風箏 希尼(愛爾蘭)
來自另一種生活時地的空氣
在粉藍色天空上浮托
一隻白翼在微風中衝向高空
是一只風箏出現在某一下午
人們紛紛步出戶外
散踞在荆棘薔薇籬笆中央
風箏 希尼(愛爾蘭)
來自另一種生活時地的空氣
在粉藍色天空上浮托
一隻白翼在微風中衝向高空
是一只風箏出現在某一下午
人們紛紛步出戶外
散踞在荆棘薔薇籬笆中央
Swallows always return here in spring
They delight seeing flowers bloom along the lane
Gliding beneath the eave they flex their wings
Mud in beaks they build nests for the young to live in
Flying in pairs they contest in precision not speed
Once their young calls for feeding they toil indeed
Parents take turns bringing nourishment from fields and hills
Generations repeat the same love and care by Nature’s will
Irish Poet, 1995 Nobel Laureate
十二月的偉克洛
榿樹的餘雨在滴落
樺樹承受日暮餘熙
白蠟樹叫人望而生寒
(一) The Last Rose of Summer
中譯
Lyrics: Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
Music: John Stevenson (1761-1833)
(二) 初見紅楓
涼風颯颯夏疾收
歲月無聲偷換秋
楓葉早沾濃洌味
半樹泛紅醉方休
[ 收到來稿,同日 2013年9月2日見 信報 練乙錚 (’68) 氣短集 (二) 夏日的最後玫瑰 ]
Heaney’s Nobel lecture, in which he offered insights into his poetry, can be viewed at YouTube http://youtu.be/P7KzfqtL5qY
EXPOSURE
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead, I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends’
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conducive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, a grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once in a lifetime portent,
The comet’s pulsing rose.
(From “North”)
—————-
The main thing is to write
for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust
that imagines its haven like your hands at night
dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast.
You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous.
Take off from here. And don’t be so earnest.
(From “Station Island”)
Today is my birthday I’m eighty
I think of my Mom giving me birth a deed mighty
It was at a time of war and sorrow
Everyday Mom said was a day borrowed
There’s the usual jubilation of a new-born to the family
The hardship of bringing me up in scarcity was not a worry
The eighty years of my experience were quite extraordinary
Wars deaths dislocation and change required adjustments many
We lived through threats struggle and hope supported by sheer ingenuity
Under my parents’ protective wings I had luck and freedom plenty
I learned more from practical challenges than schools which was intermittent
My aspiration and achievement carry the Chinese cultural imprints incessant
Read More.
Layers of books and scrolls mark encounters memorable
This quiet small room beckons ideas and people global
On-line systems enable me to access the world in finger-tips
Reading playing music and chess are delightful acts indeed
Here I listen in quietude to heavenly tunes as clouds fly
Even space limits allow my mind to roam free and wild
Dwelling in a serene environment is my habitual liking
Carefree in quietude is enjoyment knowing not days passing
Washed by rain the spider net is clean and bright
Every spring swallows return to their homestead right
I often invite neighbors to share bamboo beauties
Calling my wife to brew cups of tea finest
Calendar dates and clock hours not in my interest sphere
In solitude I sit waiting for the moon to appear