[波兰]佳妮娜•奥斯维斯卡
苹果园（外三首）
我记得每一棵苹果树
从前我能爬到树上
高高地坐在树枝中
那么自由，像过节
园中的气味和心中的感动一起营造出礼拜仪式
树脂粘粘的，苹果甜味弥漫
紫中带绿的叶子
聆听着忏悔
解脱的时刻
就像枝条任由果实落到草地上
今天我沿着岁月的阶梯
拾级而下回到那个果园的
深处
越来越幽深
榛子果园
冬天，榛子很容易打开
在榛子的外壳敲个缝
就能进入整个果园的内部
就在栅栏后面
左边是一棵橡树
右边是紫色的李子
——它们的果实毫不费力就能够到——
然后是苹果树
克朗赛尔卡涂了太多的胭脂
考斯特拉温和而甜美——重复的味道——
沿三株红醋栗树丛
向下有一条小径通过灌木丛
是一些牛蒡和荨麻，就到榛树林了
很浓密——树影巨大，寂静在其中孕育着梦想
诱惑顺着阳光的丝线滑落
我继续向前走
穿过草地和休耕地
忘了时间
蓝色亚麻的种植园里
大麻比我还高
我带着莢莲珠子，穿着灯芯草鞋
在这没有人能找到我的地方
我发现我是多么的渺小
我从一棵榛子树上取一粒果实放在
潮湿的记忆上
愿它开裂
愿它生根发芽
桦树下的房子
在干药草的气味中，一只钟报整点时间
另一只钟报半点时间——在滴答声和滴答声之间
远处的空间获得了形状——朝窗外望去
我能看见大地的一道灰色伤疤
在那伤疤的下面，有一颗黑痣，活像一颗坏掉的良心
咬噬着看不见的思想的世界
我能看见欧椋鸟在天空的蓝板上如何标记
黑色线条代表小鸟成长的各个阶段
能看见小家伙们怎样把嘴里的黄色唾液吐出来
怎样使目光敏锐——能看见叶子如何被风网捕获
跳最后的节拍，一、二、三，一、二、三，一、二……
然后与大地重聚
生长，繁荣，凋零
沉默的形而上学
推翻了一般理论
世界无情——
一个不能再用的公式
孩子们
像从篮子里洒落的红脸颊的苹果一样
孩子们洒落到草地上
他们的眼睛只有几岁
蓝汪汪的充满对世界的好奇
他们玩得自由自在
摘一朵雏菊
把棍子当枪
把他们的问题挂
在附近的树上
和云一起旅行
带着信仰扬帆
向着太阳和星星旅行
他们建造自己的宇宙
高出现实三英尺
或者被生活的法则拖回来
脚牢牢地被固定
在地面又红又热的炭上
[Poland] Janina Osewska
an apple orchard (and other three poems)
I remember every apple-tree
I was able to climb
up there in the branches
was freedom and feast day
with a liturgy of smells and sensations
the stickiness of resin and the taste of apples
greenish-purple leaves
hearing confession
a time for relief
like a branch yielding fruit to the grass
today I am going back down
the steps of a ladder of days to that orchard
deeper
and deeper
an orchard of hazels
in winter a hazelnut opens easily
you need only crack the shell
to get inside the whole orchard –
just behind the fence
there’s an oak to the left
purple plums to the right
– so easy to reach their stone –
then the apple trees
kronselka made-up with too much rouge
kosztela bland and sweet – the taste of repetition –
the three red currant bushes
which lead down a path through a thicket
of burdock and nettle and on to the hazels
heavy – making a shade where silence breeds dreaming
and temptations slide down on threads of light –
and so I go on
across meadow field and fallow
losing my time
on plantations of blue flax
hemp taller than me
in my viburnum beads and shoes of bulrush
where no one can find me
I find how small I am
I place a nut from that hazel
on moist memory
may it split
may it take root
the house under the birch tree
in the smell of dried herbs a clock strikes the hour
another strikes the half-hour – between the tick and the tock
distant spaces take shape – out of the window
I can see a grey scar of earth
and under that scar a mole like a bad conscience
gnaws at the unseen world of thought
I can see how the starlings mark out on the sky’s blue-board
black lines for each stage of a chick’s growing up
how the little ones spit the yellow from their beaks
and sharpen their eye-sight – how a leaf caught in the wind’s net
dances its final one-two-three one-two-three one-two…
before rejoining the earth
growing flourishing falling
the metaphysics of that silence
debunks the general theory
of the world’s ruthlessness –
a worn-out formula
children
like red-cheeked apples out of a basket
children spill onto the grass
their eyes a few years old
blue with wonder at the world
they play with freedom
in a picked daisy
in a gun from a stick
hang up their questions
on nearby trees
travelling with clouds
under-sail with faith
journeying to the sun and to stars
they build their universes
three feet above reality
or are dragged back by the laws of life
their feet firmly fixed
on the red hot coals of the ground
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