《夜莺颂》--济慈--第二版---安魂曲终场 如泥在草芳

夜莺颂----济慈----第二版  08/09/2022 
吾心疼至深/ 魂麻志欲昏/ 意若饮毒鸠/ 黯然如药吞/ 心沉忘川水/ 光阴渡一寸/ 非妒汝乐纯/ 共君欢至深/ 轻翼载树神/ 悠扬宫调声/ 山榉丛丛处/ 阴盈影沉沉/ 歌喉满夏时/ 绿荫馥乐生   
陈年醇冰窖/ 对酒饮一樽/ 酒清如花露/ 绿野满仙荪/ 起舞颂盛日/ 拥歌赞南春/ 诗意入满怀/ 粉色晕诗魂/ 珍珠沫如泪/ 泪溢杯缘吮/ 华灼染紫唇/ 吾欲一饮尽/ 离世不扰人/ 吾随君逝处/ 林幽黯消魂  
离逝远且遥/ 吾忆亦渐消/ 君居群叶间/ 君思从未晓/ 疲乏烧焦躁/ 人间坐看处/ 呻吟传如道/ 忧而生华发/ 华发得几稍/ 神痹华发摇/ 青春化枯伴/ 还乡苦魂招/ 死荫掺寂寥/ 忧伤满思渺/ 绝望灰如潮/ 美颜失焕貌/ 明眸迟泪凋/ 新爱先枯槁/ 未曾见明朝   
逝之离之呼/ 吾欲飞向汝/ 酒神驾车豹/ 吾不求同路/ 诗情掀羽翼/ 翼隐无形迹/ 吾神意迷离/ 且得随君去/ 温柔入良宵/ 月母居宝瑶/ 灿灿群星绕/ 此方却无耀/ 天际微风缈/ 葱绿通幽处/ 青苔曲径绕 

何花恋吾脚/ 何香挂枝俏/ 幽暗膏没药/ 吾居暗之央/ 仅猜伊春光/ 赐蜜予何芳/青草漫野狂/ 馥实居葛覃  
皓白染霍桑/ 如茵蔷薇安/ 忽凋紫罗兰/ 眠入叶之畔/ 长子立小满/ 玫瑰散麝香/  溢酒如露亮/ 蝇营没花牤/ 共息夏夜长 
向隅吾听暗/ 吾心长思量/ 吾拥半腔爱/ 与死共熙攘/ 死荫柔且软/ 诗韵同冥想/ 吾息入天凉/ 今夕比以往/ 若死更堂皇/ 午夜冥府光/ 无痛无断肠/ 汝艺泻若阳/ 汝心喜若狂/ 汝歌犹清唱/ 吾耳俱枉然/ 安魂曲终场/ 如泥在草芳  
生却不向死/ 不朽飞禽翔/ 不曾畏饥肠/ 今夕天籁响/ 往息安村夫/ 上古慰旧皇/ 忧伤泪漭漭/ 背井且离乡/ 孤伫异国田/ 路得念家邦/ 亦享君乐安/ 彼音落瑶池/ 幽人开西窗/ 苦险层层浪/ 绝望满汪洋/ 伊人奉平安   
绝望如钟响/ 唤吾归吾望/ 作别且诀别/ 如梦亦如幻/ 梦幻皆伎俩/精灵欺世忙/作别且诀别/ 哀怨颂歌散/ 离离草携芳/ 一幽涧涟涟/ 陵高川又前/ 音葬溪谷边/ 伊乎异象苦/ 伊乎晓梦甜/ 弦乐终离逝/ 焉醒焉睡间  

夜莺颂》翻译第二版----译者日志（四）  

几个月前我试着翻译了济慈的夜莺颂，但是我非常不满意那个翻译版本。这首诗实在是非常难翻译的一首诗，从现有的查良禛和余光中的现代文翻译版本就可以管中窥豹，略见一斑。查和余的翻译版本一对比，读者就能发现两个版本很多地方就对原诗有不同的理解。 

这次我回来重新做这件吃力不讨好的事情，主要是悔改我前面翻译的莫名其妙以及晦涩难懂。济慈是一位天才早夭的诗人，写《夜莺颂》这首诗的时候，他24岁，但是肺结核已经折磨他很久。彼时他爱上了邻家一位年轻女孩，痛苦的心情可想而知。两年以后济慈就去世了。《夜莺颂》的起句俨然就是一个病入膏肓的人的感受。济慈该是在治疗过程中吃鸦片类的止疼药的，所以他的诗句第一章就真实地描写了这种医治无望而心情绝望的状态。 

如果我希望把英国浪漫派诗人和中国古代诗人写作风格比较的话，我个人愿意把雪莱和李白进行对照，而把济慈和李商隐进行比较。济慈的诗歌，对于我来说，更为晦涩难解。济慈和雪莱一样，也非常善长于通过对自然的描写来延展自己对思绪的寄托。然而，因为他自己的个人遭遇，他的那种无可奈何的思绪时时渲染在他的诗歌之中，几乎无处不在。

其实花了这么些笔墨来写济慈的经历，我的希望是帮助读者来理解他写的这首诗歌。然而，这个解释背景的过程本身却让我自己非常疑惑。除却巴别塔的建造让人类从此根本的彼此分裂，万劫不复之外，在我个人的纯粹诗歌理念里面，一首伟大的诗歌，是不需要了解诗歌的作者和诗歌的创作背景的。至此，我再次掉入一个通过训练，来习得经验和感知的陷阱里面。最伟大的诗歌，一定是描写永远纠缠于人世的感情，永远不会凋谢的理念，和永远不会过时的经验。真正的诗歌是在人类理性世界之外，最为精确的非理性存在，因为它必然会被所有的人共同理解，超乎时代，超乎地理局限，在共同的人性里永恒地闪闪发光。语言本身，只是为了这个永恒的本质做一个媒介的桥梁。以前年轻时我喜好故作高深，装模作样崇拜维特根斯坦的语言哲学论，但是我越来越觉得这些玩意有啥用呢？起码现在我不认同他的“世界不是由事物组成，而是由事实组成”的基本观点。事实乃是事物的关联。我们人类太在意事物的关联和世界与自己的关系，而失去了认识这个世界的美和真的机会。存在是客观的，关联是主观的。人的感觉和认知，只是不过是在客观和主观之间缥缈的存在。既然我不可能永生，或者说，能永生的人们却也并不知道他们永生的时候是什么样子的，那在人生这一辈子里面，我们在乎那么多和我们自己不相干的关联干什么呢？而诗歌这个最不精确的语言，则是和语言哲学认知直接对立的存在，因为它描写的根本就不是事实。然而无论是唯心或唯物的认知里面，从共同的逻辑辩证来说且颇为矛盾的现实就是，诗歌和童话，明明成人们都知道它们描写的不是事实的关联，但是它们却忠实地拥有信徒般的读者群，直到老死。诗歌拥有能让我们最真切地感受到不可言语的美和世间种种飘渺的关联的能力; 这个最大的不确定性，却是我们人类在能够存在的世代里，所能找到的凿凿确据。

于人类历史的长河而言，会有一批很好的诗歌，虽然在它们被创作的时代是伟大的，但在未来的人们心里面，就没有必要那么精确和细致的研究了。在我个人的理念（或许是极度有偏见的观点）里，浪漫派的经典诗歌在人类存在的时刻里，一定永存。 

到此为止，我前段时间起劲翻译英文诗，拿着一首都能在餐桌旁盯着翻完的劲头好像完全消失了。我修改前译稿，补写完这篇和做完这个视频，足足拖了将近四个月。好吧，该过去就要过去，该来的自然会再来，至此，算是一个纪念。然而，"何日君再来？" 拜拜了，济慈，你也安息两百年了，愿你继续安息和拥有温柔浪漫的睡眠。

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
                        And mid-May's eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?