《波先生坦白：我不是城市游击队》
我从来都不是一位城市游击队。
泡吧的第一个钟头对我是一种折磨，
我很少会记得接下来的几个钟头。我用衣服遮住
身体，饮酒解渴。
关于性，我几乎没什么可说——
是的，我对自己的想法不公平，
不过也许这样最好。我看过几部电影，
似乎没有一部足够好，唱片
也是如此；我周六去看展。
报纸我只看周末版，
每周一份周刊，一本月刊的四分之三。
我的个人事务相当井井有条。
政治上，我总站在反对派一边，
足球上，总是支持前锋。T恤不带口号。
我宁愿把太阳镜塞进屁股
也不愿架在头上，对不起哦。
生活不一定非要给我带来快乐，
这得靠我自己挣。清晨，我公寓房
寂静无声。傍晚，郊区火车里，
我坐着二等车厢。
一张床，一个能用的淋浴。当然，很便宜。
Mr. P. Confesses: I’m Not An Urban Gurrilla
I’ve never been an urban guerrilla.
The first hour in the bar is torture for me,
I rarely remember the ones after. I use clothes for covering
my body, drinks for quenching my thirst.
About sex I’ve got very little to say—
yes, I’m unfair to my own thoughts
and perhaps that’s for the best. I’ve seen a few films,
none seemed good enough, and the same
goes for records; I attend exhibitions on Saturday.
Only the weekend edition of the newspaper,
one weekly per week, three-quarters of a monthly.
My personal affairs are fairly in order.
In politics, always on the side of the opposition,
in soccer, always behind the forwards. No slogans on the T-shirts.
I’d sooner stick sunglasses up my ass
than on my head, excusez-moi.
Life doesn’t necessarily have to give me pleasure,
I’ve earned it myself. Early morning silence
in my own apartment. Second-class compartment
on the suburban train, in the evening, with me inside.
A bed, a working shower. Cheap, of course.
《波先生和波太太以及反旺达》
为什么波兰女孩在火车上总要脱掉鞋子
把脚放在前面的座位上？为什么她们要把脚硬塞进
那个穿短裤男孩的膝盖之间，那匈牙利人还是德国人，又没多好，
难道就凭身体上的化学反应和几十个英语单词，她们就能相守一生？
为什么我们用波兰语说“早安”，她们不回应？
当我们进入车厢，接着，片刻之后，
火车越过边境，她们迅速将封面上有鹰的护照
交给海关官员，并且固执地盯着窗外的东西。
我们没有遵守老师版的希波克拉底誓言，
但我们的亲戚我们随时准备帮助：
大胸不是万能的。
我们为地缘政治灾难性的局势付出了沉重的代价，
但贡布罗维奇和莱姆用这种语言写作，各自的表达略有不同。
一旦你的匈牙利人跳窗自杀或服毒，
而那个德国人沉迷于啤酒、足球和色情，你就会渴望一个国家
那里的人们会出于敬畏而从人行道上
捡起面包屑。
为了这个国家。
Mr. and Mrs. P. and Anti-Wanda
Why do Polish girls take off their shoes on the train
and put their feet up on the seat in front of them? Why do they squeeze them in
between the knees of that boy in shorts, a none too nice Hungarian or German,
to whom they are bound by body chemistry and a few dozen English words?
Why don’t they respond to our Polish “good morning,”
when we enter the compartment, and then, a moment later,
when the train crosses the border, quickly hand their passports with the eagle
on the cover to the customs officer, and stubbornly watch for something outside the window?
We did not take the teacher’s version of the Hippocratic Oath,
but we’re always ready to come to our relative’s aid:
Large breasts aren’t everything.
We’ve paid dearly for our disastrous geopolitical situation,
but Gombrowicz and Lem wrote in this language, each slightly differently.
Once your Hungarian throws himself out the window or swallows poison,
and the German submerges himself in beer, soccer and pornography, you’ll long for a country
where a bread crumb
gets picked up from the pavement out of respect.
For this country.
