对照英译+随感小注（随缘更新）

孟明的译本精妙之处颇多，其注释所涉及的资料更是价值无量，但一首译诗中总会有几句“古风”出离之言，读来好不畅快，只可惜不识德语，无法对照原文一探究竟——去年十一月，pierre joris大佬完成了策兰前四部正式出版诗集的全部英译，并为每一首做了些许注释，与2014的策兰后期诗合集合于一处，使我们得以看到策兰绝大多数诗歌的英译本，再加上汉博格，费尔斯坦纳，波波夫等前人的译本，一个更为丰富的英文版策兰便能为我们所认知了。

（部分中英对照后差别较大处做了加粗处理）

第一辑

骨灰瓮之沙 The Sand from the Urns

1、A SONG IN THE DESERT*

A wreath was woven from blackening leafage in the region of Acra: there I pulled my black stallion around and jabbed at death with my rapier. And from wooden vessels did I drink the ash of the wells of Acra while with lowered visor I rode toward the ruins of the heavens.

For dead are the angels and blinded was the Lord in the region of Acra, and there is no one who would guard while I sleep those laid to rest here. Battered and profaned, the moon, the little flower from the region of Acra: thus bloom, just as the thorns do, the hands with their rusty rings.

Thus in the end I’ll have to bend down for the kiss, when they pray in Acra … O flawed was night’s brigandine, the blood is seeping through the clasps! Thus became I her smiling brother, the iron cherub of Acra.、 Thus do I still utter the name and still feel the burn on the cheeks.

《策兰传》中费尔斯坦纳为该诗提供了详细阐释。

2、AT NIGHT*

AT NIGHT your body’s brown from God’s fever: my mouth swings torches above your cheeks. Be not swayed, to whom no lullaby’s sung. The hand full of snow, I came to you,

and unsure, how your eyes go blue in the hours’ round. (The erstwhile moon was rounder.) Sobbed out in empty tents is the wonder, iced over the little jar of dreams—what does it do?

Remember: a blackening leaf hung in the elder— the alluring sign for the beaker of blood.

特粉小注：

该诗值得注意的是“fever”一词，在这里与其说它指激情，不如说是“热病”，而随后“我”的一系列举动也更似治疗而非情爱。

第三行汉译不知所云，此处贴出的英译也不十分明晰，另一英译本将该行译作：“Nothing shall be lulled, to which they did not sing a lullaby.”似乎更为清楚地传达了意味——其为对第二行的补充，唯有”我“烛炬般的嘴方能给人以催眠曲的功效，平缓神给予的热病。随后第四行的满手雪花，表层意也并非玄而又玄之物，不过是为热病患者物理降温而已。

白色——雪——记忆，蓝色——水——遗忘，以此解读”The hand full of snow“与”your eyes go blue“的冲突，施热病的神与诗人治愈者间的对立。在这之后诗歌写的乃是烛炬般的嘴吐露的三句言辞：空帐篷里奇迹哭泣（奇迹自身的无能为力）；梦的小壶结冰已无法接近吸吮寻求慰藉；本该为碧绿或鲜红的接骨木已然只剩一片发黑叶子了，这正好似今日的圣杯（血杯）之形，引诱人的标识（孟译”好兆头“或不准确）而已，既如此，又何必染上热病沉醉于此呢——救赎是不存在的。

类似的思索呈现在同一部诗集中更知名情感更强烈的《晚与深》里，可与此诗互参。

3、FOR NAUGHT YOU DRAW HEARTS

FOR NAUGHT YOU DRAW HEARTS on the window: The Duke of Stillness recruits soldiers in the castle courtyard. He hoists his banner in the tree—a leaf that blues for him when it autumns; he shares the stalks of melancholy among the host and the flowers of time; with birds in the hair he goes forth to bury the swords.

For naught you draw hearts on the window: there’s a God among the hosts, wrapped in the coat that once sank from your shoulders on the staircase, at night time, once, when the castle stood in flames, when you spoke like the humans: Beloved … He knows not the coat and didn’t call the star and follows the leaf that floats ahead. “O stalk,” he thinks he hears, “O flower of time.”

4、MARIANNE*

Your hair lacks lilacs, your face is mirror-glass. From eye to eye the cloud drifts, like Sodom toward Babel: like leafage it shreds the tower and rages around the sulfur-bush.

Then lightning flickers at your mouth—that ravine with the violin’s remnants. With snowy teeth someone guides the bow: oh the sedge sounded finer!

Beloved, you too are the sedge and we all, the rain; your body a wine sans pareil, and we’re ten who imbibe; a boat in the grains of your heart, we row it nightward; a little jug of blueness, so you hop over us lightly, and we sleep …

Before the tent the hundred pull up, and carousing we carry you to the grave. Now the hard thaler of dreams resounds on the flagstones of the world.

5、TALLOWLIGHT*

The monks with hairy fingers laid open the book: September. Jason now throws snow at the sprouting seed. A necklace of hands the forest gave you, so dead you walk the rope. A darker blue becomes part of your hair, and I speak of love. Shells I speak and light clouds, and a boat buds in the rain. A little stallion gallops over the leaf-turning fingers— Black the gate leaps open, I sing: How did we live here?

该诗亦有王家新译本。

6、THE HAND*

THE HAND full of hours, so did you come to me—I said: Your hair is not brown. So you lifted it easily onto the scales of grief; there it lay, heavier than I …

They come to you on ships loaded down with it, they put it up for sale on the markets of lust — You smile at me from the depths, I weep toward you from the scale that stays light. I weep: Your hair is not brown, they offer the water of the sea,and you give them locks of hair … You whisper: They do fill the world with me now, and for you I remain a narrow pass through the heart! You say: Treat yourself to the foliage of the years—it’s time you came closer and kissed me!

The foliage of the years is brown, your hair is not.

特粉小注：

该诗所写近乎一段对话，意味颇为模糊，与“我”对话的“你”身份不明，我们能确定的是，“你”为女性，经受苦难，贩卖欲望，试图靠近并诱惑“我”，而“我”最终给予拒绝。因此，我们不妨假设，自浅层意义上看来，“你”是一位多难的风尘女子，进而衍生出更多的象征意味——例如，某种风格的诗歌（表现主义？感伤主义？）与其缪斯。

“满手时间”，确切的说该是“满手时辰”，这些时辰乃是“我‘与”你“亲密的记录，是记忆中不可去除的部分。

“我”始终在强调一句话“你的头发不是褐色的”，兴许这里的褐色是属于诗人的私人记忆，是其苦难史上留给他深刻印象的女子特征——是“路得，拿俄米，米利暗”（见《在埃及》）中的一位。

”岁月的叶子“——流逝时间之喻，西方诗歌常见的隐喻，盖从《伊利亚特》衍生。此处的”你“仿佛罂粟，意图以情爱使我享受岁月之叶的更迭，忘却已然流逝的痛苦，并最终发出”亲亲我“的呼喊。而”我“再一次强调褐色的不可或缺，苦难记忆的不可或缺，在尾行中彻底回绝了”你“

7、HALF NIGHT*

Half night. With the daggers of the dream fixed in the spitting eyes. Don’t scream from pain: the clouds flutter like towels. Like a silken rug it was stretched between us, so that there be dancing from darkness to darkness. They carve for us a black flute from living wood, and now the dancer comes. Fingers spun from spume she dips into our eye: would one eye still want to weep? None. So she blissfully whirls around, and the fiery drum resounds. Rings she throws at us, we catch them with our daggers. Is that how she weds us? It sounds like shards, and I know it once again: you did not die the mallow-colored death.

特粉小注：

钉在眼中的并非梦的匕首，而是“夜半”，匕首仅仅是媒介而已。夜半如图画般被钉死在我们的眼中，它的黑色如布帛，如丝毯。而随后展开的场景应是《死亡赋格》的预演，黑色长笛——“他命令我们当场奏乐跳舞”。

诗中出现的舞女——“你”，或许是“满手时间”中的“你”的对立面，那个头发为褐色的女子，或是灰发的苏拉密，手指的浸入是对半夜之伤的治愈，而梦的匕首也随之被拔出，转而去接受她象征爱情的戒指。，她与“我们”之间上演了一场婚礼——“It sounds like shards”（中译不可见观）指的正是犹太婚礼上的踩玻璃仪式。

他们最终融为一体，她不再是死的了，至少未因淡紫色——毒气的颜色——的死亡而死去。

8、YOUR HAIR OVER THE SEA*

Your hair too hovers above the sea with the golden juniper. With it, it turns white, then I dye it stone-blue: the color of the city where last I was dragged to the south … With ropes they bound me and tied a sail to each one and spat upon me from foggy mouths and sang: “O come over the sea!” But I as a pinnace paint the wings purple and rattled the breeze to myself and, ere they slept, put to sea. I was to dye them red, your locks, but loved them stone-blue: O eyes of the city, where I fell and was dragged southward! With the golden juniper your hair too hovers above the sea.

9、ASPEN TREE*

ASPEN TREE, your leaves gaze white into the dark. My mother’s hair ne’er turned white.

Dandelion, so green is the Ukraine. My fair-haired mother did not come home.

Rain cloud, do you dally by the well? My quiet mother weeps for all.

Round star, you coil the golden loop. My mother’s heart was seared by lead.

Oaken door, who ripped you off your hinges? My gentle mother cannot return.

特粉小注：橡树，德国的国树，引申为德语，该诗尾行之意味，与《墓畔》是一致的。

10、CINERARIA*

Migrant bird spear, the wall flown over long ago, the branch above the heart white already and the sea above us, the hill of the depth enleafed by the stars of noonday— a poison-empty Green like that of the eye she opened in death …

We hollowed the hands to scoop the oozy torrent: the water of the places where it’s dark and the dagger is handed to no one. You sang a song too, and we wove a lattice in fog: maybe a hangman will still come and make our heart beat again; maybe a tower will roll over us still, and a gallows will raise the roof; maybe a beard will disfigure us and her fair hair turn red …

The branch over the heart is white already, the sea over us.

11、THE SECRET OF THE FERNS*

In the vault of swords the shadows’ leafgreen heart gazes at itself. Naked are the blades: who in death wouldn’t linger before mirrors? Here too live melancholia’s served up in jars: flowery it darkens upward before they drink, as if it were not water, as if it were a daisy here, queried for a darker love, for a blacker pillow for the bunk, for heavier hair …

But here there’s dread only for the shimmer of the iron, and if anything still shines here, let it be a sword. We empty the jar from the table only because mirrors host us: let one of them split in twain where we’re green as the leaves.

12、THE SAND FROM THE URNS*

Moldgreen is the house of forgetting. Before each of the blowing gates your beheaded minstrel blues. For you he beats the drum made of moss and bitter pubic hair; with festering toe he draws your brow in the sand. Longer he draws it than it was, and the red of your lip. You fill up the urns here and nourish your heart.

13、THE LAST FLAG（该诗中译颇为酸腐）

A water-colored quarry is hunted in the dusking Marches. So tie on the face mask and dye your eyelashes green. The dish with dozing shot is proferred over ebony tables: wine foams here from spring to spring, so short is the year, so fiery the prize of these sharpshooters—the rose of the unknown: your erring beard, the tree stump’s idle flag.

Cloud-billows and baying! They’re riding delusion into the ferns! Like fishermen they cast nets after will-o’-the-wisp and thin air! They sling a rope around the crowns and invite to the dance! And wash the horns in the spring—thus they learn lure-calls.

Is what you choose as coat leak-proof and does it salvage the radiance? They slink like sleep around the trunks, as though offering dream. The hearts they fling up high, the mossy balls of madness: O water-colored fleece, our own banner on the tower.

14、A CRUNCHING

A CRUNCHING of iron shoes there is in the cherry tree. Out of helmets summer foams up for you. The blackish cuckoo with diamantine spur draws his image on the gates of the sky. Bareheaded the rider towers above the foliage. On his shield he bears your dusking smile nailed to the enemy’s steel sweatband. He was promised the garden of the dreamers, and spears he holds at the ready, that the rose may ramble …

But shoeless through the air comes he who resembles you most: iron shoes strapped to frail hands, he sleeps through the battle and summer. The cherry bleeds for him.

15、THE BANQUET*

Drained be the night from the flasks in temptation’s high rafters, the threshold be ploughed with teeth, before dawn choler be sowed: a moss may yet shoot up for us, before they’ll arrive from the mill to find a quiet grain among us, their slow wheel …

Under the poisonous skies there lie other, likely fallower, stalks, there the dream is coined different than here where we throw dice for pleasure, than here, where in darkness oblivion and wonder are traded, where all’s valid but for an hour and is spat at by us in our revels, hurled into the windows’s avid water in luminous coffers—: it bursts on the pavement of humans, for the glory of clouds!

Now wrap yourselves in your coats and climb on the tables with me: how else to sleep now except standing up, amidst the chalices? To whom shall we still drink our dreams, if not to the slow wheel?

16、DARK EYE IN SEPTEMBER

Stonehood Time. And lusher do the locks of pain well up around earth’s face, the drunk apple, browned by the breath of a sinful saying: fair and averse to the game they play in the baleful afterglow of their future.

A second time the chestnut blooms: a sign of the poorly enkindled hope for Orion’s quick return: the star-clear fervor of heaven’s blind friends calls him near.

Unconcealed at the gates of the dream a lonely eye contends. What happens daily is all it needs to know: at the eastern window nomad-figure of feeling.

Into the wet of its eye you dip your sword.

17、THE STONE FROM THE SEA

The white heart of our world, without violence did we lose it today at the hour of the yellowing corn leaf: a round tangle, so it rolls easily from our hands. What remains for us is to spin the new, the reddish wool of sleep at the sandy burial site of the dream: a heart no longer, though still the mane of the stone from the depth, the meager ornament of its forehead, that thinks on mussel and wave.

Maybe, so that at the gate of that city in midair a nightly will will raise it, opening its eastern eye above the house where we lie, the blackness of the sea around our mouths and the tulips from Holland in our hair. They carry lances ahead, as we carried dream, as the white heart of our world rolls from our hands. Thus the curly gossamer around its head: a strange wool, beautiful instead of a heart.

O knocking, it came and it left! In finitude, the veils wave.

18、REMEMBRANCE OF FRANCE

You, think with me: the sky of Paris, the great autumn crocus … We bought hearts from the flower girls: they were blue and blossomed in the water. It started to rain in our room, and our neighbor came, Monsieur le Songe, a thin little man. We played cards, I lost the pupils of my eyes; you lent me your hair, I lost it, he struck us down. He left by the door, the rain followed him. We were dead and could breathe.

特粉小注：

读来使人困惑的超现实主义场景或许暗示了策兰过去的审美趣味及其付出的代价，梦幻先生，一个小矮人，或许是艾吕雅、布勒东等超现实主义者及其作品的象征。

19、CHANSON OF A LADY IN THE SHADOWS

When Lady Taciturn comes and beheads the tulips: Who wins? Who loses? Who goes to the window? Who says her name first?

There is someone who wears my hair. He wears it as one wears the dead on one’s hands. He wears it as heaven wore my hair in the year when I loved. He wears it that way out of vanity.

He’s the one who wins. He doesn’t lose. He doesn’t go to the window. He does not say her name.

There is someone who has my eyes. He has them ever since the gates closed. He wears them on his fingers like rings. He wears them like shards of lust and sapphire: he was my brother in autumn already; he’s already counting the days and the nights.

He’s the one who wins. He doesn’t lose. He doesn’t go to the window. He is the last to say her name.

There is someone who has what I said. He wears it under his arm like a bundle. He wears it like the watch wears its worst hour. He wears it from threshold to threshold, he does not throw it out.

He does not win. He loses. He goes to the window. He is the first to say her name.

He is beheaded with the tulips.

该诗亦有王家新译本

20、NIGHTBEAM*

The hair of my evening beloved burned most brightly: to her I sent the coffin made of the lightest wood. It is swayed by waves like the bed of our dreams in Rome; it wears a white wig like I and speaks hoarsely: it talks like I do when I grant entry to hearts. It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn, when I tarried on journeys in Lateland and wrote letters to morning. A gorgeous skiff is that coffin, carved from the timber of emotions. I too sailed it downbloodstream, when I was younger than your eye. Now you are as young as a dead bird in March snow, now it comes to you and sings its French song. You are light: you sleep my spring to its end. I am lighter: I sing before strangers.

特粉小注：

亦有黄灿然译本。又一首献给死去恋人的诗，夜光——情人的头发在呼唤“我”前往，但因生死之隔，“我”只得化身为棺椁去接近她。棺椁具有我的种种特征，尤其值得注意的是“白色假发’，这是否是诗人作为一个幸存者流露出的愧疚感呢？

之前均为幻梦，最后三行则是真实写照，孟译的”你们“是准确的，是包括“你”在内的众多受难者，已然安息，逐渐走向”我“梦境的终点转而被遗忘，而更轻的”我“，失去记忆者，正处于一种虚空的轻飘失重中，对着陌生人歌唱——为不理解的陌生读者写诗。

21、THE YEARS FROM YOU TO ME

Your hair waves again when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you set the table of our love: a bed between summer and autumn. We drink what someone brewed, who was neither I, nor you, nor a third: we lap up an emptiness and a vastness.

We see ourselves in the mirrors of the deepsea and hand ourselves the dishes faster: the night is the night: it begins with the morning, it lays me down next to you.

22、IN PRAISE OF DISTANCE*

In the springs of your eyes live the delirious sea’s fishermen’s nets.

In the springs of your eyes the sea keeps its promise.

Here I, a heart that dwelled among humans, throw off my clothes and the luster of an oath:

Blacker in black, I am more naked. Only as a renegade am I faithful. I am you when I am I.

In the springs of your eyes I drift and dream of plunder.

A net snared a net: embracing, we separate.

In the springs of your eyes a hanged man strangles the rope.

特粉小注；

Only as a renegade am I faithful.——李尼译本：只有丢掉信仰我才为真。

23、THE WHOLE LIFE*

The suns of half sleep are blue like your hair an hour before dawn. They too grow fast like the grass over the grave of a bird. They too are tempted by the game we played as a dream on the ships of desire. At the chalk cliffs of time they too are met by the daggers.

The suns of deep sleep are bluer: your lock was such only once: I sojourned as a nightwind in the venal lap of your sister; your hair hung in the tree above us, but you were not there. We were the world, and you were a shrub at the gates.

The suns of death are white like the hair of our child: it stepped forth from the flood when you pitched a tent on the dune. It wielded the knife of happiness above us with extinguished eyes.

特粉小注：

策兰不甚出名的杰作之一，又见黄灿然老师的译本，私以为优于孟译。j的英译本较汉译更为工整，三段诗开头一句的递进关系得以清晰展现。诗中的“你‘当为缪斯，结尾处那个挥舞刀刃眼神熄灭头发苍白的孩子或许正是策兰眼中自己的诗。

24、LATE AND DEEP*

Spiteful like golden speech this night begins. We eat the apples of the mute. We are doing a job one prefers to leave to one’s star; we stand in the autumn of our linden as a flag’s pensive red, as burning guests from the south. We swear upon Christ the New to marry dust to dust, the birds to the wandering shoe, our heart to a stair in the water. We swear to the world the holy oaths of the sand, we swear them easily, we swear them loudly from the rooftops of dreamless sleep and wave the white mane of time …

They yell: You blaspheme!

We’ve known it all along. We’ve known it all along, but so what? You grind in the mills of death the white meal of the Promise, you set it before our brothers and sisters—

We wave the white mane of time. You caution us: You blaspheme! We know it well, let guilt come down on us. Let guilt come down on us all our forewarning signs, let the gurgling sea come, the armored gust of the wind of a turning the midnight day, let come what never yet was!

Let a man come forth from the grave.

25、CORONA*

Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. We shell time from the nuts and teach it to walk: time returns to the shell.

In the mirror is Sunday, in the dream we sleep, the mouth speaks true.

My eye goes down to my lover’s sex: we gaze at each other, we speak of dark things, we love each other like poppy and memory, we sleep like wine in the seashells, like the sea in the moon’s blood-beam.

We stand and embrace at the window, they watch us from the street: it is time, for this to be known! It is time that the stone took the trouble to bloom, that unrest’s heart started to beat. It’s time for it to be time.

It is time.

第二辑

死亡赋格

Deathfugue

Black milk of morning we drink you evenings we drink you at noon and mornings we drink you at night we drink and we drink we dig a grave in the air there one lies at ease A man lives in the house he plays with the snakes he writes he writes when it darkens to Deutschland your golden hair Margarete he writes and steps in front of his house and the stars glisten and he whistles his dogs to come he whistles his jews to appear let a grave be dug in the earth he commands us play up for the dance

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night we drink you mornings and noontime we drink you evenings we drink and we drink A man lives in the house he plays with the snakes he writes he writes when it turns dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margarete Your ashen hair Shulamit we dig a grave in the air there one lies at ease

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you there and you other men sing and play he grabs the gun in his belt he draws it his eyes are blue jab deeper your spades you there and you other men continue to play for the dance

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night we drink you at noon we drink you evenings we drink you and drink a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Shulamit he plays with the snakes He calls out play death more sweetly death is a master from Deutschland he calls scrape those fiddles more darkly then as smoke you’ll rise in the air then you’ll have a grave in the clouds there you’ll lie at ease

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night we drink you at noon death is a master from Deutschland we drink you evenings and mornings we drink and drink death is a master from Deutschland his eye is blue he strikes you with lead bullets his aim is true a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete he sets his dogs on us he gifts us a grave in the air he plays with the snakes and dreams death is a master from Deutschland

your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Shulamit