《新年問候》竣贪，[俄]茨維塔耶娃军洼。不能說這是一個好的版本，但一定是一個獨特的版本演怎，一個讓人接近于能懂的版本匕争。它是黃燦然、王家新版本和兩個英文版本的大雜燴爷耀。獻給喜歡詩歌的朋友們甘桑，新年快樂！讓我憑借這首詩歌 “越過這張桌子的無垠海島歹叮，我的杯將碰到你的杯跑杭，以無聲的一碰∨毓ⅲ” 新年快樂艘蹋！
新年問候
I.
新年快樂 ----- 新世界/光 ----- 邊緣/王國 ----- 避難所！
第一封信給你票灰，寄往你那
----- 誤為蒼翠的、綠色的 -----
喧囂宅荤、空曠的新居屑迂，
猶如風神之塔。
第一封信給你冯键，來自昨日-----
那里惹盼，沒有了你 -----
來自我的家鄉(xiāng)，
家鄉(xiāng)-----現(xiàn)在已經是來自眾星中的
一顆......
譯者注惫确，“世界/光”手报、“邊緣/王國”表示一個詞，同時具有兩種含義.
想要我告訴你
我怎么知道的嗎改化？
沒有地震或雪崩的宣示掩蛤，
只是某人-----可以是任何人-----說
他在報紙上讀到了它〕赂兀‘把文章給我-----
哪里發(fā)生的揍鸟？’‘在山里。
（我想到探入窗戶的松樹枝）
難道你不看報嗎句旱？’
‘報紙呢阳藻？’‘我沒帶√溉觯’
‘哪里發(fā)生的腥泥？’‘療養(yǎng)院】心洌’
（租借來的天堂）‘請告訴我何時發(fā)生蛔外∏悖’
‘昨天，或者前天冒萄，我記不得臊岸。
你不打算為我們寫點什么？’‘不尊流，不寫帅戒。
他是家人，我不是猶大崖技÷咦。’
II.
那么 ----- 即將到來的新年快樂！（明日誕生的新年Ｓ住） -----
要我告訴你我做了什么嗎瞎访，當我得知...... ？
哦不吁恍！......說溜嘴了扒秸。壞習慣。
我不想使用生或死這樣愚蠢的字眼冀瓦。
我什么也沒有做伴奥，但確實發(fā)生了
什么，發(fā)生得沒有
影子或回聲翼闽！
那么 ----- 這趟旅行怎樣拾徙？
那顆撕裂但未撕碎的心
怎樣？如同乘坐奧爾洛夫快步馬感局，
你說尼啡，疾如飛鷹，
是不是很驚險 -----或不止询微？
還要愜意些崖瞭？
那里沒有高處，或下降撑毛，
對那騎著真正俄羅斯飛鷹的人來說
我們與來世有血緣關系：
在俄羅斯待過的人都在此世
見過來世读恃。
我談起生死帶著一絲隱忍的傻笑
-----你將以你自己去觸摸它！
我談起生死代态，帶著一個注腳寺惫，
一個星號
（星球，今夜我的渴望蹦疑，
去他的大腦的半球 -----
我渴望天國Ｎ魅浮）。
譯者注：星號歉摧、星球艇肴、天國是不同字眼的同一種指代.
III.
現(xiàn)在腔呜，我的朋友，
不應該忘記：如果
連著寫的字母是俄語而不是德語-----
那不是因為再悼，如今他們宣稱
什么都會發(fā)生核畴，
不是因為乞丐不能成為選擇者，
不是因為死人的可憐冲九，
他可以吞噬一切-----
不眨一眼谤草！不，
而是因為那個世界-----
我們的世界-----并非沒有語言莺奸。
十三歲時丑孩，在新圣母修道院
我就明白：那是前巴別塔時代的天國壹瘟，
全部語言都是一種語言纫事。
無限悲哀霉颠。你將不再問我
俄語里怎么說“巢”碟摆。
獨有的巢，整個的巢屯远，唯有這個巢
用天國（星球）庇護一個俄語的韻腳慰丛。
我是不是分心了擎析？但不可能發(fā)生
這樣的事情-----對你分心览妖。
每個意念箩帚，每個，Du Lieber黄痪，
音節(jié)都引向你-----不管說的
是什么（雖然對我來說德語比俄語
還母語，但我想要天使們的母語？弧）
你已不在桅打，那里什么都沒有，
沒有巢愈案，只有墳墓挺尾。
一切都已改變，然而任何都不曾改變站绪。
-----你是否已經忘......不遭铺，不是我----- ？
新的世界恢准，賴納魂挂，你感覺怎樣？
最堅定的馁筐，最全面的涂召，最有把握的-----
詩人的、對新世界的第一印象敏沉，是否符合
對那個只給予你一次的星球的最后一瞥果正？
譯者注：“Du Lieber”炎码，德語，意思是心愛的秋泳。
詩人離棄其灰燼潦闲，靈魂離開肉體
（把這兩者分開就是犯罪），
而你離棄自身迫皱，你離開你自己歉闰。
成為宙斯之子并不會更好，
撕裂自己：就像分開卡斯托爾和波呂丟刻斯舍杜，
撕裂自己：就像大理石被掘出大地新娜，
既不分離也不相遇，
只是一次遭遇：
最初的相會和第一次別離既绩。
譯者注：卡斯托爾和波呂丟刻斯是宙斯的雙生子.
你如何能看清你自己的手概龄，
看清手上的墨漬痕跡，
從你那如此遙遠（多遙遠饲握？）的私杜，
沒有盡頭因為沒有開始的
棲息處，在地中海的水晶之上
-----和其他的淺碟救欧。
一切都已改變衰粹，然而任何都不會改變。
我肯定笆怠，在這郊外的我铝耻，
一切都已改變，然而任何都不在改變-----
盡管我還不知道如何把這封額外信件
寄給我的收信人-----
我可以往哪里張望呢蹬刷，
當我們把手肘斜倚在包廂的邊緣瓢捉，
如果不是從今生望向來世，
如果不是從來世望向今生办成，
苦難的今生泡态，長長的苦難。
IV.
我生活在貝爾維迂卢，一個鳥巢和枝丫的小鎮(zhèn)某弦。
與一個導游交換眼神之后：
貝爾-維。一座堡壘而克，其窗口可眺望
巴黎的完美景觀靶壮，
巴黎----- 高盧人幻想的會客室，
以及稍遠處......
手肘擱在猩紅色天鵝絨上俯瞰员萍，
你將會怎樣發(fā)笑（我也
一定會）亮钦，從你高不可測的住處，
看著我們的貝爾維們和貝爾韋代雷們充活。
我百無聊賴蜂莉。失落蜡娶。所有細節(jié)。忙碌映穗。
新年正在敲門窖张！
我該跟誰碰杯，
為了什么蚁滋？何種理由宿接？
吞下這一團團棉花
充當香檳的泡沫。有什么目的辕录？是的睦霎，樂鐘。但這
與我何干.......走诞？
在今夜的喜慶中我該拿
賴納之死這內在節(jié)奏怎么辦副女？
也即，如果你蚣旱，這樣一只眼睛碑幅，模糊了，
生便不是生塞绿，死便不是死沟涨。意義
消失。要是我們相見异吻，我會抓住它裹赴。
非生非死，而是一個第三者诀浪，某個方面棋返，
它是新的（而在把麥稈鋪平之后，
那多好玩啊笋妥，對那個二七年，
正在來的窄潭，和對那正在離去的二六
年 ----- 以你開始并將以你
結束）春宣，我要為它干杯。
越過這張桌子的無垠海島
我的杯將碰到你的杯嫉你，以無聲的
一碰月帝。
越過桌面我看著你的十字架。
有多少場所 ----- 在城外幽污，有多少空間
在城外嚷辅！而還會是對誰呢如果不是對我們 -----
灌木叢招手示意？場所 ----- 特別是我們的
而不是任何其他人的距误！所有的葉子簸搞！所有的針扁位！
有我在的你的場所（有你在的你的場所）。
（我們大可以約會 -----
就為了聊聊天趁俊。）不在乎地點域仇！想想那多少個月吧！
多少個星期寺擂！多少個無人的
多雨郊區(qū)暇务！多少個早晨！以及仍未
被夜鶯開始的所有一切怔软！
很可能我看得不清楚垦细，因為我深陷洞中，
很可能你看得更清楚挡逼，因為你高高在上括改。
我們之間什么也沒有真正發(fā)生。
無挚瘟，如此徹底叹谁、純粹的無，
無乘盖，確實發(fā)生過的無焰檩。
如此恰當 -----無需贅述。
什么也沒有 ----- 別期望從日常中會產生
什么東西（那些因此誤入歧途的人
全錯了６┛颉）而那又是些別的什么
界線析苫，你是如何落進去的？
古老的戒律：
雖然那里是虛無-----縱使是虛無......
哦穿扳，讓它成為某種事物衩侥，從遠處，甚至
從影子的陰影處矛物！虛無：那些時刻茫死，日子，
房屋履羞。甚至一個死囚峦萎，戴上鎖鏈，
也擁有記憶的饋贈：嘴唇忆首！
賴納爱榔，我們是否過于挑剔？
畢竟糙及，還剩下屬于我們的
光與世界详幽。
我們只是我們自己的反射。
除此 ----光與世界----- 還有我們的
姓名。
V.
空曠的郊外快樂唇聘，
新地方快樂版姑，賴納，
新世界雳灾、新光亮快樂漠酿，賴納！
使證明成為可能的最遠端的海岬快樂谎亩，
新眼睛快樂炒嘲，賴納，新耳朵快樂匈庭，賴納夫凸！
一切對你而言都是
障礙：激情和朋友。
新聲音快樂阱持，回聲夭拌！
新回聲快樂，聲音衷咽！
多少次在教室的書桌上：
那些是什么山鸽扁？那些是什么河？
它們可愛嗎镶骗，那些沒有游客的風景桶现？
我說得對嗎，賴納 -----樂園是多山的鼎姊，
多風暴的骡和？不是寡婦們所熱望的那種 -----
樂園不止一個，對嗎相寇？它上面一定還有另一個
樂園嗎慰于？在階梯形地勢上？我是根據(jù)塔特拉山脈判斷 -----
樂園只能是
一個圓形露天劇場唤衫。（帷幔正在落下...... ）
我對嗎婆赠，賴納，上帝是一棵生長的
猴面包樹佳励？不是一塊金路易 -----
上帝不止一個休里，對嗎？在他上面一定還有一個
上帝植兰？
在新地方寫作還好嗎份帐？
如果你在璃吧，那么詩歌就在：
因為你本身就是詩歌楣导！
在那甜美生活中寫作還好嗎，
沒有一張書桌擱你的肘畜挨，或額頭擱你的手
我是說筒繁，你的手掌噩凹。
給我寫信，想念你的筆跡毡咏。
賴納驮宴，你對新韻腳滿意嗎？
我對“韻腳”的理解恰當嗎呕缭？
是否有一整排新的韻腳-----
對死亡的嶄新韻腳堵泽？
再見，下次再見恢总！
我們將見面-----我不知道------我們將一起歌唱迎罗。
我不理解的新世界快樂，
整個大浩拢快樂纹安，賴納，全然的我砂豌，快樂厢岂！
祈禱我們不要再錯過對方-----
提早給我寫信，
新的聲音軌跡快樂阳距，賴納塔粒！
那里有一架通往天國之梯-----
鋪滿新年禮物，
新的任命快樂娄涩，賴納窗怒！
我將舉起新年的酒杯，
-----絕不潑灑任何一滴-----
舉到羅訥河之上蓄拣，舉到拉龍之上扬虚，
那最終的離別之地。
交給賴納 ----- 馬里亞----- 里爾克 ----- 交到他手里球恤。
譯者注：拉龍辜昵，里爾克的安葬地。
New Year’s Greetings
by Tatiana Retivov
i.m. Rainer Maria Rilke
Happy New Year – new sphere – horizon – haven!
This is my first letter to your new address,
– notorious region, misunderstood, unsettled –,
as clamorous and empty as the Aeolian tower;
my very first letter to you from the yesterday
in which I suddenly found myself without you,
my own homeland become one of the stars…
Shall I tell you how I heard the news?
No earthquake or avalanche announced it,
only someone – might have been anyone – said
he’d read it in a daily paper. ‘Show me the article –
where did it happen?’ ‘The mountains.
(I think of pine branches in a window)
Don’t you ever read newspapers?’
‘The article?’ ‘I don’t have it with me.’
‘Where did it happen?’ ‘In a sanatorium.’
(A rented paradise.) ‘Please tell me when.’
‘Yesterday, or the day before, I can’t remember.
Will you write something for us?’ ‘No, I won’t.
He’s family. I’m not treacherous.’
Happy New Year, then, which begins tomorrow!
Shall I tell you what I did when I heard
of your – no, that’s a slip of the tongue.
I don’t use silly words like Life and Death –
So tell me, Rainer, how was your ride?
How was it when your heart burst open?
Was it like riding Orlov’s horses – wild
and fast as eagles fly – as you once told me?
Did it take your breath away? Was it more intense –
sweeter? Russian eagles have a blood tie
with the other world, and in Russia
you see the other world in this.
It belongs to us, that long night of stars
I speak of with a secret smile…
You timed your crossing well.
Dear friend,
if Russian script replaces German letters here
it’s not because the dead have to put up with
everything, as a beggar does, – it’s because
the world you live in now is ours.
– I knew as much when I was thirteen…
Am I digressing? No, that isn’t possible.
Nothing can distract my thoughts from you.
Every one of them, du Lieber, every syllable
leads me towards you in whatever language.
German is as native to me as Russian,
and most of all the language Angels speak.
There is no place where you are not.
Except the grave…
Do you ever – think about me, I wonder?
What do you feel now, what is it like up there?
How was your first sight of the Universe,
a last vision of the whole planet –
which must include this poet remaining in it,
not yet ashes, still a spirit in a body –
seen from however many miles stretch
from Creation to eternity, far above
the Mediterranean in its crystal saucer –
where else would you look, leaning out
with your elbows on the edge of your box seat
if not on this poet, with her many griefs…
I live in Bellevue: these suburban outskirts,
have birds’ nests in the branches. Glance
at your tour guide: Bellevue is a fortress
with a good view of Paris and its palaces.
How absurd we must seem as you lean out
on the crimson velvet edge of your theatre box,
looking down from an infinite height
on our Bellevue and Belvederes!
Skip the details. Here’s an urgent fact.
The New Year is already on my door step.
With whom can I clink a glass across
the table tonight? And with what?
Cotton wool? I have no champagne froth.
The New Year is striking. Why am I here?
What is there to do in this New Year?
If such an orb of light as you can go out
then neither life nor death has any meaning.
I shall only understand when we meet again.
What joy to end with you, begin with you.
Let us clink across the table, not with pub
glasses, but as if our souls fused.
I look upon your cross. Everywhere
outside time and place belongs to us.
Leaves and conifers. Months and weeks
in rainy city fringes without people!
And mornings – all of them spent together.
Of course I see poorly down here in a pit
Of course you see better from up there.
Nothing turned out between us. That is the truth:
Nothing happened. Nothing.
We know our roles, and both are large enough
not to mention that. Don’t wait
for the one who stands out from the crowd
– or the one who stands inside it either.
An eternal tune:
don’t speak of the one on death row
cut from the same cloth and remembered
by the same mouth. Only one world
was ours, and that was where we shone;
exchanging everything else to do so.
So, from these outskirts: Happy new world,
Rainer! Happy new sounds!
Everything once seemed to stand in your way,
even passion and friendship. No longer.
Happy new echoes, Rainer!
I used to dream at my school desk about rivers
and mountains. How is your landscape without tourists?
Was I right, Rainer, to think of heaven as stormy
and mountainous – not the way widows imagine?
And not just one heaven, but another over it?
With terraces? Something like the Tatra?
Heaven must resemble an amphitheatre.
Was I right to think of God as a Baobab?
Is there only one God – or another over Him?
I know wherever you are, there are poems.
How do you write without a table for your elbow,
or even a forehead for your cupped hand?
Drop me a line in your usual scrawl!
Death must offer many occasions for poetry.
Are you pleased, Rainer, with your new verse?
I can’t go any further, now I’ve learned
a language with so many new meanings.
Goodbye. Until we meet each other
– if we do – face to face. Look
at the whole earth and the oceans, Rainer.
Look at all of me.
If you can, drop me a scribbled line
– Happy new writing, Rainer – and
I’ll climb a staircase bearing gifts to you
hoping to feel your hand on my head,
I’ll carry my New Year’s glass, without spilling
a tear-drop, over the Rhone and Rarogne
– your resting place – which marks our final parting.
Put this into the hands of Rainer – Maria – Rilke!
New Year’s Greetings
happy new year—happy new light, new world—happy new edge, new realm—happy new haven!
a first letter to you in the next—
the place where nothing ever happens
(barely even bluffing ever happens), place where roughing,
rushing ever happens, like Aeolus’s empty tower.
a first letter to you from yesterday’s
homeland, now noland without you,
now already one of the
stars... and this law of leaving and left, cleaving
and cleft,
this claw by which my beloved becomes a name on a list
(oh him? from ’26?),
and the has-beens transform to the unhappened.
shall I tell you how I found out?
not an earthquake, not an avalanche.
a guy came over—just anyone (you’re my one):
“really, a regrettable loss. it’s in the Times today.
will you write an article for him?” where?
“in the mountains.” (the window opening onto fir branches.
the bedsheet.) “don’t you read the papers?
and won’t you write the obit?” no. “but—” spare me.
aloud: too hard. silently: I won’t betray my Christ.
“in a sanatorium.” (heaven for hire.)
what day? “yesterday, day before yesterday, I don’t remember.
you going to the Alcazar later?” no.
aloud: family stuff. silently: anything but Judas.
II.
here’s to the coming year! (you were born tomorrow!)
shall I tell you what I did when I found out about—
oops... no, no, I misspoke. bad habit.
I’ve been putting quotation marks around life and death for a while now,
like the empty stories we weave. wittingly.
well, I didn’t do anything. but something did
happen, happened shadowless and echoless,
happened.
now, how was the trip?
how did it tear, did you bear, did it burst
your heart asunder? astride the finest Orlov racehorses
(they keep up, you said, with the eagles)
was your very breath taken, or worse?
was it sweet? no heights, no falls for you,
you flew on real Russian eagles,
you. we have blood ties with that world and with the light:
it happened here, in Rus, the world and light
matured on us. the rush is up and running.
I say life and death with a smirk,
hidden, so you’ll kiss me to find out.
I say life and death with a footnote,
an asterisk (a star, the night I long for,
fuck the cerebral hemisphere,
I want the stars).
III.
now don’t forget, my dear, my friend,
if I use Russian letters
instead of German ones, it’s not because
they say that these days anything will do,
not because beggars can’t be choosers,
not because a dead man is a poor one,
he’ll eat anything, he won’t even blink.
no, it’s because that world, that light—
can I call it “ours”?—it isn’t languageless.
when I was thirteen, in the Novodevichy monastery,
I understood: it’s pre-Babelian.
all the tongues in one.
anguish. you will never ask me again
how to say “nest” in Russian.
the sole nest, whole nest, nothing but the nest—
sheltering a Russian rhyme with the stars.
do I seem distracted? no, impossible,
no such thing as distraction from you.
every thought—every, Du Lieber,
syllable—leads to you, no matter what,
(oh to hell with the native Russian tongue, with German,
I want the tongue of an angel) there is no place,
no nest, without you, oh wait there is, just one. your grave.
everything’s changed, nothing’s changed.
you won’t forg—I mean, not about me—?
what’s it like there, Rainer, how are you feeling?
insistent, surefire, cocksure,
how does a poet’s first sighting of the Universe
square with his last glance at this planet,
this planet you got only once?
the poet gone from his ashes, spirit left the body
(to split the two would be to sin),
and you gone from yourself, you gone from you,
no better to be Zeus-born,
Castor ripped—you from yourself—from Pollux,
marble rent—you from yourself—from the earth,
no separation and no meeting, just
a confrontation, the meeting and the separation
first.
how could you see your own hand well enough to write,
to look at the trace—on your hand—of ink,
from your perch on high, miles away (how many miles?),
your perch of endless, because startless, heights,
well above the crystal of the Mediterranean
and other saucers.
everything’s changed, nothing will change
as far as I’m concerned, here on the outskirts.
everything’s changed, nothing is changing—
though I don’t know how to send this extra week’s letter
to my correspondant—and where do I look now,
leaning on the rim of a lie—if not from this to that,
if not from that to this. suffering this. long suffering this.
IV.
I live in Bellevue. a little city
of nests and branches. exchanging glances with the guide:
Bellevue. the fortress with the perfect view
of Paris—the chamber with the Gallic chimera—
of Paris—and further still...
leaning on the scarlet rim,
how funny they should be to you (to whom?),
(to me!) they must be funny, funny, from fathomless heights,
these Bellevues and these Belvederes of ours!
I’m listless. losing it. the particulars. urgency.
the new year’s knocking at the door. what can I drink to?
and with whom? and what indeed to drink? instead of champagne bubbles
I’ll take these wads of cotton into my mouth. there, the stroke—God,
what am I doing here? what auspices—what am I supposed to do,
this new year’s noise—your death echoes, Rainer, it echoes and it rhymes.
if such an eye as you has shut,
then this life isn’t life, and death’s not death,
it’s dimming, slipping away, I’ll catch it when we meet.
no life, no death, okay so some third thing,
a new one. I’ll drink to that (spreading straw,
strewing flowers for the 1927th thing,
bye 1926, what a joy, Rainer, ending
and beginning with you!), I’ll lean across
this table to you, this table so big no end in sight,
I’ll clink your glass with mine, a little clink,
my glass on yours. not tavern style!
me on you, flowing together, us giving the rhyme,
the third rhyme.
I’m looking across the table at your cross:
how many places on the margins, how much space
on the edge! and for whom would the shrubbery sway,
if not for us? so many places—our places,
and no one else’s! so much foliage! all yours!
your places with me (your places with you).
(what would I do with you at a rally?
we could talk?) so much space—and I want time,
months, weeks—rainy suburbs
without people! I want mornings with you, Rainer,
I want to begin the mornings with you,
so the nightingales don’t get there first.
it’s probably hard for me to see because I’m down in a hole.
it’s probably easier for you because you’re up on high.
you know, nothing ever really happened between us.
a nothing so purely and simply nothing,
this nothing that happened, so apt—
look, I won’t go into detail.
nothing except—wait for the beat,
this could be big (first one to miss
the beat loses the game)—here it comes,
the beat, which coming beat
could have been you?
the beat doesn’t stop. refrain, refrain.
nothing except that something
somehow became nothingness—a shadow of something
became its shade. nothing, that is to say, that hour,
that day, that home—and that mouth, oh, granted
courtesy of memory to the condemned.
Rainer, did we scrutinize too hard?
after all, what’s left: that light, that world
belonged to us. we’re a reflection of ourselves.
instead of all of this—that whole light world. our names.
V.
happy vacant suburb,
happy new place, Rainer, happy new world, new light, Rainer!
happy distant point where proof is possible,
happy new vision, Rainer, new hearing, Rainer.
everything got in your
way. passion, a friend.
happy new sound, Echo!
happy new echo, Sound!
how many times at my schoolgirl’s desk:
what’s beyond those mountains? which rivers?
is the scenery nice without tourists?
am I right, Rainer, rain, mountains,
thunder? it’s not a widow’s pretension—
there can’t be just one heaven, there’s bound to be
another one, rainier, above it? with terraces? I’m judging by the Tatras,
heaven has to look like an amphitheater. (and they’re lowering the curtain.)
am I right, Rainer, God’s a growing
baobab tree? not a Louis d’or?
there can’t just be one God? there’s bound to be
another one, rainier, above him?
how’s writing in the new place?
if you’re there, there must be poetry. you
are poetry. how’s writing in the good life,
no table for your elbows, no forehead for your strife,
I mean your palm?
drop me a line, I miss your handwriting.
Rainer, do you delight in the new rhymes?
am I getting the word rhyme right,
is there a whole row of new rhymes,
is there a new rhyme for death?
and another one, Rainer, above it?
nowhere to go. language is all learned up.
a whole row of meanings and consonances
anew.
goodbye! see you next time!
we’ll see each other—I don’t know—we’ll sing together.
happy land I don’t understand—
happy whole sea, Rainer, happy whole me!
let’s not miss each other next time! just write me beforehand.
happy new soundsketch, Rainer!
there’s a staircase in the sky, lined with Gifts.
happy new ordination, Rainer!
I’ve got them in my palm so they won’t overflow.
over the Rhone and over Raron,
over the clear sheer separation,
to Rainer, Maria, Rilke, right into his hands.
2017年9月開始整理
2017年12月18日發(fā)布
