The Collected Poems

by Zbigniew Herbert

  the harmony of the universe

  so perfect

  as to be inaudible

  REPORT FROM A BESIEGED CITY

  Too old to carry arms and fight like the others—

  I was mercifully given the supporting role of a chronicler

  I write down—not knowing for whom—a siege’s history

  I have to be precise but I don’t know when the siege began

  two centuries ago in December September dawn yesterday

  we here are all suffering from the loss of a sense of time

  we were left only the place and an attachment to the place

  we govern ruins of temples ghosts of gardens and houses

  if we lose our ruins we will be left with nothing

  I write as best I can in the rhythm of these endless weeks

  Monday: stores are empty a rat is now the unit of currency

  Tuesday: the mayor has been killed by unknown assassins

  Wednesday: cease-fire talks the enemy interned our envoys

  we don’t know where they are that is where they were shot

  Thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of votes rejected

  the motion of the local merchants for unconditional surrender

  Friday: plague broke out Saturday: N.N. a staunch defender

  committed suicide Sunday: no water we resisted an assault

  at the eastern gate the one called the Gate of the Covenant

  I know it’s all monotonous it won’t move anyone to tears

  I avoid comment emotion keep a tight rein write on facts

  it appears only facts have value on the foreign markets

  but with a kind of pride I long to bring news to the world

  of the new breed of children we raised owing to the war

  our children don’t like fairy tales they have their fun killing

  waking and sleeping they dream of soup of bread and bone

  just like dogs and cats

  in the evening I like to wander along the edges of the City

  skirting the borders of our uncertain liberty

  I watch from above an ant procession of troops their lights

  I listen to the noise of drums and the barbarians shrieking

  it is truly beyond me why the City is still defending itself

  the siege is taking a long time our enemies have to take turns

  nothing unites them apart from the desire for our destruction

  Goths Tartars Swedes Caesar’s men ranks of the Transfiguration

  who can count them

  the banners change their colors like a forest against the horizon

  a delicate bird yellow in spring through green to winter’s black

  then in the evening freed from the facts I can meditate

  on ancient questions remote ones for instance about our

  allies across the sea I know they feel sincere compassion

  they send flour sacks encouragement lard and good advice

  they don’t even know it was their fathers who betrayed us

  they were our allies from the time of the second Apocalypse

  the sons are blameless deserve gratitude so we are grateful

  they have not lived through a siege long as an eternity

  they who are touched by misfortune are always alone

  defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds and the Afghans

  now as I write these words those who favor appeasement

  have acquired an advantage over the party of the staunch

  an ordinary mood swing the stakes are still being weighed

  cemeteries are growing the number of defenders shrinking

  but the defense continues and it will continue to the end

  and if the City falls and one man survives

  he will carry the City inside him on the paths of exile

  he will be the City

  we look into hunger’s face the face of fire face of death

  the worst of all—the face of betrayal

  and only our dreams have not been humiliated

  1982

  ELEGY FOR THE DEPARTURE

  1990

  OAKS

  In a forest on a dune three luscious oaks

  to whom I appeal for succor and counsel

  now choruses are mute and prophets gone

  there is no one on earth more deserving

  of respect therefore it is to you—oaks—

  that I direct my dark questions awaiting

  the decree of fate just as once at Dodona

  But I have to confess that I am disturbed

  by your ritual of conception—wise ones—

  when spring wanes and summer begins

  in the shade of your boughs it is teeming

  with your little children and newborns

  homes for leaves orphanages of sprouts

  pale oh so pale

  weaker than grass

  on an ocean of sand

  they struggle alone all alone

  why don’t you defend your children over whom

  the first frost will raise a sword of annihilation

  What does it mean—oaks—this mad crusade

  this massacre of innocents this grim selection

  this Nietzschean spirit on a hushed sand dune

  capable of soothing Keats’s nightingale woes

  here where everything shows an inclination

  toward caresses confessions reconciliation

  How am I to understand your murky parable

  baroque of rosy angels mirth of white flutes

  a tribunal at dawn an execution in the night

  a life lived blindly and mixed up with death

  death minus the baroque which I can’t stand

  but who rules

  a watery-eyed god with an accountant’s face

  a demiurge of contemptible statistics

  playing with dice always fixed in his favor

  is necessity no more than a kind of accident

  meaning a weakling’s longing a fancy of fools

  So many questions—O oaks—

  so many leaves and under each leaf

  despair

  LIVY’S METAMORPHOSES

  How did my grandfather and his father understand Livy

  for they surely read him at their classical gymnasium

  in the somewhat unpropitious time of year

  when a chestnut tree stands at the window—ardent candelabras of

  blossoms—

  and all my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s thoughts ran panting to

  Mizia

  singing in the garden showing her décolleté and goddess-like legs to the

  knee

  or Gabi from the Vienna Opera with her cherub’s locks

  Gabi with her snub nose and Mozart in her throat

  or finally to good old Józia a refuge for the forlorn

  she without beauty talent or extravagant demands

  and so they read Livy—O season of budding flowers—

  in the smell of chalk boredom naphthalene floor wash

  under a portrait of the emperor

  for there was an emperor then

  and the empire like all empires

  seemed eternal

  Reading the City’s history they succumbed to the delusion

  that they were the Romans or the decendants of Romans

  those sons of the vanquished themselves under the yoke

  it’s likely the Latin teacher had a part in it

  with his position of counselor to the court

  a collection of ancient virtues under a scruffy frock coat

  following Livy he instilled in his pupils scorn for the mob

  so popular revolt—res tam foeda—aroused their loathing

  while on the other hand all the conquests seemed just

  showing simply the victory of the superior stronger

  they were pained by the defeat at Lake Trasimeno

  while Scipio’s as
cendancy filled them with pride

  they took Hannibal’s death with unfeigned relief

  easily far too easily they let themselves be led

  through entrenchments of dependent clauses

  convoluted constructions ruled by the gerund

  swollen rivers of elocution

  syntactical booby traps

  —into battle

  for a cause not theirs

  Not until my father and I after him did anyone

  read Livy against Livy

  studying closely what lies under the fresco

  that’s why Scaevola’s theatrical gesture did not reverberate in us

  nor did centurions’ cries or triumphal marches

  and we tended to feel moved by the ruination

  of the Samnites Gauls or Etruscans

  we counted the many names of peoples the Romans trampled to dust

  those buried without praise those who for Livy

  were not worth even a ripple of style

  those Hirpins Apuleans Lucanians Osunans

  and residents of Tarentum Metapontis Locri

  My father knew well and I know too

  that one day on the farthest outskirts

  without any signs from the heavens

  in Pannonia Sarajevo or Trebizond

  in a city on the cold sea

  or in the valley of Panshir

  a local fire will break out

  and the empire will fall

  THE NEPENTHES FAMILY

  Was Jean-Jacques the Tender aware of the pitcher plant

  —he must have been the plant was described by Linnaeus—

  then why did he pass over in silence this scandal of Nature

  one of many scandals and it may well have been

  beyond the capacity of his heart and tear glands—

  he who sought consolation in the natural world

  in dark jungles of Borneo the recreant grows

  and lures with a flower which is not a flower

  but a leaf’s central vein dilated like a pitcher

  with its lid on a hinge and a very sweet lip

  drawing insects into a treacherous banquet

  like the secret police of a certain superpower

  for who can withstand—whether fly or man—

  sticky nectars and an orgy of colors lighting up

  white violet meat like windows of a whores’ inn

  whose innkeeper with a lovely daughter and wife

  send the company of guests drained bled to death

  to heaven or hell according to services performed

  the darling of the decadents in Victorian times

  marrying licentious salon with torture chamber

  you name it—rope nails poison sex knout coffin

  and we live in peace and harmony with the pitcher plant

  among gulags and concentration camps we do not care

  to know that in the world of plants there is no innocence

  BLACKTHORN

  To Konstanty Jelenski

  Despite the worst prophecies of the diviners of the weather

  —a thick wedge of polar wind driven into air up to the base—

  despite the life instinct the sacred strategies of survival

  —other plants intrepidly gather their forces for the plunge

  and hoard buds on the black front lines before the charge—

  before Prospero has raised his hand

  the blackthorn opens its solo recital

  in the cold and empty concert hall

  this roadside shrub betrays

  a conspiracy of the timid

  and is

  like handsome young volunteers

  who perish on the first day of war in brand-new uniforms

  the soles of their boots barely marked by sand

  like stars of poetry prematurely extinguished

  like a school outing crushed by an avalanche

  like those who see clearly in the darkness

  like insurgents who despite history’s clocks

  despite the worst predictions

  start off in spite of it all

  O madness of innocent white flowers

  blind snowstorm

  crest of a wave

  aubade with a short stubborn ostinato

  headless aureole

  yes blackthorn

  a few measures

  in an empty hall

  and then the notes lie scattered

  amid puddles and ruddy weeds

  so no one will remember them

  but someone has to dare

  someone has to start off

  yes blackthorn

  a few pure measures

  that’s quite a lot

  that’s all

  MASS FOR THE IMPRISONED

  To Adam Michnik

  If this is to be an offering for my imprisoned

  it can best be made in an inappropriate place

  without any marble music

  or gold censer white cloth

  best near a clay pit under a slovenly willow

  when rain mingles with snow

  in an abandoned mine

  a burned sawmill

  or a hunger shop

  where

  salt

  vinegar

  watch from the flaking walls

  instead of Angels of Judgment

  if it is to be an offering

  we must be reconciled

  with our brothers who are in the hands of iniquity

  and fight on the edges

  I see

  their bright shadows

  moving slowly

  as if on an ocean bed

  I see

  idle hands

  helpless elbows and knees

  cheeks in which shadows have nestled

  mouths open as they sleep

  defenseless backs

  we are alone here

  —my mystagogue—

  no others praying

  I watch you talk to the cup

  tie and untie the knot

  scatter and gather crumbs

  and I listen in

  as gray numen

  flies

  rustles

  over my head

  and so we endure

  we conspirators

  amid prophetic cries

  and trivial responses

  amid worthy silence

  and an intransigent jangling of keys

  A SMALL HEART

  To Jan Józef Szczepaóski

  the bullet I fired

  during the great war

  went around the globe

  and hit me in the back

  at the least suitable moment

  when I was already sure

  I had forgotten it all—

  his transgressions and mine

  after all I like anyone else

  wanted to erase the memory

  of countenances of hatred

  history consoled me

  —I was battling violence

  but the Book told me

  —I was battling Cain

  so many patient years

  so many years in vain

  I washed soot blood

  hurt in mercy’s stream

  so that noble beauty

  the glory of existence

  perhaps even the good

  might have a home in me

  after all I like anyone else

  had a longing to return

  to the bay of childhood

  the country of innocence

  the bullet I fired

  from a low-caliber gun

  despite laws of gravity

  went around the globe

  and hit me in the back

  as if it wished to tell me

  —nobody gets anything

  for free

  so now I sit in solitude

  on a sawed-off tree trunk

  in the exact center point

  of the forgotten battle
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  gray spider I spin

  bitter meditations

  on memory too large

  and a heart too small

  REQUEST

  Father of the gods and you my patron Hermes

  I forgot to ask you—and now it is already late—

  for a sublime gift

  modest as prayer

  for smooth skin luxuriant hair almond eyelids

  may it come to pass

  that my whole life

  fits without remainder

  in Countess Popescu’s

  casket of keepsakes

  on which a shepherd

  at an oak wood’s edge

  blows from his pipe

  pearly wisps of air

  and chaos inside

  a cuff link

  father’s old watch

  a jewelless ring

  shut sea binoculars

  dried letters

  a gold inscription on a mug

  tempting you to the waters

  of Marienbad

  a bar of wax

  a cambric hankie

  the sign for a fortress’s surrender

  a little mildew

  a little shadow

  Father of the gods and you my patron Hermes

  I forgot to ask you

  for flighty empty mornings afternoons evenings

  for little soul

  little conscience

  for a light head

  and dancing step

  MR COGITO’S HERALDIC MEDITATIONS

  Once an eagle perhaps

  on a great scarlet field

  and wind’s battle horn

  now

  out of junk

  out of noise

  out of sand

  still faceless

  eyes closed

  like a puppy

  neither hatred’s yellow

  nor the purple of glory

  nor the green of hope

  an empty shield

  across a country

  of low trees

  low words

  there crawls

  there wends

  a snail

  on its back

  it carries its home

  dark

  uncertain

  FAREWELL

  The moment has come it is time to say farewell

  after birds fly off the sudden flight of the green

  summer’s end—a banal theme for solo guitar

  I now live on the slope of a hillside

  windows from ceiling to floor so I see clearly

  the osier’s thick fur naked sallows this is my bank

  everything grows in horizontal strips—a lazy river