《街道之口》
街道之口沉默，窗户失明，
轨道冰冷的血脉无声地颤抖。
湿漉漉的路面映照着
空中饱含冰雹的铅云。
我妈妈正在医院里死去，
在刺眼的白色床单上
她抬起手掌---然后垂下了手臂。
那婚戒，在她为我洗澡时曾刮痛过我，
从她消瘦的手指滑落。
树木饮下冬日的潮湿。
拉着满车煤炭的马，垂下了头。
留声机，循环播放巴赫和莫扎特
就像地球绕着太阳转。
那儿，在一家医院里，我的妈妈正在死去。
我的妈妈。
《她起来》
她起来，从她闭着的嘴上挪开，
她，一动不动了这么久，
可以走了! 小心翼翼地挪步，就像一个
得病很久很久的人，起来了。
她走过他的前额，走过我的心，
走过另一个人乱成一团的头发。她走---自己走。
有一会儿，她困惑地看着
那个被遗弃的身体并且，一点也不怜惜地，
看着我们，在晨雾里痛苦地弯下腰，
像路边的树枝一样。她推开枝条，
走了。消失在光线里。
我多么希望这是真的! 但我什么也没看到
除了凝结着泪水的双眼
和那冰凉冷漠的双手。妈妈 !
《我站着》
我和姐姐站在那块墓地前，
我们在谈些很重要的事。
男孩在学校的表现进步了。
最小的孩子开始呀呀学语了。
如果你不刁钻，别人也会对你友好。
房间刚油漆过。我们新买了桌椅。
邻居有时来串门，还说: "你这地方看起来挺好的"
母亲很喜欢的那棵植物开花了。
我本想带花来，但是担心花会枯萎。
空气，树木，石头和泥土都在听我们说话
而只有我们要倾诉的人听不见。
但也许她就在我们身后，听我们讲生活琐事
并且轻轻地说:"亲爱的，不用再说了，我都知道。"
《妈妈说: "看"》
" 看，" 在梦里妈妈说，
" 看，一只鸟直冲云霄。
为什么你不写一首诗?
它是多么重，多么快的啊!
"还有这桌面上的 ---
面包的香味， 盘子的叮当声
你不用再提起我。
那个休息的地方没有我了。
"我已过去，我已终止，
我已经够了: 晚安!"
所以我写了这首关于飞鸟，
关于面包的诗 .... 妈妈， 妈妈。
诗人简介:
安娜•卡敏斯卡(1920--1986)，波兰诗人，翻译家，文学评论家。生前共发表过十五本诗集，三本小说，三本圣经述评，两卷札记等。与同是1920年代出生的波兰诗人兹比格涅夫·赫伯特，朱丽亚•哈特唯格，辛波丝卡(1996年诺贝尔文学奖获得者)，以及更早出生的米沃什(1980年诺贝尔文学奖得主)和更后面出生，现在仍活跃于世界文学的亚当扎加耶夫斯基，都是对波兰文学和世界文学产生很大影响的著名诗人。卡敏斯卡反对用复杂晦涩的隐喻和反讽手法写诗，她的的诗歌语言简洁清晰，读她的诗，就好像听她跟你在亲切温柔地诉说她的孤独，迷惑，悲伤和对生命的领悟。1967年底，她的丈夫，同是诗人的杨•斯皮瓦克得癌症死去，一度对她的打击很大，也使她对于生命的意义有了更多的思考和领悟。"我寻找亡人，却找到了上帝"，她后期的诗歌以信仰的体验著称，写了"约伯的回归"，"约伯的第二次幸福"等以圣经人物为主题的著名短诗系列。
这四首诗选自她早期悼念亡母的诗作，寄托了诗人对母亲的深深思念，用词简洁朴素，情感恳切，哀惋动人，特别是其中的三首诗以"妈妈"，"我的妈妈"作为诗的结尾，读起来好像听到诗人在轻轻地呼唤自己的妈妈，让人禁不住潸然泪下。
四首诗都选自美国 Paraclete Press 出版的英译版 Astonishments, Selected Poems of Anna Kamienska, 英译者是 Grazna Drabik AND David Curzon.
本译文仅供个人研习、欣赏语言之用，谢绝任何转载及用于任何商业用途。本译文所涉法律后果均由本人承担。本人同意简书平台在接获有关著作权人的通知后，删除文章。
英译诗原文:
THE MOUTHS OF STREETS
The mouths of streets are silent, windows go blind,
Cold veins of tracks tremble noiselessly.
In the mirror of wet pavement the sky hangs
With lead clouds full of hail.
My mother is dying in a hospital.
From bed-sheets burning white
She raises her palm—and the arm drops down.
The wedding ring, that hurt when she was washing me,
Slips off her thinned finger.
The trees drink in the winter damp.
The horse, his cart filled up with coal, hangs down his head.
On a record, Bach and Mozart circle
Just like the Earth circles the Sun.
There, in a hospital, my mother is dying.
My mama.
SHE GETS UP
She gets up, moves away from her closed mouth,
She, immobile for so long,
Walks! Steps carefully, like someone
Getting up after a long, long illness.
She walks through his forehead, through my heart,
Through another’s tangled hair. She walks — on her own.
For a moment she looks, puzzled,
At the abandoned body and, without regrets,
At us, bent in pain in a morning fog
Like roadside branches. She pushes them
Aside and departs. She fades into radiance.
If I could only believe it! But I didn’t see anything
Besides the eyes congealed with tears
And the cold indifferent hands. Mama!
I WAS STANDING
I was standing with my sister over the patch of grave
And we were speaking about some very important things.
The boy is doing better at school. The youngest already chatters.
If you aren’t mean to people, they’ll be good to you.
The apartment’s freshly painted. We bought a table, chairs.
A neighbor stops by sometimes, and says, ‘Your place looks nice.’
The plant that mother liked so much is in bloom.
I wanted to bring flowers but was afraid they’d wilt.
The air, tree, stone and earth all listen as we talk
And only the one for whom we bring this news can’t hear.
But perhaps she stands behind us and smiles at life’s affairs
And whispers, ‘I know, my darlings. No need to tell me any more.’
“LOOK,” MOTHER SAYS
“Look,” mother says in my dream,
“Look, a bird soars up to the clouds.
Why don’t you write about it,
How heavy it is, how swift?
“And here on the table—the smell
Of bread, a tinkling of plates.
You don’t need to speak of me again.
There is no me where I rest.
“I’ve passed, I’ve ceased,
It’s enough for me: goodnight!”
So I write this poem about birds,
About bread . . . Mama. Mama.
