Selected poems：《禮物：米沃什詩歌1931-1981》
2025/04/29 05:27:25
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Selected poems：《禮物：米沃什詩歌1931-1981》
書名：禮物：米沃什詩歌1931-1981
作者：切斯瓦夫·米沃什（Czeslaw Milosz）
譯者：林洪亮
出版社：上海譯文出版社
出版日期：2024/11
https://www.books.com.tw/products/CN12078966
內容簡介
《禮物：米沃什詩歌1931-1981》彙集波蘭詩人、諾貝爾文學獎得主切斯瓦夫·米沃什1931年至1981年間的詩作，按創作發表的年代，收錄《凍結時期的詩篇》（1933）《拯救》（1945）《白晝之光》（1953）《著魔的古喬》（1965）、《沒有名字的城》（1969）、《太陽何處升起何處降落》（1974）和《珍珠頌》（1981）等129首詩篇。既有色彩濃郁的抒情與描寫的長詩，也有激烈憤慨的嘲諷與批判。在此期間，米沃什見證了諸多歷史事件，也經歷了輾轉移居法國、定居美國等人生遭遇，寫下《禮物》《菲奧里廣場》《世界》等傳世名篇。
〈廢墟中的一本書〉
一座黑色的大樓。入口處是交叉的木板
阻止人們進入，形成了一道門。
如果你想進去。前廳像座岩洞，
因為它的牆壁陰暗潮濕，
蛇狀的常春藤和電線糾纏在一起。
在那邊，從紅磚叢中升起的扭曲的
金屬圓柱有如破爛的樹幹。從它們中間
露出路燈的亮光。這可能是圖書館。
你還不知道，或許是患病的白楊樹林，
你在那裡追尋著鳥兒，你遇見了
一個立陶宛的黃昏。在巨大的荒原中
一隻鷹在鳴叫。你小心地走進那裡，
當你抬頭向上，看見整塊的天花板
在最近的一次狂風中被吹塌。
而在上面，透過一排排的石膏板
是一片藍天。你踩著書頁，
就像蕨類植物的葉子，它們遮蓋著
一具發霉的骷髏，或者是為侏羅紀
地殼的秘密而變白的化石。
一種如此古老而陌生的殘餘生命，
呼喚著科學家把它拿到光亮處，
默默長時間地去探究它的價值。
他無法知道，它是某個死去時代的陰影，
抑或是一個活體。他凝望著
被雨水——生鏽的眼淚——所浸蝕的
白堊螺旋體。於是，在從廢墟中
撿起的一本書裡，以其遙遠的
朦朧的過去閃閃發亮。
跌落那巨大的深淵而又返回的
綠色生物時代。女人的額頭，
用顫抖的手戴上的耳環，
男人袖口上的珍珠紐扣，
鏡子裡的燭台，點亮的燈籠，
一陣最初的顫音從樂器上滑過。
舞曲在喧囂，被公園裡搖動的
大樹的沙沙聲所掩蓋。
她疾步走來，披肩在黑暗中飄動。
並在那個爬滿藤蔓的涼亭裡
和他相會，在莊稼地的邊上，
他們緊緊依偎著坐在石頭上
雙雙望著在茉莉花中發亮的燈籠。
或在這兒，這節詩：你聽見鵝毛筆
在沙沙作響。一盞油燈的蝴蝶
在捲軸和羊皮紙上緩緩掠過。
一個耶穌受難像、青銅胸像，而韻律在
徒勞地傾訴著一切的願望。
這裡又新建起一座城市。在集市廣場上
招牌叮噹作響。一輛馬車的隆隆聲
驚起一群鴿子。在市政大鐘下，
在小酒館裡，一隻手停留在葡萄酒上。
這時候，紡織廠的工人們朝家走去，
居民們坐在台階上交談。現在手揮動著，
發出激烈的憤怒的呼號，其中包含著
某種歷史的復仇的預言。
於是世界就在煙霧中成長，並從那些書頁中
流出，像黎明時田野上升起的霧。
只有當兩個時代、兩種形式
相連在一起，它們的易讀性
被攪亂時，你才能看到
從來就不存在單獨的不朽性，
但它和我們的今天相連。——因此
你拾起了一塊手榴彈的碎片，
它曾射穿那個唱達夫尼斯和克洛伊
歌曲的身體。你在悲傷的微笑中
進行一次這樣的談話，彷彿你活得
這樣久就是期待著這件事的實現。
——怎麼回事，克洛厄，你的長裙
為何會被傷害人的風撕破得
那麼厲害？你，在永恆中歌唱
時光。你的頭髮在陽光中時隱時現。
怎麼回事，克洛厄，你的小胸脯
被子彈射穿，而橡樹林在燃燒、
你著了魔，卻毫不在意，轉身跑過
機械和混凝土的樹林。
還用你腳步的回聲來嚇唬我們？自
如果有這樣一種永恆，即使短暫，
那也足夠了。可哪裡有呢……安靜！
我們注定要活著。當舞台
變得昏暗，一個希臘廢墟的輪廓
把天空變黑……中午時分，漫步走在
漆黑的大樓裡。工人們坐在火堆旁，
那裡有一條狹窄的陽光照在地板上。
他們扒出了一批厚書，把它們當桌子，
擺上了他們的麵包。而在街上，一輛
坦克駛過，還有一輛有軌電車
在叮叮噹噹作響，事情就是這樣簡單。
華沙 一九四一
A Book in the Ruins
A dark building. Crossed boards, nailed up, create
A barrier at the entrance, or a gate
When you go in. Here, in the gutted foyer,
The ivy snaking down the walls is wire
Dangling. And, over there, the twisted metal
Columns rising from the undergrowth of rubble
Are tattered tree trunks. This could be the brick
Of the library, you dont know yet, or the sick
Grove of dry white aspen where, stalking birds,
You met a Lithuanian dusk stirred
From its silence only by the wails of hawks.
Now walk carefully. You see whole blocks
Of ceiling caved in by a recent blast.
And above, through jagged tiers of plaster,
A patch of blue. Pages of books lying
Scattered at your feet are like fern-leaves hiding
A moldy skeleton, or else fossils
Whitened by the secrets of Jurassic shells.
A remnant life so ancient and unknown
Compels a scientist, tilting a stone
Into the light, to wonder. He cant know
Whether it is some dead epochs shadow
Or a living form. He looks again
At chalk spirals eroded by the rain,
The rust of tears. Thus, in a book picked up
From the ruins, you see a world erupt
And glitter with its distant sleepy past,
Green times of creatures tumbled to the vast
Abyss and backward: the brows of women,
An earring fixed with trembling hand, pearl button
On a glove, candelabra in the mirror.
The lanterns have been lit. A first shiver
Passes over the instruments. The quadrille
Begins to curl, subdued by the rustle
Of big trees swaying in the formal park.
She slips outside, her shawl floating in the dark,
And meets him in a bower overgrown
With vines, They sit close on a bench of stone
And watch the lanterns glowing in the jasmine.
Or here, this stanza: you hear a goose pen
Creak, the butterfly of an oil lamp
Flutters slowly over scrolls and parchment,
A crucifix, bronze busts. The lines complain
In plangent rhythms, that desire is vain.
Here a city rises. In the market square
Signboards clang, a stagecoach rumbles in to scare
A flock of pigeons up. Under the town clock,
In the tavern, a hand pauses in the stock
Gesture of arrest — meanwhile workers walk
Home from the textile mill, townsfolk talk
On the steps—and the hand moves now to evoke
The fire of justice, a world gone up in smoke,
The voice quavering with the revenge of ages.
So the world seems to drift from these pages
Like the mist clearing on a field at dawn.
Only when two times, two forms are drawn
Together and their legibility
Disturbed, do you see that immortality
Is not very different from the present
And is for its sake. You pick a fragment
Of grenade which pierced the body of a song
On Daphnis and Chloe. And you long,
Ruefully, to have a talk with her,
As if it were what life prepared you for.
—How is it, Chloe, that your pretty skirt
Is torn so badly by the winds that hurt
Real people, you who, in eternity, sing
The hours, sun in your hair appearing
And disappearing? How is it that your breasts
Are pierced by shrapnel, and the oak groves burn,
While you, charmed, not caring at all, turn
To run through forests of machinery and concrete
And haunt us with the echoes of your feet,
If there is such an eternity, lush
Though short-lived, thats enough. But how ... hush!
We were predestined to live when the scene
Grows dim and the outline of a Greek ruin
Blackens the sky. It is noon, and wandering
Through a dark building, you see workers sitting
Down to a fire a narrow ray of sunlight
Kindles on the floor. They have dragged out
Heavy books and made a table of them
And begun to cut their bread. In good time
A tank will clatter past, a streetcar chime.
Czeslaw Milosz, Warsaw, 1941
〈這意味什麼〉
不知它會發光，
不知它會飛翔，
不知它是這樣而非別樣。
他越來越經常地張著大嘴，
還叼著一根快熄滅的高樂煙。
喝著一杯紅葡萄酒，
我在思考著非此即彼的含義。
就像從前，我在二十歲的時候，
那時我希望自己能成為一切，
甚至能成為一隻蝴蝶或畫眉，靠魔咒。
如今我看見滿是塵土的鄉鎮道路，
和郵政局長每天喝醉的那個小鎮，
他悲傷著他自己依然如故。
假如星星克制住我，
假如一切事情都在照常發生，
即所謂的世界和所謂的肉體，
那我就想成為不矛盾的人。但不是。
蒙格朗 一九六〇
What Does It Mean
by Czeslaw Milosz
It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.
〈存在〉
我瞧著這張嚇呆了的面孔。一座座地鐵站的燈光飛馳而過，我沒有注意它們。該怎麼辦呢？如果我的視力缺乏那種神速地吞下一個對象的絕對能力，而只能在身後留下一個外形完美的空間，一個像是根據一張動物或鳥類圖畫，用簡單的象形文字描繪出來的符號？一個有些扁的鼻子，高高的額頭，往後梳的光滑的頭髮，下巴的線條——但是，為什麼視覺的力量不是絕對的呢？而在一片滲著粉紅的白色中兩個雕刻出來的洞，其中包含著一片黑色的光彩奪目的熔岩。專注於這張臉孔，但同時又把它放置在一切春天的枝條、牆壁、波浪的背景之上，在它的哭泣中、笑聲中，把它倒回去十五年，或者向前推三十年，這才會有了，但這並不是一種渴求。像一隻蝴蝶、一條魚、一株植物的根莖，要的是更加神秘的事物。因此這事便發生在我的身上，那就是在多次企圖說出世界的名稱時，我卻只能一再重複，只能翻來覆去作出最高的唯一的聲明。除此之外便沒有任何力量能完成了，這就是：我是——她是。大喊大叫、吹起喇叭，舉行千百次的遊行，跳躍，撕破自己的衣服，只要重複這一個：是！為什麼要記下這些書頁、聲調、派別的教研室？如果我在嘀咕，好像我是第一個從海岸上出現的人？那麼，太陽的文明，毀滅城市的紅塵，在荒原塵埃中的武器和機器，那又有什麼用呢，如果它不能增強這個聲音：是？
她在拉斯帕爾下了車，我留在車上，和大量存在的事物在一起。一塊海綿，它因自身不能吸足水而深感痛苦。一條河，因其映出的雲和樹不是真正的雲和樹而痛苦。
布里—康提—羅伯特 一九五四
Esse
I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn’t notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!
She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.
Brie-Comte-Robert, 1954
