tommyleea翻译：弗兰克•奥哈拉为何我不是画家

王敖

为什么我不是画家

我不是画家，我是诗人。
为什么？我情愿是
画家，可我不是。喏，

比方说，麦克·高博
正动手作画。我跑去看他。
“坐吧，弄点喝的，”他
说。我喝着，我俩一起喝。我
抬头一望。“有沙丁鱼啊。”
“对，总得画点儿什么吧。”
“噢。”我走了，几天过后
我又去看他。他还在画
那幅画。我走了，又有几天
过去了。我又跑去看他。他
已经画完了。“沙丁鱼呢？”
画里边儿只剩下一些
字母。“太满啦，”麦克这么回答。


而我呢？有一天，我想起
一种颜色：橙黄。于是我就
写了一句。很快就写满了
一大张，但不是诗行。
接着又另起一页。看样子，
不像要多谈什么橙黄，倒是文字
洋洋洒洒，述说橙黄色多么不好，
人生怎样怎样。日子一天天过去。
就算写着散文，我还是真正的诗人。
诗都写完了，我却还没有提到
橙黄。一共十二首，我管它叫
《缤纷的橙黄》。一天，在画廊
我看到了麦克的画，名叫《沙丁鱼》。


Why I am Not a Painter
      Frank O\'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where\'s SARDINES?"
All that\'s left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color; orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven\'t mentioned
orange yet. It\'s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike\'s painting, called SARDINES.

二十月

"日子一天天过去。
就算写着散文，我还是真正的诗人。"

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我是90年看滴  谁翻译的忘记乐
  重温依然觉得看见新的东西
感谢嗷嗷~