Lyrical Zone by Zbigniew Herbert

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 have to 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 Gioconda’s smile
the smile of Etruscan girls


the Sphinx’s smile

(Translated by Alissa Valles)

I Wish I Had a Master by Julia Fiedorczuk

for S.F.

I wish I had a master
to teach me how to live,
to eat with knife and fork
as well as to write poems

he’d tell me how the stars
like people
are born and die
and like people
live in constellations

I’d listen to my master
attentively
for one stray word
would mean the fall of kingdoms
the suspension of time

my master’s words
carved from the body
would be clear.

(Translated by Benjamin Paloff; submitted by awritersruminations)

source

Photograph from September 11 by Wislawa Szymborska

They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more, 
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life, 
and now keeps them 
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete, 
with a particular face 
and blood well-hidden.

There’s enough time 
for hair to come loose, 
for keys and coins 
to fall from pockets.

They’re still within the air’s reach, 
within the compass of places 
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)

Light From Another World by Mieczyslaw Jastrun

One life has passed
I passed over what hurt the most
in silence
I forgot about the changes
they grew pale like stars at dawn
shining in leafless trees
Light from another world
embraced me

A hyacinth’s keen scent
And nothing- like a stone thrown into water
nothing- like water turned to stone
frozen by the morning cold

One life has passed

I passed over silence in silence
I forgot
on this planet where it was so hard
to square endless otherness
with my own brief time

A steep staircase opened beneath me
leading to a tunnel underground
where letters
on the wall spelled
the saving phrase: “Way Out.”

(Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)

Poetry Lesson by Adam Czerniawski

The poet
who once wrote
“I love you passionately”
and later
“nife in yr gut”

Now writes
“Your face already illegible
like a worn stone”

Critics track the formal changes
and note the shift in style and expression

(Translated by Iain Higgins)

"At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor, Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds. I stare and stare. It seems I was called for this: to glorify things just because they are."

Czeslaw Milosz

Photograph by Marcin Swietlicki

In the corner of the street an apparition – as if 
a small fraction of blizzard – as if 
miseries went astray – went searching for someone 
I opened the window – and so it remains 
in the corner of the street a still flurry 
me leaning forward and anticipating 
and the harsh features of a winter sun 

(Translated by Elzbieta Wojcik-Leese)

How To Walk Downstairs by Dariusz Sosnicki

How to walk downstairs older
by a bell’s ignored chirp
by a note I leave on the door?

In a stranger’s house, banisters
turn their backs on me.

(Translated by Tadeusz Pioro)

First the Dog by Zbigniew Herbert

to Laika


So first the faithful dog will go 
and after it a pig or ass 
through the black grass will beat a track 
along it will the first man steal 
who with iron hand will smother 
on his glass brow a drop of fear 


so first the dog honest mongrel 
which has never abandoned us 
dreaming of earthly lamps and bones 
will fall asleep in its whirling kennel
its warm blood boiling drying away 


but we behind the dog and second 
dog which guides us on a leash 
we with the astronauts’ white cane 
awkwardly we bump into stars 
we see nothing we hear nothing 
we beat with our fists on the dark ether 
on all the wavelengths is a whining 


everything we can carry on board 
through the cinders of dark worlds 
name of man scent of apple 
acorn of sound quarter of colour 
should all be saved for our return 
so we can find the route in an instant 
when the blind dog leading us 
barks at the earth as at the moon

(Translated by Alissa Valles)

Telephone by Marzanna Kielar

you were burning dry branches and weeds 
– I heard fire rustle in the receiver, your whistle when the dogs
once again tried to get at the mole-hills where yesterday

we picked plums from among the rampant grass;
evening drew near – the wind blew breath
into its puppy muzzle.

The sticky prunes, we ate them for supper.
I was leafing through a book on water gardens, photographs
of marsh plants – I wanted to memorize their names: marsh marigold,

sedge, floating pond-weed –
when suddenly you said, “I would like to die
before you.”

In your country house, yesterday, I watched you fall asleep
reading – sleep like a backwash
sewed up the oar of your body.

I took the book out of your hands, switched off the light.
The rib of night
was shining in the branches

(Translated by Elzbieta Wojcik- Leese)