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Wallace Stevens - Pinter Quince at the Clavier 汉译

2014-08-06    来源:网络    【      美国外教 在线口语培训

Pinter Quince at the Clavier

Wallace Stevens

I

Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.

Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;

Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

II

In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.

Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.

She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.

A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned—
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.

III

Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.

They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;

And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.

Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.

And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.

IV

Beauty is momentary in the mind—
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden’s choral.
Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death’s ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

彼徳·昆士弹小提琴
华莱士·斯蒂文斯

正如我的手指在这些键上
创造音乐,同样的声响
在我的心灵也产生乐音。

音乐是感觉,所以, 非声响;
所以,我现在的感觉,
在这间房里,感觉需要你。

想念你那栏影子的绸衣,
就是音乐。就像苏珊娜
在两叟心中唤醒的旋律。

绿阴阴的暮色,清澄而温暖,
沐浴在寂寂的园中,浑然不知
有两叟睁红睛偷窥,且感到

他们的生命有低音在震颤
蛊人的和弦,单薄的血
弹动以指拨弦的颂诗。

在绿水中,清澄而温暖,
躺着苏珊娜。
她搜寻
温泉的摩挲
而且发现
隐秘的幻想。
她叹息,
为如许旋律。

在岸上,她立着
在凉凉的
焚余的感情。
她感到,在叶间,
有露水
老耄的虔敬。

她步过草地,
仍然颤抖,
晚风如众婢,
怯怯移步,
取来她的披巾
犹自飘浮。

一口气吹在她手上,
惊噤了夜色。
她转过身去——
一声钹的猝击,
铜号齐吼。

理科铿铿然如小手鼓,
奔来她拜占庭的众女奴。

她们奇怪,怎么苏珊娜在哭,
对身畔的两叟她怎么在控诉;
女奴们窃窃语,那叠句
就像柳树扫过了风雨。

接着她们擎起的灯焰
照亮苏珊娜和她的羞颜。

于是拜城痴笑的众女奴
遁去,骚然如敲击小手鼓。

美只是刹那存在于心灵——
间歇地追溯,追溯一扇门;
但美是永恒,在血肉之身。
肉体死去,肉体的美留存。
是以黄昏死去,逝在绿中,
一涌波浪,无尽止地流动。
是以花园死去,柔驯的气味
染香冬之僧衣,结束了怅悔。
是以众姝死去,应和少女
灿灿而颂的一阕圣曲。
苏珊娜的音乐拨弄白发的两叟,
拨弄他们的淫欲之弦;但它逃遁,
仅留下死亡那嘲讽的刮磨之声。
今日,在不朽之中,她的音乐
奏起她记忆的清晰琴音,
形成圣洁的赞美,永永不灭。

(余光中 译)



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