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兹比格涅夫·赫伯特散文诗三首诗三首
得一忘二 译
若说当代波兰诗歌的关键是对之前几十年时间的选择性经历，那么或许赫伯特
表达起来最为精妙，可谓是一位历史性反讽的诗人。尽管有种种恐怖事端，他依然
赋予文化图景以意义，从而达成了一种危如累卵的平衡。米洛什，《战后波兰诗
歌》(1983年)
If the key to contemporary Polish poetry is the selective
experience of the last decades, Herbert is perhaps the most skillful in
expressing it and can be called a poet of historical irony. He achieves
a sort of precarious equilibrium by endowing the patterns of
civilization with meanings, in spite of all its horrors.—Czeslaw
Milosz, Postwar Polish Poetry (1983)
自杀
[波] 兹比格涅夫·赫伯特 Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998)
他，要的是戏剧效果。一身黑衣，站在镜子前，钮扣洞子别着一朵花。他将那
工具放到嘴里，等，等到枪管温暖了，然后对着那镜中人心不在焉的微笑——扣扳
机。
他倒下了，有如一件大衣从双肩滑落。但是，他的灵魂独自站了一会儿，摇了
摇逐渐变轻的头，然后极不情愿地，在体温降落到物体温度的瞬间，钻回头顶一片
血污的身体。这种情况，据说人人都知道，预示着阳寿不绝。
A Suicide
He was so theatrical. He stood in front of the mirror in a black
suit, a flower in his buttonhole. He put the instrument in his mouth,
waited for the barrel to become warm, and smiling distractedly at his
reflection -- fired.
He fell like a coat thrown from the shoulders. But his soul stood
for a while, shaking its head that became lighter and lighter, then
reluctantly entered the body, bloody on top, at the moment when its
temperature was reaching the temperature of objects. This -- as is well
known -- foretells longevity.
诗人之家
曾经，这些窗玻璃上有气息，烤面包的香味，镜子里有同一张脸。如今，这是
一座博物馆。底板上的植物图都被抹除，橱柜都清空，房间都打了厚蜡。数天数
夜，窗户敞开，老鼠也避开这受了感染的房子。
床，整齐干净；但竟无一人愿意在那儿住宿过夜。
在他的衣柜、床与桌子之间，一段白色边境界定着缺失，犹如一只手模一样精
确。
The Poet's House
Once there was breath on these window panes, the fragrance of a
roast, the same face in the mirror. Now it is a museum. The flora of
the floors has been exterminated, chests emptied, the rooms flooded
with wax. For entire days and nights they kept the windows open. Mice
avoid this infected house.
The bed is neatly made. But no one wants to spend even a single
night here.
Between his wardrobe, his bed and his table-the white frontier of
absence, precise as the cast of a hand.
时钟
外表看，它是一座水车那平和的脸，丰润、光洁如苹果。惟有一根黑毛浮动其
上。可是朝那内部细看：蚁穴的内部，一窝蠕虫。实说了，正是它引领我们走向永
恒。
Clock
In appearance it is the peaceful face of a miller, full, shiny as
an apple. Only a single dark hair moves on it. But when one looks
inside: a nest of worms, the inside of an anthill. And this is supposed
to lead us to eternity.
狼与小羊
——逮住你了，狼说着这话，打了个哈欠。小羊泪汪汪的眼睛转向他。——你
一定要吃我？真的有这个必要吗？
——太遗憾啦，不得不如此啊。所有语言都这么写的：从前啊，有一只淘气的
小羊从它妈妈身边走开了。它在森林里遇到一条恶狼……
——对不起，这儿我主人的农庄，不是森林啊。我也不是离开妈妈。我是一个
孤儿。我妈妈也就是被一匹狼吃掉的。
——那都无关宏旨。你死之后，寓意故事的作者们将会下笔溢美。他们定会添
油加醋，敷衍一番背景、动机以利说教。请不要对我心存恶意。你真的不会明白做
一只恶狼是多么愚蠢。若非伊索，我们就能坐着后退，观赏夕阳。真是令我向往
啊！
不错，孩子们，恶狼吃了小羊，吃了，舔着嘴唇。孩子们，千万不要跟恶狼
学。切不可为了寓意而牺牲了自己。
The Wolf and the Sheep
-- I've got you, said the wolf, and yawned. The sheep turned its
teary eyes toward him. -- Do you have to eat me? Is it really necessary?
-- Unfortunately I must. This is how it happens in all the fables:
Once upon a time a naughty sheep left its mother. In the forest it met
a bad wolf who...
-- Excuse me, this is not a forest, but my owner's farm. I did not
leave my mother. I am an orphan. My mother was also eaten by a wolf.
-- It doesn't matter. After your death the authors of edifying
tales will look after you. They will add a background, motives, and a
moral. Don't hold it against me. You have no idea how silly it is to be
a bad wolf. Were it not for Aesop, we would sit on our hind legs and
gaze at the sunset. I like to do this very much.
Yes, yes, dear children. The wolf ate the sheep, and then licked
his lips. Don't follow the wolf, dear children. Don't sacrifice
yourselves for the moral.
心之诗（一）
［波］兹比格涅夫·赫伯特
无法寻得一个标题
统领我对你的记忆
我以一只从黑暗中撕下来的手
踏上脸的碎片
多个柔和友善的侧面
冻结成一条坚毅的轮廓线
在我头上盘旋
如空气的前额一样空
一个男人的黑纸剪影
Three Poems by Heart (I)
Zbigniew Herbert tr. John & Bogdana Carpenter
I can't find the title
Of a memory about you
With a hand torn from darkness
I step on fragments of faces
Soft friendly profiles
Frozen into a hard contour
Circling above my head
Empty as a forehead of air
A man's silhouette of black paper
温柔
说到底 温柔 我能拿你怎样
给予了石头 鸟儿和人的温柔
你 应该在捂着眼睛的手中安睡
那是你的居所 任何人不得将你吵醒
你将一切都上下颠倒 将一切都毁掉
将悲剧缩减成一出浅薄的爱情故事
将思想的凌空飞翔转化成
一场感叹 抽泣 唧唧歪歪
而描述就意味着杀害 因为你的角色
就是坐在黑暗中 在一间空空的冷冷的大厅
独孤地坐着 犹如理智轻声细语
雾 在雕塑的眼中缭绕 珠滴滑落它的脸
Tenderness
Zbigniew Herbert
In the end tenderness what am I to do with you
tenderness for stones birds and people
you ought to sleep in the hand behind the eye
your place is there let no one awaken you
You turn everything upside down spoil everything
reduce a tragedy to a cheap love story
transform a soaring flight of ideas
into exclamations sobs moaning
To describe means to kill because your role
is to sit in the darkness of an empty cool hall
to sit in solitude as reason converses calmly
fog is in the eyes of statues and down the face drops roll
我的父亲
我父亲喜读安纳托尔·法朗士
爱抽马其顿一品烟丝
看烟斗冒出蓝色香雾
他双唇上沉醉的微笑充满悲伤
他坐在那遥远的岁月里
俯身在一本书上
我总会说：我父亲是辛巴达
有时和我们在一起会感到烦躁
所以他要离开
乘一张飞毯御风而去
飞越大海、横穿地图
我们为他担心，紧随其后
可我们追丢了他
最后，他回来时
脱掉一身香味、换上拖鞋
钥匙又在口袋里玲玲作响
时间从未改变也从未停止
日子像沉沉的水滴一样落下
假日到了，窗帘被卸下来洗熨
他就从窗格中离去，再没有回来
假若他曾悲伤地眯着眼
或者转头看着我们，我不曾知道
有一次我在一本外国杂志上
看到他的照片
他是一个小岛的总督
那里，自由主义与棕榈树蓬勃生长
My Father
Zbigniew Herbert
My father loved to read Anatole France
and smoked First Quality Macedonians
in the blue clouds of fragrance
the smile he savored on his lips was sad
and then in those distant times
as he sat bent over a book
I would say: my father is Sinbad
sometimes with us he feels restless
so he would leave
On a carpet on the four winds
Across seas and atlases
We worried and ran after him
but he got lost
In the end he returned
took off the aroma put on slippers
again in his pocket the rattle of keys
and time never changes never stops
and days fall like heavy drops
once the curtains were taken down for the holidays
he left through a pane and never returned
if he squinted his eyes in sorrow
or turned to look at us I don't know
once in a foreign magazine
I saw his photograph
he was the governor of an island
where liberalism and palm trees grow
以上所有英译者John & Bogdana Carpenter