Mr. Cogito Meditates on Suffering

by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. John & Bogdana Carpenter)

All attempts to remove

the so-called cup of bitterness--

by reflection 

frenzied actions on behalf of homeless cats

deep breathing

religion--

failed

one must consent

gently bend the head

not wring the hands

make use of the suffering gently moderately

like an artificial limb

without false shame

but also without unnecessary pride

do not brandish the stump

over the heads of others

don't knock with the white cane

against the windows of the well-fed

drink the essence of bitter herbs

but not to the dregs

leave carefully

a few sips for the future

accept 

but simultaneously

isolate within yourself

and if it is possible

create from the matter of suffering

a thing or a person

play

with it

of course

play

entertain it

very cautiously

like a sick child

forcing at last

with silly tricks

a faint 

smile

parable of the russian émigrés - zbigniew herbert

Parable Of The Russian Émigrés 
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Peter Dale Scott)

It was the year twenty
or perhaps twenty-one
the Russian émigrés
came to us

tall blond people
with visionary eyes
and women like a dream

when they crossed the market-place
we used to say - migratory birds

they used to attend the soirées of the gentry
everyone would whisper - look what pearls

but when the lights of the ball were extinguished
helpless people remained

the grey newspapers were continuously silent
only solitaire showed pity

the guitars beyond the windows would cease playing
and even dark eyes faded

in the evening a samovar with a whistle
would carry them back to their family railway-stations

after a couple of years
only three of them were spoken about
the one who went mad
the one who hanged himself
she to whom men used to come

the rest lived out of the way
slowly turning into dust

   This parable is told by Nicholas
   who understands historical necessities
   in order to terrify me i.e. to convince me

the palace of laughter - zbigniew herbert

The Palace Of Laughter
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

A swing, a whirlabout, a shooting-gallery -- these are the amusements of common people.  Subtle intellects, reflective natures prefer the Palace of Laughter.  Its lofty and secret purpose is to prepare us for the worst.  Here in one mirror is shown our body taken down from the wheel -- a misshapen sack of broken bones, in another our body taken down from the meat-hook after a long dry distillation in the air.
   Visit the Palace of Laughter.  Visit the Palace of Laughter.  This is the vestibule of life, the anteroom of torture.

episode - zbigniew herbert

Episode 
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

We walk by the sea-shore
holding firmly in our hands
the two-ends of an antique dialogue
- do you love me?
- I love you

with furrowed eyebrows
I summarize all wisdom
of the two testaments
astrologers prophets
philosophers of the gardens
and cloistered philosophers

and it sounds about like this:
- don't cry
- be brave
- look how everybody

you pout your lips and say
- you should be a clergyman
and fed up you walk off
nobody loves moralists

   what should I say on the shore of
   a small dead sea

   slowly the water fills
   the shapes of feet which have vanished

voice - zbigniew herbert

Voice
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

I walk on the sea-shore
to catch that voice
between the breaking of one wave
and another

but there is no voice
only the senile garrulity of water
salty nothing
a white bird's wing
stuck dry to a stone

I walk to the forest
where persists the continuous
hum of an immense hour-glass
sifting leaves into humus
humus into leaves
powerful jaws of insects
consume the silence of the earth

I walk into the fields
green and yellow sheets
flattened with pins of insect beings
sing at every touch of the wind

where is that voice
it should speak up
when for a moment there is a pause
in the unrelenting monologue of the earth

nothing but whispers
clappings explosions

I come home
and my experience takes on
the shape of an alternative
either the world is dumb
or I am deaf

but perhaps
we are both
doomed to our afflictions

therefore we must
arm in arm
go blindly on
towards new horizons
towards contracted throats
from which rises
an unintelligible gurgle

the seventh angel - zbigniew herbert

The Seventh Angel
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

The seventh angel
is completely different
even his name is different
Shemkel

he is no Gabriel
the aureate
upholder of the throne
and baldachin

and he's no Raphael
tuner of choirs

and he's also no
Azrael
planet-driver
surveyor of infinity
perfect exponent of theoretical physics

Shemkel
is black and nervous
and has been fined many times
for illegal import of sinners

between the abyss
and the heavens
without a rest his feet go pit-a-pat

his sense of dignity is non-existent
and they only keep him in the squad
out of consideration for the number seven
but he is not like the others

not like the hetman of the hosts
Michael
all scales and feathery plumes

nor like Azrafael
interior decorator of the universe
warden of its luxuriant vegetation
his wings shimmering like two oak trees

not even like
Dedrael
apologist and cabalist

Shemkel Shemkel
- the angels complain
why are you not perfect

the Byzantine artists
when they paint all seven
reproduce Shemkel
just like the rest

because they suppose
they might lapse into heresy
if they were to portray him
just as he is
black nervous
in his old threadbare nimbus

episode in a library - zbigniew herbert

Episode In A Library
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

A blonde girl is bent over a poem.  With a pencil sharp as a lancet she transfers the words to a blank page and changes them into strokes, accents, caesuras.  The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants.
   When we carried him away under machine-gun fire, I believed that his still warm body would be resurrected in the word.  Now as I watch the death of the words, I know there is no limit to decay.  All that will be left after us in the black earth will be scattered syllables.  Accents over nothingness and dust.

journey to kraków - zbigniew herbert

Journey To Krakow
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

As soon as the train got going
the tall dark type begins
and he speaks like this to the boy
with a book on his knees

- you like to read boy

- I like it - replies the latter
it makes the time go by
always plenty of work at home
here it doesn't bother people

- Well there you're certainly right
what is it you're reading

- The Peasants - replies the latter
very true to life
only a little too long
it's the right length for winter

I've also read The Folk Wedding
that's actually a play
very hard to follow
too many people

The Deluge is something else again
you read and it's like you'd seen it
really - he says - great
almost as good as a movie

Hamlet - by a foreign writer
also very interesting
only this Danish prince
is a bit too much of a sissy

tunnel
dark in the train
the conversation suddenly breaks off
the authoritative commentary ceases

in the white margins
the prints of fingers and the soil
have marked with rough thumb-nail
rapture and condemnation

the wind and the rose - zbigniew herbert

The Wind And The Rose
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)

Once in a garden there grew a rose.  A wind fell in love with her.  They were completely different, he - light and fair; she - immobile and heavy as blood.
   There came a man in wooden clogs and with his thick hands he plucked the rose.  The wind leapt after him, but the man slammed the door in his face.
   - O that I might turn to stone - wept the unlucky one - I was able to go round the whole world, I was able to stay away for years at a time, but I knew she was always there waiting.
   The wind understood that, in order to really suffer, one has to be faithful.

a devil - zbigniew herbert

A Devil

by Zbigniew Herbert

     He is an utter failure as a devil.  Even his tail.  Not long and fleshly with a black brush of hair at the end, but short, fluffy, and sticking out comically like a rabbit's.  His skin is pink, only under his left shoulder-blade a mark the size of a gold ducat.  But his horns are the worst.  They don't grow outward like other devils' but inward, into the brain.  That's why he suffers so often from headaches.

     He is sad.  He sleeps for days on end.  Neither good nor evil attract him.  When he walks down the street, you see distinctly the motion of the rosy wings of his lungs.

i would like to describe - zbigniew herbert

I Would Like To Describe
by Zbigniew Herbert (tr. Milosz & Scott)



I would like to describe the simplest emotion

joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun


I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain


I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water


to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin


but apparently this is not possible


and just to say - I love
I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face
and anger
different from fire
borrows from it
a loquacious tongue


so is blurred
so is blurred
in me
what white-haired gentlemen
separated once and for all
and said
this is the subject
and this is the object


we fall asleep
with one hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets


our feet abandon us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morning
we tear out painfully