酷我-北美枫

[林靜]

123

[[FAFAFA]]

123

[星子]

ZT

Afaa Weaver (1951- )
Thursday, October 20, 2005, 11:52 PM - -Afaa Weaver
Afaa Weaver was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1951. He studied in University of Maryland (1968-70) and Morgan State University (1975), but left with no degree. In 1983, he entered Excelsior College and in 1986, he was awarded a B.A. in Literature in English. In 1985, he attended Brown University, majoring in creative writing, and got his M.A. in 1987. He worked as an assistant professor and lecturer and taught writing, poetry, black literature, and playwriting in many universities; he is now Professor of English in Simmons College, Boston, Massachusetts. Besides poetry, he is also a playwright. He has published many collections of poetry: Gathering Voices (1985), Water Song (1985), Some days it’s a slow walk to evening (1989), My Father’s Geography (1992), Stations in a Dream, (1993), Timber and Prayer (1995), The Ten Lights of God (2000), Sandy Point (2000), These Hands I Know (2000), and Multitudes / poems selected and new (2000). He has received several awards, grants and fellowships, including Pennsylvania Arts Council fellowship, Outstanding Young Man of America and PDI Playwrights Award.

Weaver thinks, after decades of experimentation and change, the future for poetry will be the union of cyber space and the old traditional reality of poetry. To popularize poetry, Weaver has advocated poetry readings. Besides U.S.A., he has been invited to read poetry in London, Paris, and many other cities. However, he is concerned that we have a quantitative increase rather than a qualitative one. That is sort of parallel with America’s cult of the celebrity, which he thinks is very dangerous.




My Lover’s Charm

In the guarded arms of my own sentries,
her spell, her tongue against sweet taste
of bird song, fingers a lullaby against my wooden doors,
light beating accomodations of soul rings, music
of our escape.
We chase the air,
a pair of totems for desire,
her head twirling braids in tiny feathers,
soft squeals of her toes mashing
wet grass. I sing our mothers’ one song,
river reverie—
now, here, now
low in the moon’s cry
now, there, now
I sing, I touch you.
In the window, another choir,
the other in her dark rage,
stones smashed into the stars,
blood from the wailing
of lungfish too long dry,
jealousy in purple rage.

My hand knows you,
clap and clatter, bird rush
from the thicket of tears,
sweat song—my hand knows.
I taste you.




Radio Days
For Mark J. Weaver

My father has a picture of me
taken around the time Charlie Parker
died. I am sitting up like a prince,
erect, bright, smiling. I have promise
around my head woven in vines
of gold, but this is not in the picture.
I remember radio from then,
checking the paper for my shows.

My father had a habit of bringing
home toys to me, small things on days
he got paid. It was a reward
for being firstborn and being a son.
I was supposed to make the future
a safe place. I had to kill the lion.

I look at my son and my brother.
I look at my father. The four of us
are a circuit where the current is
a stream of hope & fear, floating,
going back, living and not living.

We hold up our hands and dreams
fly out of them, birds of blue electric.



Ego

God’s voice
is caught in
the crackling commotion
of thought,
like dried leaves—
breaking.
_________________

[[ANNA]]

ZT

Afaa Weaver (1951- )
Thursday, October 20, 2005, 11:52 PM - -Afaa Weaver
Afaa Weaver was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1951. He studied in University of Maryland (1968-70) and Morgan State University (1975), but left with no degree. In 1983, he entered Excelsior College and in 1986, he was awarded a B.A. in Literature in English. In 1985, he attended Brown University, majoring in creative writing, and got his M.A. in 1987. He worked as an assistant professor and lecturer and taught writing, poetry, black literature, and playwriting in many universities; he is now Professor of English in Simmons College, Boston, Massachusetts. Besides poetry, he is also a playwright. He has published many collections of poetry: Gathering Voices (1985), Water Song (1985), Some days it’s a slow walk to evening (1989), My Father’s Geography (1992), Stations in a Dream, (1993), Timber and Prayer (1995), The Ten Lights of God (2000), Sandy Point (2000), These Hands I Know (2000), and Multitudes / poems selected and new (2000). He has received several awards, grants and fellowships, including Pennsylvania Arts Council fellowship, Outstanding Young Man of America and PDI Playwrights Award.

Weaver thinks, after decades of experimentation and change, the future for poetry will be the union of cyber space and the old traditional reality of poetry. To popularize poetry, Weaver has advocated poetry readings. Besides U.S.A., he has been invited to read poetry in London, Paris, and many other cities. However, he is concerned that we have a quantitative increase rather than a qualitative one. That is sort of parallel with America’s cult of the celebrity, which he thinks is very dangerous.




My Lover’s Charm

In the guarded arms of my own sentries,
her spell, her tongue against sweet taste
of bird song, fingers a lullaby against my wooden doors,
light beating accomodations of soul rings, music
of our escape.
We chase the air,
a pair of totems for desire,
her head twirling braids in tiny feathers,
soft squeals of her toes mashing
wet grass. I sing our mothers’ one song,
river reverie—
now, here, now
low in the moon’s cry
now, there, now
I sing, I touch you.
In the window, another choir,
the other in her dark rage,
stones smashed into the stars,
blood from the wailing
of lungfish too long dry,
jealousy in purple rage.

My hand knows you,
clap and clatter, bird rush
from the thicket of tears,
sweat song—my hand knows.
I taste you.




Radio Days
For Mark J. Weaver

My father has a picture of me
taken around the time Charlie Parker
died. I am sitting up like a prince,
erect, bright, smiling. I have promise
around my head woven in vines
of gold, but this is not in the picture.
I remember radio from then,
checking the paper for my shows.

My father had a habit of bringing
home toys to me, small things on days
he got paid. It was a reward
for being firstborn and being a son.
I was supposed to make the future
a safe place. I had to kill the lion.

I look at my son and my brother.
I look at my father. The four of us
are a circuit where the current is
a stream of hope & fear, floating,
going back, living and not living.

We hold up our hands and dreams
fly out of them, birds of blue electric.



Ego

God’s voice
is caught in
the crackling commotion
of thought,
like dried leaves—
breaking.
_________________

[林靜]

123

[[FAFAFA]]

123

[星子]

[quote="林靜"]

[[ANNA]]

[quote="林靜"]

[朱新魁]

拜读

[[FAFAFA]]

拜读

[博弈]

这个翻译有些失原文本意，您的本意？

收音機年代
——給蔚馬可

我父親有一張我的照片
大約在查理．帕克死時
所照。我端坐如一名王子，
直立，燦爛，微笑。我的頭上
籠罩著以黃金藤編織成的
希望，但這並沒有在照片中顯現。
我記得從那時起的收音機，
翻報紙搜尋我愛聽的節目。.

我父親習慣在他領薪日
帶些玩具回家給我，一些
小東西。那是給
家中長子的獎賞。.
他們期望我讓未來成為
安全之地。我必須屠獅。

我注視著我兒子，我弟弟。
我注視著我父親。我們四個
是一道電路，其中的電流是
希望與恐懼之流，流動，
倒退，存在又不存在。

我們舉起我們的手，夢想
從中飛出——帶電的青鳥。.


--陳黎．張芬齡譯

又，附一段 kill the lion Radio archive, 听听也有趣。

http://ia300137.us.archive.org/2/items/HowToKillaLion/HowToKillaLion.mp3
_________________
Sometimes I am busy
Sometimes I am free
In between, there's it
Until I find thee...

[[Mark]]

这个翻译有些失原文本意，您的本意？

收音機年代
——給蔚馬可

我父親有一張我的照片
大約在查理．帕克死時
所照。我端坐如一名王子，
直立，燦爛，微笑。我的頭上
籠罩著以黃金藤編織成的
希望，但這並沒有在照片中顯現。
我記得從那時起的收音機，
翻報紙搜尋我愛聽的節目。.

我父親習慣在他領薪日
帶些玩具回家給我，一些
小東西。那是給
家中長子的獎賞。.
他們期望我讓未來成為
安全之地。我必須屠獅。

我注視著我兒子，我弟弟。
我注視著我父親。我們四個
是一道電路，其中的電流是
希望與恐懼之流，流動，
倒退，存在又不存在。

我們舉起我們的手，夢想
從中飛出——帶電的青鳥。.


--陳黎．張芬齡譯

又，附一段 kill the lion Radio archive, 听听也有趣。

http://ia300137.us.archive.org/2/items/HowToKillaLion/HowToKillaLion.mp3
_________________
Sometimes I am busy
Sometimes I am free
In between, there's it
Until I find thee...

[博弈]

Radio Days
For Mark J. Weaver

My father has a picture of me
taken around the time Charlie Parker
died. I am sitting up like a prince,
erect, bright, smiling. I have promise
around my head woven in vines
of gold, but this is not in the picture.
I remember radio from then,
checking the paper for my shows.

My father had a habit of bringing
home toys to me, small things on days
he got paid. It was a reward
for being firstborn and being a son.
I was supposed to make the future
a safe place. I had to kill the lion.

I look at my son and my brother.
I look at my father. The four of us
are a circuit where the current is
a stream of hope & fear, floating,
going back, living and not living.

We hold up our hands and dreams
fly out of them, birds of blue electric.


收音机的年代
——给蔚马可

爸保留一张我的照片
那是大约查理．帕克死时
所拍。我像个王子端坐
毕挺，阳光，笑容。头上有
黄金藤编织的希望
但这并没显现在照片中
我记得那旧日的电台
翻报找我爱的节目

父亲习惯在他的领薪日
带些玩具回家给我
那些小东西是奖赏长子的。.
他期望我使家的未来
稳固安全。我必须屠狮。

我看着儿子和我弟弟。
我看着我父亲。我们四个
是一条线路，电流则是
希望与恐惧，浮流着，
循环着，存在又不存在。

我们高举起双手
而　梦想飞出手，蓝电之鸟。.


注。
觉得两个翻译都失真，我也来试一个。
我采取保留行数，与每行对等音节数。
个人觉得最难翻出味儿的是最后两行。
_________________
Sometimes I am busy
Sometimes I am free
In between, there's it
Until I find thee...

[[Mark]]

Radio Days
For Mark J. Weaver

My father has a picture of me
taken around the time Charlie Parker
died. I am sitting up like a prince,
erect, bright, smiling. I have promise
around my head woven in vines
of gold, but this is not in the picture.
I remember radio from then,
checking the paper for my shows.

My father had a habit of bringing
home toys to me, small things on days
he got paid. It was a reward
for being firstborn and being a son.
I was supposed to make the future
a safe place. I had to kill the lion.

I look at my son and my brother.
I look at my father. The four of us
are a circuit where the current is
a stream of hope & fear, floating,
going back, living and not living.

We hold up our hands and dreams
fly out of them, birds of blue electric.


收音机的年代
——给蔚马可

爸保留一张我的照片
那是大约查理．帕克死时
所拍。我像个王子端坐
毕挺，阳光，笑容。头上有
黄金藤编织的希望
但这并没显现在照片中
我记得那旧日的电台
翻报找我爱的节目

父亲习惯在他的领薪日
带些玩具回家给我
那些小东西是奖赏长子的。.
他期望我使家的未来
稳固安全。我必须屠狮。

我看着儿子和我弟弟。
我看着我父亲。我们四个
是一条线路，电流则是
希望与恐惧，浮流着，
循环着，存在又不存在。

我们高举起双手
而　梦想飞出手，蓝电之鸟。.


注。
觉得两个翻译都失真，我也来试一个。
我采取保留行数，与每行对等音节数。
个人觉得最难翻出味儿的是最后两行。
_________________
Sometimes I am busy
Sometimes I am free
In between, there's it
Until I find thee...

[斯厚人]

拜读！问好
_________________
春天,是我送你的一束鲜花.

[[FFFFFF]]

拜读！问好
_________________
春天,是我送你的一束鲜花.

[林靜]

123

[[FAFAFA]]

123

[ljm001]

拜读。
_________________
听坡上林涛低鸣，看崖下海浪拍岸

[[星海]]

拜读。
_________________
听坡上林涛低鸣，看崖下海浪拍岸

[林靜]

123

[[FAFAFA]]

123