R.S.托马斯译诗欣赏
窗外的景色
如一幅画般摆在人的面前，
然而不如画那样易碎，它是永恒的；这些颜色
每天都在更新，因为光，和那任何画家都无法企及
无法想像出的距离。接着，有活动和变化，
就像阳光治愈青肿的乌云，或者雪
将黑色的心情覆盖掉一样缓慢；然而傍晚
有振奋心灵的金色。在整个历史的进程中，
巨大的刷子从未停息过，
画从未干过；而眼睛，在冷静观望时，
或者，就像我们现在这样，
在透过泪水的透镜观望时，从这幅
还没有完成的作品中看到了什么？
（张文武 译）
埃古
唉，埃古，我的朋友，无知的人们以为
你是你种属的终结，因为你黄金年龄
带来的所有财富是草地的花朵
溅到鞋上的黄尘，如果你选择
从风和气候的爪下抢夺谷仓
并打破屋顶与山墙上苍苔的掌握；
如果你耕种你的土地并坚持去看
世界走过，一幅岁月涂抹的
愚蠢的织锦，并引导你的母马入厩，
梦着你的梦，并在土地的律法之后
安排你的生活和信仰，那么你将成为
新的群落的第一人。
Iago Prytherch
Ah. Iago, my friend, whom the ignorant people thought
The last of your kind, since all the wealth you brought
From the age of gold was the yellow dust on your shoes,
Spilled by the meadow flowers, if you should choose
To wrest your barns from the wind and the weather's claws,
And break the hold of the moss on roof and gable;
If you can till your fields and stand to see
The world go by, a foolish tapestry
Scrawled by the times, and lead your mares to stable,
And dream your dream, and after the earth's laws
Order your life and faith, then you shall be
The first man of the new community.
农庄的孩子
看这村子的男孩，脑子被他知道的
所有鸟巢塞满，口袋里是花，
蜗牛壳和碎玻璃，数小时消磨在
荆棘与蓟丛的田野里的果实．
看他的眼睛，看隐藏在那儿的蓝铃花，
标出太阳在他光滑的脸上的斑点，
像雀蛋在不惧怕风的毛丛下，
并且现在是在厩粪堆里，
注意他的姿势；从无意识的恩惠里
土地繁殖并召唤顽强的耕作．
Look at this village boy, his head is stuffed
With all the nests he knows, his pockets with flowers,
Snail-shells and bits of glass, the fruit of hours
Spent in the fields by thorn and thistle tuft.
Look at his eyes, see the harebell hiding there;
Mark how the sun has freckled his smooth face
Like a finch’ egg under that bush of hair
That dares the wind , and in the mixen now
Notice his poise, from such unconscious grace
Earth breeds and beckons to the stubborn plough.
水从泵中抽上来，她的日子
被一桶桶打发掉，几滴泡在杯里的
无奶的茶，记录逝去的钟点．
然而，茶，微火的热，
壁炉里垂落的几星花瓣，
都不能阻住她血管里的冰冻，
血的节疤，清澈的蓝眼睛的阴暗．
在夜的边缘，她坐在嘲弄她
骨骼脆弱的椅子上，凝视
镀铅的窗子外的月亮――
琥珀色的蛇吞下的一枚蛋；
她听不到脚步声，不再看见
树篱里盛开的脸，当一群
好奇的孩子簇拥在黄昏；
一把年纪，视力衰微，耳膜僵硬。
闲言碎语来自他们忙碌的口唇，
偶尔她大笑，尖利如一只鸟，
一种高音的，刺人的，悲伤的笑，
咳嗽伴着啸音，干涩不成调子
如同东风穿过一棵刺蓟。
Her days are measured out in pails of water,
Drawn from the pump, while drops of milkless tea,
Brewed in the cup, record the passing hours.
Yet neither tea nor heat of the small fire,
Its few red petals drooping in the grate,
Can stop the ice that forms within her veins,
And knots the blood and clouds the clear, blue eye.
At edge of night she sits in the one chair,
That mocks the frailness of her bones, and stares
Out of the leaded window at the moon,
That amber serpent swallowing an egg;
Footsteps she hears not, and no longer sees
The crop of faces blooming in the hedge
When curious children cluster in the dusk,
Vision being weak and ear-drums stiff with age.
The crumbs of gossip from their busy lips,
Sharp as a bird, and now and then she laughs,
A high, shrill, mirthless laugh, half cough, half whistle,
Tuneless and dry as east wind through a thistle.
梅矣斯叶奥南
虽然我一块石头一块石头描摹它，
那搁浅在骚动的草中的教堂，
忠实地绘出生苔的屋瓦和树，
一个面对风的冗长布道的
聆听者，干燥的上锁的门，
腐朽在里面的过时的虔诚，
但你不能与我分享那罕见的空气，
像花一样蓝，带着过往年代
和将要出现的事物的醉人气味，
拂过每一扇窗子，它的高高的篷盖
凌越于云的遥远的叶簇之上。
你不会像我一样倾听，怀疑地，
在上面的椽子上，听到那钟回荡于
荒野，瑞阿南女神鸟的甜密歌唱。
Though I describe it stone by stone, the chapel
Left stranded in the hurrying grass,
Painting faithfully the mossed tiles and the tree,
The one listener to the long homily
Of the ministering wind, and the dry, locked doors,
And the stale piety, mouldering within;
You cannot share with me that rarer air,
Blue as a flower and heady with the scent
Of the years past and others yet to be,
That brushed each window and outsoared the clouds’
Far foliage with its own high canopy.
You cannot hear as I, incredulous, heard
Up in the rafters, where the bell should ring
The wild, sweet singing of Rhiannon’s birds.
一个农民之死
你记得戴维斯吗？他死了，你知道
他的脸冲墙，因为这是
威尔士山区石头宅地上
贫苦农民的习惯．回想
石板下的房屋，他躺在
宽大的床的脏污的雪里，
孤独如一头想念羊羔的母羊
在三月中旬严酷的气候里．
还记得那被截留的风
撕扯窗帘，以及疯狂的光
不时在地板上歇斯底里，
空空的地板没有毯子或坐垫
使邻居的大声踩踏变得柔和，
他们走过不稳的板面
盯视戴维斯，生硬的话语
无意义的安慰，而后无情地转身
从与潮湿的墙壁结合在一起的
死亡腐败的气味中离去．
You remember Davies? He died, you know,
With his face to the wall, as the manner is
Of the poor peasant in his stone croft
On the Welsh hills. I recall the room
Under the slates, and the smirched snow
Of the wide bed in which he lay,
Lonely as an ewe that is sick to lamb
In the hard weather of mid-March.
I remember also the trapped wind
Tearing the curtains, and the wild light’s
Frequent hysteria upon the floor,
The bare floor without a rug
Or mat to soften the loud tread
Of neighbours crossing the uneasy boards
To peer at Davies with gruff words
Of meaningless comfort, before they turned
Heartless away from the stale smell
Of death in league with those dank walls.
山丘的外边
梦密集在他发黄的头骨上，
卷发一样黑，他来了，与他的牛
从饥饿的草场溜来。他从肩上抖落
天空的重量，风的锐利的鞭痕
在有疗效的阳光下正在很快康复。
成群的牛喘息，使空气振奋，
记起夏天的甜蜜，潮湿的路在他面前
像河流着蓝色；传说中的城镇
梦见他到来，在懒散的店铺的
半阖的眼睑下睡眠游荡，倒空
最后成杯的黑暗，在多管闲事的光
把它捆束到视线外的烟囱上之前。
山的影子缩小；他鳞状的眼睛
蜕去冷漠，闪烁着。这是他把手指
润湿在里面的日子，蟋蟀一样欢快。
硬币的合唱在他褴褛的衣袋内。
我们可以跟随他，目睹他快速衰败
在无关的街道：那灵魂硬度的
突然瓦解，传统的燧石律则
以及融化在脆弱的笑的阵雨中的霜；
言语清澈的溪流被含混污浊，
像啤酒瓶子敲着报时的钟声？
不，在这里等着他。半夜他会返回，
穿过含有他所有恐惧的黎明隧道。
然后，是他隐藏的回家的路标。
大地忍耐着，他没有迷失。
（李景冰译）
Dreams clustering thick on his sallow skull,
Dark as curls, he comes, ambling with his cattle
From the starved pastures. He has shaken from off his shoulders
The weight of the sky, and the lash of the wind’s sharpness
Is healing already under the medicinal sun.
Clouds of cattle breath, making the air heady，
Remember the summer’s sweetness, the wet road runs
Blue as a river before him; the legendary town
Dreams of his coming; under the half-closed lids
Of the indolent shops sleep dawdles, emptying the last
Tankards of darkness, before the officious light
Bundles it up the chimney out of sight.
The shadow of the mountain dwindles; his scaly eye
Sloughs its cold care and glitters. The day is his
To dabble a finger in, and, merry as crickets.
A chorus of coins sings in his tattered pockets.
Shall we follow him down, witness his swift undoing
In the indifferent streets: the sudden disintegration
Of his soul’s hardness, traditional discipline
Of flint and frost thawing in ludicrous showers
Of maudlin laughter; the limpid runnels of speech
Sullied and slurred, as the beer-glass chimes the hours?
No, wait for him here. At midnight he will return,
Threading the tunnel that contains the dawn
Of all his fears. Be then hid fingerpost
Homeward. The earth is patient; he is not lost.
来源：李景冰博客：http://blog.sina.com.cn/lijingbing
炉边
在熊熊的炉边
你，烟中风的絮语，和炉煤
四溅的火星，构成了永恒
这里，这小屋子里
这一刻，我们的爱
变得多么宽博，时间之外
旅人，奔向新的朝圣地
而此时，政治家、科学家们正用
他们极具天赋的双手
创造破坏——
（陈静应纳兰容若之邀译）
In front of the fire
With you, the folk song
Of the wind in the chimney and the sparks'
Embroidery of the soot--eternity
Is here in this small room,
In intervals that our love
Widens; and outside
Of time, travellers
To a new Bethlehem, statesmen
And scientists with their hands full
Of the gifts that destroy,
英国诗人R.S.托马斯即使不是一位诗歌大师，至少也是英语语言大师，他的诗歌语言严谨洗练，硬朗不屈，在英国当代诗坛独具一格。