The Collected Poems

by Zbigniew Herbert

  First I will describe myself

  starting from my head

  or better from my foot

  or from my hand

  from the little finger of my left hand

  my little finger

  is warm

  curved slightly inward

  ending in a nail

  it is made of three segments

  grows straight from my palm

  if it were on its own

  it would make a sizeable worm

  it is a peculiar finger

  a left hand’s little finger unique in the whole world

  given to me directly

  other little fingers of a left hand

  are a cold abstraction

  with mine

  we have a common date of birth

  date of death

  a common loneliness

  only blood

  busy with scansion of dark tautologies

  binds together distant shores

  with a thread of mutual agreement

  STUDY OF THE OBJECT

  1

  The most beautiful is the object

  which does not exist

  it does not serve to carry water

  or to preserve the ashes of a hero

  it was not cradled by Antigone

  nor was a rat drowned in it

  it has no hole

  and is entirely open

  seen

  from every side

  which means

  hardly anticipated

  the hairs

  of all its lines

  join

  in one stream of light

  neither

  blindness

  nor

  death

  can take away the object

  which does not exist

  2

  mark the place

  where stood the object

  which does not exist

  with a black square

  it will be

  a simple dirge

  for the beautiful absence

  manly regret

  imprisoned

  in a quadrangle

  3

  now

  all space

  swells like an ocean

  a hurricane beats

  on the black sail

  the wing of a blizzard circles

  over the black square

  and the island sinks

  beneath the salty increase

  4

  now you have

  empty space

  more beautiful than the object

  more beautiful than the place it leaves

  it is the pre-world

  a white paradise

  of all possibilities

  you may enter there

  cry out

  vertical-horizontal

  perpendicular lightning

  strikes the naked horizon

  we can stop at that

  anyway you have already created a world

  5

  obey the counsels

  of the inner eye

  do not yield

  to murmurs mutterings smackings

  it is the uncreated world

  crowding before the gates of your canvas

  angels are offering

  the rosy wadding of clouds

  trees are inserting everywhere

  slovenly green hair

  kings are praising purple

  and commanding their trumpeters

  to gild

  even the whale asks for a portrait

  obey the counsels of the inner eye

  admit no one

  6

  extract

  from the shadow of the object

  which does not exist

  from polar space

  from the stern reveries of the inner eye

  a chair

  beautiful and useless

  like a cathedral in the wilderness

  place on the chair

  a crumpled tablecloth

  add to the idea of order

  the idea of adventure

  let it be a confession of faith

  before the vertical struggling with the horizontal

  let it be

  quieter than angels

  prouder than kings

  more substantial than a whale

  let it have the face of the last things

  we ask reveal o chair

  the depths of the inner eye

  the iris of necessity

  the pupil of death

  PEBBLE

  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

  WATER HORSE

  it is not very big

  the water horse

  three and a half

  thumbs at most

  strong armor shields

  its essential being

  the digestive tract

  reproductive organs

  the cerebral knot

  its respectable look

  of a cashier at tea

  doesn’t fit this killer

  of fresh and still water

  it hunts the bullhead

  with its infallible tail

  strikes in a weak spot

  at the base of the head

  locked together in battle

  they wrestle a long time

  amid wavy water plants

  and in luxurious silence

  twice a year

  they weave watery loves

  after six weeks

  a female’s membraneous belly

  bursts from the excess of eggs

  she vomits them out in spasms

  rubbing up against hard objects

  then the suffering shell of birth

  sinks to the bottom of the river

  around autumn

  of the next year

  river horses die

  on the tower of water plants

  the church bell is mute

  and the lake sheds no tears

  • • •

  the cathedrals of river horses

  their circuses and aqueducts

  where have they been sunk

  or when will they swim up

  who will prove their necessity

  who will posit their existence

  TAMARISK

  I was talking of battles

  dungeons and ships

  heroes being slain

  and heroes slaying

  and I forgot about that one

  I was talking of the sea tempest

  the crumbling of walls

  wheat burning

  and hills overthrown

  and I forgot about the tamarisk

  when he lies down

  pierced by a javelin

  and the lips of his wound

  slowly close

  he sees

  neither sea

  nor city

  nor friend

  he sees

  just before his face

  the tamarisk

  he ascends

  the highest

  dry twig of the tamarisk

  and by-passing

  leaves brown and green

  he attempts

  to soar into the sky

  without wings

  without blood

  without thought

  without

  REVELATION />
  Two perhaps three

  times

  I was sure

  I would touch the essence

  and would know

  the web of my formula

  made of allusions as in the Phaedo

  had also the rigor

  of Heisenberg’s equation

  I was sitting immobile

  with watery eyes

  I felt my backbone

  fill with quiet certitude

  earth stood still

  heaven stood still

  my immobility

  was nearly perfect

  the postman rang

  I had to pour out the dirty water

  prepare tea

  Shiva lifted his finger

  the furniture of heaven and earth

  started to spin again

  I returned to my room

  where is that perfect peace

  the idea of a glass

  was being spilled all over the table

  I sat down immobile

  with watery eyes

  filled with emptiness

  i.e. with desire

  If it happens to me once more

  I shall be moved neither by the postman’s bell

  nor by the shouting of angels

  I shall sit

  immobile

  my eyes fixed

  upon the heart of things

  a dead star

  a black drop of infinity

  INNER VOICE

  My inner voice

  has nothing to advise

  has nothing to warn against

  does not say either yes

  or no

  is barely audible

  and almost inarticulate

  even if you bend way down

  you hear only syllables

  stripped of all meaning

  I try not to drown him out

  I deal with him civilly

  I pretend to treat him as an equal

  and that what he says is of great consequence

  sometimes I even

  try to engage him in conversation

  —you know yesterday I refused

  I’ve never done such a thing

  I wouldn’t now either

  —glu—glu

  —so you think

  I did right

  —ga—go—gi

  I am glad we agree

  —ma—a—

  —and now take a rest

  we’ll talk again tomorrow

  he is no use to me

  I could forget about him

  I have no hope

  a little regret

  when he lies there

  covered with pity

  breathes heavily

  opens his mouth

  and tries to lift up

  his inert head

  TO MY BONES

  In my sleep it rips through

  my meagre skin

  throws off the red bandage of the flesh

  and goes strolling through the room

  my monument a little incomplete

  one can be prodigal

  with tears and blood

  what will endure here the longest

  must be thoughtfully provided for

  better (than with a priest’s dry finger

  to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)

  to give one’s monument to the academy

  they will prop it up in a glass display case

  and in Latin they will pray before

  the little altar made from an os frontalis

  they will reckon the bones and surfaces

  they will not forget not overlook

  happily I will give my color of eyes

  pattern of nails and curve of eyelids

  I the perfectly objective

  made from white crystals of anatomy

  can for thoughts

  heart cage

  bony pile

  and two shins

  you my little monument not quite complete

  A NAIL IN THE SKY

  It was the loveliest blue sky of my life: dry, hard, and so pure that it took your breath away. Tremendous angels of air were emerging from it slowly.

  Until suddenly I saw a nail, rusty and crookedly hammered into the heavens. I tried to forget about it. In vain: the corner of my eye kept catching on the nail.

  And what was left of my heavens? A black-eyed blue.

  WOODEN DIE

  A wooden die can be described only from without. We are therefore condemned to eternal ignorance of its essence. Even if it is quickly cut in two, immediately its inside becomes a wall and there occurs the lightning-swift transformation of a mystery into a skin.

  For this reason it is impossible to lay foundations for the psychology of a stone ball, of an iron bar, of a wooden cube.

  CHURCH MOUSE

  A hungry mouse was running along the edge of a gutter. Instead of cheese a church was set before it. It went in not from meekness but by accident.

  It did everything you’re supposed to: crawled up to the cross, knelt before the altars, dozed in a pew. Not a single grain of manna descended on it. At the time the Lord was busy calming the oceans.

  The mouse couldn’t find its way out of the church. It became a church mouse. A fundamental distinction. More skittish than its sisters of the field, it feeds on dust and smells of myrrh, so it is easy to track down. It can fast for long stretches.

  Up to a limit, of course.

  At the bottom of the golden chalice they once found a black drop of thirst.

  CHIMNEY

  On top of the house grows another house, only without a roof—a chimney. From it drift kitchen smells and my sighs. The chimney is equitable, it doesn’t keep them apart. One big plume. Black, very black.

  TONGUE

  Inadvertently I passed the border of her teeth and swallowed her agile tongue. It lives inside me now, like a Japanese fish. It brushes against my heart and my diaphragm as if against the walls of an aquarium. It stirs silt from the bottom.

  She whom I deprived of a voice stares at me with big eyes and waits for a word.

  Yet I do not know which tongue to use when speaking to her—the stolen one or the one which melts in my mouth from an excess of heavy goodness.

  CLOCK

  At first glance it’s the placid face of a miller, full and shiny as an apple. Only one dark hair creeps across it. And if you look inside: a nest of worms, the bowels of an anthill. And this is what’s supposed to usher us into eternity.

  HEART

  All man’s internal organs are bald and smooth. The stomach, intestines, lungs, are bald. Only the heart has hair—reddish, thick, sometimes quite long. This is a problem. The heart’s hair inhibits the flow of blood like water plants. The hair is often infested with worms. You have to love very deeply to pick these quick little parasites from your beloved’s cardiac hair.

  A DEVIL

  He is an utter failure as a devil. Even his tail. Not long and fleshy with a black brush of hair at the end, but short, fluffy, and sticking out comically like a rabbit’s. His skin is pink, only under his left shoulder-blade a mark the size of a gold ducat. But his horns are the worst. They don’t grow outward like other devils’ but inward, into the brain. That’s why he suffers so often from headaches.

  He is sad. He sleeps for days on end. Neither good nor evil attract him. When he walks down the street, you see distinctly the motion of the rosy wings of his lungs.

  ANYTHING RATHER THAN AN ANGEL

  If after our death they want to transform us into a tiny withered flame that walks along the paths of winds—we have to rebel. What good is an eternal leisure on the bosom of air, in the shade of a yellow halo, amid the murmur of two-dimensional choirs?

  One should enter rock, wood, water, the cracks of a gate. Better to be the creaking of a floor than shrilly transparent perfection.

  THE HYGIENE OF THE SOUL

  We live in the narrow bed of our flesh. Only the inexperienced twist i
n it without interruption. Rotating around one’s own axis is not allowed because then sharp threads wind themselves on to the heart as on to a spool.

  It is necessary to fold one’s hands behind the neck, half-shut the eyes, and float down that lazy river, from the Fount of the Hair as far as the first Cataract of the Great Toenail.

  CAREFUL WITH THE TABLE

  At table you should sit calmly and not daydream. Let us recall what an effort it took for the stormy ocean tides to arrange themselves in quiet rings. A moment of inattention and everything might wash away. It is also forbidden to rub the table legs, as they are very sensitive. Everything at the table must be done coolly and matter-of-factly. You can’t sit down here with things not completely thought through. For daydreaming we have been given other objects made of wood: the forest, the bed.

  ARMCHAIRS

  Who ever thought a warm neck would become an armrest, or legs eager for flight and joy could stiffen into four simple stilts? Armchairs were once noble flower-eating creatures. However, they allowed themselves too easily to be domesticated and today they are the most wretched species of quadrupeds. They have lost all their stubbornness and courage. They are only meek. They haven’t trampled anyone or galloped off with anyone. They are, for certain, conscious of a wasted life.

  The despair of armchairs is revealed in their creaking.

  WHEN THE WORLD STANDS STILL

  It happens very rarely. The earth’s axis screeches and comes to a stop. Everything stands still then: storms, ships, and clouds grazing in the valleys. Everything. Even horses in a meadow become immobile as if in an unfinished game of chess.

  And after a while the world moves on. The ocean swallows and regurgitates, valleys send off steam and the horses pass from the black field into the white field. There is also heard the resounding clash of air against air.

  LUMBERJACK

  In the morning the lumberjack goes into the forest and slams the great oak door behind him. The green hairs of trees stand on end in fear. You hear the muffled whine of a tree stump and the dry scream of a branch.

  But the lumberjack doesn’t stop at trees. He chases the sun. He catches up with it at the edge of the forest. In the evening a cloven stump lights up the horizon. Over it the cooling ax.