#czeslaw milosz
Waters
“I am haunted by waters. It may be that I’m too dry in myself, too English, or it may be simply that I’m susceptible to beauty, but I do not feel truly at ease on this earth unless there’s a river nearby. ‘When it hurts,’ wrote the Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz, ‘we return to the banks of certain rivers,’ and I take comfort in his words, for there’s a river I’ve returned to over and again, in sickness and in health, in grief, in desolation and in joy.”
—Olivia Laing, the first paragraph of To the River
(Image: “Waters” by D. B. Abacahin)
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“My Catholic upbringing implanted in me a respect for all things visible, connected by the property of esse, that calls for unceasing admiration. I think that the sign of a healthy poetry is striving to capture as much of reality as possible.”
– Czesław Miłosz
[Flower Garden - 1919 - Emil Nolde]
• The Nobel Prize in Literature 1980 was awarded to Czeslaw Milosz “who with uncompromising clear-sightedness voices man’s exposed condition in a world of severe conflicts.” More: https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1980/milosz/biographical/
• InDumont’s stunning new release, Emil Nolde: My Garden Full of Flowers, Manfred Reuther describes the existential threat that grew up around the painter in the 1930s. “More than one thousand of his works were confiscated from German museums in conjunction with the action against ‘degenerate art.’ More: https://www.artbook.com/blog-featured-image-emil-nolde-my-garden-full-of-flowers.html
• PARIS REVIEW INTERVIEW: This interview was conducted primarily at Milosz’s home in the Berkeley hills overlooking San Francisco Bay, where he lives with his wife, Carol, and a cat named Tiny. Other portions were recorded before a live audience at the Unterberg Poetry Center of the 92nd Street YMHA in New York. The first part of the conversation in Berkeley lasted four hours without interruption, until the poet looked at his watch and then, somewhat sympathetically, at his exhausted interlocutor to ask, “It is six o’clock, time for a little vodka?” https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1721/the-art-of-poetry-no-70-czeslaw-milosz
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- 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.
(Translation by the author & Robert Hass)
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.
Warsaw, 1944
- Czeslaw Milosz
Ashe Vernon said, “You are a language I am no longer fluent in but still remember how to read.” and Anne Sexton said, “I like you; your eyes are full of language.” and Salma Deera said, “My love translated sounds like a dead language.” and Czesław Miłosz said, “Language is the only homeland.” and Alice Notely said, “I can’t translate myself into language anymore.” and Hishaam Siddiqi said “One day I woke up and we no longer spoke the same language. I haven’t heard from you since.” and Jane Austen said, “and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.” and Henry James said, “She is written in a foreign tongue.” and I am in awe of language.
“The bright side of the planet moves toward darkness / And the cities are falling asleep, each in its hour, / And for me, now as then, it is too much. / There is too much world.”—Czesław Miłosz, The Separate Notebooks
Czesław Miłosz, from “Hymn” (tr. Czesław Miłosz), New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001
[Text ID: “and we were alike:
apples, scissors, darkness, and I
under the same immobile
Assyrian, Egyptian, and Roman
moon.”]
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