Persephone Goes Underground Again

PERSEPHONE
—Adam Zagajewski

Persephone goes underground again
in a summer dress, with a Jewish
child's big eyes.

Kites fly, and yellow leaves, autumn dust,
a white plane, black crow wings.
Someone runs down the path clutching an overdue letter.

She'll be cold underground in cork
sandals and her hair won't shield
her from the blind wind, from oblivion—

she disappears into the chestnut trees
and only the ribbon on her braid
shines with resignation's rosy glow.

Persephone goes underground again
and again the same thread of indifference
binds my tiny bird-heart.

________________________

THE LAST STORM
—Adam Zagajewski

Some are leaving.
Others drink silence.
Only storms shriek now in August
like a madman hauled off in an ambulance.
Branches beat our cheeks.
Alder leaves smell of sleep and straw oil.
You must listen, listen, listen.
Tired springs breathe under water.
At four in the morning
the last, lonely bolt of lightning
scribbles something quickly in the sky.
It says, "No." Or "Never."
Or "Take courage, the fire's not dead."

_______________________

ANTHOLOGY
—Adam Zagajewski

That evening I was reading an anthology.
Scarlet clouds grazed outside my window.
The spent day fled to a museum.

And you—who are you?
I don't know. I didn't know
if I was born for gladness?
Sorrow? Patient waiting?

In dusk's pure air
I read an anthology.
Ancient poets lived in me, singing.

_______________________

SHELL
—Adam Zagajewski

At night the monks sang softly
and a gusting wind lifted
spruce branches like wings.
I've never visited the ancient cities,
I've never been to Thebes
or Delphi, and I don't know
what the oracles once told travelers.
Snow filled the streets and canyons,
and crows in dark robes silently
trailed the fox's footprints.
I believed in elusive signs,
in shadowed ruins, water snakes,
mountain springs, prophetic birds.
Linden trees bloomed like brides
but their fruit was small and bitter.
Wisdom can't be found
in music or fine paintings,
in great deeds, courage,
even love,
but only in all these things,
in earth and air, in pain and silence.
A poem may hold the thunder's echo,
like a shell touched by Orpheus
as he fled. Time takes life away
and gives us memory, gold with flame,
black with embers.

(Today's poems were translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh)

________________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)