My friend Chen Li sent a set of translations of poems by American poetess Emily Dickinson. This is a work he is currently working on-translating 1,800 poems by Emily Dickinson.
Translating poems is not easy, and the British poet Shelley even said: "It is futile to translate a poet's creation from one language to another, it is like putting a violet into a crucible." But translating poetry is necessary. , It enables the circulation and expansion of culture, and gives readers and creators open enlightenment.
Emily is undoubtedly the loneliest poet in the history of poetry. She lived in a small city all her life, and devoted herself to writing poems, not for publishing, but for peace of mind. Poetry is her way, eaves, sleep, and even her god. She has been with poetry all her life. Many years ago, after reading her collection of poems, I wrote a little casual, and I still remember a passage from that collection of poems: "I could have endured the darkness/if I had never seen the sun/but the sun has made me desolate/become Renewal desolation."
"This is my letter to the world/because it never writes to me..."
30 years after Emily's death, her diary hidden in the bedroom wall was discovered by a carpenter. The carpenter happened to be a lover of poetry. After feeling a "frenzy tremor", he became fascinated by these poems. He imagined that he was a close friend of her, and he didn't need to make her diary public. He hid it in an oak box in the bedroom. For the next 64 years, he had memorized these poems by heart, but everyone, including his family, did not know the existence of this diary.
As a poetry lover, the carpenter passed away at the age of 89. Before he died, he told his grandson-his only son had passed away earlier than he-the existence of this diary. After a delay of nearly 75 years, Emily's inner monologue written in ink was able to be revealed to the world-she had known such a day, right? Sooner or later, buildings will decay, walls will collapse, and poetry collections will be published sooner or later. She hid the collection of poems in the wall, perhaps just hoping that it would not be discovered so quickly. She was not willing to really let these poems disappear completely, otherwise she would be burned.
This woman who lives for poetry sets up a secret cable for her between the kitchen and the clouds: many times, her body is in the kitchen, but her soul follows that cable to the distant clouds.
She received a brief education in a girls’ school, and since then, she has hardly left home—she has an extraordinary attachment to this brick house built by her grandfather on Main Street. She likes the greenhouse on the east side of the house best, where she grows many plants that can bloom in winter; on the small desk by the window, she writes a lot of poems; she even refuses to leave home for short trips, so she I have heard people say that she is "a bit crazy". Emily fought back in her diary: "Those people don't know that madness may be a sacred disguise of wisdom, a little madness relaxes the trapped heart!"
At the age of 34, she lived in Boston for a few months in order to treat strange things. He had eye problems and never left the house after returning, and even the brother's house next door did not want to move around. She lived in a secluded home and started to wear only white clothes. In the diary, she wrote: “Wearing white clothes makes me feel like a white sheet of paper waiting for a poem to come.” In the
photo, Emily has a medium-sized pattern, with a broad forehead, and the lines of her nose and mouth are not small enough. Her face seemed to show a certain spirit, showing shyness and determination. On the white robe of medieval style, the fine buttons were buttoned down to the knees, and the pleated skirt skirts covered the feet. Under such a tightly-covered robe, her thoughts trembled in the depths of her body like an alert white bird.
The place she used to stay in white clothes is not in the garden and in front of the piano, but in the kitchen. Although she does not like to be involved in housework, she is the main bearer of housework. In that kitchen, she baked many praised things bread.
For a woman who often burst into poetry, housework is a trivial torture. When a poem was about to pop out of my mind, it was immediately intercepted by some kind of burnt smell, and you could almost imagine Emily rushing around. However, her mind is always lingering with the white wings of poetry.
Mrs. Browning is her favorite contemporary poet, but Emily is not as lucky as her. At the age of 40, Mrs. Browning married the poet Robert Browning, and their love became the main source of inspiration for Mrs. Browning's future creation. Her talent is sheltered by worldly happiness. Emily expressed her envy in her diary. She said: "I once knocked on the door of love shyly, but only poetry opened the door to let me in."
"I am afraid of possessing a flesh, profound and dangerous property..." Loneliness is like a fruit hard candy to Emily, from which she sucks the taste of poetry.
Emily probably loved 3 men in her life. Some commentators said that she had "talked" several love affairs in her own way-her love affairs were secret and never caused waves in the family or neighborhood. She records more in the form of diaries and letters, like a rock sinking to the bottom of the sea, only the sea water knows its weight.
One of the men is Bauworth, the editor of the "Springfield Republic" newspaper. Emily has published poems on the page he is in charge of, but he doesn't seem to appreciate her talent very much. Emily herself feels, "These years, it took me a lot of attention, but it was insignificant to him." This doesn't just stem from Emily's sensitivity. His taste for poetry is totally different from hers. She wrote a lot of letters to him, but never intended to send them, "Just let the paper absorb my pain."
And Charles Wadsworth—though they only met twice. In 1862, Emily had a mental crisis. Many scholars believe that this was caused by Charles Wadsworth's move to another city. She once wrote in his diary:. "We are not for life forms to contact each other, but the grown up understanding of the soul of"
wait an hour too long
if love, that happen to be in the future
Wait a million years is not long
finally there is love as a reward
and this is her a poem to express her inner desire for love. However, as she once said, marriage must have at least some providence, otherwise each other will be swallowed up. Emily hasn't waited until it belongs to her providence, or that she has lived in her own heart for too long, and the formal marriage is not important to her.
On May 15, 1886, 56-year-old Emily died of kidney disease.
All her feelings about the world, including a clover or a bee, she uses poems to record. She has never interrupted her secret meeting with poetry. She said: "I will not have physical heirs, but I have divine comfort. God has given me a different way of reproduction."
Many good literary or artistic works always start from Produced from saturated loneliness. The 7 poems that Emily published during her lifetime and the total of 1,800 poems that have not been published have become her "descendants" longer than her children.
A person's life can be as simple as white. Wearing a suede sewn with poetry, she slowly walked towards her graveyard. Her coffin was carried from the back door of her home to the cemetery, and it took only a few steps from life to death.
Only two words are engraved on her inscription: "Called back."
These two words express a certain connection between loneliness and greatness.