《街道之口》
街道之口沉默睛藻，窗戶失明怀樟，
軌道冰冷的血脈無聲地顫抖。
濕漉漉的路面映照著
空中飽含冰雹的鉛云恨旱。
我媽媽正在醫(yī)院里死去，
在刺眼的白色床單上
她抬起手掌---然后垂下了手臂坝疼。
那婚戒搜贤，在她為我洗澡時曾刮痛過我，
從她消瘦的手指滑落钝凶。
樹木飲下冬日的潮濕仪芒。
拉著滿車煤炭的馬，垂下了頭耕陷。
留聲機掂名，循環(huán)播放巴赫和莫扎特
就像地球繞著太陽轉(zhuǎn)。
那兒哟沫，在一家醫(yī)院里饺蔑，我的媽媽正在死去。
我的媽媽嗜诀。
《她起來》
她起來猾警，從她閉著的嘴上挪開，
她隆敢，一動不動了這么久发皿，
可以走了! 小心翼翼地挪步，就像一個
得病很久很久的人筑公，起來了雳窟。
她走過他的前額，走過我的心匣屡，
走過另一個人亂成一團的頭發(fā)封救。她走---自己走。
有一會兒捣作，她困惑地看著
那個被遺棄的身體并且誉结，一點也不憐惜地，
看著我們券躁，在晨霧里痛苦地彎下腰惩坑，
像路邊的樹枝一樣掉盅。她推開枝條，
走了以舒。消失在光線里趾痘。
我多么希望這是真的! 但我什么也沒看到
除了凝結(jié)著淚水的雙眼
和那冰涼冷漠的雙手。媽媽 !
《我站著》
我和姐姐站在那塊墓地前蔓钟，
我們在談些很重要的事永票。
男孩在學校的表現(xiàn)進步了。
最小的孩子開始呀呀學語了滥沫。
如果你不刁鉆侣集，別人也會對你友好。
房間剛油漆過兰绣。我們新買了桌椅世分。
鄰居有時來串門，還說: "你這地方看起來挺好的"
母親很喜歡的那棵植物開花了缀辩。
我本想帶花來臭埋，但是擔心花會枯萎。
空氣臀玄，樹木斋泄，石頭和泥土都在聽我們說話
而只有我們要傾訴的人聽不見。
但也許她就在我們身后镐牺，聽我們講生活瑣事
并且輕輕地說:"親愛的，不用再說了魁莉，我都知道睬涧。"
《媽媽說: "看"》
" 看，" 在夢里媽媽說旗唁，
" 看畦浓，一只鳥直沖云霄。
為什么你不寫一首詩?
它是多么重检疫，多么快的啊!
"還有這桌面上的 ---
面包的香味讶请， 盤子的叮當聲
你不用再提起我。
那個休息的地方?jīng)]有我了屎媳。
"我已過去夺溢，我已終止，
我已經(jīng)夠了: 晚安!"
所以我寫了這首關(guān)于飛鳥烛谊，
關(guān)于面包的詩 .... 媽媽风响， 媽媽。
詩人簡介:
安娜?卡敏斯卡(1920--1986)丹禀，波蘭詩人状勤，翻譯家鞋怀，文學評論家。生前共發(fā)表過十五本詩集持搜，三本小說密似，三本圣經(jīng)述評，兩卷札記等葫盼。與同是1920年代出生的波蘭詩人茲比格涅夫·赫伯特残腌，朱麗亞?哈特唯格，辛波絲卡(1996年諾貝爾文學獎獲得者)剪返，以及更早出生的米沃什(1980年諾貝爾文學獎得主)和更后面出生废累，現(xiàn)在仍活躍于世界文學的亞當扎加耶夫斯基，都是對波蘭文學和世界文學產(chǎn)生很大影響的著名詩人脱盲∫乇酰卡敏斯卡反對用復雜晦澀的隱喻和反諷手法寫詩，她的的詩歌語言簡潔清晰钱反，讀她的詩掖看，就好像聽她跟你在親切溫柔地訴說她的孤獨，迷惑面哥，悲傷和對生命的領悟哎壳。1967年底，她的丈夫尚卫，同是詩人的楊?斯皮瓦克得癌癥死去归榕，一度對她的打擊很大，也使她對于生命的意義有了更多的思考和領悟吱涉。"我尋找亡人刹泄，卻找到了上帝"，她后期的詩歌以信仰的體驗著稱怎爵，寫了"約伯的回歸"特石，"約伯的第二次幸福"等以圣經(jīng)人物為主題的著名短詩系列。
這四首詩選自她早期悼念亡母的詩作鳖链，寄托了詩人對母親的深深思念姆蘸，用詞簡潔樸素，情感懇切芙委，哀惋動人逞敷，特別是其中的三首詩以"媽媽"，"我的媽媽"作為詩的結(jié)尾灌侣，讀起來好像聽到詩人在輕輕地呼喚自己的媽媽兰粉，讓人禁不住潸然淚下。
四首詩都選自美國 Paraclete Press 出版的英譯版 Astonishments, Selected Poems of Anna Kamienska, 英譯者是 Grazna Drabik AND David Curzon.
本譯文僅供個人研習顶瞳、欣賞語言之用玖姑，謝絕任何轉(zhuǎn)載及用于任何商業(yè)用途愕秫。本譯文所涉法律后果均由本人承擔。本人同意簡書平臺在接獲有關(guān)著作權(quán)人的通知后焰络，刪除文章戴甩。
英譯詩原文:
THE MOUTHS OF STREETS
The mouths of streets are silent, windows go blind,
Cold veins of tracks tremble noiselessly.
In the mirror of wet pavement the sky hangs
With lead clouds full of hail.
My mother is dying in a hospital.
From bed-sheets burning white
She raises her palm—and the arm drops down.
The wedding ring, that hurt when she was washing me,
Slips off her thinned finger.
The trees drink in the winter damp.
The horse, his cart filled up with coal, hangs down his head.
On a record, Bach and Mozart circle
Just like the Earth circles the Sun.
There, in a hospital, my mother is dying.
My mama.
SHE GETS UP
She gets up, moves away from her closed mouth,
She, immobile for so long,
Walks! Steps carefully, like someone
Getting up after a long, long illness.
She walks through his forehead, through my heart,
Through another’s tangled hair. She walks — on her own.
For a moment she looks, puzzled,
At the abandoned body and, without regrets,
At us, bent in pain in a morning fog
Like roadside branches. She pushes them
Aside and departs. She fades into radiance.
If I could only believe it! But I didn’t see anything
Besides the eyes congealed with tears
And the cold indifferent hands. Mama!
I WAS STANDING
I was standing with my sister over the patch of grave
And we were speaking about some very important things.
The boy is doing better at school. The youngest already chatters.
If you aren’t mean to people, they’ll be good to you.
The apartment’s freshly painted. We bought a table, chairs.
A neighbor stops by sometimes, and says, ‘Your place looks nice.’
The plant that mother liked so much is in bloom.
I wanted to bring flowers but was afraid they’d wilt.
The air, tree, stone and earth all listen as we talk
And only the one for whom we bring this news can’t hear.
But perhaps she stands behind us and smiles at life’s affairs
And whispers, ‘I know, my darlings. No need to tell me any more.’
“LOOK,” MOTHER SAYS
“Look,” mother says in my dream,
“Look, a bird soars up to the clouds.
Why don’t you write about it,
How heavy it is, how swift?
“And here on the table—the smell
Of bread, a tinkling of plates.
You don’t need to speak of me again.
There is no me where I rest.
“I’ve passed, I’ve ceased,
It’s enough for me: goodnight!”
So I write this poem about birds,
About bread . . . Mama. Mama.
