【诗歌两则】北京无雪 / 当你不再是诗人【中英双语】

上学期给poetry课写的作业诗歌两则，英文写的，同时翻了中文版。搬运一下。封面源网络。

Snowless (Sonet)

You can’t remember the last time it snowed in Beijing

Like you can’t remember the last time you played with toy trains.

Smile; steams of hot tea; an old man who relentlessly sings

On the bridge on your way home. All becomes empty and plain.

To live in a winter with no snow is to live in a certain way:

Not a single kind of whiteness becomes solely dominant.

One nods with impatience, for that’s also true of every May

But not that time when things still knew how to be fervent.

And so you send off a pinch of fervor into smog and dry cold air

Scarlet and pale white, like your toy train: one point you hope that they crash.

You stare at the narrow rails. It’d be fun if it happens, but rare.

For millions of times nothing happens; you get nothing back.

When it’s simply a toy train that falls over, should your heart break?

When there’s no snow in winter, for disappointment, who could you blame?

北京无雪

你早不记得上次北京何时下雪

如同不记得上次何时玩玩具火车。

微笑；热茶的蒸汽；回家路的天桥上

不倦地唱歌的老人；一切空洞而平淡。

冬天无雪，无疑是一种特定的生活形式：

没有一种单一的白色成为主导。

有人不耐烦地点头：“五月亦是如此”

可那时，事物仍懂得如何热忱。

于是你将一簇热忱掷向雾霾和干冷空气

猩红与惨白，像玩具火车：某一瞬，你希望它们摧毁。

你凝视着瘦窄的铁轨。若这发生必将有趣，却罕见

上百万次更多时候，无事发生；无物返回。

若翻倒的只是辆玩具火车，你是否该心碎？

若冬天无雪，为了失望，你又该责怪谁？

When You Are No Longer Poet

 

You lose a way of existing when you are no longer

poet; your fingers loosen, you lose track of the wind

like how migrating birds lose track of their homeland

in the coldest of February. Now you stroll through

packed crowds, but no longer see the ghosts in those

surging minds. You forget the rhythm as you read off

the greenness from swaying branches: spring has

learned to escape your ears. What rhymes with a

simple handshake, or coughs on a nine-am-red-line-

subway, or a pair of gazing eyes you get to look into

once a week? You lose track of the wind like how

you lose track of yourself. You say “Ni Hao” like

how another would say it, you close a door behind

as if you’re not carving up something into fragments

so that thoughts don’t flow through. You fall asleep

before your ten-year-old self comes after you. By

being a poet you gain none, but by failing to be one

you even forget how to puke in front of a mirror.

当你不再是诗人

 

当你不再是诗人时，你失去了一种存在的方式；

你的手指松了，你对风失去行踪，一如候鸟

在最冷的二月里对故地失去行踪。如今你行过

拥挤人群，却不再于涌动的心灵中看见鬼魂。

你从摇曳的枝条中读出绿色，却忘记节奏：

春天学会逃离你的耳朵。简单的握手、早九点

红线地铁上的咳嗽，或某双每周限定的凝视

双眼——这些与什么押韵？你对风失去行踪，

一如你对自我失去行踪。你像他人一般说“你好”，

你关上身后的门，好像你并非在将什么割为碎片

以使得思绪无从流入。你在十岁的自己来追捕你

之前入睡。成为诗人你一无所获，可不再是诗人时

你甚至忘记如何在镜子前呕吐。

感谢阅读！