31 March 2011

茵尼斯菲湖岛

詩/ W.B Yeats
译/ 慧玉

还有漫天红雀羽翼的黄昏
此刻我将动身
前往茵尼斯湖
筑起一所小屋
以泥土与竹编：
种成排的豆子
养产蜜的蜂巢
独自一人栖居蜂扰的林地

平静将涌现
虽缓落似水滴
落自清晨透明之纱
至蟋蟀的歌台；
那里将有无数星闪的子夜
和燃烧的紫花午后
还有漫天红雀羽翼的黄昏。

此刻我将动身
因日以继夜
我听著湖潮轻轻
静拍湖岸；
当我立于车道
或流落于乏味的暗处
我听见这来自内里的水声。

I will arise and go now,
and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there,
of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there,
a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there,
for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning
to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer,
and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now,
for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping
with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway,
or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core

30 March 2011

意兴阑珊，朝著伯利恒

詩/ W.B Yeats
译/ 慧玉

一再旋转，仿若扩张的漩涡
猎鹰听不见放鹰人的呼啸
中心无以维系一切分崩离析
黑血般的海潮四方八面吞湮
野心的混乱朝世界蔓延
纯圣的祭礼消逝
优秀的战士缺乏坚定信仰
拙劣者则激情充满

某种启示显然近了
重临显然近了
再度降临！话犹未了
来自宇宙之魂的巨硕影像
在大漠沙尘中撼动我的视觉
以人首狮身之形
如日般无情空茫凝视
并缓缓移动周遭环绕着
愤怒的沙漠飞禽之卷影。

黑暗落下但我已知晓
沉睡了二十个世纪
被晃动的摇篮抛入噩梦
不耐的猛兽时刻已到
意兴阑珊，迈向伯利恒等待降生？

29 March 2011

Joni Mitchell-Slouching Towards Bethlehem (1998)

The Second Coming (Slouching towards Bethlehem)

W.B Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?