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主题 : OUR FAVORITE DYLAN LYRICS(我们最喜爱的鲍勃-迪伦的歌词)
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0楼  发表于: 2016-10-14  

OUR FAVORITE DYLAN LYRICS(我们最喜爱的鲍勃-迪伦的歌词)

By The New Yorker , 03:28 P.M.2016

ILLUSTRATION BY ANDY FRIEDMAN

I don’t know how many Dylan LPs, then tapes, then CDs I have worn out.

When I had a car, I sometimes forced myself to play something else, but I always went back to that music. It never palled.

I belong to the “Blowin’ in the Wind” generation, and those lyrics define it.

But I also love the “Woman” songs—“Rainy Day,” “Just Like A”—and all of us, my boomer girl cohorts, however independent or fiercely feminist and ambitious we were, also secretly wanted to be Sara, the bard’s enigmatic muse.

There is a fairy tale—I forget which one—in which a girl is taken captive by a witch. The canny child fills her apron pocket with flour and pricks a hole in it so the flour will mark her escape route as it trickles out.

I think of Dylan’s lyrics—and he won the Nobel for his lyrics—as the flour in my apron pocket, marking the escape route from a forest of conventional expectations and authority.—Judith Thurman

*

As the story goes, my father arrived in America with a wristwatch, a scholarship to study physics, and an enthusiasm for classical music. He lived in an old boarding house where a neighbor blasted Dylan nonstop. Day and night, a reedy, nagging, muffled voice wafting through the walls, rising from the floorboards: “The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.” Irritation eventually gave way to familiarity, curiosity. He added a Dylan record to his Columbia House Record Club order, and then another after that, until, a couple of decades later, all those Dylan LPs, their sleeves stamped with my dad’s Chinese name, were what made each house feel like a home. The classical-music collection languished in a closet. I, too, found his voice trying, especially when “Blowin’ in the Wind” or “The Times They Are a-Changin’ ” or “Hurricane” would kill the vibe of my dad’s road-trip mixtapes, otherwise dominated by euphoric sixties pop or virtuoso power ballads. But Dylan’s voice was about as rough-hewn and unrefined as my father’s, wondering alongside him, “How many years can a mountain exist/ Before it is washed to the sea?” Sometimes my dad would ask me what these lyrics meant, and I presumed he had an answer in mind. Later, I would ask him about his relationship to Dylan’s lyrical genius: What did these words mean to him, then and now? He said he loved these songs not for the lyrics but for the voice.

Maybe I’ve misremembered some of this, or maybe it’s slightly embellished. Then again, Dylan was never the singer’s real name but a gesture of reinvention, arriving in a new land and telling a sideways story about where you came from.—Hua Hsu

*

As a teen-ager, in the nineteen-eighties, I taught myself to touch-type by listening to and transcribing Bob Dylan lyrics, which is another way of saying that Bob Dylan taught me a vocabulary for a range of emotions—ecstasy, jealousy, love, lust—at the precise age when I started to need their expression. I’m glad to say that it’s been a while since I felt a personal identification with “Idiot Wind,” but the furious castigation and the reeling pain conveyed by that song have spoken for me more times than I care to recall. Critics will argue about Dylan’s place in the canon, or about the rightness of bestowing a prize upon a writer whose celebration doesn’t particularly help the publishing industry. But, for my money, anyone who can summon, as a bitter valediction to a lover, the line “I can’t even touch the books you’ve read,” knows—and captures, and incarnates—the power of literature.—Rebecca Mead

*

Little red wagon, little red bike
I ain’t no monkey but I know what I like.

If I knew why I liked this couplet, it wouldn’t be art.—John Bennet

*

When I was twelve or thirteen, I bought a cassette tape of “Highway 61 Revisited,” and quickly settled on “Desolation Row” as my favorite Dylan song. There were two unfamiliar names in one of its verses: “And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot / Fighting in the captain’s tower / While calypso singers laugh at them / And fishermen hold flowers.” Who were Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot? A faint aroma of the absurd clung to their names. I consulted the World Book Encyclopedia, where it said that they had something to do with literature, which seemed antithetical to the wildness of Dylan’s music.

And so that was the end of my inquiry, until only a few years later, when, in a rite of passage familiar to so many bookish kids, I read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” a poem about a timid nerd with sexual hang-ups: that I could relate to! Suddenly Eliot, until then only a name in my favorite song, became an obsession, a way of understanding my own specialness, a mark of difference from my friends and family and immediate world. Dylan and Eliot (Pound less so) were my touchstones, exemplifying, in their different ways, what could be done to passing time by building into it unforeseen swerves of mind and language. Who knew what Pound and Eliot were doing fighting, or who the captain was supposed to be, or why the calypso singers laughed at them? And who cared? Their spirit endorsed what was beautiful in Dylan, even though in the song he seemed to be dissing them. To me, only Dylan and Eliot knew how to hold strange, evasive particulars in a web of beauty; to “understand” these songs and poems seemed so far from the original inspired acts of writing them that I stopped asking literal-minded questions and learned to appreciate for its own sake the tuneful difficulty they both embodied.

When I became a writer, I wanted my own work to reflect their soundscapes of surprise, suspense, and wonder, as well as their air of having read everything and metabolized everything in utterly idiosyncratic ways. Eliot won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948; Dylan won the 2016 prize today. When I heard the news, I thought of another passage, from “Desolation Row”: “All these people that you mention / Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame / I have to rearrange their faces / And give them all another name.” Listening to Dylan has been a lifelong exercise in strenuous rearrangement, estrangement, disavowal, and change: virtues to be prized for their own sake in the artists I love the most. Literary virtues in the extreme. He got the right prize.—Dan Chiasson

*

A great many people, including my fellow-Swedes, appreciate Bob Dylan more than I do. When I was a kid, the way Dylan sang, and the way he sang about women, made me glare at the speakers, and I have never quite stopped. But I admire his best stuff, and I’m very fond of several songs on “Highway 61 Revisited”—especially “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry” (“Well, I ride on a mail train, baby / Can’t buy a thrill”) and “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” which always grips me by the heart, even though much of it is Dylan singing angrily about prostitutes. In college, I spent a semester in New Mexico, taking classes in adobe buildings and making day trips to ghost towns and border towns, including Juárez, Mexico. Autumn in Albuquerque was almost imperceptible—no glorious colors, just a new severity, a dead leaf or two blowing around, a hint of loneliness. I always think of that climate and mood when I hear “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues”:

When you’re lost in the rain in Juárez, when it’s Eastertime, too
And your gravity fails and negativity don’t pull you through
Don’t put on any airs when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there and they really make a mess outta you

Much has been written about Dylan the poet, Dylan the observer of political and social injustice; good for him with the Nobel Prize. But many of Dylan’s songs give me the sense of a crabby, selfish guy complaining, inexplicably, about situations he has got himself into, and “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” is no different. It does, however, sound different—the urgent, wistful piano, the earnest attempt at singing, a bit of melodic sweetness. I was gratified when, around that same time in the early nineties, its moving final section turned up, wholesale, near the end of the Beastie Boys song “Finger-Lickin’ Good”:

I’m going back to New York City
I do believe I’ve had enough.

There, I thought, was a sentiment we could all agree upon. Here’s to you, Bob, you old Greenwich Village grump.—Sarah Larson

*

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin

—“The Times They Are A-Changin”

I love lines about time, and I love the sensibility here of time not only turning but spinning. And so the question is: How do you stand upright, while the world spins? I love that.—Jill Lepore

*

My first encounter with Bob Dylan and his lyrics came courtesy of the “Forrest Gump” soundtrack, which included “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35,” the opener to “Blonde on Blonde,” and led me to ask my dad, at the age of seven, if “getting stoned” meant getting pelted with rocks. (It was a good introduction to double entendre, too, though I didn’t know that then.) My dad had recently thrown out all his records in anticipation of the digital future—my birthright packed up in a cardboard box and left out on the curb to wait for the garbage man—but hadn’t yet replaced them with CDs. Eventually, he got a new copy of “Blonde on Blonde,” which rewired my pre-adolescent brain. Here’s the beginning of “Visions of Johanna”:

Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin’ you to defy it

It’s a classic Dylan one-two punch: first you try to picture the handful of rain, and then you try to figure out what it might mean to defy it. Meanwhile, the character of Louise has slipped into the imagination fully formed. Lots of surreal images are to come—jelly-faced women sneezing, jewels and binoculars hanging from the head of a mule—but I especially love the rest of that first, concrete verse, which casually conjures an atmosphere of ennui and heartache: the room musty from the rain, the sad radio, friends in love, your own lover far away:

Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind.

To my kid’s mind, that loft seemed as mysterious as anything else Dylan sang about, but later I got what he meant.—Alexandra Schwartz

*

Dylan is often evoked as a political songwriter, a trickster—and he is both of those things—but I really like when he writes about relationships. “You’re an idiot, babe,” from the barrelling chorus of “Idiot Wind,” is perhaps the pithiest synopsis of post-breakup indignation in the whole American songbook—though by song’s end the lyric has shifted to “We’re idiots, babe,” perhaps the pithiest synopsis of love in the whole American songbook. Snide Dylan, of course, is Peak Dylan. His discography contains some of the finest kiss-offs I know—little couplets to keep tucked away in your pocket, deployed only when you’ve been freshly wronged: “When you asked how I was doing, was that some kind of joke?” he seethes in “Desolation Row.”

I’m especially enamored with the first verse of “Things Have Changed”—a song from the film “Wonder Boys,” based on the novel by Michael Chabon—which was first released in 2000, after “Time Out of Mind” but before “Love and Theft.” It was an era in which Dylan seemed especially aggrieved: taken by love, suddenly and against his will. On both of these records, he sings often of feeling helpless. Unsurprisingly, he finds it distasteful: “I’m sick of love but I’m in the thick of it,” he sings in “Love Sick.” “I’m sick of love, I wish I’d never met you.”

The opening lines of “Things Have Changed,” though, positions love (and heartache) as a blurry, liminal space in which pain enables a certain kind of possibility:

A worried man with a worried mind
No one in front of me and nothing behind
There’s a woman on my lap and she’s drinking champagne
Got white skin, got assassin’s eyes
I’m looking up into the sapphire-tinted skies
I’m well dressed, waiting on the last train

Everyone knows that when you are feeling terrible in a contained and specific way—when someone has hurt you—the world takes on a more dramatic hue. It is a pain we cling to, sometimes, for its endless narrative possibility. It works for Dylan. Never has waiting on the last train felt so deeply, beautifully auspicious. —Amanda Petrusich

*

My favorite for lyrics is “Forever Young.” Every verse is a beatitude:

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
And may you stay forever young

That was the spirit of the generation—my own—that grew up with Dylan.—Louis Menand

*

In my adolescence, Dylan was on the AM radio, which, with the exception of Motown, the Beatles, the Stones, and the Byrds, who were covering Dylan songs, mostly played music that was insipid. Hearing a Dylan song was like having a small moment of good luck, since you usually heard the radio in the car, and you weren’t guaranteed to hear a good song before your ride ended. Other bands played music; Dylan was a voice. He said things that you felt or thought about. I was a sullen, high-strung, and prideful boy, awkward, even inept, and I took private refuge in songs. I liked everything I heard Dylan sing, even though I was too young to understand the bulk of it, but the lines that stirred me most came at the climax of “Positively Fourth Street,” Dylan’s rebuke of a hypocrite, which I first heard when I was about thirteen.

I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment
I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
You’d know what a drag it is
To see you

For an oversensitive adolescent who dreamed of having the upper hand, it was exciting to hear someone speak with impunity, never mind the beautiful melody it was set to. Borrowing his sentiments, I could feel righteous, even if still lonesome.—Alec Wilkinson

*

The best way to listen to any great musician is in concert. I saw Dylan live in 1974, at the Nassau Coliseum, and his performance has burned what is perhaps his most familiar lyric into my brain with a heat from which smoke is still rising. I hope that I’m not the victim of a phantom memory, but, if I am, it’s a beautiful one that I’m happy to have invented. The concert was part of Dylan’s reunion tour with The Band (commemorated in the double album “Before the Flood”), but the most ecstatic shock was what Dylan did in his solo spots, accompanied only by his own guitar: his plan, evidently, was to make as much noise and raise as many spirits on his own as he did with the group, and when he played “Like a Rolling Stone” it was with a shout, a roar, a fury that blasted the well-produced album version out of mind. When he howled, “How does it feel?,” it was with a self-scourging cruelty that seemed to sum up the very idea of his life’s work in four words, the holy terror and mighty calling of trying to write, to play, and to sing how it actually feels, whatever it might be.—Richard Brody

*

I’m not one of those guys who picks apart the lyrics to a song. I seldom even know what a song is about—if it’s one of those songs that aren’t fairly obvious. I go in for the attitude and language of certain lines, where the only mediation is the voice that delivers them, the musical setting, and whatever semiconscious, probably misguided, self-absorbed orientation my listener-brain brings to them. “Visions of Johanna”: it is one of my favorite compositions, in all creation. I never tire of it, and yet I’ve never even tried to decipher it. Many others have, but I’m not really interested. (Or at least I’ll do my best to deny it.) Instead, I savor the way certain lines and verses twist and strike, and the way Dylan (and, to be honest, one of his most avid interpreters, Jerry Garcia) utters them, in the song’s gloomy, schizo melody (or do I mean vocal dynamics?). One such fragment: “The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face.” Yes, yes, but what? Beats me. (O.K., in the verse there are two women, a presumably male narrator, a mirror metaphor, and a shifty pronoun or two, so maybe it summons up the tricks and riddles of Shakespeare’s sonnets.) But every time I hear it, it evokes untold layers of perception and pain, a world within the world, and also wonder and delight over the simple pleasure of well-wrought syllables put to music, which is what it all comes down to, in the end. Nobody chooses better syllables, or spits and hisses them out better, than Bob.—Nick Paumgarten

*

A particular favorite is “Early Roman Kings.” It’s from “Tempest,” his thirty-fifth album, which was released in 2012. I mention the date because a mark of the great artist is surely his capacity to stay the course. I’m certain that’s one of the components the Nobel committee is rewarding with today’s announcement:

All the early Roman kings
In their sharkskin suits
Bow ties and buttons
High top boots
Drivin’ the spikes in
Blazin’ the rails
Nailed in their coffins
In top hats and tails

Here Dylan rather brilliantly combines a version of the Roman empire with the railroad and steel moguls who provided the infrastructure of the American empire, as well as a version of a Puerto Rican gang from the Bronx, as well as a self-portrait of the artist in his natty stage gear! This is the artist who continues to fiddle while America burns, not out of negligence but out of sheer need:

Bring down my fiddle
Tune up my strings
I’m gonna break it wide open
Like the early Roman kings

—Paul Muldoon

*

Now they asked me to read a poem
At the sorority sisters’ home
I got knocked down and my head was swimmin’
I wound up with the Dean of Women
Yippee! I’m a poet, and I know it
Hope I don’t blow it.

—“I Shall Be Free No. 10”

My favorite Dylan lyric? That’s the sort of absurd question he used to giggle at or mock ruthlessly when he was just a kid in his twenties, and had already rearranged our world with his voice more times than you can wrap your mind around. I mean: which Bob Dylan? The high hilarious Dylan, the weird surrealist Dylan, the score-keeping lover Dylan, the angry fighting Dylan, the mystic shaman Dylan, the sweet seducer Dylan, the wise, the foolish, the Chaplinesque Dylan, the rabbinical Dylan, the goofy prankster, the lounge singer, Las Vegas Dylan, beatnik Dylan wearing the Dylan mask, white-faced Dylan, holy roller Dylan, Nashville Dylan, the Dylan who looked the last time I saw him, a few years ago, just like my old grandmother if she’d done vaudeville dressed as a riverboat gambler? Robert Zimmerman of Hibbing, Minnesota, took a rib from his own side and created Bob Dylan to contain more multitudes than Walt Whitman could imagine, and as he wrote of Lenny Bruce, “He was an outlaw, that’s for sure / More of an outlaw than you ever were.” Dylan is to word and voice like Picasso was to picture and form, not just some wondrous genius but a wondrously prodigious genius of inexhaustible abundance and variety, furiously resistant to any attempt to analyze or categorize him.

You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks they really found you

—It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)

Sure, like those more limited American masters, Eliot and Hemingway and Faulkner and Steinbeck, whom he grew up on and now joins as a Nobel laureate, he wrote a lot that fell short, he made mistakes, and wrote pulp, and sang schlock, and staggered along the edge of self-parody at times—but you don’t get the Dylans you like and want and need without the Dylans you don’t. For instance, I’ve heard too many Dylan-spinners say they could do without the album “Street-Legal.” That means doing without this:

I fought with my twin, that enemy within
Till both of us fell by the way
Horseplay and disease is killing me by degrees
While the law looks the other way.

—“Where Are You Tonight? (Journey Through Dark Heat)”

No, no, no—you can’t do without that any more than you can do without a more perfect, if more obvious, lyric like this from “Another Side of Bob Dylan”:

Ah, my friends from the prison, they ask unto me
“How good, how good does it feel to be free?
And I answer them most mysteriously
“Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?”

—“Ballad in Plain D”

Or this from “New Morning”:

I went down to the lobby
To make a small call out
A pretty dancing girl was there
And she began to shout
“Go on back to see the gypsy
He can move you from the rear
Drive you from your fear
Bring you through the mirror
He did it in Las Vegas
And he can do it here.”

—“Went to See the Gypsy”

Or check out this from “Infidels”:

Well, the Book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy
The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers
In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed
Michelangelo indeed could’ve carved out your features
Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space
Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face

—“Jokerman”

No, it’s a mug’s game—impossible—picking my favorite of his words as if that meant I could do without the rest. Don’t listen to me, man. Listen to him.—Philip Gourevitch

*

At the risk of sounding clever, my favorite Dylan lyric is from “Brownsville Girl,” an eleven-minute song he wrote with the playwright Sam Shepard, which appeared on “Knocked Out Loaded,” an album from the mid-eighties—clogged with drum reverb, gospel choirs, and mariachi horns—that most everyone dislikes: “Now I know she ain’t you but she’s here and she’s got that dark rhythm in her soul.” It’s a good line—there’s a whole story there of love, lust, and regret. But, like most of Dylan’s words, these are mostly inert on the page, inseparable from his performance of them. His lyrics are best when they are on the move, at speed, with Dylan’s voice just keeping pace, and somehow finding just enough space to fit them all in. There are examples in the expected and unexpected places, the beloved songs and the unmentioned ones, of his dexterity, precise diction, and clever and unexpected vocal turns: “The pangs of your sadness shall pass as your senses will rise,” from “To Ramona”; “And your longtime curse hurts / But what’s worse / Is this pain in here,” from “Just Like a Woman”; “There’s a babe in the arms of a woman in a rage / And a longtime golden-haired stripper onstage,” from “Where Are You Tonight? (Journey Through Dark Heat).” People who say he can’t sing have never really been listening.—Ian Crouch

*

May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.



I saw Dylan once, a surprise guest at a concert at Cleveland Stadium for the opening of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He sang “Forever Young,” and it is my favorite wish for everyone.—Mary Norris

*

Take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time
Far past the frozen leaves
The haunted frightened trees
Out to the windy bench
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky
With one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea
Circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate
Driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow

The first time I heard “Mr. Tambourine Man,” or remember hearing it, I was maybe eight, riding in the back seat of my dad’s Oldsmobile. He told me it was by a great songwriter and that I should listen closely. I did. And still, all these years later, in moments when nothing else comforts, when I look around and everything is sad, strange, or scary, I put on that song. The lines are a better prayer than any I learned in Sunday school. “Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,” amen.—Carolyn Kormann
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
1楼  发表于: 05-01  
2016年诺贝尔文学奖当地时间13日揭晓,美国音乐人鲍勃•迪伦获奖。授奖词评价他“在伟大的美国歌曲传统中创造了新的诗歌表达形式”。这是诺贝尔文学奖有史以来第一次颁给音乐人。

迪伦是一位重要的行吟歌者,被认为是20世纪美国最重要、最有影响力的民谣歌手。他曾多次获得格莱美奖,2000年为电影《奇迹小子》创作的歌曲《Things have changed》获奥斯卡最佳原创歌曲奖。鲍勃•迪伦被《时代》杂志选入20世纪最有影响力的100人名单,他影响的音乐人中有大卫•鲍威、约翰•列侬等等。鲍勃•迪伦不仅改变了摇滚乐的历史,也影响了无数音乐领域之外的人。

2004年,《滚石》杂志评选出史上最伟大的500首歌,鲍勃•迪伦的《Like a rolling stone》名列首位,这首歌被引申为一种摇滚精神,一种生活态度。而他的另外一首作品《Blowing in the Wind》同样进入史上最伟大500首歌曲,是“民歌摇滚”的代表作,被奉为民权运动的圣歌。

从上世纪60年代中期,一些主流评论开始推崇迪伦文学方面的造诣,有批评家称他为现代美国继卡尔•桑德堡、罗伯特•弗罗斯特之后最伟大的诗人;1976年美国总统卡特在竞选活动中引用迪伦的诗句并称其为“伟大的美国诗人”;1990年,法兰西文学院向迪伦颁发“文学艺术杰出成就奖”。

1996年,在艾伦•金斯堡的大力举荐下,迪伦被诺贝尔奖提名。自那之后,迪伦又数次被提名,今年终于摘得诺贝尔文学奖桂冠。

诺贝尔奖得主鲍勃•迪伦经典歌词歌曲回顾(视频)

来看看外媒的报道:

American singer Bob Dylan has become the first musician to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
美国歌手鲍勃•迪伦成为首个获得诺贝尔文学奖的音乐人。

The 75-year-old was given the prestigious accolade for "having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition".
现年75岁的鲍勃•迪伦因其“在伟大的美国歌曲传统中创造了新的诗歌表达形式”而获得此项殊荣。

Born Robert Zimmerman on May 24 1941, in the backwaters of Minnesota, he reinvented himself as Bob Dylan.
鲍勃•迪伦原名罗伯特•齐默曼,1941年5月24日出生在美国明尼苏达州的回水区。

He is considered one of the greatest lyricists of modern times having penned memorable hits such as Blowin' In The Wind and The Times They Are A-Changin'.
他被认为是现代最伟大的作词家,写过许多令人难忘的热门歌曲,比如《在风中飘荡》和《变革的时代》。

In honour of him winning the Nobel prize for literature, we pick out some of Bob Dylan’s greatest lyrics and most memorable songs.
为了庆祝鲍勃•迪伦获得诺贝尔文学奖,我们精选出他最伟大的几段歌词和最令人难忘的歌曲供读者欣赏。

Blowin' in the Wind
《在风中飘荡》

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

一个男人要走过多少条路
才能被称为一个男人
一只白鸽子要越过多少海水
才能在沙滩上长眠
炮弹在天上要飞多少次
才能被永远禁止
答案,我的朋友,在风中飘荡
答案在风中飘荡

The Times They Are a-Changin'
《变革的时代》

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.

议员们
请留心这呼声
别把着门
别让门廊堵得很
郁闷的准是抛了锚的人
外面的斗争
正咆哮阵阵
就快把你们的窗子震
你们的墙快咯咯作声
因时代变革已成真

Mr Tambourine Man
《铃鼓先生》

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

是的,在钻石的天空下起舞,一只手自在地挥呀挥
侧影反衬着海水,四周是圆场的黄沙
带着一切记忆与命运,一齐潜入翻涌的波涛之下
且让我忘记今日直到明天来临

Just Like a Woman
《就像个女人》

She takes just like a woman, yes, she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl

是的 她索取得像个女人
是的 她做爱的时候像个女人
她渴望的时候像个女人
可她说分手的时候 就像个小姑娘

Masters of War
《战争贩子》

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good?
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could?
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

让我来问问你们吧,
金钱真是万能的吗?
你们以为它果真能够,
买到你们所需的饶恕?
我想你们终会发现,
在死神宣告降临之时,
你们挣得的所有金钱,
都无法买回你们所谓的灵魂。

盘点:鲍勃·迪伦最经典的10首歌曲
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
2楼  发表于: 05-01  
鲍勃·迪伦的27首诗


2016诺贝尔文学奖得主鲍勃·迪伦的诗歌中文译者,诗人周公度首度发表对鲍勃·迪伦获奖及其诗歌的见解,飞地独家发布 。

鲍勃·迪伦越过他同时代的所有诗人,直接和惠特曼、迪金森站在一起。他塑造了美国文学的一个新的传统。甚至比艾略特、弗罗斯特走得更远,更接近人之本义。上世纪八十年代以来的所有获奖诗人在他面前,都相形失色。因为他们的表达都太啰嗦了。复杂从来不是一种美学,而是一种愚蠢。因为那是一个诗人、作家的感受力、判断力、和表达力极为低下的第一特征。

仅从诗歌本身而言,鲍勃·迪伦简洁、直接、准确、敏感的诗句,对目前笼罩世界的繁琐文风也是一次极为重要的拨正。他回到了了诗的源头上来。和叶芝早期对爱尔兰谣曲的研究一样,迪伦的用词和结构、节奏,都是“古意”的。也许仔细分析下去,可以在《雅歌》和乔叟式的叙事诗体传奇里找到答案。

要知道,“古意”对应的是“简”和“真”字,意味着解决问题的速度,和准确性。与有些诗人提到的颓废主义完全没有关系;那些以“破坏”出现的所谓先锋都是幼稚的,而以“拼贴”出现的现代,则无疑又是杂技式的。很简单,先锋诗学的秘密核心,其实只是一个“真”字。所以他们的作品才如此贴近我们的心灵。

不要因为他提到狄兰·托马斯,就以为那是他的“传统”。完全错了。那只是一个触媒。他比狄兰·托马斯走得远多了。那些对鲍勃·迪伦的获奖感到惊讶的人,说明他们已经落伍太久了。那些说他只是一个歌手的人,说明他们无知的时间太久了。他们需要了解后再发表意见。那些说他的作品没有深度的,更需要把马哲的底子再洗一下,看一看文学史上那些伟大的灵魂,一个个都是多么的清晰、简单。

仅针对诺贝尔文学奖而言,鲍勃·迪伦的获奖,对于恢复诺贝尔文学奖的荣誉也至关重要。众所周知,最近二十年来的诺奖,几乎都有保守主义的倾向。但他们在几乎要形成一个笑话时,突然睡醒了。他们改变了。一瞬间,文学回到了叶芝的时代,加缪的时代,马尔克斯的时代。

——周公度
2016年10月14日凌晨




— 20016年 诺贝尔文学奖 —

The Nobel Prize in Literature for 2016 is awarded to Bob Dylan "for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition".

2016年诺贝尔文学奖颁发给了鲍勃•迪伦,为他:“在伟大的美国歌曲传统中创造的诗性表达”。


获奖者

鲍勃•迪伦



2011年8月,由诗人、译者周公度翻译的美国民谣歌手、诗人鲍勃·迪伦诗选,在《飞地》杂志前身《诗林》双月号上发表(2011年第4期),这是鲍勃·迪伦的诗歌首次在中国刊物上大篇幅发表。自1997年始,鲍勃·迪伦连续多年被诺贝尔文学奖提名,时隔19年之后,鲍勃·迪伦终于以其意在言外的文字摘得诺贝尔文学奖。


《飞地》杂志前身,2011年《诗林》双月号第四期


2011年,第四期《诗林》双月号上
发表的鲍勃·迪伦
周公度译


《飞地》丛刊第15期



鲍勃·迪伦27首诗选 | 周公度 译



◤给伍迪的歌

我在离家千里之外的地方
走在一条荒僻公路之上
我看见了你世界中的人与事
倾听乞丐、农夫、王子和国王。

嘿,伍迪·格思里,我给你写了一首歌
关于这来到的奇异的旧世界
它似乎病态又饥饿,疲惫又破烂
它看上去濒临绝境,又像刚刚出生。

嘿,伍迪·格斯里,我知道你所知悉的
我所说过的话,我将反复叙说
我唱过每一首歌,但仍未唱够
因为没有多少人像你的昔日所为。

这首歌也献给西斯科和桑尼,莱德贝利,
还有所有陪伴你旅程的好人们
献给他们真实的心与双手
虽然他们已归于尘土,随风而去

我明日即离开,但是也许就在今日
某一日走在某处的公路上
我想做的最后一件事情
是说:“我也经历了一些艰难的旅程。”


Robbie Robertson, Michael McClure,
Bob Dylan, and Allen Ginsberg,
San Francisco, 1965

◤谈谈纽约

漫步在荒凉的西部,
离开了我最爱的小镇。
我的思绪翻转起伏,
当我进入了纽约城,
人如胡麻低入尘埃之中,
而高屋广厦直耸云端。

纽约城的冬日时光,
狂风卷袭着雪地,
就地踱走,无处可去,
人如冰柱冷入骨隙,
我寒冷至极。
《纽约时报》说这是十七年来最冷的冬季;
我却不再觉得多么寒冷。

背着我的旧吉他,
匆忙赶上一班地铁,
经过一番摇晃、颠簸、推挤,
终于到达市区;
来到格林威治村。

我在那儿走来走去,
然后来到一间咖啡屋。
我走上舞台弹唱,
人们在台下喊,“早点回去吧,
你就像个乡巴佬;
我们需要的是民谣歌手。”

后来我得到了份吹口琴的活儿,继续演奏,
一天一美元,我几乎把肺吹出体内。
吹得我心意虚脱,头脚混淆。
有人说他喜欢我的口琴声,
他大声呼叫着他多么喜欢我的口琴声;
一天一美元总有所值。

如此消磨了一个星期又一个星期,
我在纽约城得到一份工作,
在一个更大的地方,钱也多了点儿,
加入了个协会,薪酬渐趋合理。

一个伟大的人曾经说过,
某些人用一支钢笔就可以掳掠你。
用不了太久你就能发现,
他言语中的深意。
许多人的桌子上没有多少食物,
但他们却拥有不少刀叉,
——他们总是要切点什么。

所以啊,一个阳光温暖的早晨,
我自纽约城漫步而出。
帽檐遮着我的眼睛
朝向西部的天空出发。
再见,纽约。
你好,东奥兰治。

译自《Bob Dylan》(1962)

◤她属于我

她得到了她需求的一切,
她是一个艺术家,她从不回头。
她得到了她需求的一切,
她是一个艺术家,她从不回头。
她能够将黑色从夜晚驱除,
同时将白日涂抹成黑色。

你本来计划不再端坐,
傲慢地抢走她看到的所有。
你本来计划不再端坐,
傲慢地抢走她看到的所有。
但你却屈膝在地,
兴奋地通过她的锁孔窥看。

她从不张口结舌,
她从无跌落之时。
她从不张口结舌,
她从无跌落之时。
她不是任何人的孩子,
法律也根本不能奈何她。

她戴着一枚埃及指环,
它在她说话之前闪闪发光。
她戴着一枚埃及指环,
它在她说话之前闪闪发光。
她是一个催眠术收藏家,
你是个走俏的古董。

在星期日向她鞠躬,
她生日时向她致礼。
在星期日向她鞠躬,
她生日时向她致礼。
在万圣节前送她一个喇叭,
而圣诞节,则要送她一面鼓。



◤玛姬的农场

我再也不去玛姬的农场工作了。
是的,我再也不去了。
我在早晨醒来,
合起双手,祈求雨临。
我有了一脑袋新的主意,
它们几乎使我疯狂。
那真是个羞辱,她让我擦洗地板。
我再也不去玛姬的农场工作了。

我再也不去为玛姬的兄弟工作了。
是的,我再也不去为玛姬的兄弟工作了。
哦,他给了你五分硬币,
他递给你了一角硬币,
他咧着嘴要求你,
如果你有一段好时光,
每当你闭上房门,他便惩罚你。
我再也不去为玛姬的兄弟工作了。

我再也不去为玛姬的爸爸工作了。
是的,我再也不去了。
哦,他丢掷雪茄
到你的脸上,只是为了取乐。
他卧室的窗户,
由砖砌成。
国民警卫队的人站在他的门口。
啊,我再也不去为玛姬的爸爸工作了。

我再也不去为玛姬的妈妈工作了。
是的,我再也不去了。
哦,她与所有的仆人谈论
男人,上帝还有法律。
每一个人都说
她才是玛姬的爸爸背后的头脑。
她六十八岁,但她说她才二十四岁。
我再也不去为玛姬的妈妈工作了。

我再也不去玛姬的农场工作了。
是的,我再也不去了。
啊,我尽了最大的努力
去做我想像中的自己,
但每一个人却希望你
成为他们的样子。
当你拼命工作,他们却在唱歌;我厌倦了这一切。
我再也不去玛姬的农场工作了。

以上译自《Bringing It All Back Home》(1965)

◤致罗蒙娜

罗蒙娜,靠近些,
静静地闭上你流泪的眼睛。
你的悲哀的苦痛
在你的理智苏醒之际终将消逝。
城市的花朵,
尽管鲜艳如初,有时也静如屏息。
那是无益的尝试,
与死亡谋划相处,
尽管我不能将此清晰解释。

你干裂的纯洁的嘴唇,
我仍然希望去深吻,
仿佛你的皮肤之下潜藏着能量。
你的充满魅力的姿势,
仍然时刻捕获着我。
但它扰乱着我的心,爱人
我看到你试图成为
那并不存在的世界的一部分。
那完全是在梦境,宝贝,
是一片真空,一个设想,宝贝,
它就是这样诱使你陷入虚幻。

我可以看到你的脑海
已经混乱,充溢着
那些发自装腔作势的嘴巴的无用的泡沫。
我肯定地说你在犹豫
是留下还是返回,
后退到南方。
你曾经天真地想象
最终的结局尽在掌握。
但是没有人伤害你,
没有人击败你,
除非你自己的感觉非常糟糕。

我已听你说过了多次,
你不比人们优秀多少,
也没有人比你强多少。
假如你真是如此,
你就应该明白,
虽然一无所获,但也无所可失。
由于既定的事实,魄力与友情,
你懊恼于阻止,
这一切使你迷惑,束缚着你,
让你感觉
你必须完全如同他们。

我愿永远与你倾谈,
但是不久我便会无言,
它们将变成无意义的字环。
在我的内心深处,
我知道我毫无助益。
诸事终将流逝,
万物刻刻变迁,
去做你想做的事情吧。
或许有一天,
谁知道呢,宝贝,
我会赶来为你哭泣。

以上译自《Another Side of Bob Dylan》(1964)


Dylan & Baez
◤它让许多人笑起来,它也让一火车的人哭
(笑需要付出许多,哭需要付出一火车)

哦,我在邮政火车上,宝贝,
这是永难买到的甜蜜。
哦,我彻夜不安,宝贝,
我斜倚在车窗上。
啊,如果我死去
就在此刻的山巅;
如果我未去,
你知道我的宝贝却会。

月光透照树林,
难道它看上去不够美丽,妈妈?
刹车手挥动着标旗,
难道他不够英俊,妈妈?
太阳正沉入海底,
难道它还不够完美?
我的女孩总是跟随着我,
难道她不够漂亮?

如今冬季时光来临,
车窗之上结满冰霜。
我想去告诉每一个人,
但是无人能够理解。
哦,我要做你的爱人,宝贝,
我不想做你的首领。
当你的火车迷失,
不要说我从未相告。

◤瘦人歌谣

你走入房间
手里拿着铅笔
你看到有人全身赤裸
你说,“那男人是谁?”
你竭力思索
但仍然不能理解
当你回到家中
那时你会说什么

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此你一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

你抬起头
你问,“这是哪儿来的?”
有人指给你说
“是他的”
你说,“我的是什么?”
另一个人说,“什么在什么地方?”
你说,“哦,我的天
难道我在这儿独自一人?”

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

你递上你的票据
然后观看着滑稽的表演
有人听到你的说话
立刻向你走来
说,“你感觉怎么样,
做一个这样的怪人?”
你说,“难以忍受”
此时他递给你一支烟

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

当有人否决你的想象
你有很多方式
自伐木工人之中
获悉你要的真相
但没有人有丝毫敬意
总之,他们早就期待你
给慈善组织
开一张免税的支票

你曾经与教授在一起
他们都喜欢你的样子
你也和那些伟大的律师
讨论受蔑视的人和恶棍
你已经通读了所有
F·斯科特·菲茨杰拉德的书籍
你读得如此认真
如此精通

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

哦,吞剑的人,他走向你
然后跪下来
刺穿他自己
然后敲击着他的高鞋根
毫无征兆地
他问你感觉怎么样
他说,“这儿是你过去的喉咙
谢谢你的款项”

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

现在,你看到了独眼的侏儒
大喊着“NOW”
你说,“那是什么原因?”
他说,“为什么不?”
你说,“这是什么意思?”
他尖叫着,“你是头母牛
给我一些牛奶
不然滚蛋回家”

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

哦,你走入这房间
像一匹骆驼,愁眉苦脸
你把你的眼睛埋进口袋
鼻子俯在地上
那儿应该有个法律
阻止你的到来
你命中就应该
戴着耳机

因为这儿显然发生了一些事情
但你对此一无所知
是不是,琼斯先生?

译自《Highway 61 Revisited》(1965)


Bob walking with Susan Elizabeth

◤我们之中早晚有人会明白

我不是故意对你如此糟糕
你不要感觉这只是针对你
我不是故意对你如此糟糕
你只是恰好在那儿,就是这样
当我看到你微笑着对你的朋友说“再见”
我想那对我预示着
你不久就会回来
我不知道你说的“再见”是永离

但是,迟早,我们之中有人会明白
你只是做了你应该做的事
迟早,我们之中有人会明白
我曾真心真意地尝试接近你

我不能理解你所展现给的一切
你的围巾紧紧地遮着你的嘴巴
我不能理解你所展现给的一切
但你说你了解我,我相信你的话
当你在我的耳边私语
问我是跟你离开还是与她
我一时难以确信所听到的话
你是那么明媚而年轻

但是,迟早,我们之中有人会明白
你只是做了你应该做的事
迟早,我们之中有人会明白
我曾真心真意地尝试接近你

雪霁弥漫,我不能看得清楚
你的声音仍在我的耳边
我看不清楚我们来到了哪里
但是你说你知道,我相信你的话
后来你告诉我,
那只是玩笑,你并非来自农场
我告诉你,如同你擭住了我的眼睛
我从未想过去伤害你

但是,迟早,我们之中有人会明白
你只是做了你应该做的事
迟早,我们之中有人会明白
我曾真心真意地尝试接近你

译自《Blonde on Blonde》(1966)

◤约翰·韦斯利• 哈丁

约翰·韦斯利·哈丁
是穷人的朋友,
他手握双枪游荡
遍布乡野,
他常破门而入,
但从未伤害过
一个是正直的人。

在肖恩郡曾流传
有一次他们说
他和他的妻子
隐姓埋名。
但那情形并没有多久,
他便被众人周知
因为他总是如此
及时伸出援助之手。
所有的电报上
尽是他的名字,
却没有一件对他的控诉
即便他们能够证明。
远近也没有人
能追踪抓得到他
他总是如此
飘忽难觅的行止。

◤我梦见我见到了圣·奥古斯汀

我梦见我见到了圣·奥古斯汀,
真实一如你我,
悲戚漫彻这些居室
不幸之至,
他的手臂下夹着一张毯子
与一件纯金的大衣,
他在寻找那些业已出卖的
每一个灵魂。

“站起来,站起来,”他大声喊着,
声音如此自然、威严,
“出来吧,宿命之中的国王与皇后们
来聆听我悲哀的怨诉。
你们之中已无舍生取义之人
如今有谁还能够找到自我,
继续行走你的路吧
但要明白你们并不孤单。”

我梦见我见到了圣·奥古斯汀,
他的气息炽热、鲜活,
我梦见我既在其中
却视他如死亡
啊,我在恼怒中醒来,
如此孤单而心存惊惧
我把手指贴在玻璃上
开始垂首哭泣。

◤沿着瞭望塔

“那儿肯定有路离开这里,”小丑对小偷说,
“目前的境况太混乱,我不能有丝毫心安。
商人,他们喝我的酒,农夫挖掘我的土地,
但无人清晰知晓它们的价值。”

“不必如此激动,”小偷平静地说
“此处的人们大多认为今生不过是个笑话。
但是你与我,洞悉这些,这并非我们的命运,
“所以我们莫再虚言,时间已经很晚。”

沿着瞭望塔,王子们全神贯注地张望
女人们与赤脚的仆从来来往往。

远处一只野猫发出凄厉的叫声,
两个骑马的人向这行来,狂风呼啸。

以上译自《John Wesley Harding》1967年

◤来自北方乡村的女孩

如果你旅行至北方乡村的集市,
那边界上的风常忽然来临而低回,
请代我向一个住在那儿的人问好。
她曾是我的挚爱。

如果你去时恰逢暴雪之季,
河流冰封,夏季早已远去,
请看看她是否穿着温暖的外套,
抵御那咆哮不止的冷风。

请替我看看她是否还留着一头长发,
是否依然美丽蜷曲,垂至她的胸前。
请替我看看她是否还留着一头长发,
那是我的记忆中她最美的样子。

我在她的印记中只是一个浪子。
漫长的时光中我曾时时祈祷,
在我的夜晚的黑暗之内,
在我的白昼的明亮之中。

如果你旅行至北方乡村的集市,
那边界上的风常忽然来临而低回,
请代我向一个住在那儿的人问好。
她曾是我的挚爱。

◤告诉我那不是真的

我听到镇上谣言四起,
他们说你计划甩开我。
我急切想让你做的是,
你告诉我那不是真的。

他们说你与另一个男人在一起,
他很高大,黝黑而且英俊,你拉着他的手。
我的爱,我全部的心在你身上,
告诉我那不是真的。

我听说另一个男人紧紧地拥抱你,
这深深低刺伤了我,那不像是伪装这样。

我听到的那些所有可怕的事,
我不想相信它们,我只想听你说。
我的爱,你最好直接过来,
告诉我那不是真的。
我听到的那些所有可怕的事,
我不想相信它们,我只想听你说。
我的爱,你最好直接过来,
告诉我那不是真的。

以上译自《Nashville Skyline》1969年4月


◤时光慢慢流逝

山中的时光静寂缓慢,
我们坐在桥畔,在泉水边散步,
追寻野生的鱼群,在溪水上漂浮,
当你置身尘外,时光静寂流逝。

我曾有个心上人,她娇小、美丽,
我们坐在她家的厨房里,她妈妈正做着糕点,
窗外的星辰闪烁高悬,
时光静寂流逝,当你找到你的心爱。
不是没有理由搭一辆货车去小镇,
不是没有理由再去那集市。
也不是没有理由再来来回回,
不是没有理由去每个地方。
白日的时光静寂缓慢,
我们注视着前方,努力不使之偏向,
就像夏日的红玫瑰逐日盛开,
时光静寂流逝,永不复返。

◤吉普赛人

那吉普赛人,
落脚在一家大旅馆内。
他微笑着,当他看到我,
他说,哦,好,好。
他的房间黑暗、拥挤,
电灯低垂,灯光黯淡。
你好?他对我说,
我也如此向他问询。
我来到旅馆大厅,
打了一个短暂的电话。
那儿有一个漂亮的跳舞的女孩,
她大声说着话,
“去看吉普赛人。
他可以在你身后消失,
驱逐掉你的恐惧,
带你穿过镜子。
他曾在拉斯维加斯表演,
现在他将在这儿演出。”

旅馆外面灯光闪烁
河流如泪水的薄彩,
我远远地观看着它们
音乐响起在我的耳边。
我回去看那吉普人,
节目即将开始。
吉普赛人的房门大开
但是那吉普人已经走了,
还有那个漂亮的跳舞的女孩,
从此难觅她的芳踪。
我看到太阳已经升起在
明尼苏达州的小镇上空。

◤清晨

你能不能听到公鸡的鸣叫?
野兔跳跃着穿过公路
桥下的水绵延不息
这样幸福,正如看见你的笑容
在蔚蓝色的天空下
就在这清晨,新的一天
就在这有你的清晨。

你能不能听到马达的声音?
汽车驶来打破寂静
停在距乡村一或二英里的地方
这样开心,正如看见你的笑容
在蔚蓝色的天空下
就在这清晨,新的一天
就在这有你的清晨。

夜晚过去如此迅速
它总是如此,当你在我身边。
你能不能感觉到太阳的光芒?
土拨鼠奔跑在乡村溪流的边上
今日必是我梦想成真的一天
这样幸福,宛如重生
在蔚蓝色的天空下
就在这清晨,新的一天
就在这有你的清晨。

这样幸福,宛如重生
在蔚蓝色的天空下
就在这清晨,新的一天
就在这有你的清晨。
清晨……

◤我体内的人

我体内的人接纳所有的索求,
而他只需要一点儿补偿。
接受一个喜欢你的女人
抵达心中的那个人。

乌云翻卷逼临在我的门前,
我想自己也许不应想得太多。
接受一个爱你的善良的女人
找到我体内的人。
然而,这是多么奇妙的感觉
仿佛确信你就在旁边,
触动我紊乱的心
自我的脚尖直到耳内。
那个体内的人有时隐藏,抑制究竟的理解,
只因为他不想形如机器。
接受一个喜欢你的女人
抵达心中的那个人。

◤三个安琪儿

三个安琪儿在街道上,
每人吹奏着一把号,
穿着醒目的带翅膀的绿色礼服
自圣诞节早晨她们便在那儿。
蒙大纳野猫一闪而过,
接着是一位身着明亮的橙色裙子的女士,
一辆“优镐”拖车,一辆没有了车轮的卡车,
第10大道的公交汽车正向西行驶。
狗与上空飞翔的鸽子躁动徘徊,
一个佩戴徽章的人跳跃着行走,
三个年轻人蠕行在上班途中,
没有人驻足自问为什么如此。
面包店的停车场在栅栏之外
就在三个安琪儿所站立的边际,
驾驶员窥看着她们,试图寻找一个车位
这个凝固的世界灵魂饱满丰盈。
安琪儿们全天都在吹奏着她们的号,
整个地球如此流转,仿若经过,
然而没有人倾听她们演奏的音乐,
有人尝试过吗?

以上译自《New morning》1970

◤即如今夜

即如今夜
如此快乐,你来到我身边,
紧紧相依
加热剩下的咖啡。
我们蜜语不歇
更多的是回忆,
彼时真切。
即如今夜。

即如今夜
如此快乐,你在我的身边
紧紧贴着我,美好的相遇
你说你绝不再远离。
你的手滑过我的背,
那触摸使我欣喜
真切直接
即如今夜。
即如今夜
我难以入睡,
外面空气冷冰
积雪深厚。
堆起火来,投进木柴
倾听燃烧的嘶声
任它燃烧,燃烧,永无休止
即如今夜。

你的身体靠近我
与我紧紧相伴,
那时天宽地阔,
如此令人沉迷,不要推开我。
任四周的风吹打
在这破旧的小屋门上,
我想如果我不再逃离我们会一如既往。
窗玻璃上结满冰霜
还有每个柔软难舍的吻,
那真切的感觉
即如今夜。

译自《Planet Waves》1974

◤纠结的忧郁

清晨的阳光闪耀
我躺在床上
想着她是否已经完全改变
她的头发是否依然火红。
她的亲人说我们在一起
必定会愈加艰难
他们从不喜欢妈妈自己缝制的衣裙
爸爸的存折也从未见增。
我站在路边
雨水灌满鞋子
直奔东海岸
天知道我已为之倾尽所有
这纠结的忧郁。

在我们初识之时她就结婚了
很快又离了婚
我想是我使她摆脱了困境
但我的表现显然有点急切
我们开车去了最远的远方
把所有遗弃在西部
却在一个悲凉的夜晚自此分开
彼此相信这样最好
她转身看着我
当我举步离开之时
我听到她的话就在我的肩膀上:
某日我们也许再次相遇
这纠结的忧郁。

我在深密的北方森林找了份工作
暂时做一个厨师
但我从没有多么喜欢
每一日如斧头伐木
后来我到了新奥尔良
在那儿我幸运地得到雇佣
暂时在渔船上工作
就在德拉克洛瓦城市的边上
但在所有的时光我一直孤单
往事一如昔日,
我见过许多的女人
但她从未走出我的心;虽然我渐渐成长
这纠结的忧郁。

她在一个袒胸酒馆工作
我去那儿喝杯啤酒
就那样盯着她脸的侧面
在清晰的灯光下 。
后来人群渐少
我也趋步离开
她站到我的椅子后面
对我说,我不知道你的名字吗?
我咕哝着什么掩饰呼吸
她研究似的看着我脸上的纹路
我承认心中有丝丝不安
在她蹲下为我系上鞋带的时候,
这纠结的忧郁。

她在炉子上点燃烟,递给我一支
“我很好奇你为何从不主动问好,”她说
“看上去你个是沉默的人。”
然后她打开一本诗集
递给我
是一个意大利的诗人
属于十三世纪
但每一个词语都是那么真实
灼热夺目如同燃烧的煤
遍布每一页
就像写在我对于你的灵魂之上,
这纠结的忧郁。

我与他们住在曼特裘大街
顺着台阶走进我的地下室
咖啡馆里彻夜播放着音乐
旋律回绕在空气里
于是他开始身体交易
他心里的一部分已经死去。
她不得不出卖自己的一切
心如冰封。
当最后的底线毁灭
我后退如山倒,
我唯一知道去做的事
就是像鸟儿一样竭力飞行,
这纠结的忧郁。

如今我再次返回原地,
无论如何我要得到她。
所有的人都明白
他们如今对我犹如幻觉。
他们有些人是数学家
有些是木匠的妻子
不知道这所有的一切如何开始,
我不知道他们要怎样对待自己的生活。
但是我,仍然在途中
只为另一场命中的相会
我们总是有同样的感觉
只是各自观察的角度相异,
这纠结的忧郁。

◤简单的命运的转折

当夜色渐深
他们在公园里坐在一起,
她看着他,他感觉到火花自手指传至骨髓。
他感到孤单,但只是一瞬间
也许此时就是命运的简单的扭转。

他们沿着古老的运河行走
微微的犹豫,我清晰地记得
来到一个陌生的霓虹灯闪亮的旅馆。
他感觉他的心好像被一辆满载货物的火车扑面撞来
飞向命运的简单的扭转。

萨克斯管的声音遥遥传来
当她走在拱廊之时。
灯光透照着他脚下斑驳的树荫,
她丢给大门口的盲人一枚硬币
将命运的简单的扭转抛在脑后。

他醒来后,房间已经空了
哪儿都没有了她
他打开窗户,告诉自己不必在意,
却感到莫名其状的空虚
随着那命运的简单的扭转。

他听着钟表的滴答声
在这机械的应答里向前走,
在帆船林立的海滨码头追寻她的踪迹。
也许她只是又一次隐藏起来,任他久久地等候
命运的简单的扭转,再次反复。

人们告诉我不要这样
心存希望,深陷其中。
虽然我遗失了命运的指环,但依然相信她是我的命运。
她生于春天,而却我生于之后
我只归咎于命运的简单的扭转。

◤大女孩

我们的谈话
简短又甜蜜
几乎淹没我
难以抑制的双脚
我在雨中回来
而你在干地上
你造就了这所有
现在你是一个大女孩了

地平线上的小鸟
又停在栅栏上
它为我唱着歌
尽其所能
我就像那小鸟
也在为你唱歌
我希望你能听到
听到我歌里的眼泪

天气在变化
恶劣非常
但马在河流中,改变的想法是什么
我忘记以前种种
忍痛停止,重新开始
像螺丝锥着我的心
从未消失,自从我们分开。

译自《Blood On the Tracks》(1974)

◤溪谷下游

你的气息是甜蜜的
眼睛像天空中的两颗宝石。
你的背影笔直,头发柔顺光滑
当你躺下,靠着枕头。
但我却没有心动
没有感激或者爱意
你并不是为我忠诚
而是对天上的星辰。
上路之前,再来一杯咖啡,
再来一杯咖啡我就走
去那溪谷的下游。
你的爸爸是一个亡命之徒
一个职业流浪者
他将教给你怎样挑选和决定
怎样投掷飞刀。
他俯瞰着他的王国
没有陌生人能够闯入
他的嗓音颤抖,当他大声咆哮
为了一碟子食物。
上路之前,再来一杯咖啡,
再来一杯咖啡我就走
去那溪谷的下游。
你妹妹感觉到她的未来
会像你的妈妈和你自己。
你从不学习阅读或写作
你的书架上没有一本书。
你的希望没有极限
你的声音像一只草地鹨
但你的心像海洋
神秘而幽深。
上路之前,再来一杯咖啡,
再来一杯咖啡我就走
去那溪谷的下游。

译自《Desire》1976

◤慢火车

有时我觉得如此渺小、厌倦
无助,并疑惑我的伙伴究竟发生了什么,
无论遗失或发现,他们均衡量代价而为
所有人间的法则,他们全然放弃?
慢火车自拐弯处驶来。
在阿拉巴马州我有个女人,
她是个纯洁的姑娘,但她很现实,
她说,我的男孩,毫无疑问,你必须放弃你的成见,认清事实,
你会死在这里,就如一场意外的统计数字的一个。
慢火车自拐弯处驶来。
外国的石油控制着美国人的一切,
看看你的周围,均使你窘迫不安。
酋长们宛如国王,宝石满身,嗅着戒指,
决定着美国的未来是阿姆斯特丹还是巴黎
那儿有一辆慢火车,在拐弯处驶来。
人们的自信膨胀,观念陈腐,不再适应时代,
无所依靠,坐等被替代
在勇敢者的家乡,杰佛逊在他的墓穴之中,
傻瓜们崇拜自己,试图操纵魔鬼
慢火车自拐弯处驶来。
一流的谈判家,伪装的医生和怀恨的女人,
虚张声势的大师和大师们的建议
恰恰穿着体面的外衣,
所有无信仰的人和偷窃者都在宗教的名义下
慢火车自拐弯处驶来。
人民正饥饿、渴盼,运输中的粮食却在燃烧
哦,损失的食物远超于捐赠。
他们说丢弃你的束缚,跟随你的心,
他们谈起兄弟般的爱的生活,如何去获取。
慢火车自拐弯处驶来。
我的宝贝和一些坏男孩去了伊利诺斯州
一个真实的自杀案例,但我却无能为力,
我不关心经济,也不在意天文学
但它们确实扰乱着我,眼睁睁看着心爱的人成为木偶,
慢火车自拐弯处驶来。

译自《Slow Train Coming》(1979)




◤流星

今夜我看见一颗流星
我想到了你。
你正努力进入另一个世界
我从不知晓的世界。
我一直想知道
你是否曾经抵及。
今夜我看见一颗流星
我想到了你。

今夜我看见一颗流星
我想到自己
是否我一如往昔
还是已成了你期望的样子
是我错过了目标
还是已经超出所想?
只有你能够理解。
今夜我看见一颗流星
我想到了自己。

注意听那引擎与钟声
地狱中最后的救火车
轰鸣驶过,所有善良的人民正在祈祷,
那是最后的诱惑
最后的人世账单
你最后一次听到耶稣山中的布道
这最后的收音机响起。

今夜我看见一颗流星
划过夜色。
明天也许会是另外一天
我想现在跟你这些也许已经太晚
那些你必须听我讲的话。
今夜我看见一颗流星
划过夜色。

以上译自《Oh Mercy》(怜悯)1989


金斯堡和迪伦在杰克•凯鲁亚克墓碑前

◤漫游者

我来到那漫游者的墓穴,
长久伫立在它的边上,
我听到一个低低的声音说:
孤身睡眠在这里多么惬意。
风雨连绵,雷声不绝
仿佛团聚一样喧嚣
但我的情感平静,灵魂静憩,
把眼睛上的泪水全部擦去。
主人的召唤迫使我离开家,
从此一无牵挂,
后来我患上疾病,沉入坟墓,
而我的灵魂飞翔在房屋之上。
请告诉我的朋友与我最爱的小孩
不要为我的离去哭泣。
同样的手领我穿过最深的海洋
亲切地帮助我回到家。

译自《World Gone Wrong》(1993)

◤月光

四季轮替,我悲伤的心仍在渴望
再次倾听青鸟甜蜜悦耳的鸣声
也许你会在月光下遇见我独自一人
昏暗的一天消逝,
兰花,罂粟,黑眼睛的苏珊
天地交融,如骨肉相会
也许你会在月光下遇见我独自一人
岸堤之上空气沉滞
就在那鹅群飞入村庄之处
也许你会在月光下遇见我独自一人
我宣扬秩序和融洽
宁静的祝福
但我也知道何时反抗
我带你渡过河流,我的爱
你无须在此徘徊
我知道你所喜欢的事物样子。
云彩变红,落叶纷然
枝桠投影在石头上面
也许你会在月光下遇见我独自一人
那柏树林荫道上,鸟与蜜蜂的舞会
粉色与洁白的花瓣,微微的风吹
也许你会在月光下遇见我独自一人
蔓延的苔藓发出神秘的绚丽光芒,紫色的花柔软如雪
我的泪水长流,直到海洋
医生,律师,印度酋长,驱使小偷追捕小偷
丧钟为谁而鸣,我的爱?
它为你和我而鸣
昔日的脉搏传递至我的手心,险峻的丘陵蜿蜒
在那弯曲生长着橡树的黄色旷野
也许你会在月光下遇见我独自一人

译自《Love and Theft》(2001)


周公度,诗人、作家。著有诗集《夏日杂志》,诗论《银杏种植——中国新诗二十四论》,随笔集《机器猫史话》,儿童诗集《梦之国》,童话集《一只很猪的驴》,戏剧《忆少女》,小说集《从八岁来》《鲸鱼来信》等。现居西安。


仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
级别: 创始人
3楼  发表于: 05-19  
作为粉丝,汪峰更是十分激动,在微博写下:“我的神,对于你来说诺贝尔奖只是时间问题。”他同时称赞鲍勃·迪伦的文字“能将所有执迷的灵魂唤醒”。“再过几百年,你那些不朽的诗句依然会在空中飘扬。”
仰天曾大笑,低首更沉吟
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