社团风采 | 线上诗歌翻译赛启动 -唯寻国际教育

Transpire | Musa

Muse Translated

Inspire through Translation

当前浏览器不支持播放音乐或语音，请在微信或其他浏览器中播放 þau Hafa Sloppið Undan þunga Myrkursins Ólafur Arnalds - …And They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness

我们的生活中，无时无刻不接触着翻译。

从货架上的进口商品，到耳边的一首歌；从电视中的国际新闻，到手边的一本书。

在这个贯通全球了全球网络的世界，翻译渗透了信息的方方面面。

语言是沟通的媒介。语言也是沟通的桎梏。

语言沟通的不仅是信息，也是美。

文学以语言创造。我们对文学的理解与欣赏无不依赖于语言，也局限于语言。

文学所呈现至读者的形式，决定了读者所能感知的含义与美感。

因而，翻译，这门将文学从原先的形式，转化为另一种形式，呈现给更多读者的艺术，成了跨语言、跨文化的文学欣赏中至关重要的过程。

如今的我们，掌握着最丰富的语言资源。

除了汉语、英语，法语、德语、日语，乃至诸如阿拉伯语、挪威语、拉丁语等“小语种”的大门，也向我们敞开。

拥有了多语言的阅读能力，我们为什么还需要翻译？为什么还想要尝试翻译？

为了自身的理解——在翻译一部作品的过程中，对其中语言的风格、表达的微妙、真正的含义、文化的内蕴，不断发掘。

为了向外的传播——以我们独特的语言能力，将一部来自异国他乡的作品，变成我们的同伴可以理解欣赏的模样；或是将我们文化中的闪耀篇章，转化为可被世界他国理解欣赏的光芒。

为了美的再创造——在一种语言到另一种语言的鸿沟之间，被转化的不仅是原义，也是美的形式，是不同文化间藕断丝连的内涵，是包含了译者私人解读的再次创造。

翻译是带着镣铐跳舞，是忠于内核而打破禁锢。

于是，有了「Transpire | Musa」。

Transpire

= Translation + Inspire

How do we break the barriers established by distinct languages? How do we shake off the confinements on thoughts imposed by form? How do we dance in shackles? — Seeking a way to inspire through translation.

Musa

= Muse/Poetry [Latin]

What better form to find condensed literary beauty than in poetry? Let the muse of the poets be our muse, the poetic language be mirrored in our language.

我们希望以多语言能力为媒介，打破隔阂不同国别文学的语言的壁垒。

在转录呈现原文含义的同时，将源语言中的美，以另一种语言，在另一种文化中呈现。

无论你是精于中文英文，还是热爱德法日语，在这里，都有你发挥创造的空间。

即日起至七月初，「Transpire | Musa」将每周聚焦于一种语言的三首诗歌。

投稿者可任意挑选一或多首进行原创翻译。译作将邀请专业评委老师打分点评，同时开放公众票选。CrunchyZoo与各二外社团也将对诗歌原文进行分析与朗读。

每首诗的最佳译作将有机会获得源语言诗集与丰厚奖金。

我们等待，你的译作，激发新的灵感，唤醒跨语言的美。

Week1 - English

第一周的翻译

将从英文诗歌开始

以三首时代各异、风格迥异的作品为开篇

找寻

打开缪斯之门的钥匙

The Day Is Done

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life’s endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

Roses and Rue

Oscar Wilde

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,

Were it worth the pleasure,

We never could learn love’s song,

We are parted too long.

Could the passionate past that is fled

Call back its dead,

Could we live it all over again,

Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet

By an ivied seat,

And you warbled each pretty word

With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,

Just like a linnet,

And shook, as the blackbird’s throat

With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey

Like an April day,

But lit into amethyst

When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile

For a long, long while,

Then it rippled all over with laughter

Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,

Just like a flower:

I remember you started and ran

When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,

For no one could match you,

You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,

Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair — did I tie it?

For it always ran riot —

Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:

These things are old.

I remember so well the room,

And the lilac bloom

That beat at the dripping pane

In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,

It was amber-brown,

And two yellow satin bows

From the shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace

Which you held to your face-

Had a small tear left a stain?

Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu

There were veins of blue;

In your voice as it said good-bye

Was a petulant cry,

“You have only wasted your life.”

(Ah, that was the knife!)

When I rushed through the garden gate

It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,

Were it worth the pain,

Could the passionate past that is fled

Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,

Dear love, for your sake,

It will break in music, I know,

Poets’ hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told

That the brain can hold

In a tiny ivory cell

God’s heaven and hell.

III

The Hollow Men

T.S. Eliot

【仅需翻译第五章

Mistah Kurtz-he dead

A penny for the Old Guy

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats’ feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom

Remember us—if at all—not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death’s dream kingdom

These do not appear:

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind’s singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer

In death’s dream kingdom

Let me also wear

Such deliberate disguises

Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves

In a field

Behaving as the wind behaves

No nearer—

Not that final meeting

In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man’s hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this

In death’s other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone.

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless

The eyes reappear

As the perpetual star

Multifoliate rose

Of death’s twilight kingdom

The hope only

Of empty men.

Here we go round the prickly pear

Prickly pear prickly pear

Here we go round the prickly pear

At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

投稿方式

邮件 | CrunchyZoo@163.com

命名 | 诗名-校名-班级-译者姓名

截止日期 | 06月05日

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信—达—雅

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公众评分 | 30%【6月5日开放】

评委阵容 | WFLA中文组

门福蕾老师李博老师康佳老师

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策划 | CrunchyZoo语言文学社

文字 | 邓苇航

排版 | 邓苇航

海报 | 曹舒雯

2020.05.30

社团风采 | 线上诗歌翻译赛启动

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