辛波絲卡（Wislawa Szymborska）： The People On The Bridge；一首詩/思索辛波絲卡的命運

她的作品散發著睿智，才華和幽幽默感。 而避用悲哀和浮誇的字眼。在她的詩歌中，重視將尋常事物昇華為不平凡，但不訴諸感傷。

「每次寫作時，我總覺得彷彿有人站在我身後做鬼臉。這就是為什麼我得小心翼翼，盡量避開浮誇的字眼。」 她這麼說。

幽默感不僅見於她的詩歌，也隨著她的日常生活。 其中明顯的例子表體現在她對拼貼的熱情。這些拼貼針對某個特定的收件人，再由剪報，文字和照片組成。

她既是詩人，也是文學評論家，

又是散文家和及法國巴洛克詩翻譯家。

這位就是辛波絲卡 (Wisława Szymborska )- 波蘭首位，世界第九位獲得諾貝爾文學獎的女性。

＃傑出的PL波蘭女性＃Poles4theWorld

Her work exudes wisdom, brilliance and a unique sense of humour. In her poetry, she valued most elevating the everyday to the extraordinary. She didn't like pathos.

She used to say: "Whenever I write, I feel as if someone was standing behind me and making clownish faces. That is why I am very careful and avoid large words as much as I can".

A sense of humour accompanied her not only at work but also in everyday life and manifested itself in her famous passion for creating collages. She created them out of newspaper clippings - both photos and texts. They were composed for a specific addressee and characterized by a surreal sense of humour and apt punch lines.

She was not only a poet but also a literary critic, essayist and translator of French Baroque poetry.

Her name is Wisława Szymborska, the first Polish woman and the ninth woman in the world to win the #NobelPrize in Literature.

#OutstandingPLWomen #Poles4theWorld

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Utagawa Hiroshige 歌川広重 1797-1858

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qpDloaPywJs

503. The People On The Bridge - Wislawa Szymborska (1)

(Hiroshige Utagawa: "The Landscape")


Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

An odd planet, and those on it are odd, too.
They're subject to time, but they won't admit it.
They have their own ways of expressing protest.
They make up little pictures, like for instance this:

At first glance, nothing special.
What you see is water.
And one of its banks.
And a little boat sailing strenuously upstream.
And a bridge over the water, and people on the bridge.
It appears that the people are picking up their pace
because of the rain just beginning to lash down
from a dark cloud.

The thing is, nothing else happens.
The cloud doesn't change its color or its shape.
The rain doesn't increase or subside.
The boat sails on without moving.
The people on the bridge are running now
exactly where they ran before.

It's difficult at this point to keep from commenting.
This picture is by no means innocent.
Time has been stopped here.
Its laws are no longer consulted.
It has been relieved of its influence over the course of events.
It has been ignored and insulted.

On account of a rebel,
one Hiroshige Utagawa
(a being who, by the way,
died long ago and in due course),
time has tripped and fallen down.


It might well be simply a trifling prank,
an antic on the scale of just a couple of galaxies,
let us, however, just in case,
add one final comment for the record:

For generations, it's been considered good form here
to think highly of this picture,
to be entranced and moved.

There are those for whom even this is not enough.
They go so far as to hear the rain's spatter,
to feel the cold drops on their necks and backs,
they look at the bridge and the people on it
as if they saw themselves there,
running the same never-to-be-finished race
through the same endless, ever-to-be-covered distance,
and they have the nerve to believe
that this is really so.

2013.1.4 讀Andrew Hsu的

 A Contribution to Statistics
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

Out of a hundred people

those who always know better
-- fifty-two

doubting every step
-- nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand
if it doesn't take too long
-- as high as forty-nine,

always good
because they can't be otherwise
-- four, well maybe five,

able to admire without envy
-- eighteen,

suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
-- sixty, give or take a few,

not to be taken lightly
-- forty and four,

living in constant fear
of someone or something
-- seventy-seven,

capable of happiness
-- twenty-something tops,

harmless singly, savage in crowds
-- half at least,

cruel
when forced by circumstances
-- better not to know
even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact
-- just a couple more
than wise before it,

taking only things from life
-- thirty
(I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
-- eighty-three
sooner or later,

righteous
-- thirty-five, which is a lot,

righteous
and understanding
-- three,

worthy of compassion
-- ninety-nine,

mortal
-- a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

(Poems: New and Selected, trans. by S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)


「詩界莫札特」辛波絲卡，這首Writing a resume，直透一個人簡化成履歷表的悲哀。


Regardless the length of life,
a resume is best kept short.

Concise, well-chosen facts are de rigueur.
Landscapes are replaced by addresses,
shaky memories give way to unshakable dates.

Of all your loves, mention only the marriage;
of all your children, only those who were born.

Who knows you matters more than whom you know.
Trips only if taken abroad.
Memberships in what without why.
Honors, but not how they were earned.

Write as if you've never talked to yourself
And always kept yourself at arm's length.
...............

http://www.facebook.com/wenjyehsu?clk_loc=2
----
2012.2.22
Museum
Here are plates with no appetite.
And wedding rings, but the requited love
has been gone now for some three hundred years.

Here’s a fan–where is the maiden’s blush?
Here are swords–where is the ire?
Nor will the lute sound at the twilight hour.

Since eternity was out of stock,
ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead.
The moss-grown guard in golden slumber
props his mustache on Exhibit Number…

Eight. Metals, clay and feathers celebrate
their silent triumphs over dates.
Only some Egyptian flapper’s silly hairpin giggles.

The crown has outlasted the head.
The hand has lost out to the glove.
The right shoe has defeated the foot.

As for me, I am still alive, you see.
The battle with my dress still rages on.
It struggles, foolish thing, so stubbornly!
Determined to keep living when I’m gone!

波蘭女詩人辛波絲卡辭世

2012年02月02日23:55 蘋果即時

根據《美聯社》報導，1996年諾貝爾文學獎得主、波蘭詩人辛波絲卡(Wislawa Szymborska)，本月1日在家中辭世，享壽88歲。辛波絲卡晚年罹患肺癌，在家人看護的陪伴下，在睡夢中去世。今天在社群網站上，不少書迷以她生前所寫的《墓誌銘》向她致哀。

《墓誌銘》
「這裡躺著，像逗點般，一個舊派的人。她寫過幾首詩，大地賜她長眠，雖然她生前不曾加入任何文學派系。她墓上除了這首小詩，牛蒡和貓頭鷹外，別無其它珍物。路人啊，拿出你提包裡的電腦，思索一下辛波絲卡的命運。(陳黎譯)」

---

以上實為"爛"翻譯，一種英譯：

‘EPITAPH’ BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Here lies, old-fashioned as parentheses,
the authoress of verse. Eternal rest
was granted her by earth, although the corpse
had failed to join the avant-garde, of course.
The plain grave? There’s poetic justice in it,
this ditty-dirge, the owl, the burdock. Passerby,
take out your compact Compu-Brain and try
to weigh Szymborska’s fate for half a minute.

Google的翻譯：

WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA的“ EPITAPH”

這裡是老式的括號，

詩句的作者。 永恆的安息

雖然屍體被世人賜予了她

當然沒有加入前衛。

平原的墳墓？ 裡面有詩意的正義，

這個小傢伙，貓頭鷹，牛d。 過路人，

取出緊湊的Compu-Brain並嘗試

權衡Szymborska的命運半分鐘。

辛波絲卡(Wislawa Szymborska，右二)獲得諾貝爾文學獎，1996年12月10日參加頒獎典禮。美聯社

「我將不會全然死去──過早的憂慮。但我是不是全然活著，而那樣就夠了嗎？」
注：詩句引自波蘭女詩人辛波絲卡（1923-）的詩作〈巨大的數目〉。


二○○七年卡普欽斯基過世時，歐美各大報都報導悼念，波蘭諾貝爾獎女詩人辛波絲卡並推崇：「他遊走在我們這個令人著迷，而又令人永遠不安的世界上。他只為那個要超越它的人存在，因為他用自己的思想、自己的心和自己的筆超越了它。」

辛波絲卡（Wislawa Szymborska）LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

最近市面上又有辛波絲卡（Wislawa Szymborska）詩集


我很謝謝2005年的討論的諸位友人
----

再問一處" cut" 意思

今天小讀者解答球類上cut streak 說法
讀　•覺悟有情「辛波絲卡《一見鍾情》中文譯作比較賞析及對"主流文化"的思考」（http://www.xys.org/xys/magazine/GB/2005/xys0505.txt）

它引波蘭女詩人諾貝爾獎得主辛波絲卡（Wislawa Szymborska）的詩作《一見鍾情》LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT By Stanislaw Baranzak & Clare Cavanagh
　　


if they don't remember---
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?

perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?
a cut "wrong number" caught in the receiver?
but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.

（陳黎譯）
是否記不得了──
　　
　　在旋轉門
　　
　　面對面那一刻？
　　
　　或者在人群中喃喃說出的"對不起"？
　　
　　或者在聽筒截獲的唐突的"打錯了"？
　　
　　然而我早知他們的答案。
　　
　　是的，他們記不得了。

更多:辛波絲卡（Wislawa Szymborska）LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
紐約時報

Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel-Winning Polish Poet, Dies at 88

By RAYMOND H. ANDERSON

Published: February 1, 2012

Wislawa Szymborska, a gentle and reclusive Polish poet who won the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature, died on Wednesday in Krakow, Poland. She was 88.

Enlarge This Image

Soren Andersson/Associated Press

Wislawa Szymborska with her Nobel Prize medal in 1996.

The cause was lung cancer, said David A. Goldfarb, the curator of literature and humanities at the Polish Cultural Institute in New York, a diplomatic mission of the Polish Embassy.

Ms. Szymborska (pronounced vees-WAH-vah shim-BOR-ska) had a relatively small body of work when she received the Nobel, the fifth Polish or Polish-born writer to have done so since the prize was created in 1901. Only about 200 of her poems had been published in periodicals and thin volumes over a half-century, and her lifetime total was something less than 400.

The Nobel announcement surprised Ms. Szymborska, who had lived an intensely private life. “She was kind of paralyzed by it,” said Clare Cavanagh, who, with Stanislaw Baranczak, translated much of Ms. Szymborska’s work into English.

“Her friends called it the ‘Nobel tragedy,’ ” Dr. Cavanagh, a professor of literature at Northwestern University, said in an interview on Wednesday. “It was a few years before she wrote another poem.”

Ms. Szymborska lived most of her life in modest conditions in the old university city of Krakow, working for the magazine Zycie Literackie (Literary Life). She published a thin volume of her verse every few years.

She was popular in Poland, which tends to make romantic heroes of poets, but she was little known abroad. Her poems were clear in topic and language, but her playfulness and tendency to invent words made her work hard to translate.

Much of her verse was contemplative, but she also addressed death, torture, war and, strikingly, Hitler, whose attack on Poland in 1939 started World War II in Europe. She depicted him as an innocent — “this little fellow in his itty-bitty robe” — being photographed on his first birthday.

Ms. Szymborska began writing in the Socialist Realist style. The first collection of what some have called her Stalinist period, “That’s What We Live For,” appeared in 1952, followed two years later by another ideological collection, “Questions Put to Myself.”

Years later she told the poet and critic Edward Hirsch: “When I was young I had a moment of believing in the Communist doctrine. I wanted to save the world through Communism. Quite soon I understood that it doesn’t work, but I’ve never pretended it didn’t happen to me.

“At the very beginning of my creative life I loved humanity. I wanted to do something good for mankind. Soon I understood that it isn’t possible to save mankind.”

By 1957, she had renounced both Communism and her early poetry. Decades later, she was active in the Solidarity movement’s struggle against Poland’s Communist government. During a period of martial law, imposed in 1981, she published poems under a pseudonym in the underground press.

She insisted that her poetry was personal rather than political. “Of course, life crosses politics,” she said in an interview with The New York Times after winning the Nobel in 1996. “But my poems are strictly not political. They are more about people and life.”

Ms. Szymborska “looks at things from an angle you would never think of looking at for yourself in a million years,” Dr. Cavanagh said on the day of the Nobel announcement. She pointed to “one stunning poem that’s a eulogy.”

“It’s about the death of someone close to her that’s done from the point of view of the person’s cat,” she said.

That poem, “Cat in an Empty Apartment,” as translated by Dr. Cavanagh and Mr. Baranczak, opens:

Die — You can’t do that to a cat.

Since what can a cat do

in an empty apartment?

Climb the walls?

Rub up against the furniture?

Nothing seems different here,

but nothing is the same.

Nothing has been moved,

but there’s more space.

And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

Footsteps on the staircase,

but they’re new ones.

The hand that puts fish on the saucer

has changed, too.

Something doesn’t start

at its usual time.

Something doesn’t happen

as it should. Someone was always, always here,

then suddenly disappeared

and stubbornly stays disappeared. 

Wislawa Szymborska was born on July 2, 1923, near Poznan, in western Poland. When she was 8, her family moved to Krakow. During the Nazi occupation, she went to a clandestine school, risking German punishment, and later studied literature and sociology at the prestigious Jagiellonian University in Krakow.

Her marriage to the poet Adam Wlodek ended in divorce. Her companion, the writer Kornel Filipowicz, died in 1990. She had no children, and no immediate family members survive.

Czeslaw Milosz, the Polish exile who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1980, said of Ms. Szymborska’s Nobel selection: “She’s a shy and modest person, and for her it will be a terrible burden, this prize. She is very reticent in her poetry also. This is not a poetry where she reveals her personal life.”

Her work did, however, reveal sympathy for others — even the biblical figure who looked back at Sodom and turned into a pillar of salt. Ms. Szymborska speculated in the opening lines of “Lot’s Wife” on why she looked back:

They say I looked back out of curiosity,

but I could have had other reasons.

I looked back mourning my silver bowl.

Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.

So I wouldn’t have to keep staring at the righteous nape

Of my husband Lot’s neck.

From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead

He wouldn’t so much as hesitate.

From the disobedience of the meek.

Checking for pursuers.

Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.

Her last book to be translated, “Here,” was published in the United States last year. Reviewing it for The New York Review of Books, the poet Charles Simic noted that Ms. Szymborska “often writes as if on an assigned subject,” examining it in depth. He added: “If this sounds like poetry’s equivalent of expository writing, it is. More than any poet I can think of, Szymborska not only wants to create a poetic state in her readers, but also to tell them things they didn’t know before or never got around to thinking about.”

In her Nobel lecture, Ms. Szymborska joked about the life of poets. Great films can be made of the lives of scientists and artists, she said, but poets offer far less promising material.

“Their work is hopelessly unphotogenic,” she said. “Someone sits at a table or lies on a sofa while staring motionless at a wall or ceiling. Once in a while this person writes down seven lines, only to cross out one of them 15 minutes later, and then another hour passes, during which nothing happens. Who could stand to watch this kind of thing?”

Paul Vitello contributed reporting.

This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:
Correction: February 3, 2012

Because of an editing error, an obituary on Thursday about the Nobel Prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska misstated the pronunciation of her given name. It is vees-WAH-vah, not VEES-mah-vah.