米沃什作品

切斯瓦夫·米沃什（Czedaw Milosz，1911-2004），波兰著名诗人、1980年诺贝尔文学奖得主。生于立陶宛，1934年至1935年间留学法国巴黎，30年代开始参加文学活动并发表作品，后来在波兰电台文学部工作，二战后任波兰驻美国和法国的文化参赞，1960年定居美国。他的诗集有《一首关于冻结的时间的诗》《营救》《日光》《没有名字的城市》《从太阳的升起》《珍珠的颂歌》《不可获得的土地》《外省》《面对河流》《路边的狗》《这》《第二空间》等诗集，另著有多种散文集。他的诗自然流畅、朴直，寓意深刻，反映出东欧知识分子的思想和心态及其与现实社会的冲突，产生了广泛的影响。

相互反对

一边是世界，另一边则是人与神。

世界不可改变，不可动摇，态度冷漠。

过去你常常赤脚奔跑的时候，割伤你的脚趾的是石头。

人与神：过失与宽恕持续不断地运动。

他们温暖的喉咙里发出诅咒和祝福的声音。

他们虚弱，很可能改变，他们期待对方帮助自己。

失败的危险加剧人与神的爱。

他们的衣服、短筒靴和面具，证明他们双方都不想停留在大自然的秩序中。

凡人与神仙，两者都生活在他们自己那高出世界的领域之中。

那成为人或神的你们，别忘了，因为你们，究竟是什么荣誉来自一颗颗恒星和世界的星系。

OPPOSED TO EACH OTHER

On one side，the world; on the other，men and gods.

The world is immutable，inexorable，indifferent.

It is the stone that hurt your toe when you used to nin barefoot.

Men and gods： an incessant motion of guilt and forgiveness.

Their warm throats pronounce the words of curse and blessing.

They are weak，changeable，they expect help from each other.

The loves of men and gods，sharpened by the danger of loss.

Their dresses，buskins，and masks prove that neither of them wantsto stay in the order of Nature.

Both mortal and immortal，they live in their own realm high above the world.

Do not forget，you who are men or gods，what honors are due to you fiom the suns and galaxies of the world.

诗意状态

仿佛我被赋予的不是眼睛，而是颠倒过来的望远镜，世界离开，万物变小，人们、街道、树木，但并没失去清晰度，被浓缩起来。

过去，我在写诗的时候经历过这样的时刻，因此我了解距离，无所为而为的玩索，扮演一个并不是“我”的“我”，但如今时常都像那样，我询问自己那意味着什么，我是否进入了一种永久的诗意状态。

曾经困难的事情变得容易了，但我并没强烈地感到需要在写作中传达它们。

如今我身体健康，在我因为时间飞逝和我被接下来会发生什么的恐惧所折磨而生病之前的地方。

每分钟，世界的壮观景象都令我惊讶，它如此滑稽好笑，以至于我无法理解文学怎能期盼去应对它。

每分钟，在我的肉体中，我通过我的触觉而感觉，驯服厄运，并没要求上帝去阻止它，因为要是上帝不曾为别人阻止它，那他为什么要为我而阻止它呢？

我梦见我发现自己置身于水上的一片狭窄的壁架上，那水里游动着硕大的海鱼。我心存恐惧，要是我俯视下面，我就会掉下去，因此我转身，用手指紧紧地抠住石壁上的粗糙之处，背对着大海缓缓移动，到达安全的地方。

对于丧失在琐事上的时间，我感到急躁，而且容易受到刺激——我置身于那些琐事当中，打扫清洁、烹饪煮饭。如今，我专心致志地切洋葱、挤柠檬，准备各种调味汁。

A POETIC STATE

As if I were given a reversed telescope instead of eyes，the world moves away and everything grows smaller，people，streets，trees，but they do not lose their distinctness，are condensed.

In the past I had such moments writing poems，so I know distance，disinterested contemplation，putting on an “I”which is not

“I.”but now it is like that constantly and I ask myself what it means，whether I have entered a permanent poetic state.

Things once difficult are easy，but I feel no strong need to communicate them in writing.

Now I am in good health，where before I was sick because time galloped and I was toriured by fear of what would happen next.

Every minute the spectacle of the world astonishes me; it is socomic that I cannot understand how literature could expect to cope with it.

Sensing every minute，in my flesh，by my touch，I tame rrusfortune and do not ask God to avert it，for why should He avert it from me if He does not avert it from others？

I dreamt that I found myself on a narrow ledge over the water where large sea fish were moving. I was afraid I would fall if I looked down，so I turned，gripped with my fingers at the roughness of the stone wall， and moving slowly， with my back to the sea，reached a safe place.

I was impatient and easily imtated by time lost on trifles among which I ranked cleaning and cooking. Now， attentively， I cutonions，squeeze lemons，and prepare various kinds of sauces.

白色

哦，白色，白色，白色。女人们拿着面包和蔬菜，女人们在永远回旋的黄道带的标志下面诞生的白色城市。

喷泉的颚把水喷在绿色太阳中，就像喷在往昔婚礼的日子，喷在头顶寒冷的晨曦从一处郊区溜达到另一处郊区的日子。

在密集的泥土中的某处，是男生皮带上的搭扣，束缚着黑莓绳的地堡和石棺。

触觉的显露，一次次新的开端，始终没有接受知识，没有接受记忆。

一个蹒跚的过客，我在丧失了言语后穿过一个街市。

征服者的帐篷中，蜡从烛台上满溢而出，愤怒离开了我，我的舌头上有冬天苹果的酸味。

两个从灰烬中起身的吉普赛女人敲击一面小鼓，为不朽的人跳舞。

在有物栖息或空荡荡（没人在乎）的天上，只有鸽子和回音。

我的哀歌响亮，因为我相信绝望能持续下去，爱情能持续下去。

在并不需要、并不知道、并不命名然而存在过而且将存在的白色城市中。

WHITENESS

O white，white， white. White city where women carry bread and vegetables， women born under the signs of the ever-gyrating zodiacs.

The jaws of fountains spout water in the green sun as in the days past of nuptials， of strolls in the cold aurora from one outskirt to another.Buckles from schoolboys' belts somewhere in the dense earth， bunkers and sarcophagi bound with blackberry ropes.

Revelations of touch， again and again new beginnings， no knowledge， no memory ever accepted.

A faltering passerby，I walk through a street market after the loss ofspeech.

The candlesticks in the conquerors' tents overflow with wax，anger has left me and on my tongue the soumess of winter apples.

Two Gypsy women rising from the ashes beat a little drum and dance for immorial men.

In a sky inhabited or empty （no one cares） just pigeons and echoes.Loud is my lament，for I believed despair could last and love couldlast.

In the white city which does not demand，does not know，does not name，but which was and which will be.