this only

.

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.

A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.

Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,

When snow first fell, riding this way

He felt joy, strong, without reason,

Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm

Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,

Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.

He returns years later, has no demands.

He wants only one, most precious thing:

To see, purely and simply, without name,

Without expectations, fears, or hopes,

At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

(The Collected Poems,

 1931-1987, trans. by Robert Hass)

.

 

 

 

gift

 

 

 

 

 

A day so happy.
Fog lifted early I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no man worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man didn’t embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
On straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

 

 

 

 

~ Czeslaw Milosz

from New & Collected Poems

 with thanks to poetry chaikhana

 

 

 

 

 

Ars Poetica?

 

 

 

 

 

I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

....


And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity,
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.

....

~ Czeslaw Milosz
excerpt translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee 

 with thanks to Love is a Place

 

love

Love means to learn to look at yourself

The way one looks at distant things

For you are only one thing among many.

And whoever sees that way heals his heart,

Without knowing it, from various ills—

A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things

So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.

It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:

Who serves best doesn't always understand.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

translation by Robert Hass

from The Collected Poems

art by Picasso

so little

I said so little.

Days were short.

Short days.

Short nights.

Short years.

I said so little.

I couldn't keep up.

My heart grew weary

From joy,

Despair,

Ardor,

Hope.

The jaws of Leviathan

Were closing upon me.

Naked, I lay on the shores

Of desert islands.

The white whale of the world

Hauled me down to its pit.

And now I don’t know

What in all that was real.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee

late ripeness

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,

I felt a door opening in me and I entered 

the clarity of early morning. 

One after another my former lives were departing, 

like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas 

assigned to my brush came closer, 

ready now to be described better than they were before. 

I was not separated from people, 

grief and pity joined us. 

We forget — I kept saying — that we are all children of the King. 

For where we come from there is no division 

into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be. 

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part 

of the gift we received for our long journey. 

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago - 

a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror 

of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel 

staving its hull against a reef — they dwell in us, 

waiting for a fulfillment. 

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard, 

as are all men and women living at the same time, 

whether they are aware of it or not. 

~Czeslaw Milosz

from Collected Poems, 1931-1987

art by van gogh

forget

Forget the suffering
You caused others.
Forget the suffering
Others caused you.

The waters run and run,
Springs sparkle and are done,
You walk the earth you are forgetting.

Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.
What does it mean, you ask, who is singing?
A childlike sun grows warm.
A grandson and a great-grandson are born.
You are led by the hand once again.

The names of the rivers remain with you.
How endless those rivers seem!
Your fields lie fallow,
The city towers are not as they were.
You stand at the threshold mute. 

By Czeslaw Milosz

version by Robert Hass

gift

A day so happy.

Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.

Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.

There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.

I knew no one worth envying him.

Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.

To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.

In my body I felt no pain.

When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails. 

~ Czeslaw Milosz 

with thanks to  the mark on the wall

.

not mine

All my life to pretend this world of theirs is mine

And to know such pretending is disgraceful.

But what can I do? Suppose I suddenly screamed

And started to prophesy. No one would hear me. 

Their screens and microphones are not for that. 

Others like me wander the streets

And talk to themselves. Sleep on benches in parks,

Or on pavements in alleys. For there aren't enough prisons

To lock up all the poor. I smile and keep quiet. 

They won't get me now. 

To feast with the chosen—that I do well.

~ Czeslaw Milosz 

translated by Robert Hass 

photo by Christine de Grancy

meaning

.

When I die, I will see the lining of the world. 

The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset. 

The true meaning, ready to be decoded. 

What never added up will add Up, 

What was incomprehensible will be comprehended. 

- And if there is no lining to the world? 

If a thrush on a branch is not a sign, 

But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day 

Make no sense following each other? 

And on this earth there is nothing except this earth? 

- Even if that is so, there will remain 

A word wakened by lips that perish, 

A tireless messenger who runs and runs 

Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, 

And calls out, protests, screams.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

late ripeness

.

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,

I felt a door opening in me and I entered

the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,

like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas

assigned to my brush came closer,

ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,

grief and pity joined us.

We forget – I kept saying – that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division

into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part

of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago – 

a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror

of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel

staving its hull against a reef – they dwell in us,

waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,

as are all men and women living at the same time,

whether they are aware of it or not.

.

~ Czeslaw Milosz
from Collected Poems, 1931-1987
translation by Robert Hass

.

a song on the end of the world

On the day the world ends

A bee circles a clover,

A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

By the rainspout young sparrows are playing

And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends

Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,

Vegetable peddlers shout in the street

And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,

The voice of a violin lasts in the air

And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder

Are disappointed.

And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps

Do not believe it is happening now.

As long as the sun and the moon are above,

As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,

As long as rosy infants are born

No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet

Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,

Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:

There will be no other end of the world,

There will be no other end of the world.

~  Czeslaw Milosz 

Encounter

.

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. 

A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road. 

One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive, 

Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going? 

The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. 

I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

~ Czeslaw Milosz