Zbigniew Herbert: Все стихи поэта

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Episode

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

by Zbigniew Herbert

Our Fear

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

by Zbigniew Herbert

Why The Classics

in the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War

Thucydides tells among other things

the story of his unsuccessful expedition

among long speeches of chiefs

battles sieges plague

dense net of intrigues of diplomatic endeavours

the episode is like a pin

by Zbigniew Herbert

The Trial

During his great speech the prosecutor

kept piercing me with his yellow index finger

I'm afraid I didn't appear self-assured

unintentionally I put on a mask of fear and depravity

like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide

the reporters were dancing a war dance

slowly I burned at a stake of magnesia

all of this took place in a small stifling room

by Zbigniew Herbert

Report From Paradise

In paradise the work week is fixed at thirty hours

salaries are higher prices steadily go down

manual labour is not tiring (because of reduced gravity)

chopping wood is no harder than typing

the social system is stable and the rulers are wise

really in paradise one is better off than in whatever country

At first it was to have been different

luminous circles choirs and degrees of abstraction

by Zbigniew Herbert

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.

by Zbigniew Herbert

From Mythology

First there was a god of night and tempest, a black idol without eyes, before whom they leaped, naked and smeared with blood. Later on, in the times of the republic, there were many gods with wives, children, creaking beds, and harmlessly exploding thunderbolts. At the end only superstitious neurotics carried in their pockets little statues of salt, representing the god of irony. There was no greater god at that time.

Then came the barbarians. They too valued highly the little god of irony. They would crush it under their heels and add it to their dishes.

by Zbigniew Herbert

Lament

To the memory of my mother

And now she has over her head brown clouds of roots

a slim lily of salt on the temples beads of sand

while she sails on the bottle of a boat through foaming nebulas

A mile beyond us where the river turns

visible-invisible as the light on a wave

truly she isn't different—abandoned like all of us.

by Zbigniew Herbert

The Envoy Of Mr Cogito

Go where those others went to the dark boundary

for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees

among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live

you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous

in the final account only this is important

by Zbigniew Herbert

A Knocker

There are those who grow

gardens in their heads

paths lead from their hair

to sunny and white cities

it's easy for them to write

they close their eyes

immediately schools of images

stream down their foreheads

by Zbigniew Herbert

About Troy

Troy O Troy

an archeologist

will sift your ashes through his fingers

yet a fire occurred greater than that of the Iliad

for seven strings—

too few strings

one needs a chorus

by Zbigniew Herbert

A Russian Tale

The tsar our little father had grown old, very old. Now he could not even strangle a dove with his own hands. Sitting on his throne he was golden and frigid. Only his beard grew, down to the floor and farther.

Then someone else ruled, it was not known who. Curious folk peeped into the palace windows but Krivonosov screened the windows with gibbets. Thus only the hanged saw anything.

In the end the tsar our little father died for good. The bells rang and rang, yet they did not bring his body out. Our tsar had grown into the throne. The legs of the throne had become all mixed up with the legs of the tsar. His arm and the armrest were one. It was impossible to tear him loose. And to bury the tsar along with the golden throne - what a shame.

by Zbigniew Herbert