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48:春之美神(mp3+lrc)

48:春之美神(mp3+lrc)

整语速调:

48 Spring Beauties
Ruth Stone

48 春之美神
露丝斯通

The abandoned campus,
被摈弃的校园,
empty brick buildings and early
空空的砖瓦房当六月初
Junewhen you came to visit me;
你来看望我;
crossing the states midway,
穿行于州际途中,
the straggled belts of little roads;
束带般的小路伸延,
hitchhiking with your portable typewriter.
提着你的便携打字机搭车。
The campus, an academy of trees,
校园,一个树林的学院,
under which some hand, the wind's I guess,
在树下有些,我想是风的手,
had scattered the pale light
已经消散了千百
of thousands of spring beauties,
春之美神的苍白光线,
petals stained with pink veins;
花瓣染上桃红色的血管;
secret, blooming for themselves.
秘密的,为它们自己开放。
We sat among them.
我们坐在它们中间。
Your long fingers, thin body,
你那修长的手指,清瘦的身材,
and long bones of improbable genius;
和未必会是天才的长骨;
some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.
一些象卡夫卡肯定有的分散的基因。
Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
你深沉的嗓音,通行奇妙尘间。
That simple that was myself, half conscious,
单纯如我,神志半醒,
as though each moment was a page
似乎每一瞬间都是词语出现之页;
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
弯型字锤
struck against the moving ribbon.
撞击移动的色带
The light air, the restless leaves;
清淡的空气,烦躁的树叶;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
我们的渴望翘曲起时间的微澜。
There, as if we were painted
在那里,好象我们被
by some unknown impressionist.
几个无名印象派画家绘入了画面。

背景知识:

露丝斯通生于弗吉尼亚州的罗诺克镇。她和她的丈夫一起养育了3个女儿。 露丝斯通写到“爱情诗,都是为一个已故之人所写。”之后,她来到美国,在众多大学中教授创造性写作,这些大学包括:伊利诺伊大学,威斯康星大学,印第安纳大学,加利福尼亚大学,布兰迪斯大学等。她最后定居于纽约宾厄姆顿大学。2011年11月19日,露丝斯通在她佛蒙特州的家中逝世。

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48 春之美神
露丝斯通

被摈弃的校园,
空空的砖瓦房当六月初
你来看望我;
穿行于州际途中,
束带般的小路伸延,
提着你的便携打字机搭车。
校园,一个树林的学院,
在树下有些,我想是风的手,
已经消散了千百
春之美神的苍白光线,
花瓣染上桃红色的血管;
秘密的,为它们自己开放。
我们坐在它们中间。
你那修长的手指,清瘦的身材,
和未必会是天才的长骨;
一些象卡夫卡肯定有的分散的基因。
你深沉的嗓音,通行奇妙尘间。
单纯如我,神志半醒,
似乎每一瞬间都是词语出现之页;
弯型字锤
撞击移动的色带
清淡的空气,烦躁的树叶;
我们的渴望翘曲起时间的微澜。
在那里,好象我们被
几个无名印象派画家绘入了画面。
背景知识:
露丝斯通生于弗吉尼亚州的罗诺克镇。她和她的丈夫一起养育了3个女儿。 露丝斯通写到“爱情诗,都是为一个已故之人所写。”之后,她来到美国,在众多大学中教授创造性写作,这些大学包括:伊利诺伊大学,威斯康星大学,印第安纳大学,加利福尼亚大学,布兰迪斯大学等。她最后定居于纽约宾厄姆顿大学。2011年11月19日,露丝斯通在她佛蒙特州的家中逝世。

48 Spring Beauties
Ruth Stone

The abandoned campus,
empty brick buildings and early
Junewhen you came to visit me;
crossing the states midway,
the straggled belts of little roads;
hitchhiking with your portable typewriter.
The campus, an academy of trees,
under which some hand, the wind's I guess,
had scattered the pale light
of thousands of spring beauties,
petals stained with pink veins;
secret, blooming for themselves.
We sat among them.
Your long fingers, thin body,
and long bones of improbable genius;
some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.
Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
That simple that was myself, half conscious,
as though each moment was a page
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
struck against the moving ribbon.
The light air, the restless leaves;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
There, as if we were painted
by some unknown impressionist.

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