Miłosz was born in Szetejnie, Lithuania in 1911, died in Kraków in 2004. He was a poet, novelist, essayist, translator. In 1980 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Miłosz holds many honorary doctorates.
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Czesław Miłosz 1911 - 2004 |
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AT A CERTAIN AGE
We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting sea after sea.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seemingly very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee
Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humiliating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?
That we used to see ouerselves as handsome and noble
Yet later in our place an ugly toad
Half-opens its thick eyelid
And one sees clearly: "That`s me".
BIOGRAPHY OF AN ARTIST
So much guilt behind them and such beauty!
These landscapes, in the quiet splendor
Of early summer, toward evening, these coves
Of lakes amid lush green, when, for welcome,
Messengers come running, in saffron robes,
And bring gifts, huge balls made of light.
Or his portraits. Is not tenderness
Needed to drive a brush with such attention
Along the eyelids of a sorrowing eye
Through the furrow at lips closed by grief?
And how could he do it? Knowing what we know
About his life, every day aware
Of harm he did to others. I think he was aware.
Just not concerned, he promised his soul to Hell,
Provided that his work remained clear and pure.
ONE MORE CONTRADICTION
Did I fulfill what I had to, here, on earth?
I was a guest in a house under white clouds
Where rivers flow and grasses renew themselves.
So what if I were called, if I was hardly aware.
The next time early I would search for wisdom.
I would not pretend I could be just like others:
Only evil and suffering come from that.
Renouncing, I would choose the fate of obedience.
I would supress my wolf`s eye and greedy throat.
A resident of some cloister floating in the air
With a view on the cities glowing below,
Or onto a stream, a bridge and old cedars,
I would give myself to one task only
Which then, however, could not be accomplished.
SARAJEVO
Perhaps this is not a poem but at least I say what I feel
Now that a revolution really is needed, those who once were fervent are quite cool.
While a country murdered and raped calls for help from the Europe which it had trusted, they yawn.
While statesmen choose villainy and no voice is raised to call it by name.
The rebellion of the young who called for a new earth was a sham, and that generation has written the verdict on itself,
Listening with indifference to the cries of those who perish because they are after all just barbarians killing each other
And the lives of the well-fed are worth more than the lives of the starving.
It is revealed now that their Europe since the beginning has been a deception, for its faith and its foundation is nothingness.
And nothingness, as the prophets keep saying, brings forth only nothingness, and they will be led once again like cattle to slaughter.
Let them tremble and at the last moment comprehend that the word Sarajevo will from now on mean the destruction of their sons and the debasement of their daughters.
They prepare it by repeating: "We least are safe", unaware that what will strike them ripens in themselves.
RETIRED
An old man, tapping with his cane, aware of his silence.
Which fills every corner of his body with a dense, burning lava.
And confirms the trustworthiness of the words of Jesus about a worm that does not die and fire that never goes out.
Surrounded by his children and grandchildren, he sits down in a wicker armchair on the porch of his house.
Voices of birds from the garden are for everyone, he muses, they do not care about me, neither do they know.
And I, instead of screaming and beating my head against the floor, admire the cloudless sky.
Soon that tale, never started, will pass away and I with it.
A cat sleeps in the sun, the world continues and does not need the signs of testimony.
For nothing would have resulted from tehm, except the realization that we are poor humans.
Guardians of prison trains, then prisoners ourselves, the torturers and the tortured.
Only I do not understand why I should constantly remember those things.
And accuse myself of events stronger than myself.
Longing for the thunderbolt of a stroke to liberate me from images of this earth.
An old man, serene, liked by his neighbors - he greets passersby, and envies them their innocence.
That is what they have, he muses, if they have not been submited to a test.
Published in poetry book "Facing the River" by Carcanet Press Limited. Translated by the Author and Robert Hass.
CZESŁAW MIŁOSZ was born in Szetejnie, Lithuania, in 1911, died in 2004 in Kraków. He was a poet, novelist, essayist and translator. In the 1930s he was a leader of the avantgarde poetry movement in Poland.
In 1980 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. He also won several other prestigious awards, including Guggenheim Fellowship (1976), Neustadt Prize (1978) and the National Medal for the Arts (1989). His poetry and novels has been translated into more than a dozen languages. Miłosz holds many honorary doctorates from American and Polish universities. He is a honorary citizen of Lithuania and of the city od Kraków.
Miłosz spent his youth and studied law in Vilnius, where he also published his first poems. During the German occupation he lived in Warsaw. After the II world war,
he served in the Polish diplomatic service in the USA and France until 1951, when he sought political asylum in France.
In 1960 he left France for California where he spent more than twenty years as Professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures of the University of California Berkeley.
Until 1989 most of his publications were in the Paris emigre journal "Kultura" or in the underground press in Poland.
