It was while I was focused on White-bellied Woodpecker that this bird quietly hops in and goes about its business with not much fuss. A rather clean looking bird that is purely arboreal, they are generally found in small parties that prefer grooves and gardens, moving from branch to branch searching for insects and their larvae. Found throughout India these ash coloured birds have dark eye bands under a pale brow.
Zbigniew Herbert
the earth is the same everywhere
wisdom teaches everywhere the man
weeps with white tears
mothers rock their children
the moon rises
and builds a white house for us
Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998) was born in the city of Lvov, then part of Poland and now in Ukraine. In 1939, as a 15-year-old
, he experienced the annexation of his hometown by the Soviet Union. Lvov was seized by the Germans and was recaptured by the Soviet Union. Mr. Herbert wrote his first poems during the Nazi occupation of Poland. Mr. Herbert once gave this advice to younger writers: ''Life is more complicated, more mysterious and more convoluted than the party, the army, the police. Let us detach ourselves a little from this truly horrible everyday reality and try to write about doubt, anxiety and despair.''
“Life is like knitting: one has to attach the old thread to the new. Before we descend to the grave, the garment should be fit for wear. One has to know what kind of garment it is, which parts of it are poorly made and which are of better quality. It is important to realize that about one's own life, and also about the life of that nation or society in which one's private life was spent”.
Mr. Cogito
Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize
go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust
you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony
be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important
and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten
let your sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards--they will win
they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography
and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn
beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror
repeat: I was called--weren't there better ones than I
beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splendor of the sky
they don't need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you
be vigilant--when the light on the mountains gives the sign--arise and go
as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star
repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand
and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap
go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes
Be faithful Go
A Clear Eye on the World
The pebble
is a perfect creature
equal to itself
mindful of its limits
filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning
with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away
does not arouse desire
its ardor and coldness
are just and full of dignity
I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth
-- Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye
An answer
This will be a night in deep snow
which has the power to muffle steps
in deep shadow transforming
bodies to two puddles of darkness
we lie holding our breath
and even the slightest whisper of thought
if we are not tracked down by wolves
and the man in a Russian sheepskin who swings
quick-firing death on his chest
we must spring and run
in the clapping of short dry salvos
to that other longed-for shore
the earth is the same everywhere
wisdom teaches everywhere the man
weeps with white tears
mothers rock their children
the moon rises
and builds a white house for us
this will be night after hard reality
a conspiracy of the imagination
it has a taste of bread and lightness of vodka
but the choice to remain here
is confirmed by every dream about palm trees
the dream is interrupted suddenly by the arrival of three
tall men of rubber and iron
they will check your name your fear
order you to go downstairs
they won’t allow you to take anything
but the compassionate face of the janitor
Hellenic Roman Medieval
East Indian Elizabethan Italian
perhaps above all French
a bit of Weimar and Versailles
we carry so many homelands
on the shoulders of a single earth
but the only one guarded
by the most singular number
is here where they will trample you into the ground
or with boldly ringing spade
make a large pit for your longing
Mr. Cogito on Virtue
It is not at all strange
she isn't the bride
of real men
of generals
athletes of power
despots
through the ages she follows them
this tearful old maid
in a dreadful hat from the Salvation Army
she reprimands them
she drags out of the junkroom
a portrait of Socrates
a little cross molded from bread
old words
--while marvelous life reverberates all around
ruddy as a slaughterhouse at dawn
she could almost be buried
in a silver casket
of innocent souvenirs
she becomes smaller and smaller
like a hair in the throat
like a buzzing in the ear
my God
if she was a little younger
a little prettier
kept up with the spirit of the times
swayed her hips
to the rhythm of popular music
maybe then she would be loved
by real men
generals athletes of power despots
if she took care of herself
looked presentable
like Liz Taylor
or the Goddess of Victory
but an odor of mothballs
wafts from her
she compresses her lips
repeats a great--No
unbearable in her stubbornness
ridiculous as a scarecrow
as the dream of an anarchist
as the lives of the saints
When once asked what is the main reason he writes
“Writing-and in this I disagree with everybody-must teach men soberness: to be awake. To make people sober. It does not mean, not to try. But with a small internal correction. I reject optimism despite all the theologians. Despair is a fruitful feeling. It is a cleanser, from desire, from hope. ‘Hope is the mother of the stupid’ (a Polish proverb). I don't like hope. A despairing soldier fights better. . .”
This poem “The Rain” has become my favourite. What a charming little poem.
The Rain
When my older brother
came back from war
he had on his forehead a little silver star
and under the star
an abyss
a splinter of shrapnel
hit him at Verdun
or perhaps at Grünwald
(he’d forgotten the details)
he used to talk much
in many languages
but he liked most of all
the language of history
until losing breath
he commanded his dead pals to run
Roland Kowaski Hannibal
he shouted
that this was the last crusade
that Carthage soon would fall
and then sobbing confessed
that Napoleon did not like him
we looked at him
getting paler and paler
abandoned by his senses
he turned slowly into a monument
into musical shells of ears
entered a stone forest
and the skin of his face
was secured
with the blind dry
buttons of eyes
nothing was left him
but touch
what stories
he told with his hands
in the right he had romances
in the left soldier’s memories
they took my brother
and carried him out of town
he returns every fall
slim and very quiet
he does not want to come in
he knocks at the window for me
we walk together in the streets
and he recites to me
improbable tales
touching my face
with blind fingers of rain
Zbigniew Herbert
the earth is the same everywhere
wisdom teaches everywhere the man
weeps with white tears
mothers rock their children
the moon rises
and builds a white house for us
Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998) was born in the city of Lvov, then part of Poland and now in Ukraine. In 1939, as a 15-year-old
, he experienced the annexation of his hometown by the Soviet Union. Lvov was seized by the Germans and was recaptured by the Soviet Union. Mr. Herbert wrote his first poems during the Nazi occupation of Poland. Mr. Herbert once gave this advice to younger writers: ''Life is more complicated, more mysterious and more convoluted than the party, the army, the police. Let us detach ourselves a little from this truly horrible everyday reality and try to write about doubt, anxiety and despair.''“Life is like knitting: one has to attach the old thread to the new. Before we descend to the grave, the garment should be fit for wear. One has to know what kind of garment it is, which parts of it are poorly made and which are of better quality. It is important to realize that about one's own life, and also about the life of that nation or society in which one's private life was spent”.
Mr. Cogito
Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize
go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust
you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony
be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important
and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten
let your sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards--they will win
they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography
and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn
beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror
repeat: I was called--weren't there better ones than I
beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splendor of the sky
they don't need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you
be vigilant--when the light on the mountains gives the sign--arise and go
as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star
repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand
and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap
go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes
Be faithful Go
A Clear Eye on the World
The pebble
is a perfect creature
equal to itself
mindful of its limits
filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning
with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away
does not arouse desire
its ardor and coldness
are just and full of dignity
I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth
-- Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye
An answer
This will be a night in deep snow
which has the power to muffle steps
in deep shadow transforming
bodies to two puddles of darkness
we lie holding our breath
and even the slightest whisper of thought
if we are not tracked down by wolves
and the man in a Russian sheepskin who swings
quick-firing death on his chest
we must spring and run
in the clapping of short dry salvos
to that other longed-for shore
the earth is the same everywhere
wisdom teaches everywhere the man
weeps with white tears
mothers rock their children
the moon rises
and builds a white house for us
this will be night after hard reality
a conspiracy of the imagination
it has a taste of bread and lightness of vodka
but the choice to remain here
is confirmed by every dream about palm trees
the dream is interrupted suddenly by the arrival of three
tall men of rubber and iron
they will check your name your fear
order you to go downstairs
they won’t allow you to take anything
but the compassionate face of the janitor
Hellenic Roman Medieval
East Indian Elizabethan Italian
perhaps above all French
a bit of Weimar and Versailles
we carry so many homelands
on the shoulders of a single earth
but the only one guarded
by the most singular number
is here where they will trample you into the ground
or with boldly ringing spade
make a large pit for your longing
Mr. Cogito on Virtue
It is not at all strange
she isn't the bride
of real men
of generals
athletes of power
despots
through the ages she follows them
this tearful old maid
in a dreadful hat from the Salvation Army
she reprimands them
she drags out of the junkroom
a portrait of Socrates
a little cross molded from bread
old words
--while marvelous life reverberates all around
ruddy as a slaughterhouse at dawn
she could almost be buried
in a silver casket
of innocent souvenirs
she becomes smaller and smaller
like a hair in the throat
like a buzzing in the ear
my God
if she was a little younger
a little prettier
kept up with the spirit of the times
swayed her hips
to the rhythm of popular music
maybe then she would be loved
by real men
generals athletes of power despots
if she took care of herself
looked presentable
like Liz Taylor
or the Goddess of Victory
but an odor of mothballs
wafts from her
she compresses her lips
repeats a great--No
unbearable in her stubbornness
ridiculous as a scarecrow
as the dream of an anarchist
as the lives of the saints
When once asked what is the main reason he writes
“Writing-and in this I disagree with everybody-must teach men soberness: to be awake. To make people sober. It does not mean, not to try. But with a small internal correction. I reject optimism despite all the theologians. Despair is a fruitful feeling. It is a cleanser, from desire, from hope. ‘Hope is the mother of the stupid’ (a Polish proverb). I don't like hope. A despairing soldier fights better. . .”
This poem “The Rain” has become my favourite. What a charming little poem.
The Rain
When my older brother
came back from war
he had on his forehead a little silver star
and under the star
an abyss
a splinter of shrapnel
hit him at Verdun
or perhaps at Grünwald
(he’d forgotten the details)
he used to talk much
in many languages
but he liked most of all
the language of history
until losing breath
he commanded his dead pals to run
Roland Kowaski Hannibal
he shouted
that this was the last crusade
that Carthage soon would fall
and then sobbing confessed
that Napoleon did not like him
we looked at him
getting paler and paler
abandoned by his senses
he turned slowly into a monument
into musical shells of ears
entered a stone forest
and the skin of his face
was secured
with the blind dry
buttons of eyes
nothing was left him
but touch
what stories
he told with his hands
in the right he had romances
in the left soldier’s memories
they took my brother
and carried him out of town
he returns every fall
slim and very quiet
he does not want to come in
he knocks at the window for me
we walk together in the streets
and he recites to me
improbable tales
touching my face
with blind fingers of rain
