辛波丝卡《奇迹集市》完本寻出版
miracle fair
selected poems of Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
with a foreword by Czeslaw Milosz
Winner of the Heldt Prize for translation in Slavic studies
《奇迹集市》
维斯瓦娃·辛波丝卡诗选
切斯瓦夫·米沃什《前言》
乔安娜•切恰克译
获斯拉夫语言研究翻译海尔特奖（Heldt Prize）
维斯瓦娃·辛波丝卡（1923-2012）：波兰女诗人，1996年诺贝尔文学奖得主。
切斯瓦夫·米沃什（1911-2004）：美籍波兰作家，1980年获得诺贝尔文学奖。
乔安娜•切恰克：俄亥俄州肯特州立大学现代和古典语言研究系，应用语言学研究所俄语和波兰语翻译副教授。
关于此英译本的精彩点评，请参见周伟驰先生的《辛波丝卡的六世界》一文（http://www.douban.com/note/152549391/）。
此英译本精选诗人各个时期的诗作共61首，按主题分为6辑，差不多每辑10首。这61首的简体中文版现已全部翻译完毕，寻出版，求帮助。
杨昌禹
2012.11
附：
一. 目录
目录
鸣谢
前言（切斯瓦夫·米沃什）
译者的话
...巧遇已经捉弄他们很久很久...
纪念 (Commemoration)
率真 (Openness)
饮酒 (Drinking wine)
我跟他太近 (I am too close for him)...
一场梦 (A dream)
一个男人的家当 (A man's household)
感谢信 (A thank-you note)
无人公寓房里的猫 (Cat in an empty apartment)
告别一种风景 (Parting with a view)
一见钟情 (Love a first sight)
底片 (Negative)
...发生了太多不认为会发生的事...
我们知道了这个世界是倒退还是前进 (We knew the world backwards and forwards)...
寂静 (Still)
雅什罗的饥饿集中营 (Starvation Camp at Jaslo)
赞美诗 (Psalm)
这个世纪的转变 (The turn of the century)
我们时代的孩子 (Children of our era)
酷刑 (Torture)
结束与开始 (The end and the beginning)
仇恨 (Hatred)
真实需要 (Reality demands)
一些人 (Some people)
...我敲响那块石头的门...
马戏团的动物 (Circus animals)
水 (Water)
和一块石头谈话 (Conversation with a rock)
候鸟返回 (Birds returning)
俯瞰 (Seen from above)
随一粒沙看世界 (View with a grain of sand)
天空 (Sky)
云彩 (Clouds)
满谷满坑 (In abundance)
植物的静默 (The silence of plants)
...现如今的人类...
便签 (A note)
洞穴 (The cave)
失物招领处的话 (A speech at the lost and found)
大数目 (A large number)
过剩 (Surplus)
毫不夸张谈死亡 (On death, without exaggeration)
无需标题 (No title required)
事件的一个版本 (One version of events)
有关统计的字眼 (A word on statistics)
...不可思考就是可思考...
亚特兰蒂斯 (Atlantis)
在赫拉克利特的河流中 (In Heraclitus' river)
一首赞美诗 (A poem in honor of)
追寻 (Pursuit)
和一个孩子的谈话 (Interview with a child)
在我这里空虚也空掉了它自己 (Nothing nothinged itself for me as well)...
在某颗小星星底下 (Under a certain little star)
迟暮老者的梦 (The dream of the old tortoise)
圆周率 (Pi)
奇迹集市 (Miracle fair)
...啊缪斯...
电影谢幕之后 (Leaving the cinema)
鲁本斯的女人们 (Rubens' women)
诗歌朗诵会 (Poetry reading)
写作的愉悦 (The joy of writing)
风景画 (Landscape)
托马斯•曼 (Thomas Mann)
怯场 (Stage fright)
一位大人物故居 (A great man's house)
桥上的人们 (People on the bridge)
有些人喜欢诗 (Some like poetry)
译注
诗人小传
二. 参考翻译作品12首（中英对照）
1. 饮酒
他看着我，含情脉脉，
我欣然接受。
快乐，我饮醉一片星光。
我让他
用眼中的映像
创作我。我舞，我舞
好似翩翩彩蝶双飞翼。
台归台，酒是酒
盛于夜光杯，是夜光杯
它伫立在台上
而我是幻象，
超越信仰的幻象，
触及心核的幻象。
我倾诉他想听的一切 ——关于蚂蚁
在蒲公英的飞信底下
因为爱情而死亡。
我发誓，美酒浇灌的
纯洁玫瑰会歌唱。
我笑逐颜开，昂起头
小心翼翼，仿佛是在检测
某项创作。我舞，我舞
皮肤颤栗，如在母亲怀抱
那个创造我的地方。
夏娃出自一根肋骨，维纳斯出自大海浪花，
密涅瓦出自朱庇特的头颅
这些神话比我更真实。
当他没有看着我，
我搜寻自己
在墙上的身影。目之所及
只是一颗钉，一幅画悬挂其上。
Drinking Wine
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
He looked at me, bestowing beauty,
and I took it for my own.
Happy, I swallowed a star.
I let him invent me
in the image of the reflection
in his eyes. I dance, I dance
in an abundance of sudden wings.
A table is a table, wine is wine
in a wineglass, which is a wineglass
and it stands standing on a table
but I am a phantasm,
a phantasm beyond belief,
a phantasm to the core.
I tell him what he wants to hear—about ants
dying of love
under a dandelion's constellation.
I swear that sprinkled with wine
a white rose will sing.
I laugh, and tilt my head
carefully, as if I were testing
an invention. I dance, I dance
in astounded skin, in the embrace
that creates me.
Eve from a rib, Venus from sea foam,
Minerva from the head of Jove
were much more real.
When he's not looking at me,
I search for my reflection
on the wall. All I see
is a nail on which a painting hung.
2. 鲁本斯的女人们
赫克拉西斯，一个女性巨人群落。
赤裸裸犹如轰隆隆的木桶。
囚禁在乱糟糟的床榻上。
她们睡觉时嘴里咕咕如要报晓。
她们的瞳孔退守到深处，
而且透入到她们的腺体中心，
泡沫滴落到她们的血液。
巴洛克风情的女儿们。如面团腌在碗里，
浴室冒着蒸汽，葡萄酒泛着潮红，
小猪似的云朵雄赳赳冲过天空，
实体警报器里喇叭嘶鸣。
噢，南瓜一般过度臃肿的家伙，
揭去遮纱臃肿翻两倍，
去掉狂暴姿势臃肿翻三倍，
肥得流油的爱之菜肴。
她们皮包骨的姐妹兴起更早，
在黎明照亮这画之前，
而且没人看到她们形单影只地行走
在这画布未上彩的一面。
画风的流放者。肋骨根根可数。
双脚和两手纤如鸟类。
她们极力抬高枯瘦如柴的肩胛。
十三世纪会给她们一个金色的背景。
二十世纪，银色的背幕。
而十七世纪让平胸一无所是。
甚至连天空也松弛地曲着——
富于曲线的天使，富于曲线的神灵——
蓄着小胡子的阿波罗跨着大汗淋漓的坐骑
驶进了冒着蒸汽的卧室。
Rubens' Women
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Herculasses, a feminine fauna.
Naked as the crashing of barrels.
Cooped up atop trampled beds.
They sleep with mouths poised to crow.
Their pupils have retreated into the depths,
and penetrate to the heart of their glands,
trickling yeast into their blood.
Daughters of the Baroque. Dough bloats in a bowl,
baths are steaming, wines are blushing,
piglets of cloud are dashing across the sky,
trumpets neigh in physical alarm.
O pumpkinned, O excessive ones,
doubled by your unveiling,
trebled by your violent poses,
fat love dishes.
Their skinny sisters got up earlier,
before dawn broke within the painting,
and no one saw them walking single file
on the unpainted side of the canvas.
Exiles of style. Ribs all counted.
Birdlike feet and hands.
They try to ascend on gaunt shoulderblades.
The thirteenth century would have given them a golden backdrop.
The twentieth, a silver screen.
But the seventeenth has nothing for the flat-chested.
For even the sky curves in relief—
curvaceous angels, a curvaceous god—
a moustached Apollo astride a sweaty steed
enters the steaming bedchamber.
3. 随一粒沙看世界
我们叫它一粒沙。
但它不叫自己粒或沙。
它没名字也过得挺好
不论名字普通，独特，
短暂，永久，
不当，或贴切。
我们的目光和触碰对它毫无意义。
它感觉不到被注视或触碰。
它掉落在窗台
仅是我们的奇遇。
这跟它掉落在任何东西上并无两样，
它并不清楚是已经落地，
还是仍在自由坠落。
窗外是美丽的湖景，
但湖景看不到自己。
这个世界对它而言
无色，无形，
无声，无臭，
又无痛。
湖底本无底，
湖岸也无岸。
湖水无干也无湿。
滔滔浪花，无寡也无众，
它们听不见自己拍打在
无谓大小的礁石上的轰鸣。
这一切都发生在青天下，青天本无天，
太阳根本谈不上落不落下，
无谓躲与不躲在一朵不知情的云后，
风吹云乱，理由无他——
就是风在吹。
一秒过去。
第二秒。
第三秒。
但这些只是我们的三秒。
时光飞逝如信使处理急讯。
但那不过是我们的明喻。
一个捏造的人物，移植的匆忙，
而讯息与人无涉。
View with a Grain of Sand
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
We call it a grain of sand.
But it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does fine without a name
general, specific,
transient, permanent,
mistaken, or apt.
Our glance, our touch do nothing for it.
It does not feel seen or touched.
Its falling onto the windowsill
is only our adventure.
It might as well be falling on anything,
not knowing whether it's already landed,
or is still in free fall.
Out the window there's a beautiful view of a lake,
but this sight does not see itself.
Colorless and shapeless,
soundless, odorless,
and painless is this world to it.
To the bottom of the lake, it's bottomless,
and shoreless to its shore.
To its waters, neither dry nor wet.
Neither singular nor plural are the waves that whoosh,
deaf to their own whooshing
around stones neither small nor large.
And all this is happening under a sky, skyless by nature,
in which the sun goes down, without going down at all,
hiding without hiding behind an unwitting cloud,
which the wind thrashes for no other reason
than that it's blowing.
One second passes.
A second second.
A third.
But these are only our three seconds.
Time ran by like a courier with an urgent message.
But that's just our simile.
A made-up character, implanted haste,
and message inhuman.
4. 纪念
他们在榛丛中偷欢
枝头的露珠似朝阳,
他们的头发上沾满
这片林子的碎叶草屑。
燕子的心
把怜悯放他们身上。
他们在湖边跪下，
梳理发间的尘屑碎叶，
鱼儿游到水边，
星群一样闪闪发亮。
燕子的心
把怜悯放他们身上。
水雾从林间升起
倒映在涟漪碧波间。
燕子啊，让这份记忆
永远铭刻在心上。
燕子啊，你是云中的荆棘，
你是空中的锚点，
你是经过改良的伊卡洛斯，
你是身着正装的飞天使，
燕子啊，你是书法家，
你是不朽的秒针，
你是早期的哥特式建筑师，
你是在天空冷眼旁观的眼睛，
燕子啊，你是尖锐的沉默，
你是充满欢乐的丧服，
你是恋人们头上的光环，
你把怜悯放他们身上。
Commemoration
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
They made love among hazel shrubs
beneath suns of dew,
gathering in their hair
the forest's residue.
Heart of the swallow
have mercy on them.
They knelt down by the lake,
combed out the earth and leaves,
and fish swam to the water's edge,
a shimmering galaxy.
Heart of the swallow
have mercy on them.
Steam rose from trees reflected
in the rippling waves.
O swallow let this memory
forever be engraved.
O swallow, thorn of clouds,
anchor of the air,
Icarus improved,
Assumption in formal wear,
O swallow, the calligrapher,
timeless second hand,
early ornithogothic,
a crossed eye in the sky,
O swallow, pointed silence,
mourning full of joy,
halo over lovers,
have mercy on them.
5. 桥上的人们
奇怪的星球，它上面奇怪的人们。
他们屈从于时间，却又不想承认时间。
他们有他们表达抵抗的方式。
他们画出这样的画：
初看毫不起眼。
一处看得出是水，
一道河岸，
一条窄小的船费力地逆流而上，
一座桥跨过水面，
还有桥上的人。
他们显然在加快步伐，
因为雨水开始从一片乌云倾注而下。
问题是，什么都没有进一步发生。
云既没改变形状也没改变色彩。
雨既没消退也没猛增。
船一动不动。
桥上奔跑的人们
一如他们刚才那样。
很难不在这里做一番评论：
这根本就不是一幅天真的画。
时间在这里被迫停下，
它的法则不再被听从。
它对事件的进程失去了影响，
它受到了轻忽和侮辱。
要感谢一位叛徒，
某一位歌川广重
（顺便说说，这个存在者
早已仙逝，这也合乎情理），
时间绊了一跤，被摔倒了。
或许它不过是个没多少意义的恶作剧，
一个不大不小的玩笑，
但实情的确如此，
让我们补上接下来发生的事情：
数个世代来它一直被视为合情合理之举
对这幅画推崇备至，
对它不吝赞美而且为之陶醉感动。
对某些人来说，甚至这还不够。
他们听到了雨的啪嗒声，
感到了脖子和肩膀上雨点的沁凉，
他们看着桥和桥上的人们
仿佛看到了自己在那儿，
在那永无终止的奔跑中
沿着没有尽头的路，一直走向永恒
并且他们有胆相信
事情真是如此。
People on the Bridge
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Strange planet and strange people on it.
They yield to time, but don't want to recognize time.
They have their ways of expressing resistance.
They make pictures such as this:
Nothing remarkable at first glance.
One can see water,
one riverbank,
a narrow boat strenuously moving upstream,
a bridhe over the water,
and people on the bridge.
They are clearly picking up the pace,
as rain starts lashing down from a dark cloud.
The point is, nothing happens further.
The cloud changes neither shape nor color.
The rain neither subsides nor surges.
The boat moves without moving.
The people on the bridge run
exactly where they ran before.
It is hard to get by without commentary:
This is not at all an innocent picture.
Time's been stopped here,
its laws no longer consulted.
It's been denied impact on the course of events,
disregarded and dishonored.
Thanks to a rebel,
one Hiroshige Utagawa
(a being who, by the way,
passed away, as is poper, long ago),
time stumbled and fell.
Perhaps it is merely a prank without much meaning,
a whim on the scale of just a few galaxies,
but just in case,
let's add what happens next:
For generations it has been considered in good taste
to hold this painting in high esteem,
to praise it and be greatly moved by it.
For some, even that is not enough.
They hear the patter of rain,
feel the chill of raindrops on necks and shoulders,
they look at the bridge and the people on it
as if they saw themselves there,
in that never-ending race
along the endless road, to be traveled for eternity
and they have the audacity to believe
that it is real.
6. 奇迹集市
平凡不过的奇迹：
这种奇迹随时随地都在发生。
一个普普通通的奇迹：
在死寂的夜
只闻其声的犬吠。
千万个平凡中的一个奇迹：
一朵小小的、浮动的云
竟能遮挡硕大而沉重的月。
处处奇迹的一个存在：
一棵赤杨倒映水中，
它左右颠倒
它生长在那里，树冠朝下
却永远到达不了底部，
即使水很浅。
一个习以为常的奇迹：
风从弱到强
转疾化为风暴。
开门见山的奇迹：
山即是山。
并无二致的奇迹：
正是这片果园
诞生自那颗种子。
一个朴实无华的奇迹：
纷纷飞散的白鸽群。
你可能另有称呼的奇迹：
今天太阳在三点十四升起
然后会在八点过一分落下。
一个熟视无睹的奇迹：
尽管手指头少于六个，
却又多于四个。
看看四周就可发现的奇迹：
这个世界无处不在。
一个与一切形而上一样的形而上奇迹：
不可思考
就是可思考。
Miracle Fair
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Commonplace miracle:
that so many commonplace miracles happen.
An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.
One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.
Several miracles in one:
an elder tree reflected in the water,
and that it's backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.
An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.
First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.
Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.
A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.
A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.
A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.
An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
the unthinkable
is thinkable.
7. 感谢信
我亏欠那些
我不爱的人很多。
感到宽慰的是
另外有人更关爱他们。
很高兴我不是
他们羊群中的狼。
跟他们相处心平气和
因为跟他们相处我自由自在
——这些东西
爱情无法给予也无法取走。
我不会等候他们
从窗守到门。
耐心得几乎
像一个日晷，
我理解
爱情永远无法理解的。
我原谅
爱情永远不会原谅的。
从见面到通信
才过去几天或几周，
而不是一万年。
同他们出行总是一帆风顺：
听音乐会，
逛大教堂，
游山玩水。
当七条河七座山
横亘在我们中间，
它们也是在任何地图上
能找到的山山水水。
感谢他们
让我生活在三维世界，
生活在一个既不抽象也不矫饰的空间，
带有真实的、永远移动的地平线。
他们甚至不知道
他们空空的手里握有多少东西。
“我不亏欠他们什么，”
对这个不定论的问题
爱情会这么回答。
A Thank-You Note
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
I owe a lot
to those I do not love.
Relief in accepting
others care for them more.
Joy that I am not
wolf to their sheep.
Peace be with them
for with them I am free
—love neither gives
nor knows how to take these things.
I don't wait for them
from window to door.
Almost as patient
as a sun dial,
I understand
what love never could.
I forgive
what love never would.
Between rendezvous and letter
no eternity passes,
only a few days or weeks.
Our trips always turn out well:
concerts are enjoyed,
cathedrals toured,
landscapes in focus.
And when seven rivers and mountains
come between us,
they are the rivers and mountains
found on any map.
The credit's theirs
if I live in three dimensions,
in a mon-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,
with a real, ever-shifting horizon.
They don't even know
how much they carry in their empty hands.
"I owe them nothing,"
love would have said
on this open topic.
8. 在赫拉克利特的河流中
在赫拉克利特的河流中
一条鱼猎鱼，
一条鱼用一条尖利的鱼把一条鱼四分五裂，
一条鱼造一条鱼，一条鱼住在一条鱼里，
一条鱼在包围中逃离一条鱼。
在赫拉克利特的河流中
一条鱼爱慕一条鱼，
你的眼睛——它说——闪亮有如天上的鱼，
我想伴你游向共同的海，
啊，鱼群中最美丽的鱼。
在赫拉克利特的河流中
一条鱼虚构了超越一切鱼的鱼，
一条鱼在这条鱼前跪拜，一条鱼对这条鱼唱歌，
请求这条鱼让它游得轻松些。
在赫拉克利特的河流中
我，这条独特的鱼，我，一条离群的鱼
（即，不同于那木头鱼和石头鱼）
在某个时刻发现自己笔下的小鱼
鳞片闪着银光如此急促，
仿佛是黑暗在尴尬中眨眼。
In Heraclitus' River
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
In Heraclitus' River
a fish fishes for fish,
a fish quarters a fish with a sharp fish,
a fish builds a fish, a fish lives in a fish,
a fish flees a fish under siege.
In Heraclitus' river
a fish loves a fish,
your eyes—it says—glitter like fishes in the sky,
I want to swim with you to the common sea,
O most beautiful of the school of fish.
In Heraclitus' river
a fish invented the fish beyond fishes,
a fish kneels befor the fish, a fish sing to the fish,
asks the fish for an easier swim.
In Heraclitus' river
I, the sole fish, I, a fish apart
(say, from the tree fish and the stone fish)
at certain moments find myself writing small fish
in scales so briefly silver,
that it may be the darkness winking in embarrassment.
9. 一见钟情
他俩都相信
一个突如其来的情感让他们相遇。
这种笃定很美，
但变幻无常更美。
他们认为，由于素不相识，
彼此并无瓜葛。
且听听街道、楼梯、廊道说了些什么？
或许他们已千万次擦肩而过。
我想问他们，
是否已不记得 ——
在旋转门
面对面那一瞬？
滚滚人潮中一句“打扰”？
电话里传来的“打错了”？
—— 但我知道他们会怎么回答。
是的，他们不记得了。
他们会十分讶异，倘若得知
巧遇已经捉弄他们
很久很久。
全然没有准备
迎接命运的安排，
缘分在途中
将他们推近，拉远，分开，
而缘分，又憋住笑
闪到一边。
有些蛛丝马迹，
尽管他们无法解读。
或许是三年前
亦或是上周二
某片落叶飘舞
于此肩与彼肩？
一人丢失某物，随后被另一人拾起。
天知道，是不是那个
遗失在童年灌丛中的球？
还有门把和门铃，
事前已层层叠盖了
对方的指痕和掌印。
安检处并排放置彼此的箱包。
或许一夜同梦，
醒来便已模糊。
每个开始，终究
不过是一个续篇，
而情节跌宕的书
始终于中途铺展。
Love at First Sight
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
They are sure
that a sudden feeling united them.
Beautiful is such certainty,
but uncertainty more beautiful.
They think, that as they didn't know each other earlier,
nothing ever happened between them.
But what would they say: those streets, stairways, and corridors
where they could have been passing each other for a long time?
I would like to ask them,
don't you remember—
maybe face to face once
in a revolving door?
an "excuse me" in a tight crowd?
a "wrong number" heard over the phone?
—but I know their answer.
No, they don't remember.
They would be quite surprised,
that for a long time
chance had been toying with them.
Not altogether ready
to turn into their fate,
it would draw them together, pull them apart,
cut them off on their path,
and, swallowing a giggle,
leap to the side.
There were signs, signals,
so what they were unreadable.
Maybe three years ago
or last Tuesday
some leaf flew
from arm to arm?
Something got lost and then got picked up.
Who knows whether it wasn't even a ball
in some childhood thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells,
where touch lay on touch
beforehand.
Suitcases next to one another in the baggage check.
Maybe one night the same dream,
blurred upon awakening.
Every beginning, after all,
is nothing but a sequel,
and the book of events
is always open in the middle.
10. 天空
天之空，应是我们曾出发之地。
天窗无台，无框，无格。
幽深广阔，其上
尘绝。
我不必等待星夜，
也不必引颈，
去凝望天空。
我有天空抚背，绕手，停在眼睑。
是天空，紧紧将我包围
让我飘摇而上。
最高的山
不比最深的谷
靠天更近。
此处与彼处
拥有的天并无不同。
云朵被天空
无情碾碎，如墓消逝。
鼹鼠爬升，眼界
与夜枭振翅丝毫无异。
深如渊，穿行其中
天外还是天。
如尘沙、如流液、如山石、
如轻焰、如爆炸的
一片片天空，一粒粒天空，
一阵阵天空，一堆堆天空。
天空无处不在，
即使是皮下隐秘处。
我吸食天，我排出天。
我是笼中之笼，
被寄居的居民，
被接受的接受，
回答问题的问题。
分天地
不是藉此
去整体思考。
它只是让人
居有定所—
让找我的人
能更快找到我。
我的醒目标记
是狂喜和绝望。
Sky
Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
The sky is where we should have started.
Window without a sill, without a frame, without a pane.
An opening wide open, with nothing
Beyond it.
I don't have to wait for a starry night,
Nor crane my neck,
To look at the sky.
I have the sky at my back, close at hand and on my eyelids.
It is the sky that wraps me tight
And lifts me from beneath.
The highest mountains
Are no closer than the deepest
Valleys to the sky.
No place has any more of it
Than any other place.
A cloud is as ruthlessly
Crushed by the sky as a grave is.
A mole is as high, sky high
As an owl beating its wings.
Whatever falls into the abyss,
Fall from sky into sky.
Friable, fluid, rocky,
Flammable, volatile stretches
Of sky, specks of sky,
Gusts of sky, heaps of sky.
Sky is omnipresent,,
Even in darkness under the skin.
I eat the sky, I excrete the sky.
I'm a trap in a trap,
An inhabited inhabitant,
An embrace embraced,
A question that answers a question.
dividing earth and sky
is not the right way
to think about this wholeness.
It only allows one to live
at a more precise address—
Were I to be searched for
I’d be found much faster.
My distinguishing marks
Are rapture and despair.
11. 迟暮老者的梦
老者正梦到一片生菜叶
就在这菜叶旁大帝突然
活了过来，一如我们之前的时代。
老者不知道这预示着什么大事。
大帝回来了，不完整，但确实回来了，
以小腿的形式，穿着白袜格外有型
阳光在他黑色的靴子上灼灼生辉。
老者甚至不知道这很震撼人心。
两腿伫立，从耶拿到奥斯特利茨
轰隆隆的笑声滚过长空消逝在那片雾中。
你可能会怀疑所有这一切的真实性
以及大帝之靴是否拷花皮鞋。
右脚，左脚，很难
认出身体的零零碎碎。
老者从儿时就只有一鳞半爪的记忆
——至于他梦到了谁，他并不清楚。
大帝或否。这些信息是多么
影响老者打盹时梦中的事实，
某个不熟悉的人通过这个世界
避开了虚幻和剽窃！从脚跟到膝盖。
注：大帝指拿破仑
The Dream of the Old Tortoise
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
The tortoise is dreaming of a leaf of lettuce
and suddenly next to the leaf spring to life
the Emperor, just as in times that predate us.
The tortoise doesn't know what a feat this betides.
The Emperor returned, not in toto, in truth,
in the form of quite shapely calves in white stockings
and a glimmer of sun off the black of his shoes.
The tortoise doesn't even know this is shocking.
Two legs on the stop from Jena to Austerlitz
and the roar of laughter lost above in the fog.
You could doubt the reality of any of this
and whether the Emperor's shoe is a brogue.
Right foot, left foot, it's difficult
to recognize somebody piecemeal.
The tortoise remembers but little from childhood
—as to whom he dreamt up, he is unclear.
Emperor or not. How does that information
affect the fact that in a tortoise's nap,
an unknown someone escaped nullification
and steals through the world! From heel to kneecap.
12. 一场梦
我的他在战斗中死亡，我的他变成灰烬，我的他化为土，
带着他留在相片上的形象：
树叶的阴影在他脸上，贝壳在手里，
他踏进我的梦乡。
他游荡在从未冻结的黑暗，
游荡在始终对他敞开的虚空，
游荡在七重七重又七重的静默。
他出现在我眼皮的内侧，
出现在一个唯一的能够接触到他的世界。
他被射穿的心脏在跳动。
一阵原始的风从他的发间吹出。
一片草甸在我们之间涌起。
那片天空云彩伴着群鸟飞舞，
群山在地平线上无声地爆炸
那条河奔流而下追寻大海。
一个人能看得如此遥远，如此遥远，
以致白天和黑夜变得同步
以致一瞬间就能经历完所有的季节。
月亮尽其四相一齐争辉，
雪片围绕蝴蝶翩翩竞舞
而水果从树根往上掉落。
我们彼此走向对方。我不知我们是泪成行
还是笑相迎。再多走近一步
我们就会听到你贝壳里的啸音，
好一种声音，仿佛万千支管弦乐奏响，
好一支婚礼进行曲。
A Dream
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
My dead-in-battle, my turned-to-ashes, my earth,
taking the shape he has in the photograph:
leaf's shadow on his face, seashell in hand,
he marches unto my dream.
He wanders through darkness frozen since never,
through emptiness opened toward him for always,
through seven times seven times seven silences.
He appears on the inner side of my eyelids,
in the one and only world accessible to him.
His shot-through heart is beating.
A primordial wind gusts from his hair.
A meadow springs up between us.
The sky flies in with clouds and birds,
mountains quietly explode on the horizon
and the river flows down in search of the sea.
One can see so far, so far,
that day and night become simultaneous
and all the seasons are experienced at once.
The moon opens up its four-phased fan,
snowflakes swirl along with butterflies
and fruit falls from a blossoming tree.
We come toward each other. I don't know whether we're in tears
or whether we're smiling. One more step
and we will listen to your seashell,
what a sound, like thousands of orchestras,
what a wedding march.
杨昌禹
2012.11
selected poems of Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
with a foreword by Czeslaw Milosz
Winner of the Heldt Prize for translation in Slavic studies
《奇迹集市》
维斯瓦娃·辛波丝卡诗选
切斯瓦夫·米沃什《前言》
乔安娜•切恰克译
获斯拉夫语言研究翻译海尔特奖（Heldt Prize）
维斯瓦娃·辛波丝卡（1923-2012）：波兰女诗人，1996年诺贝尔文学奖得主。
切斯瓦夫·米沃什（1911-2004）：美籍波兰作家，1980年获得诺贝尔文学奖。
乔安娜•切恰克：俄亥俄州肯特州立大学现代和古典语言研究系，应用语言学研究所俄语和波兰语翻译副教授。
关于此英译本的精彩点评，请参见周伟驰先生的《辛波丝卡的六世界》一文（http://www.douban.com/note/152549391/）。
此英译本精选诗人各个时期的诗作共61首，按主题分为6辑，差不多每辑10首。这61首的简体中文版现已全部翻译完毕，寻出版，求帮助。
杨昌禹
2012.11
附：
一. 目录
目录
鸣谢
前言（切斯瓦夫·米沃什）
译者的话
...巧遇已经捉弄他们很久很久...
纪念 (Commemoration)
率真 (Openness)
饮酒 (Drinking wine)
我跟他太近 (I am too close for him)...
一场梦 (A dream)
一个男人的家当 (A man's household)
感谢信 (A thank-you note)
无人公寓房里的猫 (Cat in an empty apartment)
告别一种风景 (Parting with a view)
一见钟情 (Love a first sight)
底片 (Negative)
...发生了太多不认为会发生的事...
我们知道了这个世界是倒退还是前进 (We knew the world backwards and forwards)...
寂静 (Still)
雅什罗的饥饿集中营 (Starvation Camp at Jaslo)
赞美诗 (Psalm)
这个世纪的转变 (The turn of the century)
我们时代的孩子 (Children of our era)
酷刑 (Torture)
结束与开始 (The end and the beginning)
仇恨 (Hatred)
真实需要 (Reality demands)
一些人 (Some people)
...我敲响那块石头的门...
马戏团的动物 (Circus animals)
水 (Water)
和一块石头谈话 (Conversation with a rock)
候鸟返回 (Birds returning)
俯瞰 (Seen from above)
随一粒沙看世界 (View with a grain of sand)
天空 (Sky)
云彩 (Clouds)
满谷满坑 (In abundance)
植物的静默 (The silence of plants)
...现如今的人类...
便签 (A note)
洞穴 (The cave)
失物招领处的话 (A speech at the lost and found)
大数目 (A large number)
过剩 (Surplus)
毫不夸张谈死亡 (On death, without exaggeration)
无需标题 (No title required)
事件的一个版本 (One version of events)
有关统计的字眼 (A word on statistics)
...不可思考就是可思考...
亚特兰蒂斯 (Atlantis)
在赫拉克利特的河流中 (In Heraclitus' river)
一首赞美诗 (A poem in honor of)
追寻 (Pursuit)
和一个孩子的谈话 (Interview with a child)
在我这里空虚也空掉了它自己 (Nothing nothinged itself for me as well)...
在某颗小星星底下 (Under a certain little star)
迟暮老者的梦 (The dream of the old tortoise)
圆周率 (Pi)
奇迹集市 (Miracle fair)
...啊缪斯...
电影谢幕之后 (Leaving the cinema)
鲁本斯的女人们 (Rubens' women)
诗歌朗诵会 (Poetry reading)
写作的愉悦 (The joy of writing)
风景画 (Landscape)
托马斯•曼 (Thomas Mann)
怯场 (Stage fright)
一位大人物故居 (A great man's house)
桥上的人们 (People on the bridge)
有些人喜欢诗 (Some like poetry)
译注
诗人小传
二. 参考翻译作品12首（中英对照）
1. 饮酒
他看着我，含情脉脉，
我欣然接受。
快乐，我饮醉一片星光。
我让他
用眼中的映像
创作我。我舞，我舞
好似翩翩彩蝶双飞翼。
台归台，酒是酒
盛于夜光杯，是夜光杯
它伫立在台上
而我是幻象，
超越信仰的幻象，
触及心核的幻象。
我倾诉他想听的一切 ——关于蚂蚁
在蒲公英的飞信底下
因为爱情而死亡。
我发誓，美酒浇灌的
纯洁玫瑰会歌唱。
我笑逐颜开，昂起头
小心翼翼，仿佛是在检测
某项创作。我舞，我舞
皮肤颤栗，如在母亲怀抱
那个创造我的地方。
夏娃出自一根肋骨，维纳斯出自大海浪花，
密涅瓦出自朱庇特的头颅
这些神话比我更真实。
当他没有看着我，
我搜寻自己
在墙上的身影。目之所及
只是一颗钉，一幅画悬挂其上。
Drinking Wine
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
He looked at me, bestowing beauty,
and I took it for my own.
Happy, I swallowed a star.
I let him invent me
in the image of the reflection
in his eyes. I dance, I dance
in an abundance of sudden wings.
A table is a table, wine is wine
in a wineglass, which is a wineglass
and it stands standing on a table
but I am a phantasm,
a phantasm beyond belief,
a phantasm to the core.
I tell him what he wants to hear—about ants
dying of love
under a dandelion's constellation.
I swear that sprinkled with wine
a white rose will sing.
I laugh, and tilt my head
carefully, as if I were testing
an invention. I dance, I dance
in astounded skin, in the embrace
that creates me.
Eve from a rib, Venus from sea foam,
Minerva from the head of Jove
were much more real.
When he's not looking at me,
I search for my reflection
on the wall. All I see
is a nail on which a painting hung.
2. 鲁本斯的女人们
赫克拉西斯，一个女性巨人群落。
赤裸裸犹如轰隆隆的木桶。
囚禁在乱糟糟的床榻上。
她们睡觉时嘴里咕咕如要报晓。
她们的瞳孔退守到深处，
而且透入到她们的腺体中心，
泡沫滴落到她们的血液。
巴洛克风情的女儿们。如面团腌在碗里，
浴室冒着蒸汽，葡萄酒泛着潮红，
小猪似的云朵雄赳赳冲过天空，
实体警报器里喇叭嘶鸣。
噢，南瓜一般过度臃肿的家伙，
揭去遮纱臃肿翻两倍，
去掉狂暴姿势臃肿翻三倍，
肥得流油的爱之菜肴。
她们皮包骨的姐妹兴起更早，
在黎明照亮这画之前，
而且没人看到她们形单影只地行走
在这画布未上彩的一面。
画风的流放者。肋骨根根可数。
双脚和两手纤如鸟类。
她们极力抬高枯瘦如柴的肩胛。
十三世纪会给她们一个金色的背景。
二十世纪，银色的背幕。
而十七世纪让平胸一无所是。
甚至连天空也松弛地曲着——
富于曲线的天使，富于曲线的神灵——
蓄着小胡子的阿波罗跨着大汗淋漓的坐骑
驶进了冒着蒸汽的卧室。
Rubens' Women
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Herculasses, a feminine fauna.
Naked as the crashing of barrels.
Cooped up atop trampled beds.
They sleep with mouths poised to crow.
Their pupils have retreated into the depths,
and penetrate to the heart of their glands,
trickling yeast into their blood.
Daughters of the Baroque. Dough bloats in a bowl,
baths are steaming, wines are blushing,
piglets of cloud are dashing across the sky,
trumpets neigh in physical alarm.
O pumpkinned, O excessive ones,
doubled by your unveiling,
trebled by your violent poses,
fat love dishes.
Their skinny sisters got up earlier,
before dawn broke within the painting,
and no one saw them walking single file
on the unpainted side of the canvas.
Exiles of style. Ribs all counted.
Birdlike feet and hands.
They try to ascend on gaunt shoulderblades.
The thirteenth century would have given them a golden backdrop.
The twentieth, a silver screen.
But the seventeenth has nothing for the flat-chested.
For even the sky curves in relief—
curvaceous angels, a curvaceous god—
a moustached Apollo astride a sweaty steed
enters the steaming bedchamber.
3. 随一粒沙看世界
我们叫它一粒沙。
但它不叫自己粒或沙。
它没名字也过得挺好
不论名字普通，独特，
短暂，永久，
不当，或贴切。
我们的目光和触碰对它毫无意义。
它感觉不到被注视或触碰。
它掉落在窗台
仅是我们的奇遇。
这跟它掉落在任何东西上并无两样，
它并不清楚是已经落地，
还是仍在自由坠落。
窗外是美丽的湖景，
但湖景看不到自己。
这个世界对它而言
无色，无形，
无声，无臭，
又无痛。
湖底本无底，
湖岸也无岸。
湖水无干也无湿。
滔滔浪花，无寡也无众，
它们听不见自己拍打在
无谓大小的礁石上的轰鸣。
这一切都发生在青天下，青天本无天，
太阳根本谈不上落不落下，
无谓躲与不躲在一朵不知情的云后，
风吹云乱，理由无他——
就是风在吹。
一秒过去。
第二秒。
第三秒。
但这些只是我们的三秒。
时光飞逝如信使处理急讯。
但那不过是我们的明喻。
一个捏造的人物，移植的匆忙，
而讯息与人无涉。
View with a Grain of Sand
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
We call it a grain of sand.
But it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does fine without a name
general, specific,
transient, permanent,
mistaken, or apt.
Our glance, our touch do nothing for it.
It does not feel seen or touched.
Its falling onto the windowsill
is only our adventure.
It might as well be falling on anything,
not knowing whether it's already landed,
or is still in free fall.
Out the window there's a beautiful view of a lake,
but this sight does not see itself.
Colorless and shapeless,
soundless, odorless,
and painless is this world to it.
To the bottom of the lake, it's bottomless,
and shoreless to its shore.
To its waters, neither dry nor wet.
Neither singular nor plural are the waves that whoosh,
deaf to their own whooshing
around stones neither small nor large.
And all this is happening under a sky, skyless by nature,
in which the sun goes down, without going down at all,
hiding without hiding behind an unwitting cloud,
which the wind thrashes for no other reason
than that it's blowing.
One second passes.
A second second.
A third.
But these are only our three seconds.
Time ran by like a courier with an urgent message.
But that's just our simile.
A made-up character, implanted haste,
and message inhuman.
4. 纪念
他们在榛丛中偷欢
枝头的露珠似朝阳,
他们的头发上沾满
这片林子的碎叶草屑。
燕子的心
把怜悯放他们身上。
他们在湖边跪下，
梳理发间的尘屑碎叶，
鱼儿游到水边，
星群一样闪闪发亮。
燕子的心
把怜悯放他们身上。
水雾从林间升起
倒映在涟漪碧波间。
燕子啊，让这份记忆
永远铭刻在心上。
燕子啊，你是云中的荆棘，
你是空中的锚点，
你是经过改良的伊卡洛斯，
你是身着正装的飞天使，
燕子啊，你是书法家，
你是不朽的秒针，
你是早期的哥特式建筑师，
你是在天空冷眼旁观的眼睛，
燕子啊，你是尖锐的沉默，
你是充满欢乐的丧服，
你是恋人们头上的光环，
你把怜悯放他们身上。
Commemoration
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
They made love among hazel shrubs
beneath suns of dew,
gathering in their hair
the forest's residue.
Heart of the swallow
have mercy on them.
They knelt down by the lake,
combed out the earth and leaves,
and fish swam to the water's edge,
a shimmering galaxy.
Heart of the swallow
have mercy on them.
Steam rose from trees reflected
in the rippling waves.
O swallow let this memory
forever be engraved.
O swallow, thorn of clouds,
anchor of the air,
Icarus improved,
Assumption in formal wear,
O swallow, the calligrapher,
timeless second hand,
early ornithogothic,
a crossed eye in the sky,
O swallow, pointed silence,
mourning full of joy,
halo over lovers,
have mercy on them.
5. 桥上的人们
奇怪的星球，它上面奇怪的人们。
他们屈从于时间，却又不想承认时间。
他们有他们表达抵抗的方式。
他们画出这样的画：
初看毫不起眼。
一处看得出是水，
一道河岸，
一条窄小的船费力地逆流而上，
一座桥跨过水面，
还有桥上的人。
他们显然在加快步伐，
因为雨水开始从一片乌云倾注而下。
问题是，什么都没有进一步发生。
云既没改变形状也没改变色彩。
雨既没消退也没猛增。
船一动不动。
桥上奔跑的人们
一如他们刚才那样。
很难不在这里做一番评论：
这根本就不是一幅天真的画。
时间在这里被迫停下，
它的法则不再被听从。
它对事件的进程失去了影响，
它受到了轻忽和侮辱。
要感谢一位叛徒，
某一位歌川广重
（顺便说说，这个存在者
早已仙逝，这也合乎情理），
时间绊了一跤，被摔倒了。
或许它不过是个没多少意义的恶作剧，
一个不大不小的玩笑，
但实情的确如此，
让我们补上接下来发生的事情：
数个世代来它一直被视为合情合理之举
对这幅画推崇备至，
对它不吝赞美而且为之陶醉感动。
对某些人来说，甚至这还不够。
他们听到了雨的啪嗒声，
感到了脖子和肩膀上雨点的沁凉，
他们看着桥和桥上的人们
仿佛看到了自己在那儿，
在那永无终止的奔跑中
沿着没有尽头的路，一直走向永恒
并且他们有胆相信
事情真是如此。
People on the Bridge
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Strange planet and strange people on it.
They yield to time, but don't want to recognize time.
They have their ways of expressing resistance.
They make pictures such as this:
Nothing remarkable at first glance.
One can see water,
one riverbank,
a narrow boat strenuously moving upstream,
a bridhe over the water,
and people on the bridge.
They are clearly picking up the pace,
as rain starts lashing down from a dark cloud.
The point is, nothing happens further.
The cloud changes neither shape nor color.
The rain neither subsides nor surges.
The boat moves without moving.
The people on the bridge run
exactly where they ran before.
It is hard to get by without commentary:
This is not at all an innocent picture.
Time's been stopped here,
its laws no longer consulted.
It's been denied impact on the course of events,
disregarded and dishonored.
Thanks to a rebel,
one Hiroshige Utagawa
(a being who, by the way,
passed away, as is poper, long ago),
time stumbled and fell.
Perhaps it is merely a prank without much meaning,
a whim on the scale of just a few galaxies,
but just in case,
let's add what happens next:
For generations it has been considered in good taste
to hold this painting in high esteem,
to praise it and be greatly moved by it.
For some, even that is not enough.
They hear the patter of rain,
feel the chill of raindrops on necks and shoulders,
they look at the bridge and the people on it
as if they saw themselves there,
in that never-ending race
along the endless road, to be traveled for eternity
and they have the audacity to believe
that it is real.
6. 奇迹集市
平凡不过的奇迹：
这种奇迹随时随地都在发生。
一个普普通通的奇迹：
在死寂的夜
只闻其声的犬吠。
千万个平凡中的一个奇迹：
一朵小小的、浮动的云
竟能遮挡硕大而沉重的月。
处处奇迹的一个存在：
一棵赤杨倒映水中，
它左右颠倒
它生长在那里，树冠朝下
却永远到达不了底部，
即使水很浅。
一个习以为常的奇迹：
风从弱到强
转疾化为风暴。
开门见山的奇迹：
山即是山。
并无二致的奇迹：
正是这片果园
诞生自那颗种子。
一个朴实无华的奇迹：
纷纷飞散的白鸽群。
你可能另有称呼的奇迹：
今天太阳在三点十四升起
然后会在八点过一分落下。
一个熟视无睹的奇迹：
尽管手指头少于六个，
却又多于四个。
看看四周就可发现的奇迹：
这个世界无处不在。
一个与一切形而上一样的形而上奇迹：
不可思考
就是可思考。
Miracle Fair
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Commonplace miracle:
that so many commonplace miracles happen.
An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.
One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.
Several miracles in one:
an elder tree reflected in the water,
and that it's backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.
An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.
First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.
Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.
A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.
A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.
A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.
An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
the unthinkable
is thinkable.
7. 感谢信
我亏欠那些
我不爱的人很多。
感到宽慰的是
另外有人更关爱他们。
很高兴我不是
他们羊群中的狼。
跟他们相处心平气和
因为跟他们相处我自由自在
——这些东西
爱情无法给予也无法取走。
我不会等候他们
从窗守到门。
耐心得几乎
像一个日晷，
我理解
爱情永远无法理解的。
我原谅
爱情永远不会原谅的。
从见面到通信
才过去几天或几周，
而不是一万年。
同他们出行总是一帆风顺：
听音乐会，
逛大教堂，
游山玩水。
当七条河七座山
横亘在我们中间，
它们也是在任何地图上
能找到的山山水水。
感谢他们
让我生活在三维世界，
生活在一个既不抽象也不矫饰的空间，
带有真实的、永远移动的地平线。
他们甚至不知道
他们空空的手里握有多少东西。
“我不亏欠他们什么，”
对这个不定论的问题
爱情会这么回答。
A Thank-You Note
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
I owe a lot
to those I do not love.
Relief in accepting
others care for them more.
Joy that I am not
wolf to their sheep.
Peace be with them
for with them I am free
—love neither gives
nor knows how to take these things.
I don't wait for them
from window to door.
Almost as patient
as a sun dial,
I understand
what love never could.
I forgive
what love never would.
Between rendezvous and letter
no eternity passes,
only a few days or weeks.
Our trips always turn out well:
concerts are enjoyed,
cathedrals toured,
landscapes in focus.
And when seven rivers and mountains
come between us,
they are the rivers and mountains
found on any map.
The credit's theirs
if I live in three dimensions,
in a mon-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,
with a real, ever-shifting horizon.
They don't even know
how much they carry in their empty hands.
"I owe them nothing,"
love would have said
on this open topic.
8. 在赫拉克利特的河流中
在赫拉克利特的河流中
一条鱼猎鱼，
一条鱼用一条尖利的鱼把一条鱼四分五裂，
一条鱼造一条鱼，一条鱼住在一条鱼里，
一条鱼在包围中逃离一条鱼。
在赫拉克利特的河流中
一条鱼爱慕一条鱼，
你的眼睛——它说——闪亮有如天上的鱼，
我想伴你游向共同的海，
啊，鱼群中最美丽的鱼。
在赫拉克利特的河流中
一条鱼虚构了超越一切鱼的鱼，
一条鱼在这条鱼前跪拜，一条鱼对这条鱼唱歌，
请求这条鱼让它游得轻松些。
在赫拉克利特的河流中
我，这条独特的鱼，我，一条离群的鱼
（即，不同于那木头鱼和石头鱼）
在某个时刻发现自己笔下的小鱼
鳞片闪着银光如此急促，
仿佛是黑暗在尴尬中眨眼。
In Heraclitus' River
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
In Heraclitus' River
a fish fishes for fish,
a fish quarters a fish with a sharp fish,
a fish builds a fish, a fish lives in a fish,
a fish flees a fish under siege.
In Heraclitus' river
a fish loves a fish,
your eyes—it says—glitter like fishes in the sky,
I want to swim with you to the common sea,
O most beautiful of the school of fish.
In Heraclitus' river
a fish invented the fish beyond fishes,
a fish kneels befor the fish, a fish sing to the fish,
asks the fish for an easier swim.
In Heraclitus' river
I, the sole fish, I, a fish apart
(say, from the tree fish and the stone fish)
at certain moments find myself writing small fish
in scales so briefly silver,
that it may be the darkness winking in embarrassment.
9. 一见钟情
他俩都相信
一个突如其来的情感让他们相遇。
这种笃定很美，
但变幻无常更美。
他们认为，由于素不相识，
彼此并无瓜葛。
且听听街道、楼梯、廊道说了些什么？
或许他们已千万次擦肩而过。
我想问他们，
是否已不记得 ——
在旋转门
面对面那一瞬？
滚滚人潮中一句“打扰”？
电话里传来的“打错了”？
—— 但我知道他们会怎么回答。
是的，他们不记得了。
他们会十分讶异，倘若得知
巧遇已经捉弄他们
很久很久。
全然没有准备
迎接命运的安排，
缘分在途中
将他们推近，拉远，分开，
而缘分，又憋住笑
闪到一边。
有些蛛丝马迹，
尽管他们无法解读。
或许是三年前
亦或是上周二
某片落叶飘舞
于此肩与彼肩？
一人丢失某物，随后被另一人拾起。
天知道，是不是那个
遗失在童年灌丛中的球？
还有门把和门铃，
事前已层层叠盖了
对方的指痕和掌印。
安检处并排放置彼此的箱包。
或许一夜同梦，
醒来便已模糊。
每个开始，终究
不过是一个续篇，
而情节跌宕的书
始终于中途铺展。
Love at First Sight
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
They are sure
that a sudden feeling united them.
Beautiful is such certainty,
but uncertainty more beautiful.
They think, that as they didn't know each other earlier,
nothing ever happened between them.
But what would they say: those streets, stairways, and corridors
where they could have been passing each other for a long time?
I would like to ask them,
don't you remember—
maybe face to face once
in a revolving door?
an "excuse me" in a tight crowd?
a "wrong number" heard over the phone?
—but I know their answer.
No, they don't remember.
They would be quite surprised,
that for a long time
chance had been toying with them.
Not altogether ready
to turn into their fate,
it would draw them together, pull them apart,
cut them off on their path,
and, swallowing a giggle,
leap to the side.
There were signs, signals,
so what they were unreadable.
Maybe three years ago
or last Tuesday
some leaf flew
from arm to arm?
Something got lost and then got picked up.
Who knows whether it wasn't even a ball
in some childhood thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells,
where touch lay on touch
beforehand.
Suitcases next to one another in the baggage check.
Maybe one night the same dream,
blurred upon awakening.
Every beginning, after all,
is nothing but a sequel,
and the book of events
is always open in the middle.
10. 天空
天之空，应是我们曾出发之地。
天窗无台，无框，无格。
幽深广阔，其上
尘绝。
我不必等待星夜，
也不必引颈，
去凝望天空。
我有天空抚背，绕手，停在眼睑。
是天空，紧紧将我包围
让我飘摇而上。
最高的山
不比最深的谷
靠天更近。
此处与彼处
拥有的天并无不同。
云朵被天空
无情碾碎，如墓消逝。
鼹鼠爬升，眼界
与夜枭振翅丝毫无异。
深如渊，穿行其中
天外还是天。
如尘沙、如流液、如山石、
如轻焰、如爆炸的
一片片天空，一粒粒天空，
一阵阵天空，一堆堆天空。
天空无处不在，
即使是皮下隐秘处。
我吸食天，我排出天。
我是笼中之笼，
被寄居的居民，
被接受的接受，
回答问题的问题。
分天地
不是藉此
去整体思考。
它只是让人
居有定所—
让找我的人
能更快找到我。
我的醒目标记
是狂喜和绝望。
Sky
Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
The sky is where we should have started.
Window without a sill, without a frame, without a pane.
An opening wide open, with nothing
Beyond it.
I don't have to wait for a starry night,
Nor crane my neck,
To look at the sky.
I have the sky at my back, close at hand and on my eyelids.
It is the sky that wraps me tight
And lifts me from beneath.
The highest mountains
Are no closer than the deepest
Valleys to the sky.
No place has any more of it
Than any other place.
A cloud is as ruthlessly
Crushed by the sky as a grave is.
A mole is as high, sky high
As an owl beating its wings.
Whatever falls into the abyss,
Fall from sky into sky.
Friable, fluid, rocky,
Flammable, volatile stretches
Of sky, specks of sky,
Gusts of sky, heaps of sky.
Sky is omnipresent,,
Even in darkness under the skin.
I eat the sky, I excrete the sky.
I'm a trap in a trap,
An inhabited inhabitant,
An embrace embraced,
A question that answers a question.
dividing earth and sky
is not the right way
to think about this wholeness.
It only allows one to live
at a more precise address—
Were I to be searched for
I’d be found much faster.
My distinguishing marks
Are rapture and despair.
11. 迟暮老者的梦
老者正梦到一片生菜叶
就在这菜叶旁大帝突然
活了过来，一如我们之前的时代。
老者不知道这预示着什么大事。
大帝回来了，不完整，但确实回来了，
以小腿的形式，穿着白袜格外有型
阳光在他黑色的靴子上灼灼生辉。
老者甚至不知道这很震撼人心。
两腿伫立，从耶拿到奥斯特利茨
轰隆隆的笑声滚过长空消逝在那片雾中。
你可能会怀疑所有这一切的真实性
以及大帝之靴是否拷花皮鞋。
右脚，左脚，很难
认出身体的零零碎碎。
老者从儿时就只有一鳞半爪的记忆
——至于他梦到了谁，他并不清楚。
大帝或否。这些信息是多么
影响老者打盹时梦中的事实，
某个不熟悉的人通过这个世界
避开了虚幻和剽窃！从脚跟到膝盖。
注：大帝指拿破仑
The Dream of the Old Tortoise
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
The tortoise is dreaming of a leaf of lettuce
and suddenly next to the leaf spring to life
the Emperor, just as in times that predate us.
The tortoise doesn't know what a feat this betides.
The Emperor returned, not in toto, in truth,
in the form of quite shapely calves in white stockings
and a glimmer of sun off the black of his shoes.
The tortoise doesn't even know this is shocking.
Two legs on the stop from Jena to Austerlitz
and the roar of laughter lost above in the fog.
You could doubt the reality of any of this
and whether the Emperor's shoe is a brogue.
Right foot, left foot, it's difficult
to recognize somebody piecemeal.
The tortoise remembers but little from childhood
—as to whom he dreamt up, he is unclear.
Emperor or not. How does that information
affect the fact that in a tortoise's nap,
an unknown someone escaped nullification
and steals through the world! From heel to kneecap.
12. 一场梦
我的他在战斗中死亡，我的他变成灰烬，我的他化为土，
带着他留在相片上的形象：
树叶的阴影在他脸上，贝壳在手里，
他踏进我的梦乡。
他游荡在从未冻结的黑暗，
游荡在始终对他敞开的虚空，
游荡在七重七重又七重的静默。
他出现在我眼皮的内侧，
出现在一个唯一的能够接触到他的世界。
他被射穿的心脏在跳动。
一阵原始的风从他的发间吹出。
一片草甸在我们之间涌起。
那片天空云彩伴着群鸟飞舞，
群山在地平线上无声地爆炸
那条河奔流而下追寻大海。
一个人能看得如此遥远，如此遥远，
以致白天和黑夜变得同步
以致一瞬间就能经历完所有的季节。
月亮尽其四相一齐争辉，
雪片围绕蝴蝶翩翩竞舞
而水果从树根往上掉落。
我们彼此走向对方。我不知我们是泪成行
还是笑相迎。再多走近一步
我们就会听到你贝壳里的啸音，
好一种声音，仿佛万千支管弦乐奏响，
好一支婚礼进行曲。
A Dream
Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
My dead-in-battle, my turned-to-ashes, my earth,
taking the shape he has in the photograph:
leaf's shadow on his face, seashell in hand,
he marches unto my dream.
He wanders through darkness frozen since never,
through emptiness opened toward him for always,
through seven times seven times seven silences.
He appears on the inner side of my eyelids,
in the one and only world accessible to him.
His shot-through heart is beating.
A primordial wind gusts from his hair.
A meadow springs up between us.
The sky flies in with clouds and birds,
mountains quietly explode on the horizon
and the river flows down in search of the sea.
One can see so far, so far,
that day and night become simultaneous
and all the seasons are experienced at once.
The moon opens up its four-phased fan,
snowflakes swirl along with butterflies
and fruit falls from a blossoming tree.
We come toward each other. I don't know whether we're in tears
or whether we're smiling. One more step
and we will listen to your seashell,
what a sound, like thousands of orchestras,
what a wedding march.
杨昌禹
2012.11
