The Collected Poems

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The Collected Poems Page 27

by Zbigniew Herbert


  liquid spaces

  harken to the pounding of the storm

  grappling in the cloakroom

  O Rapallo republic of treason

  the laughter of daggers

  city with a rat’s head

  DREAM LANGUAGE

  when I sleep

  like everyone

  before dawn rises

  I wind the clock

  I sink on a white

  ship

  waves wash me

  from the white ship

  I look for keys

  I kill a dragon

  which laughs

  I light a lamp

  but above all

  I chatter

  I suspect that

  we all dream in images

  but I spin

  all these crazy yarns

  as if sleeping

  in a mound

  of narrative

  but that is what

  dream language

  should be like

  a fine language

  with a long arm

  airy

  it flouts grammar

  phonetic principles

  a language of mockery

  a language I don’t know

  when I sleep

  in the cat’s place

  the bronze body

  is pierced by a shudder

  we moan like a melody

  when I sleep

  in the cat’s place

  sometimes my body

  is pierced by a shudder

  a melody like a moan

  audible to the ear

  at such times

  dream language

  closes itself off

  independent

  of weariness

  pure

  a language of sweet dread

  KANT. LAST DAYS

  It is truly no evidence of a great soul

  —O nature—

  and if you are not magnanimous

  you may not exist at all

  Could you really not treat him to a sudden death

  like a candle guttering

  like a wig slipping off

  like a ring’s short expedition on a smooth tabletop

  spinning and turning

  at last standing still like a dead

  beetle

  So why these cruel games

  with an old man

  loss of memory

  dull awakenings

  nocturnal terror

  wasn’t it he who said

  “beware of bad dreams”

  he who has a gray glacier on his head

  a volcano where a fob watch should be

  It is in terrible taste

  to condemn a man

  learning the trade of apparitions

  suddenly to become

  a ghost

  THE END

  And from now on I won’t be there in any group picture (proud proof of my death in the world’s book reviews) when someone says look see—that’s Zbyszek—pointing to a man struggling with a suitcase—it isn’t me no it’s someone who’s not even in the same business as I am I’m not there I’m not there period a perfect emptiness even if I concentrated my will in a single burning point I would not be able even for one moment and in a flash of magnesium to come into existence so I’m not there schluss

  airbrushed by a tyrant as if I turned out to be an enemy of the revolution whereas I once stood safely in the sun of the leader

  FLOWERS

  Flowers armfuls of flowers brought in from the garden

  Flowers blushing with color violet dark blue crimson

  Taken away from bees they dissipate their fragrance

  In the waxlike silence of a room on the edge of winter

  For whom are these lavish gifts too lavish for whom

  this languorous body the blizzard of scattering petals

  A sky stitched with white the house’s bronze silence

  Mists are trailing over the fields Ships lift their sails

  ON A BOY KILLED BY THE POLICE

  So many sleepless nights so many diapers

  a whole avalanche of washing detergent

  underpants shots kisses on a warm behind

  so many spankings

  so many hopes so many eyes filled with tears

  if all this is ground under a heel so quickly

  like a cigarette butt when an attack begins

  and still

  still so much song still rising

  over a place where a grain of emptiness spins

  over a grain of nothingness

  THE LAST ATTACK. TO KLAUS

  Permit me to open by expressing joy and wonder

  that we’re marching at the head of our companies

  in different uniforms under a different command

  but with a single aim—to survive

  You say to me—look here we should probably let

  these boys go home to their Margot to their Kasia

  war is beautiful only in parades

  but apart from that as we know—mud and blood

  and rats

  As you speak comes an avalanche of artillery fire

  it’s that bastard Parkinson who is taking so long

  he caught up with us at last when we took a walk

  on an irregular route our collars loose at the chin

  our hands in our pockets we were on leave already

  when Parkinson suddenly reminded us that it was

  not the end yet that this blasted war isn’t over yet

  STAKE

  I don’t know who (who the hell)

  this storm of pain is attacking

  with heavy artillery every inch of air

  of ground is torn up turned inside out

  leveled by previous attacks why then

  this maelstrom of pain if it is a signal

  and pain a signal sent to headquarters

  when all run dropping last orders for destruction

  as they go why then cramps cold shivers nausea

  the howling under a low dark sky

  why the hammering to the stake

  MR COGITO AND THE LITTLE CREATURE

  It’s unclear whether anyone knows its personal zoological name, so small is it, so low, near the very bottom, beyond the naked eye. It is something that wavers between existence and absence, insignificant, fleeting as a scrap of print, a particle, the paring of a diacritical mark, the chip of a comma, a speck of lead from the printer’s cabinet.

  I open my winter reading and there it is crouching down on the page, a Very Little Creature, motionless at first, but soon it is off on its way, sniffing between the lines, and then it lurches ahead like a horse from the stable, forward at the speed of the Very Little Creature’s light (the creature is blind).

  This season (it may be the last season of my life)—everything was as before, the Very Little Creature amused me and warmed my black heart, when one day I decided to give the book to friends in London. I made a parcel of it and sent it off. With the Creature inside.

  What does it do during the long sea voyage? It has plenty to read; it doesn’t eat very much; but what does it think of me, its old companion who proved so treacherous?

  MR COGITO. THE SOUL’S CURRENT POSITION

  For some time now

  Mr Cogito has been

  wearing his soul

  on his arm

  this signifies

  a state of readiness

  placing

  the soul on the arm

  is a delicate operation

  it should be carried out

  without feverish haste

  or scenes familiar

  from wars

  evacuations

  cities under siege

  the soul likes to assume

  various forms

  now it’s a rock

  it has sunk its claws

  into Mr Cogito’s left arm

  and it’s waiting

  it may abandon


  Mr Cogito’s body

  when he sleeps

  or the parting may be

  in broad daylight

  in full consciousness

  short as the whistling

  of a fractured mirror

  for the time being

  it sits on his arm

  ready for flight

  MR COGITO. ARS LONGA

  To Krzysztof Karasek

  1

  Pompous manifestos

  civil wars

  decisive battles

  campaigns

  filled Mr Cogito

  with boredom

  in every generation

  there are those who

  with stubbornness worthy of a better cause

  wish to rip poetry

  from the claws

  of the everyday

  at an early age

  they enter the order

  of Most Holy Subtlety

  and Ascension

  they strain minds and bodies

  to express that which is

  beyond—

  that which is

  above—

  they don’t even feel

  how much promise

  charm

  surprise

  lie hidden in the language

  everyone

  gabs in

  hoodlums and Horace

  2

  many years ago

  Mr Cogito took part

  in the Festival of Two Hemispheres

  the event location—Yugoslavia

  in the vicinity of Lake Ohrid

  on the banks of the river Struga

  on either side

  more than thirty thousand

  poetry lovers

  set up camp

  a warbler from Paris

  Le Bon Mot

  half-mad with rapture

  (at home his audience

  consisted of his wife

  and cowed offspring)

  ascetics

  flagellants

  anchorites

  of pure poetry

  wallowed in the abundance

  of thirsty souls

  after dusk

  had fallen

  shooting broke out

  artificial fires

  exploded in the air

  it seemed like

  another Balkan war

  the next day

  they fished from the river

  four peasants

  a woman

  an infant

  countless empty bottles

  a barn door

  a piano leg

  an ownerless prosthesis

  a chain

  about twenty meters long

  3

  the Wunderlich family quartet

  provided brisk accompaniment

  father Hansi—book-keeping for cello

  mother Truda—tin and violin accounts

  son Rudi—he of many talents

  and the natural daughter of old Wunderlich

  ergo Hansi’s sister

  Rudi’s daughter

  she who awakes sweet terror—

  the terrifying

  Maria Chaos

  PICA PICA L.

  in the mornings

  of early spring

  to late autumn

  the magpie

  flies by

  my bedroom window

  in annals

  chronicles

  genealogical tables

  it’s called Pica pica

  from the family of insidious

  and bloodthirsty condottieri

  let us not be led astray

  by the purity of colors

  the sky’s vivid foliage

  the snow’s chaste white

  its song alone

  a rattler’s song

  betrays

  the true nature

  of a baby killer

  we ought to

  curb our joy

  urge caution

  stigmatize it

  anathemize it

  tear asunder

  the cloud of rapture

  it uses to cover its crimes

  and throw frivolous souls

  into a dither

  what action to take

  what would be best

  —aha

  I know what I’ll do

  I’ll hire

  father Jan Twardowski

  the bard of Polish birds

  to be Nature’s Exorcist

  for special assignments

  when the priest

  pops out of a thicket’s

  obscure confessional

  our feathered friend

  might suffer a stroke

  and croak on the spot

  and anyway a priest can

  do with a bit of exercise

  in the fresh air

  SONG

  In memory of Zbigniew “Bynio” Kuźmiak

  More rain with snow is being woven

  on these great looms of early winter

  a string of farm carts and pine coffins

  brings the fallen to the forest’s center

  let a shroud of mist be given to them

  and for light hard sparks of hoarfrost

  let our remembrance stay with them

  in their furnace of eternal darkness

  more rain with snow a stormy wind

  of boundless plains and arid thistles

  that fills the world expands the world

  a wind from off the stars and glaciers

  IT CAME TO MIND

  One

  winter morning

  it came to Mr Cogito’s mind

  it stood still

  in the middle of his mind

  didn’t want to budge

  either to the right

  or to the left

  it was big

  panting

  smelled like a mailman

  and a mystery of humble means

  If only

  Mr Cogito knew

  why it had come

  there was

  no contact

  Mr Cogito didn’t dare to ask

  “sorry but what is this about”

  he was wrestling

  with its speechless stillness

  this went on

  an unbearably long time

  an embarassing situation

  more than that humiliating

  because the longer it hung

  in the middle of his mind

  the more it was subject

  to metamorphosis

  from an intruder

  —into a guest

  —a subtenant

  —a coowner

  of his mind

  it was

  and was

  and was once more

  unyielding

  virulent

  fortunately

  Mr Cogito

  fell ill with pneumonia

  the fever ignited a fire

  his mind burned out

  and with it

  what had come to mind

  on that winter morning

  these days

  Mr Cogito

  is cautious

  carefully

  he checks

  doors and windows and locks

  even the flues of the chimney

  even the flues of imagination

  STUCK IN THE MIND

  in common parlance

  stuck in the mind

  means a fixation

  on a single unmoving object

  stuck in the mind

  can be represented

  by a powerful peasant

  in a furry winter coat

  appearing in the midst

  of objects all too mobile

  he steams like a horse

  has a thick oaken eye

  —easy to have something

  stick in the mind all it takes

  is a moment of distraction

  but t
o get it out is harder

  another thing altogether

  big inept stuck-in-the-mind

  simply stands cap in hand

  panting like a stable of studs

  —not clear how to address it

  “Sir” would be too much

  “beat it Jack”—would be

  too familiar

  so stuck means stuck

  stocky and apathetic

  a medium quake might help

  say 4.6 on the Richter scale

  but no it’s glorious weather

  he’s like a rock

  a general sense of fatal

  paralysis

  stuck in the mind

  a bear of a guy

  LYRICAL ZONE

  A view of a park and a wall in the early evening light

  as in Corot—lemon peel skin of a powdered cheek after a ball

  air cast in gold and you don’t hear anything here no whispers

  or stifled cries no touch sweaty hands clatter of hooves

  only the soul becomes a painfully fragile spiderweb

  and it hangs in the air like the Gioconda’s smile

  the smile of Etruscan girls

  the Sphinx’s smile

  CHESS

  the tensely

  anticipated

  tournament of man

  whose special mark is a knife in his teeth

  against monster machine

  whose special mark is Olympian serenity

  has ended in victory

  for the dragon

  in vain

  the epics that matured

  in Andalusian gardens

  the parvenu

  Deep Blue

  elbows across a board

  sewn from a harlequin’s coat

  this sneering philistine

  stuffed

  with all openings

  attacks defenses

  and finally the gleeful

  hallali over the corpse

  of the opponent

  so this is how

  a kingly game

  passes into the hands

  of automatons

  we must break it out of

  the prison camp at night

  when mind drowses

  machines are roused

  the quest for the imagination

  must be begun all over again

  PHONE CALL

  in the night

  well after twelve

  the telephone rings

  through outlandish tangles

  of mist and barbed wire

  Thomas Merton the monk

  to whom I owe so much

  makes his way

  ringing so softly

  that even my

  vigilant cat Shu-shu

 

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