Who is the author of this foreign poem? I only remember the first three sentences.

Adam Zagajewski (1945——), Polish poet, novelist, essayist, representative of "New Wave" poetry. Zagajewski was born in Lviv, Poland (now part of Ukraine) in 1945, and moved to Gwilitze with his family immediately after his birth. He became famous in the 1960s and is a representative figure of New Wave poetry. Moved to Paris in 1982. His major works include "Gazette", "Butcher Shop", "Canvas", "Fiery Land", "Desire", "Try to Praise This Incomplete World", etc. In 2004, Zagajewski won the Neustadt International Literary Award from World Literature Today in the United States.

Abstract: Adam Zagajewski is good at defamiliarizing daily life, revealing new ideas in familiar situations, and bringing about various surprising effects. This is a "discovery" rather than an "invention", a presentation of the contradictory nature of the world rather than a judgment. Correspondingly, when describing the human condition, the poet can not only look deeply into it, but also stand in the distance and watch with a slightly allegorical attitude; when describing the natural scenery, he can not only show its vast picture, but also maintain the Clarity of details.

About five years ago, at the Shuguang Bookstore near the newspaper office where I worked, the owner Ma Guoming gave me three books by Adam Zagajewski. One is a collection of poems "Mysticism for Beginners", and the other two are collections of essays "Two Cities" and "Another Beauty" (Another Beauty), the latter by Susan Santa Foreword. I seem to have seen Zagajewski’s name somewhere. As I browsed the poems in the collection, I felt a familiar sense of strangeness: I had experienced this familiar sense of strangeness in the poems of Walcott and later Brodsky. When they deal with daily life, they always leave enough space, as if abstract, and contain a clear contemporary nature. This is a kind of sharp everydayness or daily sharpness.

If you browse a poetry collection and feel a little unfamiliar, rather than dislike it at first glance (full of clichés), generally speaking, you will be able to read it. This is my experience. "Introduction to Mysticism" is only seventy pages, very thin, with less than fifty short poems, and even the cover design is elegant. The so-called "Introduction to Mysticism" is not the subject of this book, although it does have some mysticism. The title refers to a poem in the collection, in which the author sees a young German reading a book called "Introduction to Mysticism" on the terrace of a coffee shop, and expresses some profound thoughts.

About a week after I bought the poetry collection, I developed a small pustule under my earlobe. I went to the emergency room at a nearby hospital after get off work at midnight. I knew I might have to wait an hour or two, so what book should I bring? The thin and light book "Introduction to Mysticism" on the desk came into view, so I grabbed it and left. In the waiting room, I opened my poetry collection. The strangeness still attracted me, and then I slowly read something quiet, light, and pleasant. I also read some aphoristic sentences, such as:

We see poor countries becoming poorer because of their ancient hatred

.

I read from the exiles:

Our dead did not live in this country -

They had been traveling for years.

The address they left on the yellowed postcard

can no longer be distinguished, and the country engraved on the stamp has long since ceased to exist.

I also see the author’s attitude of keeping a distance from poetry:

Poetry calls us to live a higher life,

but the same is true for things lower down. Eloquence...

And gentle satire on poets:

Poets attach great importance to

awards and success,

But one autumn Then one autumn

Tearing the leaves from those proud trees,

My interest heightened when I read "Self-Portrait"; I read "Three Angels" ”, I was amazed; after reading “The Kind-hearted Nun”, I was amazed again. There are many wonderful lines in "Self-Portrait": "My half-day has passed. One day half a century will also pass by like this." Putting half-day and half-century in the same line is both natural and surprising, and reflects the shortness and preciousness of life. and the initiative that life can exert in this span, are all included. "I see three elements in music: weakness, strength and pain./The fourth has no name." The first sentence is general enough, but the second sentence turns this generalization into abstraction and into infinity. These sentences are advanced layer by layer, or suddenly enlarged, revealing the truth in common sense. Another example is "I am no longer young, but there are always people who are older", which is just a retread of a cliché, but the beauty of poetry often lies here, especially when common sense is turned into truth, we are all stunned. . And in "Watching my kind come to life, fueled by jealousy, rage/and lust," the "energy" is equally unexpected. This poem, like the other poems above, was not invented, but discovered. This "full of vitality" presents the contradictory nature of the world, making this poem immediately full of vitality, turning the word "flat" into a "flat" one. The narrative becomes the tension of the "circle".

"Self-Portrait" is obviously influenced by Machado's "Portrait", so the author cannot help but mention Machado at the end. Machado said in his poem: “When the day comes for the final farewell, / When the never-returning ship prepares to sail, / You will find me on board, relaxed, with a few belongings, / Almost "Naked as the Ocean's Son."

"The Good Nun" is not about nuns, but about childhood. It is so strange to describe the slender poplar trees rising from the river as a kind-hearted nun, but it is more natural and again unexpected to follow it with "not afraid of strangers". "The fruit is so black that even the night is envious of it." I didn't translate it into the clearer "The fruit of the fruit is so black that even the night is envious of it." This is to preserve the space given by the original comma, especially to retain the original tone of not overemphasis. .

Blue and yellow countries live on the map;

Big countries devour small countries, but on stamps

You only see quiet eagles, zebras,

Giraffes, and the breathtakingly graceful little tits.

These beautiful and sad sentences combine the innocence of children with the understanding of adults, and combine the small maps and stamps that are close at hand with the distant, vast and infinite pain. . In short, it combines beauty and cruelty.

In "Three Angels", everyone's complaints are so real and so cliche, and the comfort of the two angels, although full of poetry and high-sounding, is difficult to comfort - and it is also difficult to comfort. A cliche for this kind of scene. All those complaints, complaints and comforts have become the accents of the chorus of human suffering. The angel who has been silent for a long time is the most poetic and mysterious in the whole poem, representing the attitude of higher beings towards all living beings that the poet understands or assumes. He knew it all, saw it all, and perhaps he suffered the most and accepted it the most. Silence is the sum total of everything. Silence may be the true salvation.

I believe that I have met another magnificent poet. After the operation, I had to go to the hospital near my residence every morning to wash my wounds for more than a month. During this period, I read this collection of poems in the waiting room. In other words, I read it twenty or thirty times. After reading it for about half a month, I went online to order his latest collection of poems, "Without End: New and Selected Poems." Before the anthology of poems arrived, I couldn't help but look through various European poetry anthologies on the bookshelf, looking for his poems. But I found that his previous poems did not appeal to me. They were quite abstract and a bit boring. They were typical Eastern European poems and also typical good poems (referring to impeccable technique). "Introduction to Mysticism" is concrete, multi-dimensional, and loose to the point of being light. It is a grand realm, and the personal voice is so clear that it cannot be summarized by a "good poem." I also read his collection of essays, which also have a unique perspective, but they don't give people the feeling of being exclusive like his poems.

After receiving "No Ending", I read it from beginning to end twice. My feeling was confirmed that Zagajewski found his voice around the late eighties, early nineties, when he was in his forties. He is a Polish poet, born in 1945, and is the most important poet of his generation. He once participated in the Solidarity struggle and went into exile in France in the 1980s. He now lives alternately in Paris and the University of Houston in the United States. I also learned from the dedications of some of his poems that he had contacts with his predecessors, the Polish poets Milosz, Brodsky and Walcott.

In "No Ending", what fascinates me the most and I read again and again are the approximately fifty new works in the front, which are the works that follow "Introduction to Mysticism". At first glance, these poems may not seem as dazzling as "Self-Portrait", "Three Angels" and "The Good Sister", but the reality is that his realm is getting bigger and bigger, and his skills are getting more and more hidden. In addition, he is very patient in creating the music in the poem. He demonstrated this kind of patience in the poem "Introduction to Mysticism". The whole poem actually only has two sentences, and the latter sentence has more than twenty lines - and I have always loved writing straight poems, so it is simply There is the joy of meeting a soulmate.

But in these new poems by Zagaevsky, he is more patient in creating music, just like the movements of Mahler's symphonies. The most obvious ones are "Morning in Vicenza" and "Sunrise in Cassis". What the former wants to say is actually the last section, which is the affectionate tribute to Brodsky and Kieslowski. mourning, but the author is not in a hurry to get to the topic. Instead, he spends two sections laying out the layout, describing the surrounding scenery, spreading the atmosphere, slowing down the rhythm, and then rising like a tide in the last section, setting off a splash of Huge waves; the latter is actually about the sunrise shot, but how much pen and ink did the poet spend to describe the scenery before and after dawn! I personally think that "Sunrise at Cassis" and "Try to Praise the Fragmented World" are Zagaevsky's most outstanding works.

Music, scenery. Zagajewski really likes music and art. The above-mentioned "Morning in Vicenza" and "Sunset in Cassis" are like two Impressionist oil paintings. This is the overall impression of the poem. In the specific sentences of many poems, he often creates impressionistic effects. For example, "The August heat melts the city into ice cream", "The poplar trees and houses melt into a ball on a sunny day".

But when he wrote about the subtleties, he was often able to maintain absolute clarity, such as the last few sentences in "Trying to Praise This Fragmented World":

You are picking up acorns in the autumn park,

p>

The leaves spin over the wounds in the earth.

Praise this incomplete world

And the gray feathers dropped by a thrush,

And the wandering, disappearing and returning

< p>Soft light.

Zagajewski also has many shorter poems, which can be called sketch poems, including reflections on paintings and poems, which are also profound in artistic conception. For example, the description of Vermeer's Girl with Pearls surpasses all comments about this famous painting and can arouse our screams. There are also some poems interspersed with aphoristic sentences, injecting elements of relaxation. This is not for the sake of adjustment, but for the poet to look at the human condition from a distant position. Indeed, even in his most soulful works, he was often able to pull away from the most serious moments and approach them from a slightly allegorical perspective. Just like when he mourns his friends, he can also put "sadness" and "joy" on the same footing - similarly "rounding" rather than "flattening" life and the world, thus making both sadness and joy more interesting. reality.

I found him to be my ideal kind of lovable poet, not just a good poet or a great poet. When you like a new poet, he will immediately create a certain kind of repulsion in you, repelling other poets, and even repelling other poets you like. Then, over a period of time and reading, you will move this new favorite poet to your pantheon of favorite poets, and look forward to the emergence of another new favorite poet, and every time there is no new poet discovered If you can read it, please invite the poets from the Pantheon. The repulsion Zagajewski produced in me was so great that I even discovered that I had several poets closest to my heart before him, including Leopardi, Thomas Hardy, Antonio Machado, Philip Larkin, Brecht, Edward Thomas, Cavafy, Umberto Saba, etc., also had to retreat temporarily.

Zagajewski did not produce much. He said in a poem:

I write very slowly, as if I could live two hundred years.

From the poetry collection "Canvas" before "Introduction to Mysticism" to "Introduction to Mysticism", and then to the "New Poems" in the subsequent poetry anthology, it can be inferred that he wrote about ten poems every year , is an ideal output for a mature poet.

It is worth mentioning that the English translator Clare Cavanagh’s translation is extremely exquisite. He is the translator of "Introduction to Mysticism" and new works in the Selected Poems. That is to say, he is the translator of Zha's recent works.

Finally: When I was looking for a poetry collection on the bookshelf, I accidentally discovered that I already had Zagajewski’s first English-translated collection of poetry, Tremor: Selected Poems. ), with a preface by Milosz on the front and a recommendation by Brodsky on the back cover. I wrote on the title page that I bought it at Shuguang Bookstore in 1990. I think I originally bought it because of the recommendation of two celebrities. However, I obviously trust my instincts more. It's not my fault that "Tremors" didn't leave an impression on my mind. It is indeed far inferior to the later Zagajewski.

Twelve selected poems by Adam Zagajewski

Translated by Huang Canran

Introduction to Mysticism

Weather It's warm and there's plenty of light.

The German on the café terrace

had a small book on his lap.

I glimpsed the title of the book:

"Introduction to Mysticism".

Suddenly I understood, those

swallows patrolling the streets of Montepulciano

with sharp whistles,

Whispered conversations with timid tourists from Eastern Europe, also known as Central Europe,

and standing in the rice fields - yesterday? The day before yesterday? ——

The nun-like egret,

and the slow and systematic dusk that erases the outline of the medieval house,

and the olive trees on the hills that were left to be blown by the wind and the sun,

and the ones that I looked at and admired in the Louvre

"The Unknown Prince" 》’s head,

and the stained glass window that shone like butterfly wings with pollen,

and practicing the speech on the side of the highway

< p>The Little Nightingale,

and any trip, any kind of sightseeing,

are just an introduction to mysticism,

a basic course, a game

Prelude to the postponed exam

.

Vermeer's little girl

Vermeer's little girl, now very famous,

She looked at me. A pearl looks at me.

The lips of Vermeer’s little girl

are red, wet, and shiny.

O little girl of Vermeer, O Pearl,

Blue Turban: You are all light

And I am made of shadow.

Just look down on the shadow,

with tolerance, maybe pity.

Self-portrait

Between a computer, a pen and a typewriter,

half of my day passed. One day half a century will pass like this.

I live in a strange city, and sometimes I talk to strangers

about things that are strange to me.

I listen to a lot of music: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.

I see three elements in music: weakness, strength and pain.

The fourth type has no name.

I read poets, living and dead, and they taught me

firmness, faith and pride. I try to understand

the great philosophers - but often I only grasp

a fragment of their precious ideas.

I love taking long walks in the streets of Paris,

watching my kindred spirits driven by jealousy, rage

and desire; loving following a The coin passed

from hand to hand, slowly

wearing its round shape (the emperor's profile had been erased).

The trees around me express nothing

Except for a green, indifferent perfection.

The blackbird paced the fields,

waiting patiently, like a Spanish widow.

I am no longer young, but there are always people older.

I like to sleep, when I am asleep I cease to exist;

I like to ride a bicycle on the country road, poplar trees and houses

On a sunny day Dissolve into clumps.

Sometimes in an exhibition a painting speaks to me,

the irony suddenly disappears.

I love to see my wife’s face.

Call my father every Sunday.

Meeting up with friends every other week to prove my loyalty.

My country has escaped the clutches of a demon. I hope

another liberation will follow.

Can I help? I have no idea.

I am certainly not the son of the sea,

As Antonio Machado said when he wrote about himself,

but of air, mint and cello Son,

and not all the roads of the noble world

intersect with the life that has hitherto been mine

.

Blackbird

A blackbird is perched on a television antenna,

singing a gentle, jazzy tune.

Who have you lost, I ask, and what are you mourning?

I am bidding farewell to those who have died, said the blackbird,

I am bidding farewell to this day (its eyes and lashes),

I am mourning a living A girl in Thrace,

you would not know her.

I feel sad for the willow tree that froze to death.

I cry because everything disappears, changes

and comes back, but always in another way.

My narrow throat can barely bear the

sadness, despair, joy and pride of these rapid changes.

A funeral procession passes ahead,

As it does every evening, there, on the horizon.

Everyone was there and I saw them and said goodbye.

I saw swords, hats, turbans and bare feet,

guns, blood and ink. They walked slowly and disappeared into the mist of the river on the right bank.

I bid farewell to them and you and the light,

and greet the night, for I serve her—

And black silk, black power.

The cello

Those who didn’t like it said it

was just a mutated violin

and was kicked out of the chorus.

Not so.

The cello has many secrets,

but it never whimpers,

it just sings in a low voice.

But not everything turns into

song. Sometimes you hear

a whisper or whisper:

I'm lonely,

I can't sleep.

Three Angels

Three angels suddenly appeared

Here, next to this bakery on St. George Street.

It’s not a census again,

A tired man sighed.

No, the first angel said patiently,

We just want to see

how your life is going,

What the days are like, and why

Your nights are full of insecurity and fear.

Yes, fear, answered a lovely woman with dreamy eyes

; but I know why.

The human brain can no longer hold on.

They seek

help and support that they cannot find. Sir, please take a look

——She calls the angel "Sir"! ——

Wittgenstein.

Our philosophers

and leaders are melancholy lunatics,

they know even less than us

ordinary people (but she can

not ordinary).

Also, a young man who is learning the violin

said that at night

there was just an empty cardboard box,

not one The mysterious coffin,

And at dawn, the universe looks

as dry and alien as a television screen.

Furthermore, those who love music for its own sake

are few and far between.

Others spoke one after another, and the laments

surged forward and swelled into an angry sonata.

If you sir want to know the truth,

a tall student shouted - he just

lost his mother - we have had enough

Death and cruelty, persecution, disease,

glazed as a viper's eye

long-lasting dullness. We have too little land and too much fire.

We have too little land. We don't know who we are.

We were lost in the forest, the black stars

moving lazily above our heads, as if

they were just our dreams.

However, the second angel still responded shyly,

There is always a little happiness, and beautiful things are even

close at hand, at every moment

Under the barking, in the focused and quiet heart,

Also, there is another person hidden in each of us——

Universal and powerful ,indomitable.

Wild roses sometimes exude the smell of childhood

and on holidays, girls

go out for a walk as usual,

The way they wrap their scarves

There is something eternal about it.

Memory lives in the ocean, in the rushing blood,

in the black, burning stones, in poetry,

in every quiet moment in the conversation.

The world remains the same as before,

full of shadows and expectations.

He could have continued to say this, but the crowd

grew bigger and bigger, and the silent

wave of anger spread

until the messenger They finally floated gently,

rising into the air, and as they gradually moved away

continued to repeat in a low voice: May you be in peace,

May the living, the dead, The unborn is at peace.

Only the third angel remained silent,

because he was an angel who had been silent for a long time.

Chinese Poetry

I read a Chinese poem,

written a thousand years ago.

The author talks about the whole night

It rained and the raindrops struck

The bamboo canopy of his boat,

And finally in his heart

The peace gained.

It is November again, a leaden dusk with thick fog.

Is this just a coincidence?

Another person is alive,

Is this just a coincidence?

Poets attach great importance to

awards and success,

but autumn after autumn

the leaves from those proud trees Tear it away,

If there is anything left

it is just the sound of rain in their poems

Whispers,

not sad Not happy.

Only the pure invisible,

and dusk takes advantage of the light and shadow

when we forget about us for a while

hurry up Move the mystery around.

Speak of swimming

The country's rivers are sweet

Like a troubadour's song,

The heavy sun wanders westward,< /p>

Ride in a yellow circus carriage.

The small country church

Open a piece of silent silk

Old and delicate, even a breath will tear it

crack.

I like swimming in the sea, the sea always

talks to me in a monotonous voice

Like a homeless man, never again

Can't remember exactly how long he was on the road.

Swimming is like praying:

The hands are closed and opened again,

closed and opened again,

almost never ending.

The kind-hearted nun

That was childhood, never to come back -

The berries were so dark that I was envious at night;

Slender poplar trees rise from the narrow riverside, like kind-hearted nuns, not afraid of strangers.

From the balcony I can see a small street and two trees,

But I am also an emperor, listening without any worries

My countless armies Howling,

The captured Turkish battle flag fluttered.

I like the taste of grass between my teeth,

the bitter maple leaves, the first strawberry in my mouth

the sour and sweet taste of June.

On Sunday morning my mother made real coffee,

In the church the old priest waged war on pride.

My heart aches whenever I see poor people.

Blue and yellow countries live on the map;

Big countries devour small countries, but on stamps

You only see quiet eagles, zebras,

Giraffes, and the breathtakingly graceful little tits.

On the dusty shelves of that dark store

jars of sticky candies were stacked.

As soon as it was opened, swarms of red moths flew out.

I was a Boy Scout and knew the loneliness of the woods,

When dusk fell and the owl hooted,

The oak branches creaked ominously. .

I read chivalric novels, Russian folktales

and Sienkiewicz’s endless trilogy.

My father built me ??a miniature mill,

It spun rapidly in the mountain stream.

My bicycle runs faster than a puffing train.

The intense heat in August melts the city into ice cream.

The berries were so dark...the bitter maple leaves...

That was childhood. A time of blood and feasting.

Morning in Vicenza*

——In memory of Joseph Brodsky and Krzysztof Kieslowski**

< p>The sun is so delicate, so young,

We are all a little scared; a careless movement

may also scratch it, just shout - if anyone

p>

Try to shout - you may also hurt it; only the swift flying swifts,

wings as hard as cast iron,

dare to sing heartily, because they have just been in the mud In the nest

I spent a short and restless childhood,

next to my brothers and sisters, crazy asteroids,

as black as the berries of the forest.

The sleepy waiter in the small restaurant - the last shadow of the night

Meet under his eyes - put it into his coat pocket

Taking out change, coffee is flowing out Stately ink,

sweet and Arabic. The blue sky

promises a long afternoon and an endless day.

It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.

Even the columns of this Palladian building seem

new, they rise from the dawn tide,

like the venerable Si, your older companion.

Start with scribbling, count the losses, count the dead,

Start a new day without you, first of all,

We bury you Twice, mourn you twice,

You lived twice and were as strong as anyone else, on two continents,

In two languages, in the real world and the imaginary world - -Then there is you,

with a delicate and upright face, and that enlarged gaze

all kinds of objects and minds (always too small).

You two are gone, and from now on we will live a double life,

simultaneously in light and shadow, in the bright sunshine

And in the coldness of the stone hall, in sorrow and joy.

*Translation Note: Vicenza is an Italian town famous for its Palladian architecture.

**Translation Note: Brodsky (1940-1996) was a Russian-American poet who wrote in Russian and English. He died in New York and his body was later moved to Venice for burial. Kieslowski (1941-1996), a famous Polish director.

Sunrise in Cassis*

In the semi-darkness, the white buildings stand, not yet fully formed

Besides the buildings, the gray Vineyards, the tranquility before dawn;

Judas counted the silver coins, but in fierce prayer

The twisted olive trees penetrated deeper into the earth than ever before.

Where is the sun! It is still cold,

A humble landscape spreads around us;

The stars have gone, the priests are sleeping, the birds are in August

No singing allowed, only one occasionally

Stuttering, like a boy who didn't study hard in Latin class in middle school.

It's four o'clock in the morning and despair lives in so many houses.

At this time, the melancholy philosophers with narrow faces are carving out their old maxims, and the tired conductors,

who just made Bruckner last night and Mahler,

now drifting off to sleep unapplauded and reluctantly, while the prostitutes

return to their shabby apartments.

We beg the vineyards

to be given life, they are gray as if coated with a layer of volcanic ash;

to beg the great cities in the distance to wake up from their indifference,

And I plead not to mistake freedom for chaos,

to regain the faith that connects

the visible and the invisible, but Does not dull the mind.

The sea turns blue below us, and the outline of the horizon

grows clearer, like a slender belt

encircling us affectionately and firmly in this rotating world planet,

We saw fishing boats rocking reliably like seagulls

on the deep blue water, while in a moment

the crimson disk of the sun rose from The mountains that formed a half circle emerged,

Returning the gift of light.

*Translation Note: Cassis is a famous resort in France.

Try to praise this incomplete world

Try to praise this incomplete world.

Think of the long days of June,

and wild strawberries, and drops of red wine.

The nettles that methodically crawled over the abandoned homes of the exiles

.

You must praise this broken world.

You look out at the sleek yachts and ships;

One has a long journey ahead,

The others have salty oblivion waiting for them .

You have seen refugees desperate,

You have heard executioners singing happily.

You should praise this broken world.

Think of the time we spent together,

in a white room with fluttering curtains.

Recalling that concert, the music twinkled.

You pick up acorns in the autumn park,

The leaves spin in the wounds of the earth.

Praise this incomplete world

And the gray feathers dropped by a thrush,

And the wandering, disappearing and returning

< p>Soft light.

Translated by Huang Canran Originally published in "Foreign Literature" Issue 5, 2007

Facing the sea, looking for light with black eyes. The Reading Poetry Club was founded on November 16, 2015. The poetry club has the mission of "giving voice to grassroots poets" and the purpose of promoting the "spirit of poetry", that is, the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty in poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, and the spiritual joy of poetry. The collections of poems co-authored by poet friends have been published: "Selected Poems on Reading and Sleeping: Spring Flowers Bloom" and "Selected Poems on Reading and Sleeping: Grass Grows and Orioles Fly".

Poetry friends keep writing, and the Poetry Society forges ahead, constantly introduces the old and brings out the new, recommends excellent poems, produces high-quality poetry collections, recites excellent works, and recommends poets' works in various forms, so that more people can read excellent works and appreciate the poetry culture. We are On the way!

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