《新年问候》，[俄]茨维塔耶娃。不能说这是一个好的版本，但一定是一个独特的版本，一个让人接近于能懂的版本。它是黄灿然、王家新版本和两个英文版本的大杂烩。献给喜欢诗歌的朋友们，新年快乐！让我凭借这首诗歌 “越过这张桌子的无垠海岛，我的杯将碰到你的杯，以无声的一碰。” 新年快乐！
新年问候
I.
新年快乐 ----- 新世界/光 ----- 边缘/王国 ----- 避难所！
第一封信给你，寄往你那
----- 误为苍翠的、绿色的 -----
喧嚣、空旷的新居，
犹如风神之塔。
第一封信给你，来自昨日-----
那里，没有了你 -----
来自我的家乡，
家乡-----现在已经是来自众星中的
一颗......
译者注，“世界/光”、“边缘/王国”表示一个词，同时具有两种含义.
想要我告诉你
我怎么知道的吗？
没有地震或雪崩的宣示，
只是某人-----可以是任何人-----说
他在报纸上读到了它。‘把文章给我-----
哪里发生的？’‘在山里。
（我想到探入窗户的松树枝）
难道你不看报吗？’
‘报纸呢？’‘我没带。’
‘哪里发生的？’‘疗养院。’
（租借来的天堂）‘请告诉我何时发生。’
‘昨天，或者前天，我记不得。
你不打算为我们写点什么？’‘不，不写。
他是家人，我不是犹大。’
II.
那么 ----- 即将到来的新年快乐！（明日诞生的新年！） -----
要我告诉你我做了什么吗，当我得知...... ？
哦不！......说溜嘴了。坏习惯。
我不想使用生或死这样愚蠢的字眼。
我什么也没有做，但确实发生了
什么，发生得没有
影子或回声！
那么 ----- 这趟旅行怎样？
那颗撕裂但未撕碎的心
怎样？如同乘坐奥尔洛夫快步马，
你说，疾如飞鹰，
是不是很惊险 -----或不止？
还要惬意些？
那里没有高处，或下降，
对那骑着真正俄罗斯飞鹰的人来说
我们与来世有血缘关系：
在俄罗斯待过的人都在此世
见过来世。
我谈起生死带着一丝隐忍的傻笑
-----你将以你自己去触摸它！
我谈起生死，带着一个注脚，
一个星号
（星球，今夜我的渴望，
去他的大脑的半球 -----
我渴望天国！）。
译者注：星号、星球、天国是不同字眼的同一种指代.
III.
现在，我的朋友，
不应该忘记：如果
连着写的字母是俄语而不是德语-----
那不是因为，如今他们宣称
什么都会发生，
不是因为乞丐不能成为选择者，
不是因为死人的可怜，
他可以吞噬一切-----
不眨一眼！不，
而是因为那个世界-----
我们的世界-----并非没有语言。
十三岁时，在新圣母修道院
我就明白：那是前巴别塔时代的天国，
全部语言都是一种语言。
无限悲哀。你将不再问我
俄语里怎么说“巢”。
独有的巢，整个的巢，唯有这个巢
用天国（星球）庇护一个俄语的韵脚。
我是不是分心了？但不可能发生
这样的事情-----对你分心。
每个意念，每个，Du Lieber，
音节都引向你-----不管说的
是什么（虽然对我来说德语比俄语
还母语，但我想要天使们的母语！）
你已不在，那里什么都没有，
没有巢，只有坟墓。
一切都已改变，然而任何都不曾改变。
-----你是否已经忘......不，不是我----- ？
新的世界，赖纳，你感觉怎样？
最坚定的，最全面的，最有把握的-----
诗人的、对新世界的第一印象，是否符合
对那个只给予你一次的星球的最后一瞥？
译者注：“Du Lieber”，德语，意思是心爱的。
诗人离弃其灰烬，灵魂离开肉体
（把这两者分开就是犯罪），
而你离弃自身，你离开你自己。
成为宙斯之子并不会更好，
撕裂自己：就像分开卡斯托尔和波吕丢刻斯，
撕裂自己：就像大理石被掘出大地，
既不分离也不相遇，
只是一次遭遇：
最初的相会和第一次别离。
译者注：卡斯托尔和波吕丢刻斯是宙斯的双生子.
你如何能看清你自己的手，
看清手上的墨渍痕迹，
从你那如此遥远（多遥远？）的，
没有尽头因为没有开始的
栖息处，在地中海的水晶之上
-----和其他的浅碟。
一切都已改变，然而任何都不会改变。
我肯定，在这郊外的我，
一切都已改变，然而任何都不在改变-----
尽管我还不知道如何把这封额外信件
寄给我的收信人-----
我可以往哪里张望呢，
当我们把手肘斜倚在包厢的边缘，
如果不是从今生望向来世，
如果不是从来世望向今生，
苦难的今生，长长的苦难。
IV.
我生活在贝尔维，一个鸟巢和枝丫的小镇。
与一个导游交换眼神之后：
贝尔-维。一座堡垒，其窗口可眺望
巴黎的完美景观，
巴黎----- 高卢人幻想的会客室，
以及稍远处......
手肘搁在猩红色天鹅绒上俯瞰，
你将会怎样发笑（我也
一定会），从你高不可测的住处，
看着我们的贝尔维们和贝尔韦代雷们。
我百无聊赖。失落。所有细节。忙碌。
新年正在敲门！
我该跟谁碰杯，
为了什么？何种理由？
吞下这一团团棉花
充当香槟的泡沫。有什么目的？是的，乐钟。但这
与我何干.......？
在今夜的喜庆中我该拿
赖纳之死这内在节奏怎么办？
也即，如果你，这样一只眼睛，模糊了，
生便不是生，死便不是死。意义
消失。要是我们相见，我会抓住它。
非生非死，而是一个第三者，某个方面，
它是新的（而在把麦秆铺平之后，
那多好玩啊，对那个二七年，
正在来的，和对那正在离去的二六
年 ----- 以你开始并将以你
结束），我要为它干杯。
越过这张桌子的无垠海岛
我的杯将碰到你的杯，以无声的
一碰。
越过桌面我看着你的十字架。
有多少场所 ----- 在城外，有多少空间
在城外！而还会是对谁呢如果不是对我们 -----
灌木丛招手示意？场所 ----- 特别是我们的
而不是任何其他人的！所有的叶子！所有的针！
有我在的你的场所（有你在的你的场所）。
（我们大可以约会 -----
就为了聊聊天。）不在乎地点！想想那多少个月吧！
多少个星期！多少个无人的
多雨郊区！多少个早晨！以及仍未
被夜莺开始的所有一切！
很可能我看得不清楚，因为我深陷洞中，
很可能你看得更清楚，因为你高高在上。
我们之间什么也没有真正发生。
无，如此彻底、纯粹的无，
无，确实发生过的无。
如此恰当 -----无需赘述。
什么也没有 ----- 别期望从日常中会产生
什么东西（那些因此误入歧途的人
全错了！）而那又是些别的什么
界线，你是如何落进去的？
古老的戒律：
虽然那里是虚无-----纵使是虚无......
哦，让它成为某种事物，从远处，甚至
从影子的阴影处！虚无：那些时刻，日子，
房屋。甚至一个死囚，戴上锁链，
也拥有记忆的馈赠：嘴唇！
赖纳，我们是否过于挑剔？
毕竟，还剩下属于我们的
光与世界。
我们只是我们自己的反射。
除此 ----光与世界----- 还有我们的
姓名。
V.
空旷的郊外快乐，
新地方快乐，赖纳，
新世界、新光亮快乐，赖纳！
使证明成为可能的最远端的海岬快乐，
新眼睛快乐，赖纳，新耳朵快乐，赖纳！
一切对你而言都是
障碍：激情和朋友。
新声音快乐，回声！
新回声快乐，声音！
多少次在教室的书桌上：
那些是什么山？那些是什么河？
它们可爱吗，那些没有游客的风景？
我说得对吗，赖纳 -----乐园是多山的，
多风暴的？不是寡妇们所热望的那种 -----
乐园不止一个，对吗？它上面一定还有另一个
乐园吗？在阶梯形地势上？我是根据塔特拉山脉判断 -----
乐园只能是
一个圆形露天剧场。（帷幔正在落下...... ）
我对吗，赖纳，上帝是一棵生长的
猴面包树？不是一块金路易 -----
上帝不止一个，对吗？在他上面一定还有一个
上帝？
在新地方写作还好吗？
如果你在，那么诗歌就在：
因为你本身就是诗歌！
在那甜美生活中写作还好吗，
没有一张书桌搁你的肘，或额头搁你的手
我是说，你的手掌。
给我写信，想念你的笔迹。
赖纳，你对新韵脚满意吗？
我对“韵脚”的理解恰当吗？
是否有一整排新的韵脚-----
对死亡的崭新韵脚？
再见，下次再见！
我们将见面-----我不知道------我们将一起歌唱。
我不理解的新世界快乐，
整个大海快乐，赖纳，全然的我，快乐！
祈祷我们不要再错过对方-----
提早给我写信，
新的声音轨迹快乐，赖纳！
那里有一架通往天国之梯-----
铺满新年礼物，
新的任命快乐，赖纳！
我将举起新年的酒杯，
-----绝不泼洒任何一滴-----
举到罗讷河之上，举到拉龙之上，
那最终的离别之地。
交给赖纳 ----- 马里亚----- 里尔克 ----- 交到他手里。
译者注：拉龙，里尔克的安葬地。
New Year’s Greetings
by Tatiana Retivov
i.m. Rainer Maria Rilke
Happy New Year – new sphere – horizon – haven!
This is my first letter to your new address,
– notorious region, misunderstood, unsettled –,
as clamorous and empty as the Aeolian tower;
my very first letter to you from the yesterday
in which I suddenly found myself without you,
my own homeland become one of the stars…
Shall I tell you how I heard the news?
No earthquake or avalanche announced it,
only someone – might have been anyone – said
he’d read it in a daily paper. ‘Show me the article –
where did it happen?’ ‘The mountains.
(I think of pine branches in a window)
Don’t you ever read newspapers?’
‘The article?’ ‘I don’t have it with me.’
‘Where did it happen?’ ‘In a sanatorium.’
(A rented paradise.) ‘Please tell me when.’
‘Yesterday, or the day before, I can’t remember.
Will you write something for us?’ ‘No, I won’t.
He’s family. I’m not treacherous.’
Happy New Year, then, which begins tomorrow!
Shall I tell you what I did when I heard
of your – no, that’s a slip of the tongue.
I don’t use silly words like Life and Death –
So tell me, Rainer, how was your ride?
How was it when your heart burst open?
Was it like riding Orlov’s horses – wild
and fast as eagles fly – as you once told me?
Did it take your breath away? Was it more intense –
sweeter? Russian eagles have a blood tie
with the other world, and in Russia
you see the other world in this.
It belongs to us, that long night of stars
I speak of with a secret smile…
You timed your crossing well.
Dear friend,
if Russian script replaces German letters here
it’s not because the dead have to put up with
everything, as a beggar does, – it’s because
the world you live in now is ours.
– I knew as much when I was thirteen…
Am I digressing? No, that isn’t possible.
Nothing can distract my thoughts from you.
Every one of them, du Lieber, every syllable
leads me towards you in whatever language.
German is as native to me as Russian,
and most of all the language Angels speak.
There is no place where you are not.
Except the grave…
Do you ever – think about me, I wonder?
What do you feel now, what is it like up there?
How was your first sight of the Universe,
a last vision of the whole planet –
which must include this poet remaining in it,
not yet ashes, still a spirit in a body –
seen from however many miles stretch
from Creation to eternity, far above
the Mediterranean in its crystal saucer –
where else would you look, leaning out
with your elbows on the edge of your box seat
if not on this poet, with her many griefs…
I live in Bellevue: these suburban outskirts,
have birds’ nests in the branches. Glance
at your tour guide: Bellevue is a fortress
with a good view of Paris and its palaces.
How absurd we must seem as you lean out
on the crimson velvet edge of your theatre box,
looking down from an infinite height
on our Bellevue and Belvederes!
Skip the details. Here’s an urgent fact.
The New Year is already on my door step.
With whom can I clink a glass across
the table tonight? And with what?
Cotton wool? I have no champagne froth.
The New Year is striking. Why am I here?
What is there to do in this New Year?
If such an orb of light as you can go out
then neither life nor death has any meaning.
I shall only understand when we meet again.
What joy to end with you, begin with you.
Let us clink across the table, not with pub
glasses, but as if our souls fused.
I look upon your cross. Everywhere
outside time and place belongs to us.
Leaves and conifers. Months and weeks
in rainy city fringes without people!
And mornings – all of them spent together.
Of course I see poorly down here in a pit
Of course you see better from up there.
Nothing turned out between us. That is the truth:
Nothing happened. Nothing.
We know our roles, and both are large enough
not to mention that. Don’t wait
for the one who stands out from the crowd
– or the one who stands inside it either.
An eternal tune:
don’t speak of the one on death row
cut from the same cloth and remembered
by the same mouth. Only one world
was ours, and that was where we shone;
exchanging everything else to do so.
So, from these outskirts: Happy new world,
Rainer! Happy new sounds!
Everything once seemed to stand in your way,
even passion and friendship. No longer.
Happy new echoes, Rainer!
I used to dream at my school desk about rivers
and mountains. How is your landscape without tourists?
Was I right, Rainer, to think of heaven as stormy
and mountainous – not the way widows imagine?
And not just one heaven, but another over it?
With terraces? Something like the Tatra?
Heaven must resemble an amphitheatre.
Was I right to think of God as a Baobab?
Is there only one God – or another over Him?
I know wherever you are, there are poems.
How do you write without a table for your elbow,
or even a forehead for your cupped hand?
Drop me a line in your usual scrawl!
Death must offer many occasions for poetry.
Are you pleased, Rainer, with your new verse?
I can’t go any further, now I’ve learned
a language with so many new meanings.
Goodbye. Until we meet each other
– if we do – face to face. Look
at the whole earth and the oceans, Rainer.
Look at all of me.
If you can, drop me a scribbled line
– Happy new writing, Rainer – and
I’ll climb a staircase bearing gifts to you
hoping to feel your hand on my head,
I’ll carry my New Year’s glass, without spilling
a tear-drop, over the Rhone and Rarogne
– your resting place – which marks our final parting.
Put this into the hands of Rainer – Maria – Rilke!
New Year’s Greetings
happy new year—happy new light, new world—happy new edge, new realm—happy new haven!
a first letter to you in the next—
the place where nothing ever happens
(barely even bluffing ever happens), place where roughing,
rushing ever happens, like Aeolus’s empty tower.
a first letter to you from yesterday’s
homeland, now noland without you,
now already one of the
stars... and this law of leaving and left, cleaving
and cleft,
this claw by which my beloved becomes a name on a list
(oh him? from ’26?),
and the has-beens transform to the unhappened.
shall I tell you how I found out?
not an earthquake, not an avalanche.
a guy came over—just anyone (you’re my one):
“really, a regrettable loss. it’s in the Times today.
will you write an article for him?” where?
“in the mountains.” (the window opening onto fir branches.
the bedsheet.) “don’t you read the papers?
and won’t you write the obit?” no. “but—” spare me.
aloud: too hard. silently: I won’t betray my Christ.
“in a sanatorium.” (heaven for hire.)
what day? “yesterday, day before yesterday, I don’t remember.
you going to the Alcazar later?” no.
aloud: family stuff. silently: anything but Judas.
II.
here’s to the coming year! (you were born tomorrow!)
shall I tell you what I did when I found out about—
oops... no, no, I misspoke. bad habit.
I’ve been putting quotation marks around life and death for a while now,
like the empty stories we weave. wittingly.
well, I didn’t do anything. but something did
happen, happened shadowless and echoless,
happened.
now, how was the trip?
how did it tear, did you bear, did it burst
your heart asunder? astride the finest Orlov racehorses
(they keep up, you said, with the eagles)
was your very breath taken, or worse?
was it sweet? no heights, no falls for you,
you flew on real Russian eagles,
you. we have blood ties with that world and with the light:
it happened here, in Rus, the world and light
matured on us. the rush is up and running.
I say life and death with a smirk,
hidden, so you’ll kiss me to find out.
I say life and death with a footnote,
an asterisk (a star, the night I long for,
fuck the cerebral hemisphere,
I want the stars).
III.
now don’t forget, my dear, my friend,
if I use Russian letters
instead of German ones, it’s not because
they say that these days anything will do,
not because beggars can’t be choosers,
not because a dead man is a poor one,
he’ll eat anything, he won’t even blink.
no, it’s because that world, that light—
can I call it “ours”?—it isn’t languageless.
when I was thirteen, in the Novodevichy monastery,
I understood: it’s pre-Babelian.
all the tongues in one.
anguish. you will never ask me again
how to say “nest” in Russian.
the sole nest, whole nest, nothing but the nest—
sheltering a Russian rhyme with the stars.
do I seem distracted? no, impossible,
no such thing as distraction from you.
every thought—every, Du Lieber,
syllable—leads to you, no matter what,
(oh to hell with the native Russian tongue, with German,
I want the tongue of an angel) there is no place,
no nest, without you, oh wait there is, just one. your grave.
everything’s changed, nothing’s changed.
you won’t forg—I mean, not about me—?
what’s it like there, Rainer, how are you feeling?
insistent, surefire, cocksure,
how does a poet’s first sighting of the Universe
square with his last glance at this planet,
this planet you got only once?
the poet gone from his ashes, spirit left the body
(to split the two would be to sin),
and you gone from yourself, you gone from you,
no better to be Zeus-born,
Castor ripped—you from yourself—from Pollux,
marble rent—you from yourself—from the earth,
no separation and no meeting, just
a confrontation, the meeting and the separation
first.
how could you see your own hand well enough to write,
to look at the trace—on your hand—of ink,
from your perch on high, miles away (how many miles?),
your perch of endless, because startless, heights,
well above the crystal of the Mediterranean
and other saucers.
everything’s changed, nothing will change
as far as I’m concerned, here on the outskirts.
everything’s changed, nothing is changing—
though I don’t know how to send this extra week’s letter
to my correspondant—and where do I look now,
leaning on the rim of a lie—if not from this to that,
if not from that to this. suffering this. long suffering this.
IV.
I live in Bellevue. a little city
of nests and branches. exchanging glances with the guide:
Bellevue. the fortress with the perfect view
of Paris—the chamber with the Gallic chimera—
of Paris—and further still...
leaning on the scarlet rim,
how funny they should be to you (to whom?),
(to me!) they must be funny, funny, from fathomless heights,
these Bellevues and these Belvederes of ours!
I’m listless. losing it. the particulars. urgency.
the new year’s knocking at the door. what can I drink to?
and with whom? and what indeed to drink? instead of champagne bubbles
I’ll take these wads of cotton into my mouth. there, the stroke—God,
what am I doing here? what auspices—what am I supposed to do,
this new year’s noise—your death echoes, Rainer, it echoes and it rhymes.
if such an eye as you has shut,
then this life isn’t life, and death’s not death,
it’s dimming, slipping away, I’ll catch it when we meet.
no life, no death, okay so some third thing,
a new one. I’ll drink to that (spreading straw,
strewing flowers for the 1927th thing,
bye 1926, what a joy, Rainer, ending
and beginning with you!), I’ll lean across
this table to you, this table so big no end in sight,
I’ll clink your glass with mine, a little clink,
my glass on yours. not tavern style!
me on you, flowing together, us giving the rhyme,
the third rhyme.
I’m looking across the table at your cross:
how many places on the margins, how much space
on the edge! and for whom would the shrubbery sway,
if not for us? so many places—our places,
and no one else’s! so much foliage! all yours!
your places with me (your places with you).
(what would I do with you at a rally?
we could talk?) so much space—and I want time,
months, weeks—rainy suburbs
without people! I want mornings with you, Rainer,
I want to begin the mornings with you,
so the nightingales don’t get there first.
it’s probably hard for me to see because I’m down in a hole.
it’s probably easier for you because you’re up on high.
you know, nothing ever really happened between us.
a nothing so purely and simply nothing,
this nothing that happened, so apt—
look, I won’t go into detail.
nothing except—wait for the beat,
this could be big (first one to miss
the beat loses the game)—here it comes,
the beat, which coming beat
could have been you?
the beat doesn’t stop. refrain, refrain.
nothing except that something
somehow became nothingness—a shadow of something
became its shade. nothing, that is to say, that hour,
that day, that home—and that mouth, oh, granted
courtesy of memory to the condemned.
Rainer, did we scrutinize too hard?
after all, what’s left: that light, that world
belonged to us. we’re a reflection of ourselves.
instead of all of this—that whole light world. our names.
V.
happy vacant suburb,
happy new place, Rainer, happy new world, new light, Rainer!
happy distant point where proof is possible,
happy new vision, Rainer, new hearing, Rainer.
everything got in your
way. passion, a friend.
happy new sound, Echo!
happy new echo, Sound!
how many times at my schoolgirl’s desk:
what’s beyond those mountains? which rivers?
is the scenery nice without tourists?
am I right, Rainer, rain, mountains,
thunder? it’s not a widow’s pretension—
there can’t be just one heaven, there’s bound to be
another one, rainier, above it? with terraces? I’m judging by the Tatras,
heaven has to look like an amphitheater. (and they’re lowering the curtain.)
am I right, Rainer, God’s a growing
baobab tree? not a Louis d’or?
there can’t just be one God? there’s bound to be
another one, rainier, above him?
how’s writing in the new place?
if you’re there, there must be poetry. you
are poetry. how’s writing in the good life,
no table for your elbows, no forehead for your strife,
I mean your palm?
drop me a line, I miss your handwriting.
Rainer, do you delight in the new rhymes?
am I getting the word rhyme right,
is there a whole row of new rhymes,
is there a new rhyme for death?
and another one, Rainer, above it?
nowhere to go. language is all learned up.
a whole row of meanings and consonances
anew.
goodbye! see you next time!
we’ll see each other—I don’t know—we’ll sing together.
happy land I don’t understand—
happy whole sea, Rainer, happy whole me!
let’s not miss each other next time! just write me beforehand.
happy new soundsketch, Rainer!
there’s a staircase in the sky, lined with Gifts.
happy new ordination, Rainer!
I’ve got them in my palm so they won’t overflow.
over the Rhone and over Raron,
over the clear sheer separation,
to Rainer, Maria, Rilke, right into his hands.
2017年9月开始整理
2017年12月18日发布
