上學(xué)期給poetry課寫的作業(yè)詩歌兩則，英文寫的，同時(shí)翻了中文版。搬運(yùn)一下。封面源網(wǎng)絡(luò)。

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?

北京無雪

你早不記得上次北京何時(shí)下雪

如同不記得上次何時(shí)玩玩具火車。

微笑；熱茶的蒸汽；回家路的天橋上

不倦地唱歌的老人；一切空洞而平淡。

冬天無雪，無疑是一種特定的生活形式：

沒有一種單一的白色成為主導(dǎo)。

有人不耐煩地點(diǎn)頭：“五月亦是如此”

可那時(shí)，事物仍懂得如何熱忱。

于是你將一簇?zé)岢罃S向霧霾和干冷空氣

猩紅與慘白，像玩具火車：某一瞬，你希望它們摧毀。

你凝視著瘦窄的鐵軌。若這發(fā)生必將有趣，卻罕見

上百萬次更多時(shí)候，無事發(fā)生；無物返回。

若翻倒的只是輛玩具火車，你是否該心碎？

若冬天無雪，為了失望，你又該責(zé)怪誰？

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.

當(dāng)你不再是詩人

?

當(dāng)你不再是詩人時(shí)，你失去了一種存在的方式；

你的手指松了，你對風(fēng)失去行蹤，一如候鳥

在最冷的二月里對故地失去行蹤。如今你行過

擁擠人群，卻不再于涌動(dòng)的心靈中看見鬼魂。

你從搖曳的枝條中讀出綠色，卻忘記節(jié)奏：

春天學(xué)會(huì)逃離你的耳朵。簡單的握手、早九點(diǎn)

紅線地鐵上的咳嗽，或某雙每周限定的凝視

雙眼——這些與什么押韻？你對風(fēng)失去行蹤，

一如你對自我失去行蹤。你像他人一般說“你好”，

你關(guān)上身后的門，好像你并非在將什么割為碎片

以使得思緒無從流入。你在十歲的自己來追捕你

之前入睡。成為詩人你一無所獲，可不再是詩人時(shí)

你甚至忘記如何在鏡子前嘔吐。

感謝閱讀！