米沃什诗选（英译）Encounter
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ ANDLILLIAN VALLEE
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing ro in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, whereare they, where are they going
The flash of ahand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
Wilno, 1936
Normalization
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY CLARE CAVANAGH
This happened long ago, before theont
of universal genetic correctness.
Boys and girls would stand naked before mirrors
studying the defects of their structure.
No too long, ears like burdocks,
sunken chin just like a mongoloid.
Breasts too small, too large, lopsided shoulders,
penis too short, hips too broad orel too narrow.
And just an inch or two taller!
Such was the hou they inhabited for life.
Hiding, feigning, concealing defects.
But somehow they still had to find a partner.
Following incomprehensible tastes—airy creatures
paired with pot bellies, skin and bones enamored of salt pork.
They had a saying then: “Even monsters
have their mates.” So perhaps they learned to tolerate their partners’ flaws, trusting that theirs would be forgiven in turn.
Now every genetic error meets withsuch
disgust that crowds might spit on them and stone them.
As happened in the city of K., where the town council
voted to exile a girl
圆桌怎么安排座位So thickt and squat
that no stylish dress could ever suit her,
But let’s not yearn for the days of prenormalization. Just think of the torments, the anxieties, the sweat, the wiles needed to entice, inspite of all.
A Song on the End of the World
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY ANTHONY MILOSZ
On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpois jump in the a,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be. On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.
And tho who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
心脉通胶囊And tho who expected signs and archangels’ trumps Do not believe it is happening now.
三叶青别名
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a ro,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.
Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.
往的成语开头Warsaw, 1944
Dedication
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
关于毛泽东的诗词TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one, Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty;
Blind force with accomplished shape.
Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immen bridge孩子学
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city;
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.
What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards who throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.
They ud to pour millet on graves or poppy eds
To feed the dead who would come disguid as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.
Warsaw, 1945
Theodicy什么是双数
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY ROBERT HASS AND CZESLAW MILOSZ
No, it won’t do, my sweet theologians.
Desire will not save the morality of God.
If he created beings able to choo between good and evil,
And they cho, and the world lies in iniquity,
Nevertheless, there is pain, and the underved torture of creatures, Which would find its explanation only by assuming
The existence of an archetypal Paradi
And a pre-human downfall so grave
That the world of matter received its shape from diabolic power. Veni Creator
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ AND ROBERT PINSKY Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grass,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a man: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
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Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore call one man, anywhere on earth,
not me—after all I have some decency—
and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you.
Berkely, 1961
Incantation
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ AND ROBERT PINSKY Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
No ntence of banishment can prevail against it.
It establishes the universal ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
It puts what should be above things as they are,
Is an enemy of despair and a friend of hope.
It does not know Jew from Greek or slave from master,
Giving us the estate of the world to manage.
It saves austere and transparent phras
From the filthy discord of tortured words.
It says that everything is new under the sun,
Opens the congealed fist of the past.
Beautiful and very young are Philo-Sophia
And poetry, her ally in the rvice of the good.
As late as yesterday Nature celebrated their birth,
The news was brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo. Their friendship will be glorious, their time has no limit.
Their enemies have delivered themlves to destruction.
Berkeley, 1968
Ars Poetica?
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ AND LILLIAN VALLEE
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or pro
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very esnce of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion, though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel. It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty. What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I’ve devid just one more means
of praising Art with the help of irony.
There was a time when only wi books were read,
helping us to bear our pain and miry.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it ems to be
and we are other than how we e ourlves in our ravings.
People therefore prerve silent integrity,
