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王家新
Wang Jiaxin

王家新,1957年出生在湖北省丹江口。现为中国人民大学文学院教授。王家新被视为中国当代最重要的诗人和批评家之一,其作品多次得奖,被选入国内多种大学,中学教材。他多次应邀参加一些国际诗歌节和国际文学交流活动,曾为美国Colgate大学驻校诗人, 2013年爱荷华大学国际写作中心驻校作家。王家新出版有50多部诗集,翻译集,文学批评,随笔,以及编辑集。他的德文诗选《哥特兰的黄昏》2011年在德国出版,英文诗选《变暗的镜子》2016年在美国出版。

Born in Hubei province, China in 1957, Wang Jiaxin is currently professor of literature at the Renmin University of China. Eminent among contemporary Chinese poets and essayists, he has received numerous awards, and his works have been selected for significant anthologies and college textbooks in China. Wang Jiaxin is a former Luce Poet-in-Residence at Colgate University, and 2013 resident poet of International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, and the author of more than 50 collections of poetry and essays, as well as being a prolific anthologist. Gotland's Dusk, his selected volume of poetry in German was published in 2011. Darkening Mirror, his full-length volume of poetry in English was published in 2016.



译者
Translator


谢炯
Joan Xie

谢炯, 诗名炯, 出生在上海。八十年代就读于上海交通大学管理系,1988年留学美国,取得企业管理硕士和法律博士学位。出版诗集《半世纪的旅途》(2015),散文集《蓦然回首》(2016),中文诗集《幸福是,突然找回这样一些东西》(2018),英文翻译诗集《十三片叶子》(2018)。2017年荣获首届德清莫干山国际诗歌节银奖。中文诗作发表在国内《诗刊》《扬子江诗刊》等文学诗刊。英文诗作和翻译作品发表在美国《诗天空》《唇》,《文学交流》等文学诗刊。

Joan Xie was born in Shanghai where she attended Shanghai Jiaotong University. She came to the United States in 1988 to study business and law. Xie's Chinese poetry and essay collections include Half-Century Journey (2015), Looking Back (2016), Nothing Made Me Happier than Finding These Objects (2018) and she is the editor of Thirteen Leaves (2018). In 2017, she received a Silver award at First Moganshan International Poetry Festival in China. Her poems in Chinese appeared in well-known poetry magazines in China, such as Poetry Journal and The Yangtze River Poetry Journal. Her translations appeared in Exchanges Literature Journal, LIPS and Poetry Sky.

十月之诗

October Poem

当另一些诗人在另一个世界 歌咏着十月的青铜之诗, 我走进我们街头唯一的小公园; 没有遛鸟的人,没有打太极的人,没有任何人, 只有梣树在雾霾天里艰难呼吸; 玫瑰垂头丧气,让我想起蒙羞的新娘, 飘落在草地上的银杏树叶子, 则像一些死去的、不再挣扎的蝴蝶。 没有一丝风。石头也在出汗。 一丛低矮的野毛桃树缩成一团, 似乎只有它还在做梦。 这一切看上去都在某种秩序里—— 以它反复的绝望的修剪声, 代替了所有清脆的鸟鸣。

 

When other poets in another world singing bronze poems of October, I walk into the only park on our street. It's tiny, no bird walker, nor Tai Chi exercises, none except eucalyptus trees breathing hard in the haze. Despaired roses like shamed brides ginkgo leaves on the lawn, dead butterflies. No hint of wind, only sweating stones huddling together, a shrub of wild peach trees is still in its dream. All seems to be in order— and the repetitious sound of desperate trimming replaces the birds chirping.

伦敦之忆

London Memory

阁楼上的一间小卧室, (墙上是凡高的乌鸦和麦地) 楼下东头的厨房里,那安静的餐桌 和一道通向花园的门, 楼梯上,即使无人的时候 也会响起咚咚的脚步声 ——那是二十二年前的东伦敦, 你三十五岁。 同楼合住的人们都回家过圣诞了, 留下你独自与幽灵相会。 你彻夜读着普拉斯的死亡传记, 你流泪写着家书…… 然后,然后,一个蒙霜的清晨, 当整个冰川一起涌上窗外的花园, 你第一次听见了巴赫的圣咏。

 

A small bedroom in the attic, (on the wall, Van Gogh's crow and cornfield) the kitchen downstairs at the east end of the building, a quiet dining table, a door opens to a garden. On the stairs, the sound of footsteps “tong, tong." though no one is there — twenty-two years ago, east London, you were thirty-five, alone, dating with a ghost while neighbors went home for Christmas. Reading Plath's death all night long, you wrote to home with tears ... then, frosty morning when the entire glacier seized the garden outside your window, you heard Bach the first time.

傍晚走过涅瓦河
——给索菲娅

Walking Along the Neva River in the evening
- to Sophia

傍晚走过涅瓦河, 河水那么黒,那么深沉,那么活跃 (像是在做“跳背游戏”) 让所有走过的人都压低了嗓音。 这是2016年7月初的一个黄昏, 一代又一代诗人相继离去; 彼得堡罗教堂高耸的镀金尖顶 留不住落日的最后一抹余晖。 人们从大铁桥上匆匆回家,留下你和我, 把头朝向落日,朝向暗哑的光,朝向沥青般的彤云, “我们回去吧,我冷” 可我们还是在默默地走, 唯有风在无尽吹拂, 唯有波浪喋喋有声,像是从普希金 或阿赫玛托娃诗中传来的余韵……

 

Nightfall, walking along the Neva River. It was so black, thick, and turbulent (like playing a game of “leapfrog”) that all passersby lowed their voices. It was dusk in early July of 2016, generations of poets left one after another, a gilded towing steeple of St. Peterborough church couldn't persuade last glow of sunset to stay; On a big iron bridge, people hurried home, only you and me headed to the setting sun, the duller light, and asphaltic clouds. "Let's go back; I'm cold." But we were still walking in silence, endless wind, noisy waves, like vibration from Pushkin or Akhmatova's verses ...

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