字体: 小 中 大  

正着手全面翻译奥登，试贴三首

马森阳 发表于: 2008-2-22 04:54 来源: 今天

最新回复

张祈 at 2008-2-22 14:02:51

贴译诗时附上原文较好。便于大家讨论。

小雅 at 2008-3-02 13:54:40

记得穆旦和杜运燮都翻译过这个~

胡桑 at 2008-12-04 10:50:42

英语原题是“spain,1937”。这个年份为什么不要了？>ww

张伟良 at 2008-12-04 11:03:38

“昨天 纸牌用来为保险估价，
水可用来占卜；昨天发明了
车轮和时钟，和驯养马匹的艺术。
昨天 熙熙攘攘的世界满是航海家”  把剑可以磨的更亮

yufan1984 at 2008-12-04 11:49:29

我觉得如果不能从全诗上把握，就最好不要去翻译。

戴玨 at 2008-12-05 07:55:46

Spain
W. H. Auden  (1937)

Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
             Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;
Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.

Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
             Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.


Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
The fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
                The chapel built in the forest;
Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles.

The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;
Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
                And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle.


Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
                Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greece,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
                Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. But to-day the struggle.


As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
                On the crag by the leaning tower:
'0 my vision. 0 send me the luck of the sailor.'


And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
                Or enormous Jupiter finished:
'But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire.'


And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: 'Our day is our loss. 0 show us
                History the operator, the
Organizer, Time the refreshing river.'

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
                The private nocturnal terror:
'Did you not found the city state of the sponge,'


'Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton?
                Intervene, 0 descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend.'

And the life, if it answers at all, replies from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city:
                '0 no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I'm the

'Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
                Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

'What's your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
                Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision. Yes, I am Spain.'


Many have heard it on remote peninsulas,
On sleepy plains, in the aberrant fisherman's islands
                Or the corrupt heart of the city,
Have heard and migrated like gulls or the seeds of a flower.


They clung like birds to the long expresses that lurch
Through the unjust lands, through the night, through the alpine tunnel;
                They floated over the oceans;
They walked the passes. All presented their lives.

On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot
Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe;
                On that tableland scored by rivers,
Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever

Are precise and alive. For the fears which made us respond
To the medicine ad, and the brochure of winter cruises
                Have become invading battalions;
And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin


Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb.
Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom
                As the ambulance and the sandbag;
Our hours of friendship into a people's army.

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movement of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
                Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
The photographing of ravens; all the fun under
                Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,

The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
                The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.


To-morrow for the young poets exploding like bombs)
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
                To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.


Today the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The conscious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
                To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.


To-day the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette,
The cards in the candle-lit barn, and the scraping concert,
                The masculine jokes; to-day the
Fumbled and unsatisfactory embrace before hurting.


The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
                History to the defeated
May say alas but cannot help or pardon.