Selected poems：《不對稱：扎加耶夫斯基詩集》

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Zagajewski
Adam Zagajewski (21 June 1945 – 21 March 2021) was a Polish poet, novelist, translator, and essayist. He was awarded the 2004 Neustadt International Prize for Literature, the 2016 Griffin Poetry Prize Lifetime Recognition Award, the 2017 Princess of Asturias Award for Literature and the 2018 Golden Wreath of Poetry at the Struga Poetry Evenings. He was considered a leading poet of the Generation of 68, or Polish New Wave (Polish: Nowa fala), and one of Polands most prominent contemporary poets.

https://www.books.com.tw/products/CN11728099
不對稱：扎加耶夫斯基詩集
作者：亞當‧扎加耶夫斯基
出版社：中信出版社
出版日期：2021/10/01
語言：簡體中文

《不對稱》是波蘭詩人亞當‧扎加耶夫斯基的全新詩集。本書分為三輯，根據所涉主題精心安排。除了延續他以往慣常的詩歌主題之外，本書多指涉“即興”與“回憶”，一如既往地在歷史感/現實感與審美要求之間尋求著一種理想的平衡。他的詩歌平靜、溫和、細緻而不失力度，在體量上愈發精粹，內容上卻愈見厚重。

作者介紹
亞當‧扎加耶夫斯基，Adam Zagajewski（1945-2021）
波蘭詩人、作家，“新浪潮”詩歌代表人物。主要著作有《無止境》《兩座城市》《另一種美》《捍衛熱情》《不對稱》等。其作品被翻譯為多種語言出版，曾經受到米沃什、布羅茨基、桑塔格等眾多詩人、評論家和學者的高度讚揚。扎加耶夫斯基曾獲多項 大獎，多年以來也是諾貝爾文學獎的熱門人選。2021年3月21日，在克拉科夫逝世。



〈曼德爾施塔姆在費奧多西亞〉

讓我走；我生來不是坐牢的。

——奧西普·曼德爾施塔姆
(1920年被捕于費奧多西亞)

曼德爾施塔姆沒有錯，他生來不是

坐牢的，但牢房已經為他

造好，無數的集中營和監獄

在耐心地等著他，運貨列車

和骯髒的營房，鐵路道岔

和陰暗的候車室一直在等

直到他到來，穿皮夾克的

秘密員警和面色紅潤的御用文人

一直在等著他。

“我不會去看著名的淮德拉”，

他寫道。黑海沒有流出

黑色眼淚，岸邊的鵝卵石

順從地翻滾，一如海浪所期，

雲朵迅速飄過漫不經心的大地。

MANDELSTAM IN THEODOSIA

Let me go; I wasn’t made for jail.

—OSIP MANDELSTAM

(arrested in Theodosia in 1920)

Mandelstam was not mistaken, he wasn’t made

for jail, but jails were made

for him, countless camps and prisons

waited for him patiently, freight trains

and filthy barracks, railroad switches and

gloomy waiting rooms kept waiting

till he came, secret police in leather

jackets waited for him and party

hacks with ruddy faces.

“I will not see the famous Phaedra,”

he wrote. The Black Sea didn’t shed

black tears, pebbles on the shore

tumbled submissively, as the wave desired,

clouds sailed swiftly across the inattentive earth.

〈成熟的史詩〉

每一首詩，甚至最簡短的詩，

也可能生長成一部成熟的史詩。

它甚至可能隨時爆炸，

因為它隨處藏著巨大的

奇跡和殘酷庫存，它們耐心等待著

我們的注視，我們的注視可能釋放它們，

打開它們，就像高速公路的弓在夏日展開——

但我們不知道它通向什麼，如果我們的想像

能夠跟上它豐富的現實，

所以說，每首詩必須說出

世界的整體；唉，我們的

頭腦在別處，我們的雙唇是

薄的，篩選著意象

彷彿莫里哀的吝嗇鬼。

FULL-BLOWN EPIC

Each poem, even the briefest,

may grow into a full-blown epic,

it may even seem ready to explode,

since it conceals everywhere immense

stores of wonder and cruelty patiently

awaiting our gaze, which may release them,

unfold them, just as a highway’s bow unfolds in summer—

but we don’t know what will prevail, if our imagination

can keep pace with its rich reality,

and so each poem has to speak

of the world’s wholeness; alas, our

minds are elsewhere, our lips are

thin and sift images

like Molière’s miser.

〈我們知道藝術是什麼〉

我們知道藝術是什麼，我們懂得它帶來的

幸福之感，有時艱難，苦澀，又苦又甜，

有時只有甜，像土耳其糕點。我們尊重藝術，

因為我們想知道我們的生活是什麼。

我們活著，但並不總是知道那意味著什麼。

所以我們旅行，或只是在家裡打開一本書。

我們想起短暫的幻景，當我們站在一幅畫前，

我們也可能記起空中飄浮的雲朵。

我們顫抖，當我們聆聽大提琴手演奏

巴赫的組曲，當我們聆聽一架鋼琴歌唱。

我們知道偉大的詩歌是什麼，一首

寫於三千年前，或者昨天的詩。

但我們不知道音樂會為什麼有時

卻無法打動我們。我們不知道為什麼

有些書似乎給我們帶來救贖

而另一些則無法藏起它們的憤怒。我們知道，然後我們卻忘了。

我們只能猜測一件藝術品為什麼會突然

關閉，砰的一聲關上，就像一個義大利博物館在罷工。

為什麼我們的靈魂有時也會關閉，砰的一聲關上，就像

一個義大利博物館在罷工。

當可怕的事情發生時藝術為什麼會沉默，

那時候我們為什麼就不需要它——彷彿可怕的事情

已淹沒這世界，完全地、徹底地淹沒，淹到屋頂。

我們不知道藝術是什麼。

WE KNOW WHAT ART IS

We know what art is, we recognize the sense of happiness

it gives, difficult at times, bitter, bittersweet,

sometimes only sweet, like Turkish pastry. We honor art,

since we’d like to know what our life is.

We live, but don’t always know what that means.

So we travel, or just open a book at home.

We recall a momentary vision as we stood before a painting,

we may also remember clouds drifting through the sky.

We shiver when we hear a cellist play

Bach’s suites, when we catch a piano singing.

We know what great poetry can be, a poem

written three millennia ago, or yesterday.

But we don’t know why a concert sometimes

fails to move us. We don’t see why

some books seem to offer us redemption

while others can’t conceal their rage. We know, but then we forget.

We can only guess why a work of art may suddenly

close up, slam shut, like an Italian museum on strike (sciopero).

Why our souls also close at times, and slam shut, like

an Italian museum on strike (sciopero).

Why art goes mute when terrible things happen,

why we don’t need it then—as if terrible things

had overwhelmed the world, filled it completely, totally, to the roof.

We don’t know what art is.

〈白帆〉

歐仁‧德拉克洛瓦望著

拉芒什運河上的汽船，
汽船已逐漸、系統地開始

用鼓脹的白帆取代三帆艦，
他在日記中悲傷地寫道：

我們周圍的一切都已淪為墮落的獵物，

世界的美永遠消失了；

新的發明不斷

出現，它們也許有用，

卻總是不可收拾地平庸
（比如，鐵路

火車頭，笨重如絞刑吏的手)。

他本人描畫漂亮的駿馬和兇猛的獅子，

它們短毛下的肌肉繃緊，

還有騎兵上尉的制服，大量的紅，它

可以是血或具有異國情調的織品，

而光舞蹈在佩劍的鋒刃上

現在卻只剩下機器，

灰色的機器和油污

在沙灘上，在垃圾上（仍然血腥）。

如此多的新的現實，

而那些奇異之物倒變得羞怯了，

難以定位，難以記住，

難以記錄，而那些高高的、

白色的、聳立的雲朵，

驕傲的、傲慢的積雨雲，依然航行

越過法國，越過德國，越過波蘭，

越過我們上空，忠實的候鳥

隱藏其中，仙鶴和紅腹雀

和燕子，深居其間，金鶯，雨燕

以及空中的鐵船，

殺死或拯救我們。

它們盤旋在我們頭頂，

死亡與救贖。

WHITE SAILS

Eugène Delacroix watched

the steamships on the Canal La Manche,

which had slowly, systematically begun

to replace the frigates with their billowing white sails,

and he sadly noted in his diary:

everything around us falls prey to degradation,

the world’s beauty vanishes for good;

new inventions turn up

ceaselessly, they may be useful,

but they’re endlessly banal

(iron railroads, for example,

locomotives heavy as a hangman’s hand).

He himself painted fine horses and fierce lions,

with muscles taut under their short coats,

and the uniforms of Spahis, a lot of red, which

could be blood or exotic textiles,

and light dancing on a saber’s blade

—but now only the machines remained,

gray machines and oil stains

on the sand, on the rubbish (but also blood).

There’s so much new reality,

and the marvelous has gotten shy,

it’s hard to locate, to remember,

to record, but still the high,

white, skyscraping clouds,

proud, haughty cumuli, they sail

over France and over Germany and over Poland,

they sail over us, faithful migrating birds

hide in them, cranes and bullfinches,

swallows dwell in them, orioles, swifts

and also the iron ships of the air,

which kill or save us.

They circle overhead,

death and salvation.