Read Online The Collected Poems by Zbigniew Herbert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Zbigniew Herbert
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turning into dust
This parable is told by Nicholas
who understands historical necessities
in order to terrify me i.e. to convince me
Â
HOW WE WERE INITIATED
To duplicitous patrons
I was playing out in the street
no one was minding me much
I was busy making sand pies
absently muttering Rimbaud
once an older guy heard me
why you are a poet my boy
weâre just now putting together
a grassroots literary movement
petting my dirty little head
he gave me a big lollipop
he even bought me clothes
in youthâs camouflage colors
I hadnât had clothes as nice
since my first communion
short trousers and a shirt
with a great sailor collar
black patent leather shoes
buckles and white socks
the old guy took my hand
and led me off to the ball
there were other boys too
in short trousers like me
their faces clean-shaven
shuffling with their feet
have a good time of it lads
why stand off to the side
âthe older men askedâ
why not form a mill wheel
but we didnât want to play
at tag or blindmanâs bluff
we had enough of geezers
we were nearly starving
so quickly they sat us down
around a magnificent table
and gave us sweet lemonade
and to each a piece of cake
now boys got to their feet
changed into adult clothes
praising us in deep voices
rapping us on the knuckles
we couldnât hear a thing
we couldnât feel a thing
staring with eyes wide
at those pieces of cake
which were melting fast
in our feverish hands
and lifeâs first sweetness
was lost in a dark sleeve
Â
SUBSTANCE
Not heads snuffed by the sharp shadow of pennants
nor the mangled torsos left behind on a mowed field
nor the hands holding a cold scepter and royal apple
nor the heart of a bell
nor a cathedralâs base
contain everything
those pushing carts in badly-paved outskirts
escaping from a fire with a kettle of borscht
and returning to ruins not to call the dead
but to find the pipe of the iron stove
those who starvingâlove life
beaten on the faceâlove life
whom itâs hard to call flowers
but who are of flesh
living plasma that is
two arms to brace the head
two legs hasty in an escape
able to come by food
able to breathe
able to pass life under a prison wall
they perish
who love fine words more than oily smells
but happily there are not too many of them
the people endure
and returning from escape routes with full sacks
raise a triumphal arch
for the beautiful dead
Â
ANSWER
It will be a night of deep snow
thick enough to muffle steps
deep shadow changing bodies
into two puddles of darkness
weâre lying holding our breath
even thoughtâs lowest whisper
if wolves donât track us down
or a man in a fur coat cradling
fast-shooting death on his chest
weâll have to jump up and run
amid a din of short dry salvos
to that longed-for other shore
everywhere earth is the same
it teaches wisdom everywhere
a man is weeping white tears
mothers are cradling children
the moon is beginning to rise
and building us a white house
It will be a night after hard waking
the conspiracy of the imagination
tastes of bread is light as wodka
yet every dream of palm trees
confirms our choice to stay here
the dream is cut off by three tall
rubber-and-iron men who enter
check your name check for fear
and order you down the stairway
not allowing you to take a thing
but a guardâs compassionate face
Hellenic Roman medieval
Indian Elizabethan Italian
probably French above all
a bit of Weimar Versailles
we lug so many homelands
on one back on one earth
but the one homeland Iâm sure
to keep in the singular is here
where youâre trod into the mud
or with a proudly ringing spade
they dig a fair hole for longing
Â
TO THE HUNGARIANS
We stand on the border
and hold out our arms
for our brothers for you
we tie a great rope of air
from a broken-off cry
from the fists clenched
a bell is cast a tongue
silent on the lookout
wounded stones plead
murdered water pleads
we stand on the border
we stand on the
This parable is told by Nicholas
who understands historical necessities
in order to terrify me i.e. to convince me
Â
HOW WE WERE INITIATED
To duplicitous patrons
I was playing out in the street
no one was minding me much
I was busy making sand pies
absently muttering Rimbaud
once an older guy heard me
why you are a poet my boy
weâre just now putting together
a grassroots literary movement
petting my dirty little head
he gave me a big lollipop
he even bought me clothes
in youthâs camouflage colors
I hadnât had clothes as nice
since my first communion
short trousers and a shirt
with a great sailor collar
black patent leather shoes
buckles and white socks
the old guy took my hand
and led me off to the ball
there were other boys too
in short trousers like me
their faces clean-shaven
shuffling with their feet
have a good time of it lads
why stand off to the side
âthe older men askedâ
why not form a mill wheel
but we didnât want to play
at tag or blindmanâs bluff
we had enough of geezers
we were nearly starving
so quickly they sat us down
around a magnificent table
and gave us sweet lemonade
and to each a piece of cake
now boys got to their feet
changed into adult clothes
praising us in deep voices
rapping us on the knuckles
we couldnât hear a thing
we couldnât feel a thing
staring with eyes wide
at those pieces of cake
which were melting fast
in our feverish hands
and lifeâs first sweetness
was lost in a dark sleeve
Â
SUBSTANCE
Not heads snuffed by the sharp shadow of pennants
nor the mangled torsos left behind on a mowed field
nor the hands holding a cold scepter and royal apple
nor the heart of a bell
nor a cathedralâs base
contain everything
those pushing carts in badly-paved outskirts
escaping from a fire with a kettle of borscht
and returning to ruins not to call the dead
but to find the pipe of the iron stove
those who starvingâlove life
beaten on the faceâlove life
whom itâs hard to call flowers
but who are of flesh
living plasma that is
two arms to brace the head
two legs hasty in an escape
able to come by food
able to breathe
able to pass life under a prison wall
they perish
who love fine words more than oily smells
but happily there are not too many of them
the people endure
and returning from escape routes with full sacks
raise a triumphal arch
for the beautiful dead
Â
ANSWER
It will be a night of deep snow
thick enough to muffle steps
deep shadow changing bodies
into two puddles of darkness
weâre lying holding our breath
even thoughtâs lowest whisper
if wolves donât track us down
or a man in a fur coat cradling
fast-shooting death on his chest
weâll have to jump up and run
amid a din of short dry salvos
to that longed-for other shore
everywhere earth is the same
it teaches wisdom everywhere
a man is weeping white tears
mothers are cradling children
the moon is beginning to rise
and building us a white house
It will be a night after hard waking
the conspiracy of the imagination
tastes of bread is light as wodka
yet every dream of palm trees
confirms our choice to stay here
the dream is cut off by three tall
rubber-and-iron men who enter
check your name check for fear
and order you down the stairway
not allowing you to take a thing
but a guardâs compassionate face
Hellenic Roman medieval
Indian Elizabethan Italian
probably French above all
a bit of Weimar Versailles
we lug so many homelands
on one back on one earth
but the one homeland Iâm sure
to keep in the singular is here
where youâre trod into the mud
or with a proudly ringing spade
they dig a fair hole for longing
Â
TO THE HUNGARIANS
We stand on the border
and hold out our arms
for our brothers for you
we tie a great rope of air
from a broken-off cry
from the fists clenched
a bell is cast a tongue
silent on the lookout
wounded stones plead
murdered water pleads
we stand on the border
we stand on the
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