Three poems by Dana Gioia, translated by Anna Yin
Prayer
Echo of the clocktower, footstep
in the alleyway, sweep
of the wind sifting the leaves.
Jeweller of the spiderweb, connoisseur
of autumn’s opulence, blade of lightning
harvesting the sky.
Keeper of the small gate, choreographer
of entrances and exits, midnight
whisper travelling the wires.
Seducer, healer, deity or thief,
I will see you soon enough—
in the shadow of the rainfall,
in the brief violet darkening a sunset—
but until then I pray watch over him
as a mountain guards its covert ore
and the harsh falcon its flightless young.
by Dana Gioia
祷告
钟塔的回声，
小巷的脚步声，
风筛树叶的扫拂声。
蜘蛛网的珠宝商，
秋天富饶的行家，
收获天空的闪电刀片。
小门的守护者，
出入口的编舞者，
遨游电线的午夜私语者。
诱惑者，治疗师，神灵或小偷，
我会很快见到你-
在雨落下的影子里，
在紫罗兰黯淡日落的短暂时分-
但在那之前，我祈祷守护他
像山守卫它的隐蔽矿产
和严厉的猎鹰看护无法飞翔的稚鹰。
Translated by Anna Yin
Do Not Expect
Do not expect that if your book falls open
to a certain page, that any phrase
you read will make a difference today,
or that the voices you might overhear
when the wind moves through the yellow-green
and golden tent of autumn, speak to you.
Things ripen or go dry. Light plays on the
dark surface of the lake. Each afternoon
your shadow walks beside you on the wall,
and the days stay long and heavy underneath
the distant rumor of the harvest. One
more summer gone,
and one way or another you survive,
dull or regretful, never learning that
nothing is hidden in the obvious
changes of the world, that even the dim
reflection of the sun on tall, dry grass
is more than you will ever understand.
And only briefly then
you touch, you see, you press against
the surface of impenetrable things.
by Dana Gioia
不要指望
不要指望如果你的书打开
在某特定的页面，你读到的
语句今天将带来不同运数，
抑或风吹过黄绿处
和秋季的金色帐篷时
你可能听到的声音在向你述说。
总有事物成熟或风干。光戏谑
在湖的黑暗表面。每天下午
你的影子在墙上和你行走，
而在丰收的遥远的谣言下
日子沉重漫长。
又一个夏天过去，
这样或那样活着，
单调或遗憾，从未学会
没有什么是隐藏在
世界上的显著变化中，即使是
映射在高高的，枯干的草上的昏暗阳光
也比你能明白的更多。
然后，仅仅短暂地
你触摸，你查看，你按压
坚不可摧的事物表面。
Translated by Anna Yin
Thanks for Remembering Us
The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they’re not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.
The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can’t
throw out a gift we’ve never owned.
by Dana Gioia
感谢记住我们
误送到这里的鲜花，
签署着无人知道的名字，
现在已然凋谢。我们该怎么办？
邻居说，花不是送给她的，
附近也没有人临近生日。
我们应该感谢某人这样的失误。
是我们中谁的一次外遇？
起初我们觉得好笑，之后便猜想。
首先死亡的是鸢尾花，
笼罩在其体弱多病，甜
而缠绵的芳香里。玫瑰
一次落下一片花瓣，
现在蕨叶也变得干燥。
房间闻起来像一次葬礼，
但它们端坐那儿，过于舒适，
指责着我们一些微小罪行，
就像爱情被遗忘，而我们不能
扔出去我们从不曾拥有的礼物。
Translated by Anna Yin
PoetryEastWest 