HEN
—Zbigniew Herbert
The hen is the best example of what living constantly with humans
leads to. She has completely lost the lightness and grace of a bird.
Her tail sticks up over her protruding rump like a too large hat in
bad taste. Her rare moments of ecstasy, when she stands on one leg
and glues up her round eyes with filmy eyelids, are stunningly dis-
gusting. And in addition, that parody of song, throat-slashed sup-
plications over a thing unutterably comic: a round, white, maculated
egg.
The hen brings to mind certain poets.
(translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott)
________________________
OUR FEAR
—Zbigniew Herbert
Our fear
does not wear a night shirt
does not have owl's eyes
does not lift a casket lid
does not extinguish a candle
does not have a dead man's face either
our fear
is a scrap of paper
found in a pocket
"Warn Wojcik
the place on Dluga Street is hot"
our fear
does not rise on the wings of the tempest
does not sit on a church tower
it is down-to-earth
it has the shape
of a bundle made in haste
with warm clothing
provisions
and arms
our fear
does not have the face of a dead man
the dead are gentle to us
we carry them on our shoulders
sleep under the same blanket
close their eyes
adjust their lips
pick a dry spot
and bury them
not too deep
not too shallow
(translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott)
________________________
Be sure to click on the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Council link to the right of this column; when ARTCAP shows up, click on "spoken words" in the left-hand column to hear Sacramento poets reading their work! And check back to Monday's post ("Babe Ruth's Birthday") for all the po-events going on this week.
REMEMBERING MY FATHER
—Zbigniew Herbert
His face severe in clouds above the waters of childhood
so rarely did he hold my warm head in his hands
given to belief not forgiving faults
because he cleared out woods and straightened paths
he carried the lantern high when we entered the night
I thought I would sit at his right hand
and we would separate light from darkness
and judge those of us who live
—it happened otherwise
a junk-dealer carried his throne on a hand-cart
and the deed of ownership the map of our kingdom
he was born for a second time slight very fragile
with transparent skin hardly perceptible cartilage
he diminished his body so I might receive it
in an unimportant place there is shadow under a stone
he himself grows in me we eat our defeats
we burst out laughing
when they say how little is needed
to be reconciled
(Translated from the Polish by John Carpenter and Bogdana Carpenter)
_________________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry 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.)