列寧格勒
我回到我的城市，這像眼淚，血管，
和童年的腮腺炎一樣熟悉的地方。
你到家了，那就趕快去吞一口
列寧格勒河岸魚肝油般的灯火吧。
趁還來得及，去跟十二月的日子相認吧：
美味的蛋黃已伴進不祥的瀝青。
彼得堡，我還不想去死：
你有我的電話號碼。
彼得堡，我還有一些地址，
我能從那兒召回死者的音容笑貌。
我住在樓梯間裡，嘈雜的門鈴
撞擊我的太陽穴，撕裂了那兒的皮肉。
我徹夜等待著可愛的賓客，
門上的鍊子，就像鐐銬嘩啦嘩啦響著。
(1930.12)
----《曼德爾施塔姆詩選》楊子譯，石家莊：河北教育，2003，頁160-61
和童年的腮腺炎一樣熟悉的地方。
你到家了，那就趕快去吞一口
列寧格勒河岸魚肝油般的灯火吧。
列寧格勒河岸魚肝油般的灯火吧。
趁還來得及，去跟十二月的日子相認吧：
美味的蛋黃已伴進不祥的瀝青。
美味的蛋黃已伴進不祥的瀝青。
彼得堡，我還不想去死：
你有我的電話號碼。
你有我的電話號碼。
彼得堡，我還有一些地址，
我能從那兒召回死者的音容笑貌。
我能從那兒召回死者的音容笑貌。
我住在樓梯間裡，嘈雜的門鈴
撞擊我的太陽穴，撕裂了那兒的皮肉。
撞擊我的太陽穴，撕裂了那兒的皮肉。
我徹夜等待著可愛的賓客，
門上的鍊子，就像鐐銬嘩啦嘩啦響著。
(1930.12)
----《曼德爾施塔姆詩選》楊子譯，石家莊：河北教育，2003，頁160-61
門上的鍊子，就像鐐銬嘩啦嘩啦響著。
(1930.12)
----《曼德爾施塔姆詩選》楊子譯，石家莊：河北教育，2003，頁160-61
Piskaryovskoye Memorial Cemetery is located in Saint Petersburg, on the Avenue of the Unvanquished, dedicated mostly to the victims of the Siege of Leningrad.Wikipedia
Piskaryovskoye Memorial Cemetery is located in Saint Petersburg, on the Avenue of the Unvanquished, dedicated mostly to the victims of the Siege of Leningrad.Wikipedia
By granite steps leading down from the Eternal Flame visitors enter the main 480-meter path which leads to the majestic Motherland monument. The words of poet Olga Berggolts are carved on a granite wall located behind this monument:
Sharon Olds
Leningrad Cemetery, Winter of 1941
That winter, the dead could not be buried.
The ground was frozen, the gravediggers weak from hunger,
the coffin wood used for fuel. So they were covered with
something
and taken on a child’s sled to a cemetery
in the sub-zero air. They lay on the soil,
some of them wrapped in dark cloth
bound with rope like the tree’s ball of roots
when it waits to be planted; others wound in sheets,
their pale, gauze, tapered shapes
stiff as cocoons that will split down the center
when the new life inside is prepared;
but most lay like corpses, their coverings
coming undone, naked calves
hard as corded wood spilling
from under a cloak, a hand reaching out
with no sign of peace, wanting to come back
even to the bread made of glue and sawdust,
even to the icy winter and the siege.
That winter, the dead could not be buried.
The ground was frozen, the gravediggers weak from hunger,
the coffin wood used for fuel. So they were covered with
something
and taken on a child’s sled to a cemetery
in the sub-zero air. They lay on the soil,
some of them wrapped in dark cloth
bound with rope like the tree’s ball of roots
when it waits to be planted; others wound in sheets,
their pale, gauze, tapered shapes
stiff as cocoons that will split down the center
when the new life inside is prepared;
but most lay like corpses, their coverings
coming undone, naked calves
hard as corded wood spilling
from under a cloak, a hand reaching out
with no sign of peace, wanting to come back
even to the bread made of glue and sawdust,
even to the icy winter and the siege.
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