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不知道为什么今天不能一次把要贴的东西放到一个贴里.
最近帮人翻译了一首英文诗歌.贴出来请大家商榷. 拍砖也可以. 先谢过了.
Beehive
By Jane Munro
after the loggers
efficient as the resort’s housekeeping crew
going cabin to cabin, stripping
beds, vacuuming floors, carting out
towels and garbage
after the tree-planters
with their Santa sacks
of seedling firs and cedars
each destined for a stocking
of white plastic
stiff rows marching up the slope
after the fireweed
blooming in tongues of flame, flickering
magenta, pink, lavender―masking stumps
in the forest’s graveyard, licking dry earth
and tinder-box slash, crisp needles and shattered
branches―the refuse
of the operation: old-time loggers going
from show to show, in our woods a decayed trestle,
humps of rotted ties along a level line
behind the berm―men
bunched in shacks: a moving circus
clearing the coast―
when all that’s left to do is wait
for the next harvest―then, the beekeeper
comes in―rattles up the decommissioned
logging road in a pickup loaded with boxes―
sets up his hives
on a slope overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca
and on the other side, thirty miles away, the blue
Olympics
builds a village for his queen and her drones―
the lady of regeneration
and her laboring monks
hermiting them away for the summer―
bears don’t upset them
deer browse further a-field―
the bees come and go, feeding on fireweed
below them, fog rolls in and out, blanketing
beaches, rumpling over lower slopes
above them, contrails
like sagging streamers after a party
but here, an alpine clarity in the air
and the sun’s gaze day after day
like a mother keeping her eye on her brood
as they swing, climb, balance and race, pushing
their boundaries, feeding on fireweed
inside, the hives slowly fill
with the thick amber gel of clear-cut honey
to fulfill the promise
of the fourth age, sages say
one may hide away―in a desert,
in a forest, in a cell―and busy oneself
with a ceaseless longing, gathering
nectar, distilling clarity
最近帮人翻译了一首英文诗歌.贴出来请大家商榷. 拍砖也可以. 先谢过了.
Beehive
By Jane Munro
after the loggers
efficient as the resort’s housekeeping crew
going cabin to cabin, stripping
beds, vacuuming floors, carting out
towels and garbage
after the tree-planters
with their Santa sacks
of seedling firs and cedars
each destined for a stocking
of white plastic
stiff rows marching up the slope
after the fireweed
blooming in tongues of flame, flickering
magenta, pink, lavender―masking stumps
in the forest’s graveyard, licking dry earth
and tinder-box slash, crisp needles and shattered
branches―the refuse
of the operation: old-time loggers going
from show to show, in our woods a decayed trestle,
humps of rotted ties along a level line
behind the berm―men
bunched in shacks: a moving circus
clearing the coast―
when all that’s left to do is wait
for the next harvest―then, the beekeeper
comes in―rattles up the decommissioned
logging road in a pickup loaded with boxes―
sets up his hives
on a slope overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca
and on the other side, thirty miles away, the blue
Olympics
builds a village for his queen and her drones―
the lady of regeneration
and her laboring monks
hermiting them away for the summer―
bears don’t upset them
deer browse further a-field―
the bees come and go, feeding on fireweed
below them, fog rolls in and out, blanketing
beaches, rumpling over lower slopes
above them, contrails
like sagging streamers after a party
but here, an alpine clarity in the air
and the sun’s gaze day after day
like a mother keeping her eye on her brood
as they swing, climb, balance and race, pushing
their boundaries, feeding on fireweed
inside, the hives slowly fill
with the thick amber gel of clear-cut honey
to fulfill the promise
of the fourth age, sages say
one may hide away―in a desert,
in a forest, in a cell―and busy oneself
with a ceaseless longing, gathering
nectar, distilling clarity
