冯默谌译诗 ｜ 我们相遇在一场微雨般的鸟鸣中
秋日的一天
R·S托马斯（威尔士）
不会永远这样：
空气里没有风，最后的几片
叶装饰着树的肩膀，为
它的树枝套上金黄色的袖口，一只鸟
在草地的水面上修理它的羽毛
从平日的繁务中抽出身来，停上片刻
让这秋日温暖的景色
进入内心，凭借它
来抵御和度过漫长的寒冬。
（冯默谌 译）
A Day in Autumn
It will not always be like this,
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening
In the lawn’s mirror. Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.
婚姻
R·S托马斯（威尔士）
我们相遇在
一场微雨般的鸟鸣中。
五十年过去了
爱的时刻
在这个世界上
已屈服于时间。
她很年轻；
我闭眼亲吻她
等睁开时，她已满脸皱纹。
“来”，死亡说
选择她作为他的
伴侣，跳
最后一支舞，而她
如鸟般的优美
做完了她人生中
所有要做的事，
现在，她张开自己的喙
一声叹息落下
不比一片羽毛更重
（冯默谌 译）
A Marriage
We met
under a shower
of bird-notes.
Fifty years passed,
love's moment
in a world in
servitude to time.
She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
`Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
partner for
the last dance, And she,
who in life
had done everything
with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
for the shedding
of one sigh no
heavier than a feather.
晚餐时谈诗
R.S托马斯
“听着，现在，诗应出于天然，
像以淤泥为生的小块茎
在贫瘠的土壤里慢慢生长
才会成为美丽不朽的白花。”
“天然，胡说！乔叟是怎么说的了，
作诗要经历长久的艰辛雕琢，
没有雕琢，那诗的血液将如何形成？
如果它打破生活所有的外壳，听从自然，
诗就会像田旋花一样一瘸一拐地
在地面蔓延。朋友，那你一定得流汗，
遵循诗韵你必须搜肠刮肚，如果你想要
让诗踏梯而下。”
“你说这话，就好像
没有阳光，心灵就会永远地
在黑暗中摸索。”
“阳光想进入黑暗的房屋，
它得先有窗户。
而窗户不是天然的。”
就这样，两个老诗人
弯腰喝着啤酒，在一个烟雾迷蒙的
小酒馆的客厅里，然而他们四周大声谈论的人
说着圆滑流利的散文。
（冯默谌 译）
Poetry For Supper
'Listen, now, verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty.' 'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil That goes like blood to the poem's making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.'
'You speak as though No sunlight ever surprised the mind Groping on its cloudy path.' 'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen.' So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran Noisily by them, glib with prose.
在你房间的清晨
罗伯特·勃莱（美国）
这是早晨。棕色的咖啡勺，黄蜂般的 咖啡研磨机，邻居们还在入睡。 当你倒着闪亮的水时，灰色的光－－ 为了到达这儿，似乎你已行走了很多年。 最后，你理应获得一所房子。如果没有得到
就占有它；没有人能把你赶出来。苦难 有它自身的方式，贫穷，最后没有钱； 也许它只是困惑。但都过去了。 现在你有一间房屋。那些轻松愉悦的书： 《忧郁的剖析》，《卡夫卡致父亲的信》，
都在这儿。你只用一条腿
就能跳舞，仅用一只眼睛 就能看见雪花飘落。甚至盲人也能 看到。那就是他们要说的话。如果你有 一个悲伤的童年，那又怎样？当罗伯特·伯顿 说他忧郁的时候，那就意味着他回家了。 （冯默谌 译）
EARLY MORNING IN YOUR ROOM
It’s morning. The brown scoops of coffee, the wasplike
Coffee grinder, the neighbors still asleep.
The gray light as you pour gleaming water—
It seems you’ve travelled years to get here.
Finally you deserve a house. If not deserve
It, have it; no one can get you out. Misery
Had its way, poverty, no money at least;
Or maybe it was confusion. But that’s over.
Now you have a room. Those light-hearted books:
The Anatomy of Melancholy, Kafka’s Letter
To His Father, are all here. You can dance
With only one leg, and see the snowflake falling
With only one eye. Even the blind man
Can see. That’s what they say. If you had
A sad childhood, so what? When Robert Burton
Said he was melancholy, he meant he was home.
为什么我们还不能死
罗伯特·勃莱（美国）
九月底，很多声音
告诉你，你将会死去。
那片叶子也这样说。那冰凉。
他们说得都对。
我们许多的灵魂——关于它
它们又能做什么呢？
什么也不能。它们中的许多部分
早已看不见了。
即便如此
我们的灵魂依然
渴望回家。“已经迟了，”他们说。
“锁上门，让我们走吧。”
身体却不同意。它说，
“在那棵树下，我们埋了
一颗小小的铁球。
让我们去找到它。”
（冯默谌 译）
Why We Don't Die
In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
That leaf says it. That coolness.
All of them are right.
Our many souls - what
Can they do about it?
Nothing. They're already
Part of the invisible.
Our souls have been
Longing to go home
Anyway. "It's late," they say.
"Lock the door, let's go."
The body doesn't agree. It says,
"We buried a little iron
Ball under that tree.
Let's go get it."
躲入鞋里的乌鸦
罗伯特·勃莱（美国）
住在房子里的男女有些事
不明白。老炼金师们
站在炉火旁，已暗示了一千次。
乌鸦在夜里躲进一位老妇女的鞋里。
四岁的儿童在讲一些古老的语言。
我们自己已死过了一千次。
和朋友说的每句话也都有着相反的用意，
每当我们说，“我信仰上帝，”那意味着
上帝已把我们抛弃了一千次。
母亲们一次又一次地跪在教堂，
祈求上帝保佑她们战争中的儿子。
可是她们的祷告被拒绝了一千次。
幼小的潜鸟跟着母亲光滑的身体
数月。夏日快结束时，她的头
已经在雷尼湖潜了一千次。
罗伯特，你坐在屋里为了写诗
已浪费了无数光阴。你还会
再写吗？是的，我还会写上一千次。
（冯默谌 译）
Ravens Hiding in a Shoe
There is something men and women living in houses
Don’t understand. The old alchemists standing
Near their stoves hinted at it a thousand times.
Ravens at night hide in an old woman’s shoe.
A four-year-old speaks some ancient language.
We have lived our own death a thousand times.
Each sentence we speak to friends means the opposite
As well. Each time we say, “I trust in God,” it means
God has already abandoned us a thousand times.
Mothers again and again have knelt in church
In wartime asking God to protect their sons,
And their prayers were refused a thousand times.
The baby loon follows the mother’s sleek
Body for months. By the end of summer, she
Has dipped her head into Rainy Lake a thousand times.
Robert, you’ve wasted so much of your life
Sitting indoors to write poems. Would you
Do that again? I would, a thousand times.
冯默谌，男，90后山西壶关人，在校生，诗、随笔和翻译均有涉猎。主持诗歌公众号一朵花儿红了。
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