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Selected poems:《形象香港:梁秉鈞詩選(中英對照)》
2020/10/29 06:00:14瀏覽239|回應0|推薦4
Selected poems:《形象香港:梁秉鈞詩選(中英對照)》

https://www.books.com.tw/products/0010555662
形象香港:梁秉鈞詩選(中英對照)
City at the End of TimePoems by Leung Ping-kwan
作者:Esther M. K. Cheung 
譯者:歌頓.奧城、梁秉鈞
出版社:香港大學出版社
出版日期:2012/06/01
語言:繁體中文

作者簡介
Leung Ping-kwan, better known under his pen name Ye Si, is the author of Foodscape (1997), Clothink (1998), Travelling with a Bitter Melon (2002), Islands and Continents (2006), Shifting Borders (2009), Hong Kong Culture (1995), and Hong Kong Literature and Cinema (2011). He is Director of the Centre for Humanities Research and Chair Professor of Comparative Literature at Lingnan University.

Esther M. K. Cheung is Chair of the Department of Comparative Literature and Director of the Centre for the Study of Globalization and Cultures at the University of Hong Kong.


〈北角汽車渡海碼頭〉

寒意深入我們的骨骼
整天在多塵的路上
推開奔馳的窗
只見城市的萬木無聲
一個下午做許多徒勞的差使
在柏油的街道找尋泥土

他的眼睛黑如煤屑
沉默在靜靜吐煙
對岸輪胎廠的火災
冒出漫天裊裊
眾人的煩燥化為黑雲

情感節省電力
我們歌唱的白日將一一熄去
親近海的肌膚
油污上有彩虹
高樓投影在上面
巍峨晃盪不定

沿碎玻璃的痕跡
走一段冷陽的路來到這裡
路牌指向銹色的空油罐
只有煙和焦膠的氣味
看不見熊熊的火
逼窄的天橋的庇蔭下
來自各方的車子在這裡待渡

At the North Point Car Ferry

The chill was through to the bone.
Bussing all day along dusty streets,
in a window slid wide open,
one knew the muteness of the lines of trees.
On an afternoon of numerous dull errands
one hardly saw the earth at all, just concrete.

His eyes were as black as coal;
the fine smoke made his silence visible.
A tire factory across the bay was aflame,
plumes of black smoke billowing.
Rolling black clouds worried the day.

Stifle yourself, save electricity!
The suns of our good old songs go out, one by one.
Up close to the body of the sea
her rainbows were oilslicks.
The images of the skyscrapers
were staggering giants on the waves.

We came through cold daylight to get here,
following a trail of broken glass.
The last roadsigns pointed to rusty drums,
everything smelling of smoke and burned rubber,
though we couldnt see fire anywhere.
In the narrow shelter of the flyover,
cars and their people waited a turn to go over.


煉葉〉

停車場旁邊銀樹上,我這街頭路燈
照見你蒼白的光影,濕冷而曖昧
是隨傍晚逐漸明亮起來的鋁質抒情
附和大廈的疲倦有時又游離它
永遠空虛的一截距離不知如何填補

不知如何跨越,有時想把你燃亮
好讓你能感覺,不,我不是要
傷害你,只是想把那團漆黑的委屈
化作光明,不知如何可以令金屬熔化
死去重生,不再習慣地隨車流晃動

你冷柔的反映,常常笑徒勞的街燈
有局限亦不能璀燦,你已倦於顏色
曾經熾紅的在剎那冷凝中嘶叫無涙
只盡冒白煙,與其悽悽戚戚不如賞玩
穈爛的光影,空幻裡不會有痛楚糾纏

不知如何安慰,這不完全明亮的路燈
不過想烘乾你身上的雨,陪你渡過
濕冷的黃昏,不是要把彼此灼成傷疤
只是想陪你說話,肯定你當初喜愛光
並沒有錯,黑暗暴戾的街頭我照見你

Streetlamp and Tin Leaf

Nightly here by the public garage I
shine your pale sheen to cold, slick life.
So cautiously your glimmerings begin flashing from
the metal youre made of, that fatigues like the look of the buildings
in the empty, perfect distance nothing can fill

and nothing crosses. Id like to brighten
you to real-life feelings. Id never harm you;
I’d just like to turn your mesh of sharp
grievances to steady shining. But I dont know how
to melt you down to live again, not trembling in rush hours.

Your blurred, wet reflections laugh at simple me,
unlikely to dazzle, and yet youre so tired of shimmering.
Once in white heat you melted and formed a tearless tear
and a puff of white smoke. Against despair you played
in shattered light. Emptiness held neither struggle nor pain.

What comfort am I, dim shining that I am.
I’d dry the raindrops on your skin, pass
the dank evenings with you, not fire and scar.
I just want to talk until your original love of light
is not a mistake, to glow with you against the hectic dark.


廣場〉

連場春雨後我們一朝醒來
忽然發覺家具都老了
今日的軀體無處安頓
在我們和舊日的床褥之間

產生了許多世代的距離
終日在靜物間尋找所愛
記憶蒸發牆壁滲出了汗水
龍紋瓷磚上看見了裂縫

四周堆積的言語堆積的事物
界定我們我們卻想重新界定門窗
永遠的廣場上搭起一個個臨時帳蓬
心中有飄泊的燈光來往開關

從頭整理居所重拾種種意義
失去了屋脊我們在被搜查過的客廳
尋一綑新的繩子去丈量今天
想跨過地上縱橫的牽絆緊緊地

抱住自身也不能完全自主
被黑夜驚醒讓我們有新的秩序
想拉開一幅布遮住塗污的肖像
風砂刮起紙屑雷暴劈裂了桌椅

In the Great Square

Aft
er days of Spring rains we awakened
in a shabby parlor jammed with beat-up furniture
and no place left for the waking to really live,
between ourselves and the piles of old bedding.

There scattered in the eye were the travels of generations.
One poked in the stuff for what one loved.
Memories evaporated; the walls sweat them out again.
The antique tile dragons were cracked badly.

Surrounded by the piles of used-up words and junk
that made us, we’d make our own windows and doors.
In the grandest of plazas wed set up fluttering tents,
our hearts as many and wavering as the avenue headlights.

We’d begun again housecleaning, sorting importances,
but we’d lost the roof and our parlor’d been ransacked.
We’d searched for new lines to lay out and measure ourselves
picking our way carefully in the ruins. Desperately one

tried to hold on to oneself, but things were beyond control.
At midnight, pandemonium! We only wanted to change a few things,
to draw the curtain over that blemished picture —
wild sands scattered our signs, thunder blasted our tables and chairs.


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