标题: [原创] 东西方现代诗研究分析 [打印本页]
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-28 08:14 标题: [原创] 东西方现代诗研究分析
东西方现代诗研究分析，我从实际出发，计划挑选一些自己感兴趣的诗，把主题相同的中文和英语现代诗放在一起做基本的分析研究，找出它们的特性。 我猜分析100多首或几百首之后（希望可以读那么多），我就有一个大概的看法，到时或许可以组织写出一篇论文。 【现代汉诗：谁来英译？】--张智中 http://www.tatj.com.cn/News_C.aspx?id=207
是这篇文章引起我的好奇心去做分析。
昨天我看到QQ老师介绍的丁艳的诗，我就去她的博客读了几首，觉得是很不错。我对诗好坏的判断是根据这个标准：
http://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/a/american-poets-of-the-20th-century/how-to-analyze-poetry
以下是丁艳的诗：
归来
文/丁艳
崖畔，杜鹃花又回来了
一起回来的，还有
花瓣上的露，绿叶上的风
甚至是，花树下婆娑的影儿
天依然蓝，云依然轻
月亮还是那个月亮，星也还是那颗星
芳草滚滚，漫过长亭漫短亭
可是，什么时候回来呢
——我的穿红裙子的青春？
以下是“年青和年老”By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
分析：作者描写自己青春的时候如何如何，想象自己年老的时候又怎样怎样，只要心存希望人就不会变老.
Youth and Age
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?—Ah, woful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:—
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou are gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
本诗分析链接：http://educational-wealth.blogspot.ca/2014/04/youth-and-age-poems-with-explaination.html
以下是分析中的一段，大概意思是说只要心存希望人就不会变老，透着一个乐观，积极的思想。
”The poet remembers the time when he was young. He could look at life with hope and happiness. Now the old age has made his body weak. But he believes that life is lived in thought only. A person becomes old only when he loses hope. These lines describe old age. The poet says that the dew drops found in the morning are as beautiful as gems. But, in fact, these dew drops are the tears of old age that makes a person sad and sorrowful. However, old age makes a person sorrowful only when he has lost hope. A person who has hope always feels himself youthful, though his body may have grown weak and old. “
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-28 10:04
Deleted
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-28 10:11
70后作家冯唐的书我没读过，去年看到网络有人评论他的“飞鸟集”翻译。这是他的首部翻译读者评论。https://www.zhihu.com/question/33570599
第一个反应，搞笑，有趣。。。
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 08:03
明月千里寄相思 http://vocaroo.com/player.swf?playMediaID=s1tNuSOSfoFL&autoplay=0
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 09:05
邋遢自述 作者：管管http://www.shigeku.org/xlib/xd/zgsg/guanguan.htm
小班一年中班一年大班一年
国中三年高中三年大学四年硕士二年博士二年
还好，俺统统都没念完
五次恋爱，二个情人，一个妻子，三个儿女
几个仇人，二三知已，数家亲戚。
当兵几年，吃粮几年，就是没有作战。
在人生的战场上，曾经小胜数次，免战牌也挂了若干
一领长衫，几件西服，还有几条牛仔裤
一斗烟，两杯茶，三碗饭，一张木床，天生吃素。
不打牌，不下棋，几本破书躺在枕头边装糊涂
几场虚惊，几场变故，小病数场挨过去。
坐在夕阳里抱着膝盖费思量
这是六十年的岁月么
就换来这一本烂账
嗨！说热闹又他娘的荒唐
说是荒唐，又他妈的辉煌
回头看看那一大堆未完的文章，荒唐，荒唐里的辉煌
挂在墙上那一把剑也被晚风吹的晃荡
这就像吾手里这杯冲过五六次以上的茶一样
不过，如果可以，俺倒想再沏一杯尝尝
管他荒唐不荒唐。甚至辉煌。
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 09:38
我计划要做很多事情
de le te d
作者: 徐英才 时间: 2016-3-31 10:08
小曼是地鼠，好东西都能挖出来。Very informative.
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 10:22
Originally posted by 路 at 2016-3-31 10:08:
小曼是地鼠，好东西都能挖出来。Very informative.
他的翻译很个性。哈哈哈。。。
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 10:52
so what do you think about that translation? Thanks!
作者: 徐英才 时间: 2016-3-31 11:11
Originally posted by Xiaoman at 2016-3-31 10:52:
so what do you think about that translation? Thanks!
Which translation?
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 11:27
Originally posted by 路 at 2016-3-31 11:11:
Which translation?
Oh never mind. I was talking about the controversial translations by Fengtang, but now I think I am smart enough (not smart aleck ) to predict what you will talk about regarding that. A smart student is able to predict what his professor will teach in the class so he can skip the class calmly.
没关系, 我刚刚是讲那个冯唐具有争议的翻译，但我想现在我有足够的智慧（并非自作聪明）去预测你所要讲的内容。一个聪明的学生能够预测他的教授在课堂要教的内容所以他可以从容地逃课。
哈哈哈哈。。。 ：）
（冯唐的翻译没意思，我的才有意思。）
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 11:40
管管的诗不错。 你认为呢？
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-3-31 11:58
我是觉得他可以正经地译，正常地译。但他偏要搞个性，没有严肃对待。
西方的自怜诗：
1）
Service Of All The Dead - Poem by David Herbert Lawrence
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
2）
Do not be a victim
To self-pity.
Self-pity is at once
The beginning and the end
Of life’s uselessness.
- Sri Chinmoy
3）
Love is my Sin 莎士比亚
CXLII.
Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!
Days Of Being Wild
Jun 29, 2013
Self Pity City
Your esteem's
Like the leaves
Crackling
Under footsteps
Under trees
Falling backwards
From your own "words"
Splattering
On the concrete
House of Cards
What a pity
To pity in yourself
To pity in good wealth
To pity in good health
And what a pity
You built it a city
Open Sewage
Clogs your roadways
Your gritty, shitty, self loathing city.
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-1 06:46
诗与自怜
from the magazine
Poetry and Self-Pity
Theodore Dalrymple
The English are a nation of poets. I am not speaking now of Keats or of Milton but of millions of my contemporaries. Surveys have established that three-quarters of the English now living have written poetry at some time, usually during adolescence. The same surveys have established that (increasingly) the English can hardly read, cannot spell or do arithmetic, and know nothing of their own history; but they do not let mere ignorance get in the way of self-expression.
Little wonder that much of what they write has little merit from the purely literary point of view. But that does not mean that it is without interest or that it does not reveal something about the national soul. If the way a man dresses tells you something about him, won't his poetry do so also—however tasteless or garish it may be?
For the vast majority, writing poetry is like chicken pox: once you've gone through it, you're immune for life. But, like the chicken pox virus, which can lie dormant in the body to erupt again in the form of shingles several decades later, usually at a time of bodily or mental stress, so the poetic muse can revive in exceptional circumstances—such as incarceration. The medical records of a significant minority of prisoners contain copies of poems they have written while in jail.
Do you know, what it's like to be lonely,
being just one, being the only?
Do you realy care,
that there's no one out there?
Do you realy mind,
or are you just blind?
Am I all by myself
Left to rot on the shelf?
Who am I in here,
Left on my own, I fear?
Is there plenty of ways
to end these long lonely days?
Does it really matter
if my mind begins to shatter?
All of these questions, but why,
am I put in here, and left to die?
Actually, there was quite a good reason. The author of these lines, aged 29, had been found guilty of kidnapping a 12-year-old girl, whom he had repeatedly raped over the three days he held her captive. Nor was it his first such offense. He nevertheless concluded his poem with a reflection on the nature of friendship:
What is the meaning of a true friend?
is it to whom you can really depend?
But it all becomes clear in the end,
that everyone around me are just pretend.
Murder also has its poetry, usually taking the form of lines addressed to the dear departed. Not a few murderers turn to verse; among them, for example, is Tracie Andrews, who stabbed her boyfriend, Lee Harvey, 37 times. She made up a story that a vicious passerby did it, and went on television to appeal for witnesses. She penned these lines in court and somehow let them fall into the hands of a reporter from a paper with a circulation of 3 million:
Goodbye my Love
God bless you my Sweetheart
My love is so deep
In my thoughts are you I keep . . .
One day I'll be with you, the jigsaw complete
`Tracie and Lee'
United in peace.
Though union in peace with the murdered one is a common conceit of lines written after a killing, reconciliation with the victim is rarely the subject of other prison poetry. As Wordsworth said, poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings; and the most powerful feeling that overflows spontaneously in most prison poetry is self-pity. Few indeed are those so lacking in compassion that they do not feel sorry for themselves, and in some cases self-pity becomes strident or militant. Here, for example, is a poem, entitled "Hustler," written by a convicted black robber, published in the magazine of the prison in which I work:
I rob,
I steal,
I con,
I deal,
I am a hustler.
Why?
Because I can't get a job.
Why?
Because of the colour of my skin.
Why?
I didn't ask to come here,
No, it was forced on me.
My forefathers were brought here as slaves.
What to do?
I rob,
I steal,
I con,
I deal,
To survive where I don't belong.
This is not so much Wordsworth's emotion recollected in tranquillity as special-pleading provoked by captivity. The version of history it contains is, of course, false and confused—but not from mere ignorance. The writer's forefathers were not brought to England as slaves; in all probability, his father emigrated to England from the West Indies in an attempt to better his economic prospects. His physical survival does not in the least depend upon his street robberies: he does not rob in order to eat but to procure consumer goods for which he would otherwise have to work and save. Moreover, if it truly were the color of his skin alone that necessitated his criminal activity, he would in effect be saying something that even the most flagrant racist would shrink from claiming: that all blacks are, ipso facto, criminals.
What we encounter in his poem, in fact, is an internalization of decades of liberal ideology, which the writer then uses to rationalize his clear intention to repeat his crimes. According to liberals, crime is the result of poverty, and black poverty is the result of racism, as night and day are the result of the earth's rotation. No conscious human decision or thought intervenes between the forcible transportation from Africa to Jamaica of the poet's great-great-great-great-great-grandfather and the snatching of an old lady's purse in the back streets of my city. The latter is no more than the natural consequence of the former. Thus the concept of personal responsibility for one's actions vanishes; and thus a man can continue to commit the most dreadful acts secure in his self-righteousness.
This poem, far from being a product of self-examination, is a product of self-deception, the maintenance of which is precisely its psychological purpose and function. As every child who has done wrong knows, if you protest your innocence loudly and vehemently enough, you come to believe in it yourself.
The poem also bears witness to what the eminent British historian Norman Cohn wrote in the preface to a new edition of his study of the forgery of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion: "[I]t is a great mistake to suppose that the only writers who matter are those whom the educated in their saner moments can take seriously. There exists a subterranean world where pathological fantasies disguised as ideas are churned out by crooks and half-educated fanatics for the benefit of the ignorant and superstitious."
Such a subterranean world exists indeed, and not only in the prison. It isn't only prisoners, after all, who feel the need to deceive themselves. Man is a self-deceiving animal; I have bad faith, therefore I am, one might almost say. Since amateur writers outnumber professionals by 100 to 1—at the very least—their productions are a better guide, statistically speaking, to the travails of the modern soul than the more readily accessible output of their professional confreres. Throughout every city you'll find writers' groups, where the disgruntled gather to express their rage in mimeographed print, aiming to disguise the source of unhappiness from themselves. Every dissatisfaction calls forth its own group, it seems: thus there is even a writers' group for socialist transvestites.
To be sure, the connection between socialism and transvestism may not at first be obvious. But many (even relatively conventional) people are inclined to ascribe their purely private woes to social causes in order to distance themselves from their own unhappiness, and to persuade themselves that the fault lies not within them but out in the world, and that therefore happiness is but a social reform or two away. The transvestites argued that it was not their sexual conduct in itself that made them unhappy but society's reaction to it; change society, and all would be well. Since the society in which they were unhappy, or at any rate dissatisfied, was a capitalist one, it followed that its opposite, a socialist one, would agree with them more.
The transvestite writers were angry: they believed themselves ill-used by an intolerant society. They believed that it was the transvestite content of their poetry that alone precluded its publication by the anti-transvestite mainline publishers (there is no one as paranoid as an unpublished poet). Anger is the handmaiden of self-righteousness, of course, and self-righteousness the mother of much declamation. One of the transvestite poets, a schoolteacher, read out his poem entitled "There Are As Many Sexes As People," outrage vying with complacency for mastery of his tone:
My sex
Isn't narrow or one-eyed
Like a fist to the jaw
Doesn't slam the door
Or jump into the driving seat
My sex
Isn't cold and cod in a suit
Doesn't stamp on the accelerator
Or aim with a gun . . .
My sex
Is like a child inside . . .
The transvestite poet isn't claiming mere equality with people of more normal sexual proclivities: he is claiming superiority to them. The world, he implies, would be a better, more peaceful place if there were more transvestites. Fists to the jaw would be fewer; fatal road accidents due to aggressive acceleration would dwindle.
As to the unjust discrimination from which he claimed to have suffered, it consisted of nothing more than the need to conceal his nocturnal activities from the school authorities. He had never been arrested, charged, convicted—or even reviled—for wearing women's clothes at night.
But why, I asked, did he want to reveal his secret desires to his employers? Which of us wants to reveal everything about himself to anyone, let alone his boss? Did not tolerance entail a certain reticence on the part of those who wish to be tolerated?
I was missing the point, he replied. A man's sexual desire was not under his own control, so he should not be criticized for it. A tolerant society would allow him to cross-dress any time he liked—in front of his class, if he so wished. In fact, a tolerant society would encourage him to do so, that children might learn about the multiplicity of human desire. A tolerant society would not force a man to live a lie, as he had lived, or to conceal his innermost desires, as he had concealed them. It would accept his personality whole.
Eventually, he said, he had been able to contain himself no longer, and had felt obliged—duty-bound, in fact—to go public. He had told his local newspaper that "I am simply a man who likes to dress up as a woman." The indifference that greeted this revelation was for him an example of what the late Herbert Marcuse called "repressive tolerance." And so he had taken to writing a column called "Confronting Self-Denial" in a small socialist theoretical monthly. Self-denial, he seemed to think, was a hydra-headed monster that needed to be slain: the failure to recognize and embrace one's true nature led to all manner of psychological problems; the refusal of legitimate pleasure was a waste of opportunity. Far from being a precondition of civilized existence, self-denial—in both its meanings—was the principal cause of human misery.
Since utopian socialists can hardly hope any longer to combat the top-hatted plutocrats of early Soviet propaganda posters, their last hope of overthrowing the social order that they imagine has caused them so much suffering lies in attacking the remaining barriers to self-indulgence. In the new society brought about by the absence of limits to personal conduct, there will be no personal suffering.
The transvestite poet's brand of anger—at once dishonest, superficial, and intense—marks several other of the city's writing groups, which constitute themselves according to an extra-literary sense of grievance. There are women writers' groups, lesbian writers' groups, black women writers' groups ("We are twice slaves,/ The slaves of slaves"), Indian women writers' groups, and even a disabled writers' group ("You think we cannot think like you/ Because we cannot walk like you"). Writing and reading are not attempts to grasp imaginatively the complexity of the world, to tease out moral ambiguities, or to enter the experience of others, but a primitive tribal ritual of solidarity, a raising of the drawbridges against the hostile aliens who do not share one defining attribute or another.
Our bookshops precisely mirror this balkanization of literary endeavor, with their black writing sections, gay and lesbian writing sections, women's writing sections, and so forth. You do not read to broaden your outlook or your sympathies but to maintain your rage—to quote Gough Whitlam's advice to his supporters, after he had been dismissed as prime minister of Australia. For in an era of victimhood, when even the most privileged feel themselves hard done by, rage is automatically deemed a generous and justified emotion, no matter what the special pleading upon which it is founded.
But not all amateur writers form themselves into groupuscules, like nineteenth-century Russian revolutionaries. Some toil in less than splendid isolation. They appear to maintain their rage successfully nonetheless. Indeed, today's official guardians of literature take that sense of grievance as literature's defining characteristic, though sometimes they throw over the raw anger some of the decent drapery of political correctness.
For example, in the city's central public library is a Poetry Corner—placed next to the ecological display entitled The Earth Fights Back, (principally, it seems, against the multinationals). The good citizens of the city who write are here encouraged to expose one another to their emotion recollected in tranquillity: provided, of course, that such emotion does not in any way conflict with what the City Council—the elected representatives of the People, after all—think it ought to be. "We reserve the right," says an official notice at Poetry Corner, "not to display poems which do not comply with the City Council's Equal Opportunities Policy."
What does Equal Opportunities mean, as applied to literature? A clue appears in a pamphlet explaining the library's book acquisition policy. Since for financial reasons it can't buy all the books that are published (100,000 per year in the United Kingdom alone), it must confine itself to the purchase of good books only: and one of the main criteria of merit in a book, the pamphlet explains, is whether "all cultures and lifestyles [are] portrayed positively."
The word "all" is here used in a severely technical sense: it doesn't mean "each and every." No one should expect that the "lifestyles" of a neo-Nazi, a billionaire currency trader, or even an old-fashioned teacher of classics would be sympathetically portrayed as a consequence of the Equal Opportunities Policy. "All" in this context means something akin to what is meant in India by the Scheduled Castes and Tribes: but instead of untouchables we have single parents, drug addicts, selected ethnic and religious minorities (not Chinese, Jews, or Jehovah's Witnesses, who are assumed to look after themselves), homosexuals, and all those who, in one manner or another, feel aggrieved by the traditional bourgeois code of conduct and rebel against it.
On the other hand, Equal Opportunities as applied to literature means that Poetry Corner makes no attempt to discriminate between good and bad on purely literary grounds—or to impose bourgeois orthography on the citizenry. How else would such lines such as: "The meaning of life is a puzzel to us all" or "Love of a tender hart should be encoraged not lent" ever have seen the light of day?
This indifference to both the orthographical aspect of writing and its literary quality is hardly unique to my benighted city's council, of course. It has filtered down from the higher reaches of the academy. A friend of mine, a history don at Oxford, tells me that he has been specifically enjoined by the university to ignore faults of grammar, spelling, and punctuation when marking his students' essays (to fuss over such trivia would be to inhibit their originality, as well as to lose much time). More important, the last two professors of English literature at Oxford, John Carey and the avowed Marxist Terence Eagleton, have publicly maintained that in literature there is no better or worse, but only difference, and that therefore no intrinsic reason exists to study one text rather than another—Jane Austen rather than advertisements, Dickens rather than Dallas. Literary criticism tells us nothing about literature, but everything about the critic: his social position, his political ideology, his economic status, and so forth.
So Shakespeare's putative superiority is nothing but a fiction of a self-appointed social elite, who maintain their hegemony, in part, by the imposition of their literary tastes, which distinguish them from, and are not shared by, the masses. In a demotic age, no message could be more congenial, for it assures everyone who takes up the pen that his efforts are, ipso facto, as valuable—"valid" is the usual weasel word—as those of the most celebrated writers in history.
There are scribblers and poetasters everywhere. Not a few of my patients bring me their work, and I still hope one day to discover a talent among them (though the hope grows fainter with each disappointment). A short while ago, I discovered—after three years' acquaintance—that a nurse on one of the hospital wards in which I work wrote poetry. I asked whether she would one day show it me, and to my surprise she told me that she never went anywhere without the large notebook in which she wrote it, in case the muse should strike her unawares. Also, she said, it was her most treasured possession, and she feared to lose it.
She handed me the book with reverence for it, and with a brave attempt at insouciance she awaited my verdict. She had written about the death of children and other emotion-fraught events in the life of a nurse, but nonetheless her verse never once—not for a single line—rose above the level of greeting-card doggerel. I praised her sincerity, but I sensed that more was required of me ("Your poetry deserves to be published"). I asked, by way of diversion, whether she read much.
"Oh no," she replied. "I don't have time."
This, oddly enough, is the answer returned by all my patients who feel impelled to write. Estimable person though the nurse was, she fully partook of the egotistical notion that she might write well without any special knowledge of what had been written before her, and that literature rises phoenix-like from the ashes of personal experience alone. Romantic and egalitarian at the same time, the notion assumes that each person's untutored efforts to express himself will be crowned with success. There is no awareness of a literary tradition to which an author might make a contribution but rather a complete disconnection from the past and hence an entrapment in a solipsistic present. Professors Carey and Eagleton would be delighted at so thorough an assimilation of their lessons.
The nurse's poetry partook also of another general feature of amateur writing in the city: it served not to explore the deeper meanings of experience but to protect her from them. The death of an innocent child or the pointless suffering entailed in many illnesses (such as every nurse witnesses) are subject matter for subtle and painful reflection rather than greeting-card verse, in which declamatory sympathy or protest stands as a substitute for examination of the central questions of human existence. In a culture increasingly unwilling to distinguish between the good and the bad in its own cultural production, self-expression becomes tantamount to self-indulgence, and a barrier to understanding.
It need not be so. The prison in which I work employs a professional writer to assist those prisoners who want seriously to write. A patient man, he draws out understanding by Socratic means, gently questioning the prisoners' work. One prisoner who had long and angrily denied his participation in the serious crime of which he stood convicted wrote a novel under the writer's guidance. Like most first novels, it was strongly autobiographical, and at first he wrote fast and fluently. But as he approached the events that led to the crime, his writing slowed; he became tormented and experienced a complete block.
He had discovered that he was guilty, after all; and in finally acknowledging his guilt, he was obliged also to reconsider his hostile attitude to the world. His writing had removed the distorting lenses through which he had, for years, looked at it. The process was painful, but a precondition of living without the bad faith that had ruined his life and made him a menace to society.
Such honesty is rare. Freud said that the purpose of psychoanalysis was to transmute neurotic suffering into normal unhappiness. Most writing is undertaken to transmute personal dissatisfaction into generalized untruth, enabling the writer to distance himself, as if by an invisible wall, from the discomfort of his experience. And in the absence of literary standards, inculcated informally at home or formally in schools and universities, writing becomes but an expression of self-regard—an expression, in short, of the radical egotism that is so prominent a feature of modern English life.
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-1 07:00
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems/self-pity
Poor old me 迟暮的我
I hate my body, so stay away;
Don’t waste your time coming onto me today.
Because my body is as ugly as my face
And my middle aged spread is on the way.
I hate being me and I hate you seeing me,
So close your eyes before I leave.
I disagree if you think I’m sexy,
Because that is one thing I will never be.
Leave me alone and get out of my face;
This place is no home. I am a disgrace.
I’ve never been touched by a touch of grace,
Just replaced and never saved for a rainy day.
My six pack is being replaced with a pot belly;
Oh pity me in my misery.
I can’t get back what age steals from me,
So I wallow in my self-pity.
Oh poor old me.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I have a cold
According to Doctor Google, I am actually dying.
With the symptoms I have, surely it can't be lying.
I'm living on borrowed time, I really should be dead.
My head is so dense, I look like Mr Potato head.
Rechecking my symptoms as I stare at the computer screen.
A common cold I have, now that's not so mean.
I've blown my nose so much, now it's red and raw.
My throat feels the same and coughing makes it sore.
I want to lie down but my nose is too stuffy.
I triple up the pillows but they don't feel soft and fluffy.
So much green, slimy mucas dripping down my throat.
In a Medieval castle I think I could fill the moat.
My face is drawn and haggard with mouth open wide.
Such an effort to breathe, this cold I cannot abide.
The whole body aches, I sluggishly move about the room.
Succombing to the symptoms, resigned to impending doom.
It's only a cold I have, It shouldn't be that big a deal.
Yes it is! No one on earth could imagine the way I feel.
I know you've all had a cold before, but not as bad as mine.
Don't anybody tell me that in a couple of days I will be fine.
Trying to go to bed. close my eyes and go to sleep.
If only I could! without my nose constantly on the leak.
Maybe I'll just stay in my chair and write another ditty.
But I'd rather think about myself, happily wallow in self pity.
感冒 （翻译）
头晕脑胀难安宁，
喉痛咳嗽悲涕零。
感冒难耐毋宁死，
夜寒失眠到天明。
(小曼 译）
涕零。出处：《前出师表》“今当远离，临表涕零，不知所言。”今又指①痛哭流涕，一般指高兴或者悲伤的极致。②鼻涕。[1]
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-2 08:26
鹤冲天
梅謝粉，
柳拖金。
香滿舊園林。
養花天氣半晴陰。
花好卻愁深。
花無數，
愁無數。
花好卻愁春去。
戴花持酒祝東風，
千萬莫匆匆。
The Rising Crane
Plum blossoms thank their pollen,
and willow trees drag their twigs of golden.
Fragrances have filled up the entire old garden.
It is half sunny and half cloudy,
such nice weather to grow flowers.
But the blooming flowers just deepen my sorrows.
Unlimited flowers,
Unlimited sorrows.
Blooming flowers make me a worrier:
I am afraid that spring will soon leave me here.
So I wear a flower in my hair,
and drink to the wind that blows east:
when going away, please make sure going with ease.
April 2, 2016
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-8 07:05
寂寞
她搬出陈年寂寞，
削皮，切片，
摁进一个大缸里，
注入百事可乐，
天天喝一杯，
寂寞加可乐,
别有一番滋味。
April 8， 2016
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-10 09:01
http://www.backchina.com/home.php?mod=space&uid=333081&do=blog&id=248408&cid=4688531
读网友日记 Multitasking 有感：
I am multitasking,
I can cook, clean, sing,
whistle,and bake a cake
coax the baby to sleep ...
all at the same time
without making any mistake.
I am a house keeper--
Your intelligent helper.
我是一个多面手，
我能同时毫无差错地
做以下的事情：
煮饭，清洁，唱歌，
吹口哨, 烘培蛋糕,
哄孩子睡觉...
我是一个管家，
你的智能助手。
April 10, 2016
网友回复：http://www.writingforums.com/threads/164855-I-Am-Multitasking
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-10 17:06
一首西方诗与一首中国现代歌曲的比较：
http://www.backchina.com/home.php?mod=space&uid=358517&do=blog&quickforward=1&id=248565
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-23 13:26
水是眼波横，山是眉峰聚
http://www.gushiwen.org/mingju_1475.aspx
The Beauty of a Woman：http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/doc/9789.html
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-25 08:45
临江仙 刘小曼
夜阑春风吹送，残月碎我清梦。天边哀鸣是孤鸿。小院进浣熊，四处觅食中。
教堂惆怅更钟，寂寥问谁与共。欲饮酒瓶早已空。流水去匆匆，小桥倒影同。
April 25, 2016 凌晨 读临江仙 晏几道
http://vocaroo.com/player.swf?playMediaID=s07kQkGzHRrU&autoplay=0
临江仙 晏几道
斗草阶前初见，穿针楼上曾逢。罗裙香露玉钗风。靓妆眉沁绿，羞脸粉生红。
流水便随春远，行云终与谁同。酒醒长恨锦屏空。相寻梦里路，飞雨落花中。
作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2016-4-25 10:07
Spring breezes softly blow at midnight,
my dream is broken by the moonlight.
I hear a lonely goose sadly sing afar,
and see a racoon look for food in my yard.
The church bell sends sorrowful sounds,
who is its company? It hasn't found.
I want to drink some wine to comfort myself,
but only find the empty bottle on the shelf.
Alas, the brook flows in a hurry,
leaving alone the bridge shadow and me.
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