption was the world’s first woe.
What need I strain my heart beyond my ken?
O but I bear my burning witness though
Against the wild and wanton work of men.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Rimbaud

2010-05-03T23:16:00.001-07:00

The nights, the railway-arches, the bad sky,
His horrible companions did not know it;
But in that child the rhetorician's lie
Burst like a pipe: the cold had made a poet.

Drinks bought him by his weak and lyric friend
His senses systematically deranged,
To all accustomed nonsense put an end;
Till he from the lyre and weakness was estranged.

Verse was a special illness of the ear;
Integrity was not enough; that seemed
The hell of childhood: he must try again.
Now, galloping through Africa, he dreamed
Of a new self, the son, the engineer,
His truth acceptable to lying men.

W. H. Auden

Summer's Obsequies

2010-04-28T02:27:00.000-07:00

The gentian weaves her fringes,
The maple's loom is red.
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.

A brief, but patient illness,
An hour to prepare;
And one, below this morning,
Is where the angels are.

It was a short procession, --
The bobolink was there,
An aged bee addressed us,
And then we knelt in prayer.

We trust that she was willing, --
We ask that we may be.
Summer, sister, seraph,
Let us go with thee!

In the name of the bee
And of the butterfly
And of the breeze, amen!

Emily Dickinson

On the Meeting of Garcia Lorca and Hart Crane

2010-04-07T00:46:00.000-07:00

Brooklyn, 1929. Of course Crane’s
been drinking and has no idea who
this curious Andalusian is, unable
even to speak the language of poetry.
The young man who brought them
together knows both Spanish and English,
but he has a headache from jumping
back and forth from one language
to another. For a moment’s relief
he goes to the window to look
down on the East River, darkening
below as the early night comes on.
Something flashes across his sight,
a double vision of such horror
he has to slap both his hands across
his mouth to keep from screaming.
Let’s not be frivolous, let’s
not pretend the two poets gave
each other wisdom or love or
even a good time, let’s not
invent a dialogue of such eloquence
that even the ants in your own
house won’t forget it. The two
greatest poetic geniuses alive
meet, and what happens? A vision
comes to an ordinary man staring
at a filthy river. Have you ever
had a vision? Have you ever shaken
your head to pieces and jerked back
at the image of your young son
falling through open space, not
from the stern of a ship bound
from Vera Cruz to New York but from
the roof of the building he works on?
Have you risen from bed to pace
until dawn to beg a merciless God
to take these pictures away? Oh, yes,
let’s bless the imagination. It gives
us the myths we live by. Let’s bless
the visionary power of the human—
the only animal that’s got it—,
bless the exact image of your father
dead and mine dead, bless the images
that stalk the corners of our sights
and will not let go. The young man
was my cousin, Arthur Lierberman,
then a language student at Columbia,
who told me all this before he died
quietly in his sleep in 1983
in a hotel in Perugia. A good man,
Arthur, he survived graduate school,
later came home to Detroit and sold
pianos right through the Depression.
He loaned my brother a used one
to compose hideous songs on,
which Arthur thought were genius.
What an imagination Arthur had!

Philip Levine
_______________________________
观Pessoa和Cavafy的419有感

Locutions des Pierrots I

2010-02-02T18:44:00.000-08:00

Les mares de vos, yeux aux joncs de cils,
Ô vaillante oisive femme,
Quand donc me renverront-ils
La Lune-levante de ma belle âme ?

Voilà tantôt une heure qu'en langueur
Mon cœur si simple s'abreuve
De vos vilaines rigueurs,
Avec le regard bon d'un terre-neuve,

Ah! madame, ce n'est vraiment pas bien,
Quand on n'est pas la Joconde,
D'en adopter le maintien
Pour induire en spleens tout bleus le pauv' monde!

Jules Laforgue

Hart Crane's English translation:

Your eyes, those pools with soft rushes,
O prodigal and wholly dilatory lady,
Come now, when will they restore me
The orient moon of my dapper affections?

For imminent is that moment when,
Because of your perverse austerities,
My crisp soul will be flooded by a languor
Bland as the wide gaze of a Newfoundland.

Ah, madame! truly it's not right
When one isn't the real Gioconda,
To adaptate her methods and deportment
For snaring the poor world in a blue funk.

The Expiration

2010-02-01T17:35:00.000-08:00

SO, so, break off this last lamenting kiss,
Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away ;
Turn, thou ghost, that way, and let me turn this,
And let ourselves benight our happiest day.
We ask none leave to love ; nor will we owe
Any so cheap a death as saying, "Go."

Go ; and if that word have not quite killed thee,
Ease me with death, by bidding me go too.
Or, if it have, let my word work on me,
And a just office on a murderer do.
Except it be too late, to kill me so,
Being double dead, going, and bidding, "Go."

John Donne

L'OBSCURITÉ DES EAUX

2010-01-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

Escucho resonar el agua que cae en mi sueño.
Las palabras caen como el agua yo caigo. Dibujo
en mis ojos la forma de mis ojos, nado en mis
aguas, me digo mis silencios. Toda la noche
espero que mi lenguaje logre configurarme. Y
pienso en el viento que viene a mí, permanece
en mí. Toda la noche he caminado bajo la lluvia
desconocida. A mí me han dado un silencio
pleno de formas y visiones (dices). Y corres desolada
como el único pájaro en el viento.

Alejandra Pizarnik

Song for Ishtar

2010-01-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

The moon is a sow
and grunts in my throat
Her great shining shines through me
so the mud of my hollow gleams
and breaks in silver bubbles

She is a sow
and I a pig and a poet

When she opens her white
lips to devour me I bite back
and laughter rocks the moon

In the black of desire
we rock and grunt, grunt and
shine

Denise Levertov

A lua no cinema

2009-12-20T02:42:00.000-08:00

A lua foi ao cinema,
passava um filme engraçado.
a história de uma estrela
que não tinha namorado.

Não tinha porque era apenas
uma estrela bem pequena,
dessas que, quando apagam,
ninguém vai dizer, que pena!

Era uma estrela sozinha,
ninguém olhava pra ela,
e toda a luz que ela tinha
cabia numa janela.

A lua ficou tão triste
com aquela história de amor,
que até hoje a lua insiste:
- Amanheça, por favor!

Paulo Leminski

Mirror

2009-06-24T08:20:00.000-07:00

I grow old under an intensity
Of questioning looks. Nonsense,
I try to say, I cannot teach you children
How to live.—If not you, who will?
Cries one of them aloud, grasping my gilded
Frame till the world sways. If not you, who will?
Between their visits the table, its arrangement
Of Bible, fern and Paisley, all past change,
Does very nicely. If ever I feel curious
As to what others endure,
Across the parlor you provide examples,
Wide open, sunny, of everything I am
Not. You embrace a whole world without once caring
To set it in order. That takes thought. Out there
Something is being picked. The red-and-white bandannas
Go to my heart. A fine young man
Rides by on horseback. Now the door shuts. Hester
Confides in me her first unhappiness.
This much, you see, would never have been fitted
Together, but for me. Why then is it
They more and more neglect me? Late one sleepless
Midsummer night I strained to keep
Five tapers from your breathing. No, the widowed
Cousin said, let them go out. I did.
The room brimmed with gray sound, all the instreaming
Muslin of your dream . . .
Years later now, two of the grown grandchildren
Sit with novels face-down on the sill,
Content to muse upon your tall transparence,
Your clouds, brown fields, persimmon far
And cypress near. One speaks. How superficial
Appearances are! Since then, as if a fish
Had broken the perfect silver of my reflectiveness,
I have lapses. I suspect
Looks from behind, where nothing is, cool gazes
Through the blind flaws of my mind. As days,
As decades lengthen, this vision
Spreads and blackens. I do not know whose it is,
But I think it watches for my last silver
To blister, flake, float leaf by life, each milling-
Downward dumb conceit, to a standstill
From which not even you strike any brilliant
Chord in me, and to a faceless will,
Echo of mine, I am amenable.

James Merrill

Audenesque (in memory of Joseph Brodsky)

2009-05-14T08:25:00.000-07:00

Joseph, yes, you know the beat.
Wystan Auden's metric feet
Marched to it, unstressed and stressed,
Laying William Yeats to rest.

Therefore, Joseph, on this day,
Yeats's anniversary,
(Double-crossed and death-marched date,
January twenty-eight),

Its measured ways I tread again
Quatrain by constrained quatrain,
Meting grief and reason out
As you said a poem ought.

Trochee, trochee, falling: thus
Grief and metre order us.
Repetition is the rule,
Spins on lines we learnt at school.

Repetition, too, of cold
In the poet and the world,
Dublin Airport locked in frost,
Rigor mortis in your breast.

Ice no axe or book will break,
No Horatian ode unlock,
No poetic foot imprint,
Quatrain shift or couplet dint,

Ice of Archangelic strength,
Ice of this hard two-faced month,
Ice like Dante's in deep hell
Makes your heart a frozen well.

Pepper vodka you produced
Once in Western Massachusetts
With the reading due to start
Warmed my spirits and my heart

But no vodka, cold or hot,
Aquavit or uisquebaugh,
Brings the blood back to your cheeks
Or the colour to your jokes,

Politically incorrect
Jokes involving sex and sect,
Everything against the grain,
Drinking, smoking like a train.

In a train in Finland we
Talked last summer happily,
Swapping manuscripts and quips,
Both of us like cracking whips

Sharpened up and making free,
Heading west for Tampere
(West that meant for you, of course,
Lenin's train-trip in reverse).

Nevermore that wild speed-read,
Nevermore your tilted head
Like a deck where mind took off
With a mind-flash and a laugh.

Nevermore that rush to pun
Or to hurry through all yon
Jammed enjambements piling up
As you went above the top,

Nose in air, foot to the floor,
Revving English like a car
Hijacked when you robbed its bank
(Russian was your reserve tank).

Worshipped language can't undo
Damage time has done to you:
Even your peremptory trust
In words alone here bites the dust.

Dust-cakes, still - see Gilgamesh -
Feed the dead. So be their guest.
Do again what Auden said
Good poets do: bite, break their bread.

Seamus Heaney

_______________________________
流泪膜拜中……

Secretaries

2009-05-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

I am no more than a secretary of the invisible thing
That is dictated to me and a few others.
Secretaries, mutually unknown, we walk the earth
Without much comprehension. Beginning a phrase in the middle
Or ending it with a comma. And how it all looks when completed
Is not up to us to inquier, we won't read it anyway.

Czeslaw Milosz
Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass

In the Lake District

2009-05-08T00:57:00.000-07:00

In those days, in a place where dentists thrive
(their daughters order fancy clothes from London;
their painted forceps hold aloft on signboards
a common and abstracted Wisdom Tooth),
there I - whose mouth held ruins more abject
than any Parthenon - a spy, a spearhead
for some fifth column of a rotting culture
(my cover was a lit. professorship),
was living at a college near the most
renowned of the fresh-water lakes; the function
to which I'd been appointed was to wear out
the patience of the ingenuous local youth.

Whatever I wrote then was incomplete:
my lines expired in strings of dots. Collapsing,
I dropped, still fully dressed, upon my bed.
At night I stared up at the darkened ceiling
until I saw a shooting star, which then,
conforming to the laws of self-combustion,
would flash - before I'd even made a wish -
across my cheek and down onto my pillow.

Joseph Brodsky
Translated by George L. Kline

Love of Jerusalem

2009-05-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

There is a street where they sell only red meat
And there is a street where they sell only clothes and perfumes. And there
is a day when I see only cripples and the blind
And those covered with leprosy, and spastics and those with twisted lips.

Here they build a house and there they destroy
Here they dig into the earth
And there they dig into the sky,
Here they sit and there they walk
Here they hate and there they love.

But he who loves Jerusalem
By the tourist book or the prayer book
is like one who loves a women
By a manual of sex positions.

Yehuda Amichai
Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi ochi

2009-05-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi ochi.
questa morte che ci accompagna
dal matino alla sera, insonne,
sorda, come un vecchio rimorso
o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi
saranno una vana parola,
un grido taciuto, un silenzio.
Così li vedi ogni matina
quando su te sola ti pieghi
nello specchio. O cara speranza,
quel giorno sapremo anche noi
che sei la vita e sei il nulla.

Per tutti la morte ha uno sguadro.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi ochi.
Sarà come smettere un vizio,
come vedere nello specchio
riemergere un viso morto,
come ascoltare un labbro chiuso.
Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.

Cesare Pavese

Orphée

2009-05-01T02:06:00.000-07:00

... Je compose en esprit, sous les myrtes, Orphée
L’Admirable!... le feu, des cirques purs descend;
Il change le mont chauve en auguste trophée
D’où s’exhale d’un dieu l’acte retentissant.

Si le dieu chante, il rompt le site tout-puissant;
Le soleil voit l’horreur du mouvement des pierres;
Une plainte inouïe appelle éblouissants
Les hauts murs d’or harmonieux d’un sanctuaire.

Il chante, assis au bord du ciel splendide, Orphée!
Le roc marche, et trébuche ; et chaque pierre fée
Se sent un poids nouveau qui vers l’azur délire!

D’un Temple à demi nu le soir baigne l’essor,
Et soi-même il s’assemble et s’ordonne dans l’or
À l’âme immense du grand hymne sur la lyre!

Paul Valéry

水龙吟·杨花

2009-04-30T06:52:00.000-07:00

燕忙莺懒芳残，正堤上柳花飘坠。
轻飞乱舞，点画青林，全无才思。
闲趁游丝，静临深院，日长门闭。
傍珠帘散漫，垂垂欲下，依前被风扶起。
兰帐玉人睡觉，怪春衣雪沾琼缀，
绣床渐满，香球无数，才圆却碎。
时见蜂儿，仰粘轻粉，鱼吞池水。
望章台路杳，金鞍游荡，有盈盈泪。

章粢

苏轼之水龙吟·次韵章质夫杨花词

似花还似非花，也无人惜从教坠。
抛家傍路，思量却是，无情有思。
萦损柔肠，困酣娇眼，欲开还闭。
梦随风万里，寻郎去处，又还被莺呼起。
不恨此花飞尽，恨西园落红难缀。
晓来雨过，遗踪何在，一池萍碎。
春色三分，二分尘土，一分流水。
细看来，不是杨花，点点是离人泪。

_______________________
R.I.P.

To The Moon

2009-04-29T00:41:00.000-07:00

Are thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, -
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Rae Dalven's translation of C. P. Cavafy's adaptation:

Have you grown pale out of the
boredom of ascending to heaven
and gazing earthward,
roaming around without a companion
among distant alien stars?
Your perennial changing is like
a joyless compassionless eye
that finds no worthy constancy.

越人歌

2009-04-28T08:14:00.000-07:00

今夕何夕兮
藆洲中流
今日何日兮
得与王子同舟
蒙羞被好兮
不誓诟耻
心几烦而不绝兮
得知王子
山有木兮木有枝
心悦君兮君不知

____________
鄂君绣被

Possessions

2009-04-26T23:26:00.000-07:00

Witness now this trust! the rain
That steals softly direction
And the key, ready to hand—sifting
One moment in sacrifice (the direst)
Through a thousand nights the flesh
Assaults outright for bolts that linger
Hidden,—O undirected as the sky
That through its black foam has no eyes
For this fixed stone of lust. . .

Accumulate such moments to an hour:
Account the total of this trembling tabulation.
I know the screen, the distant flying taps
And stabbing medley that sways—
And the mercy, feminine, that stays
As though prepared.

And I, entering, take up the stone
As quiet as you can make a man. . .
In Bleecker Street, still trenchant in a void,
Wounded by apprehensions out of speech,
I hold it up against a disk of light—
I, turning, turning on smoked forking spires,
The city's stubborn lives, desires.

Tossed on these horns, who bleeding dies,
Lacks all but piteous admissions to be spilt
Upon the page whose blind sum finally burns
Record of rage and partial appetites.
The pure possession, the inclusive cloud
Whose heart is fire shall come,—the white wind rase
All but bright stones wherein our smiling plays.

Hart Crane

___________________________
77年，希望110周年时，能搞出这首的蹩脚翻译。

Rima 21

2009-04-26T04:46:00.000-07:00

¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavas
En mi pupila tu pupila azul.
¡Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía eres tú.

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Roman Elegies IX

2009-04-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

Lesbia, Julia, Cynthia, Livia, Michelina.
Bosoms, ringlets of fleece: for effects, and for causes also.
Heaven-baked clay, fingertips' brave arena.
Flesh that renders eternity an anonymous torso.
You breed immortals: those who have seen you bare,
they, too, turned Catulluses, statues, heavy
Neros, et cetera. Short-term goddesses! you are
much more a joy to believe in than a permanent bevy.
Hail the smooth abdomen, thighs as their hamstrings tighten.
White upon white, as Kazimir's dream image,
one summer evening, I, the most mortal item
in the midst of this wreckage resembling the whole world's rib cage,
sip with feverish lips wine from a tender collar-
bone; the sky is as pale as a cheek with a mole that trembles;
and the cupolas bulge like the tits of the she-wolf, fallen
asleep after having fed her Romulus and her Remus.

Joseph Brodsky

Déjeuner du matin

2009-04-23T04:32:00.000-07:00

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré

Jacques Prévert

Surpresas

2009-04-21T21:40:00.000-07:00

Sabes? Os cabelos da morte são entrelaçados de flores.
Não de flores mortas como essas inertes sempre-vivas,
Mas inquietas e misteriosas como os não desfolhados malmequeres
Ou bravias como as pequenas rosas silvestres.

As mãos da morte, as suas mãos não têm anéis,
Sua virgem nudez não comporta o peso de uma jóia,
Os seus olhos não são, não são uns covis de treva,
Mas cheios de luz como os olhos do primeiro amor.

Porque a morte não faz esquecer, mas faz tudo lembrar,
Porque a morte não é, não é um sono eterno:
Tu vais adormecer como num berço, pouco a pouco,
E acordarás de súbito, num vasto leito de noivado!

Mario Quintana

惊奇

你知道吗？死神的头发上缠绕着鲜花。
不是那种毫无生气的花，
而是躁动神秘的鲜花，如同那些不落叶的雏菊
又抑或象那些小小的野玫瑰充满野性。

死神的手，他手上没有戒指，
死神圣洁的身体不承受首饰之重，
死神的眼睛不是，不是深陷的黑窝，
而是充满光亮，如同初恋者的明眸。

因为死神不易被人忘记，令人想起一切，
因为死亡不是、不是长眠：
你将渐渐昏睡如同在摇篮上，
会在一张宽大的婚床上突然醒来！

赵德明、葛晓晨译

一粒，一粒

2009-04-19T02:32:00.000-07:00

一粒，一粒
不是米，是星星

一粒，一粒
不是纽扣，是星星

一粒，一粒
不是墨迹，是星星

一粒，一粒
一粒，一粒……

都是星星
都不是星星

一粒，一粒
是星星，也是心

树才

A Educação pela Pedra

2009-04-17T23:27:00.000-07:00

Uma educação pela pedra: por lições;
Para aprender da pedra, freqüentá-la;
Captar sua voz inenfática, impessoal
(pela de dicção ela começa as aulas).
A lição de moral, sua resistência fria
Ao que flui e a fluir, a ser maleada;
A de poética, sua carnadura concreta;
A de economia, seu adensar-se compacta:
Lições da pedra (de fora para dentro,
Cartilha muda), para quem soletrá-la.

Outra educação pela pedra: no Sertão
(de dentro para fora, e pré-didática).
No Sertão a pedra não sabe lecionar,
E se lecionasse, não ensinaria nada;
Lá não se aprende a pedra: lá a pedra,
Uma pedra de nascença, entranha a alma.

João Cabral de Melo Neto

Renacimiento

2009-04-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

Galerías del alma... ¡El alma niña!
Su clara luz risueña;
y la pequeña historia,
y la alegría de la vida nueva...
¡Ah, volver a nacer, y andar camino,
ya recobrada la perdida senda!
Y volver a sentir en nuestra mano
aquel latido de la mano buena
de nuestra madre... Y caminar en sueños
por amor de la mano que nos lleva.

*

En nuestras almas todo
por misteriosa mano se gobierna.
Incomprensibles, mudas,
nada sabemos de las almas nuestras.
Las más hondas palabras
del sabio nos enseñan
lo que el silbar del viento cuando sopla
o el sonar de las aguas cuando ruedan.

Antonio Machado

____________________
还是原文好啊，从前被译文误导过，觉得现在的理解还是在误解。手主题。

将仲子

2009-04-16T05:05:00.000-07:00

将仲子兮，
无逾我里，
无折我树杞。
岂敢爱之？
畏我父母。
仲可怀也，
父母之言，
亦可畏也。

将仲子兮，
无逾我墙，
无折我树桑。
岂敢爱之？
畏我诸兄。
仲可怀也，
诸兄之言，
亦可畏也。

将仲子兮，
无逾我园，
无折我树檀。
岂敢爱之？
畏人之多言。
仲可怀也，
人之多言，
亦可畏也。

《诗经·郑风》

_________________
某仲子之授
毛亨奥利金

Piedra Negra Sobre Una Piedra Blanca

2009-04-14T20:20:00.000-07:00

Me moriré en París con aguacero,
un día del cual tengo ya el recuerdo.
Me moriré en París -y no me corro-
tal vez un jueves, como es hoy, de otoño.

Jueves será, porque hoy, jueves, que proso
estos versos, los húmeros me he puesto
a la mala y, jamás como hoy, me he vuelto,
con todo mi camino, a verme solo.

César Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban
todos sin que él les haga nada;
le daban duro con un palo y duro

también con una soga; son testigos
los días jueves y los huesos húmeros,
la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos...

César Vallejo

El niño

2009-04-13T04:38:00.000-07:00

El niño duerme
al pie de un árbol y el aire
que lo relata brilla
como vida en la vida. Se vuelca
con claro alivio sobre
la piel llena de caminos, sube
en el fulgor del día
para darle fulgor y el otoño
quiere al niño que duerme
al pie del aire
y el espanto se va, corrido
por una voz
que nadie escucha todavía
en la marea de las huellas.

Juan Gelman

_________________

默默挑首最能读懂的貌似“简单”的。
常常打酱油也好。他和Zhao坐在一起绝配了。

Sonetto: Guido Cavalcanti a Dante

2009-04-12T02:49:00.000-07:00

I' vegno il giorno a te infinite volte
e trovoti pensar troppo vilmente:

molto mi dol della gentil tua mente

e d'assai tue vertù che ti son tolte.

Solevanti spiacer persone molte

tuttor fuggivi l'annoiosa gente,

di me parlavi così coralmente

che tutte le tue rime avia ricolte.

Or non ardisco per la vil tua vita

far mostramento che il tuo dir mi piaccia,

nè in guisa vegno a te che tu mi veggi.

Se 'l sonetto presente spesso leggi

lo spirito noioso che t'incaccia

si partirà da l'anima invilita.

Guido Cavalcanti

Dante Gabriel Rossetti's translation:

I come to thee by daytime constantly,
But in thy thoughts too much of baseness find:
Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind,
And for thy many virtues gone from thee.
It was thy wont to shun much company,
Unto all sorry concourse ill inclined:
And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and kind,
Had made me treasure up thy poetry.
But now I dare not, for thine abject life,
10 Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes;
Nor come I in such sort that thou may'st know.
Ah! prythee read this sonnet many times:
So shall that evil one who bred this strife
Be thrust from thy dishonour'd soul and go.

Percy Bysshe Shelley's translation:

Returning from its daily quest, my Spirit
Changed thoughts and vile in thee doth weep to find:
It grieves me that thy mild and gentle mind
Those ample virtues which it did inherit
Has lost. Once thou didst loathe the multitude
Of blind and madding men--I then loved thee--
I loved thy lofty songs and that sweet mood
When thou wert faithful to thyself and me
I dare not now through thy degraded state
Own the delight thy strains inspire--in vain
I seek what once thou wert--we cannot meet
And we were wont. Again and yet again
Ponder my words: so the false Spirit shall fly
And leave to thee thy true integrity.

_______________

由于Beatrice之死，淡定同学消沉了一段时间（消沉的方式各有争议），在炼狱三十篇最后Beatrice也指责了他。（Guido的这首诗便是写于此时，好伤心啊，三十篇还有凄凄的VD离别，这儿G又纠结了，而雪莱译得……像是自己心有怨结似的。）

The Sphinx's Riddle to Oedipus

2009-04-10T21:44:00.000-07:00

Not to have guessed is better: what is, ends,
But among fellows, with reluctance,
Clasped by the Woman-Breasted, Lion-Pawed.

To have clasped in one's own arms a mother,
To have killed with one's own hands a father
- Is not this, Lame One, to have been alone?

The seer is doomed for seeing; and to understand
Is to pluck out one's own eyes with one's own hands.
But speak: what has a woman's breasts, a lion's paws?

You stand at midday in the marketplace
Before your life: to see is to have spoken.
- Yet to see, Blind One, is to be alone.

Randall Jarrell

____________

Hass批评这首诗像是拙劣的舞者一直找寻着舞曲的节奏，但每次都跟不上。