Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998), Polish poet, essayist, playwright. Born in 1924 in Lviv (now part of Ukraine) in eastern Poland, he moved to Krakow in 1944. He studied economics, law and philosophy in Krakow and Warsaw. In 1956, after the "thaw" in Poland, he published a collection of poems, "The Harmony of Light", which immediately brought him great fame. He then began to write essays and plays at the same time, publishing Hermes, the Dog and the Stars (a collection of essays, 1957) and A Study of Objects (a collection of poems, 1961). Published in 1964, his collection of essays, The Savage in the Garden, was quickly translated into many languages and gained international influence. In 1968, Miłosz translated Herbert's poems into English, and Herbert quickly became the most popular contemporary poet in English-speaking countries. From 1986 to 1992, he lived in Paris, France. Report from a Besieged City was published in 1984. In 2008, Poland was designated as the "Year of Zbigniew Herbert". He died in Warsaw in 1998 after years of battling illness.
Our fears
Translated by Cui Weiping.
Our fears
I don't wear a shirt for the night.
Does not possess the eyes of an owl.
It's not about lifting the lid of a coffin.
Or extinguish a burning candle.
It doesn't even have the face of a deceased
Our fears
It was found in the pocket.
A sentence written on paper.
Remind Vuchik.
The old place on Delaugar Street is in danger"
Our fears
And does not rise from the wings of a hurricane.
And it doesn't stop falling on the spire of a church.
It's in reality.
It has. The form which I made in a hurry.
Wear clothing with body temperature.
Carrying rations. And**.
Our fears
Does not possess the face of a deceased.
The dead are gentle to us.
We carry them on our shoulders.
Wrapped under the same blanket.
Close their eyes
Straighten their lips.
Dig a dry pit.
Bury them.
Don't go too deep. Not too shallow, either.
I want to describe
Translated by Cui Weiping.
I want to describe the most concise emotion.
Joy or sorrow.
It's not like what other people do.
Lightning that catches the sun or rain.
I want to describe a beam of light.
It was born within me.
But I know it.
Not like any starlight.
Because it's not that bright.
It's so pure. It's not certain.
I want to describe courage
And not a single dusty lion dragged behind him.
I want to describe the restlessness.
Instead of shaking a bosom full of water.
In another way.
I would like to use all the metaphors.
Swap back a word.
It came out of my chest like a rib.
Swap back that word.
It's curbed in my **.
within the boundaries. But though it's impossible.
I love it.
I ran around like crazy.
Pick up bird feathers.
And my gentleness.
It's not made of water at all.
but asked for a face from the water.
And anger. It is different from flames.
Just borrowed the flames.
A chirping tone
So vague. So vague.
Inside me. There is a gentleman who is quite good at maintenance.
The ones that are forever forsaken.
And said. This is the subject.
This is the object. We lay down and fell asleep.
One hand is pressed under the head.
The other hand reached out into a pile of planets.
Our feet have forsaken us.
with their tiny root tendons.
Experience the earth.
In the next morning.
We pull it out painfully.
Sound
Translated by Cui Weiping.
I walked on the beach
Look for that sound
Between the breath of one wave and another
But there was no sound here
Only the ancient rap of water
But it's not funny The wings of a white bird
Dry on a stone
I walked towards the forest
There it is kept
The faint sound of a huge hourglass
The leaves are screened with humus
The humus is screened into leaves
Powerful mouths of insects
Eat up all the silence of the earth
I walked towards the field
Large expanses of green and yellow
Stuck to the legs of the little creatures
Singing in every touch with the wind
In the endless monologue of the earth
If there is a pause at some point
That's the kind of sound it is
It must be clear and loud
Nothing but whispering
The light slapping increases suddenly
I went home
My experience is presented
The shape of the dilemma
Either the world is dumb
Or I'm deaf myself
But maybe we're both
Doomed to be in distress
Therefore we must
Hand in hand continues aimlessly
Towards the dull throat
Rise from there
A slurred sound
Percussioner
Translated by Cui Weiping.
Some people on their heads.
There is a garden in full bloom.
Trails are pulled out of the hair.
The gateway to the city is full of sunshine and white.
For these people.
They close their eyes.
Imagine the waterfall in an instant.
Running down their foreheads.
My imagination. It's a plank.
My only tool.
It's a branch.
I tapped the plank.
It responds to me. Yes - No.
Yes - No. Others there are green bells of trees.
The blue bell of the water.
I have a percussionist.
From an unattended garden.
I pounded the plank.
It egged me on. With moralist dry verses.
Yes - No. Yes - No.
So says Procluste
Translated by Cui Weiping.
My mobile kingdom is between Athens and Megara
There I ruled alone over the forests, ravines, and cliffs
There is no king's scepter, and the old man's counsel is only a stick
Just dressed in the garb of a wolf
I also have no subjects
If anything, they don't live longer than the dawn
Mythologists mistakenly call me a robber
Actually, I was just a scholar and reformer
My true passion lies in anthropometry
I made a bed out of the size of a perfect person
I used this bed to measure the passers-by who were caught
I had to—I admit—stretch—some arms and amputations
Some of the leg patients who received ** died the more they died
The more convinced I was of the legitimacy of my research
Therefore, so-called progress cannot be without victims
I aspire to remove the distinction between tall and dwarf
I want to give a variety of unpleasant human beings a single specification
I did everything I could to keep people in order
My head was cut off by Theseus, the ** who killed the innocent Notaunos
He escaped from the labyrinth using a woman's ball of thread
A smart man without principles and prospects
I have a tangible hope that someone will continue my work
Carry on this wonderful business that has just started to the end.
The power of taste
To Professor Izdora Damberska.
Translated by Li Yiliang
It doesn't need to be a great quality.
Our rejection, discord and rejection.
We had a little bit of courage.
But the core of the problem is nothing more than taste.
Yes, taste.
In it lies the fiber of the soul, the soft underbelly of conscience.
I don't know if we can do it better and more attractively.
To the women who are as slender as shortbread.
Or send roses to the lovely creatures of Hieronymus Bohi.
But hell, how can there be a damp cellar ** people's path at this moment.
The barracks known as the Temple of Justice.
A native Mephista was dressed in Lenin's suit.
Drive Aurora's grandchildren into the fields.
The boy had a potato-like face.
The ugly girl's hands were red from the cold.
All their renderings are nothing more than cheap burlap.
Marcus Tulius kept turning over in the grave).
The concept of synonymous chains in pairs is like a flail.
The butcher's dialectic is devoid of rationality.
Their sentence structure loses the beauty of subjectivity.
So aesthetics helps a lot in life.
One should not neglect the study of beauty.
We must look at it carefully before giving our consent.
The shape of the building, the rhythm of the drums and brass winds.
Regular color contemptible funeral.
Our eyes and ears refuse to obey.
Our Prince of the Senses proudly chose exile.
It doesn't need to be a great quality.
We just need a little courage that is necessary.
In fact, it's just a matter of taste.
Yes, taste.
It commanded us to walk away, grimacing and throwing a sneer.
Even if only for this, our precious capital - the head. Must fall.
Translation: Hieronymus Bosch (1450-1516) was a Dutch painter of the 15th and 16th centuries. Most of his paintings depict sin and the sinking of human morality, the pictures are complex, highly original, imaginative, and use a lot of symbols and symbols, which are obscure, and are considered to be one of the inspirations of surrealism in the 20th century.
Rain
Translated by Li Yiliang
When my brother came back from the battlefield.
He had a small silver star on his head.
And under this little star.
A deep hole.
A fragment of a shotgun hit him, in Verdun.
Or Gruward.
He doesn't remember exactly)
He used to like to talk about many things in multiple languages.
But what he likes most is the language of history.
Until you run out of breath.
He still commanded his dead companion to run.
Roland, Kowalski, Hannibel.
He shouted loudly.
Say that this is the last attack of the crusaders.
Kasaki was soon to fall.
Then he began to sob and confess.
Napoleon would not have liked him.
We watched as his face grew pale.
Unconscious. He slowly turned into a monument.
Turned into a pair of ear shells that are proficient in **.
Enter a stone forest.
And the ** on his face.
Take care of his blind, dry, eyeballs in his eyes.
Nothing was left but his caressing.
His hands caressed me, what kind of stories he told.
On his right hand, he speaks of romance.
In the left hand, the memory of the soldier.
They took my brother and took him out of the city.
Every fall, he returns.
Tall and thin, so calm
He didn't ask to come in)
He knocked on the window and told me to come over.
We strolled the streets together.
He told me legends that weren't necessarily true
Caressing my face with his blind rain fingers
Mourning
In memory of my mother
Translated by Li Yiliang
Now, above her head, there are plant roots, brown clouds.
Delicate lilies in the salt water, tiny grains of sand in the temple.
And she set sail in a water bottle, through the foamy nebula
A mile away is where the river turns.
Visible – Invisible, like light on a wave.
Really, she was no different - just as abandoned as we were
Pebbles
Translated by Li Yiliang
PebblesIt's a perfect creation.
equal to itself.
Be mindful of its limitations.
Exactly filled.
Pebble meaning.
The aroma does not remind of anything.
Doesn't scare anything away, doesn't stir up desire.
It smells and cold.
Just and full of dignity.
When I was holding it.
I felt deep remorse.
It has a noble body.
Infiltrated by a false warmth.
Pebbles will not be tamed.
Until the end, they all have calm, clear eyes.
Take a look at us
Mr. Cogito's Abyss
Translated by Li Yiliang
It's always safe to be at home.
But as long as Mr. Cojito.
Cross the threshold. Take an early morning walk.
And he met the abyss.
This is not Pascal's abyss.
This is not Dostoevsky's abyss.
Here's one. In line with Mr. Cojito's abyss.
Unfathomable days.
A day of fear.
It follows like a shadow.
It waits in front of the bakery.
In the park it stands.
Mr. Cogito reads the newspaper behind him.
As tiresome as eczema.
Be considerate like a dog.
It's too shallow and too shallow to take a bite.
Engulfed his arms and legs.
Maybe one day.
The abyss will widen.
The abyss will ripen.
It becomes severe. He really wanted to figure it out.
What kind of water does it drink.
What rice to give it.
Right now. Mr. Cogito.
Could have picked it up. A few handfuls of sand.
Fill it up. But he didn't.
So when he. Back home.
He put the abyss. Stay outside the threshold.
With an old cloth, calmly.
Overwrite it. Report from a besieged city
Translated by Li Yiliang
Too old to pick up a ** fight like everyone else.
They kindly assigned me the light role of a chronicler.
I—I don't know for whom—recorded the history of the siege.
I have to be accurate, but I don't know when the aggression began.
Two hundred years ago, it was November, and autumn may have been in the early hours of yesterday morning.
Everyone here is losing their sense of time.
All we have left is this place and something connected to it.
We still have some ruins of temples, ghosts of gardens.
If we lose even these ruins, we will have nothing.
I keep a record of the order of these unfinished weeks.
Monday: Empty of stock rats becomes the only currency.
Tuesday: The mayor is killed by an unknown assassin.
Wednesday: Armistice negotiations the enemy has detained our envoy.
We don't know where they are being detained now, in other words, in ** being punished.
Thursday: After a heated meeting, a majority voted in favor of the spice merchants' motion for conditional surrender.
Friday: The plague broke out on Saturday, and the staunchest combatant, n, committed suicide on Sunday when the water broke off and we repulsed.
Coming from the East Gate is also coming from the enemy known as the "Alliance Gate".
I know it's all monotonous and no one really cares.
Avoid talking about it, try to control my feelings, and describe the facts.
They say that only facts are valuable in foreign markets.
But out of a certain sense of pride, I would like to send a message to the world.
Thanks to the war, we have raised a new generation of human races.
Our children no longer like fairy tales, they play killing games.
Day after day they dream of soap, bread and bones.
Same with dogs and cats.
Every night I like to sneak to the edge of the city.
Along the boundaries of our uncertain freedom.
Looking down from above, they were outnumbered by the lights.
I listened to the noise of their snare drums and the rough screams.
It's hard to believe that the city is still resisting.
It has been a long time since the siege of the city, and the enemy must have changed stubble after stubble, and they have nothing in common except the desire to destroy us.
Goths, Tatars, Swedes, garrisons of the emperor, salvation army of our lord.
Who can count them.
The colors of the flags change like a forest on the horizon.
From the delicate yellow of Toba spring to green to red.
It is dark to winter.
This can be done without being bound by the record at night.
I think about things from the past, like ours.
Overseas Alliance: I know that they have experienced real sympathy.
They brought us comforting advice in bags of flour and lard.
Not at all aware that we were betrayed by their parents.
Our former alliance has been since the second age of Apocaripps, and their children and grandchildren are not guilty, they deserve our gratitude, so we are grateful.
They have never experienced an endless siege.
Now when I write these words, supporters of compromise.
A slight advantage over the desperate resistance has been won.
A common emotional shift, our fate still hangs in the balance.
The cemetery is expanding, and the number of resisters is shrinking.
But the resistance continues and will last until the end.
Even if the city falls and only one of us survives.
He will also carry the entire city in his body and embark on the path of exile.
He will be the city.
We look at the hungry face, the flame face, the death face.
And the worst of them all - the perfidious face.
And only our dreams are not humiliated.
Fortinbras's elegy
for Cm and made
Translated by Su Wei. Now there is no one else, and you and I can finally talk to my prince
Even though you're just lying on the stone steps, there's nothing else in the eyes of a dead ant
Only the black sun with its broken rays
Every time I think of your hands, it's all about laughter
And now they are spread out on the stones like a nest that has fallen
Defenseless, as always, and that's the end result
The hands are stretched across the two places, the sword is broken in half, and the head is also in different places
And the knight was wearing soft slippers on his feet
You will have a soldier's funeral, even though you never became a soldier
It's the only ritual I'm somewhat familiar with
There will be no candles, no chanting, only cannon guides and explosions
Ribbons dragged along the road, as well as helmets, boots, artillery, horses, and drums and more
I don't know anything about those delicate things
And these will be rehearsals before starting to rule the country
For this, I also had to choke the city by the neck and shake it a few times
Either way, you can only die, Hamlet, you are not born to live
You believe in crystal ideas and not in the human flesh
You're always twitching, as if you're catching imaginary monsters in your sleep
You devour the air greedily only to vomit again
You don't know everything you need to know about human beings, and you don't even know how to breathe
Now that you have rested in peace Hamlet, you have completed the task you have to complete
You have rested, and what is left is not dead silence, but everything that belongs to me
You choose the easier part with an elegant stab
But compared to the eternal look down, this heroic death is nothing
Compared to the cold apple in the hand above the throne
Compared to the crowd and the dial of the clock, this death is nothing
Goodbye, my prince, I have tasks on my shoulders, such as sewer works
And the prostitutes and beggars will be rewarded
I also have to improve the prison system
Because, as you said, Denmark is a prison
I'm going to take care of my business, and tonight will be born
A star called Hamlet, and we'll never meet again
What will be left behind me will not be worthy of a tragedy
You and I don't need to greet each other or say goodbye, because we live there
These islands and oceans, these words, what can they do, what they can
What did my prince do
The Governor returns
Translated by Su Wei. I have decided to return to the court of that emperor
Again, let's see if there's a chance you'll be there
I could have stayed in this remote province
Leave the broad and luscious leaves of this plane tree
and those cronyistic chiefs under the morbid and moderate rule
When I go back, I'm not going to boast about myself
I'll give myself some thumbs up, but I know it's a good point
They also smile or frown, but they also know how to be cautious
So that they don't shackle me in gold
This iron one is enough
I've decided to go back tomorrow or the day after tomorrow
I can't survive in the vineyard, and nothing belongs to me here
Trees have no roots, houses have no foundations, and rainwater here is the rain
Lifeless flowers smell of wax
Dry clouds will always fill the empty sky again
So I'm going back anyway, I'm going back, just tomorrow
Or the day after tomorrow, I'll have to put up with my face again
Endure my lower lip so it knows how to hold back its contempt
Put up with my eyes so they can stay so empty
And endure my miserable cheeks, which are like a hare
Always trembling when the captain of the guard walked in
The only thing I'm sure of is that I won't drink with him
As he approached with a goblet in hand, I lowered my gaze
Pretending to be picking at the bits and pieces that are stuffed between your teeth
In addition, the emperor likes people who have the courage to express their opinions
To some extent, of course, and to some reasonable extent
After all, like everyone else, he is an ordinary person
He was already tired of all those poisoned plots
The endless game of not being able to drink the wine in the cup
The cup on the left is for one of Drusus' to pretend to start sipping from the one on the right
Then drink only water and never lose guard against Tacitus
They had gone out into the garden and had taken them with them when they returned
The corpse I have decided to return to the emperor's court
Yes, I hope it all falls out in the end
As seen from the top of the staircase
I have to forget about two translations.
Of course. Those who stand at the top of the stairs.
They know. They know everything.
We're different.
Square cleaner.
Hostage for a bright future.
And the people at the top of the stairs.
Rarely in front of us.
Always put a finger in front of our mouth to shut us down.
We were patient.
Our wives mend the shirts they wear for the week.
We talk about food rationing.
Football and shoe prices.
On Saturday we looked up.
Drinking. We're not those people.
Doesn't clench your fists.
Wave the chains. Talking.
Ask feverishly.
Instigation of rebellion. Endless chatter and questions.
Their fairy tales are like this-
We will rush to the stairs.
Grab like a storm.
Those who stand at the top of the stairs.
Their heads were rolling.
And eventually we're going to stare at it.
Everything you can see from a height.
Look to the future. Look at the emptiness.
We don't want to see it.
The sight of a human head rolling.
We understand that it's easy for a human head to grow back.
And there are always people at the top of the stairs who slip through the net.
One or three.
But the bottom is always a black pressed broom and shovel.
Sometimes we dream.
Those at the top of the stairs.
Walk down. That is, coming towards us.
While we were munching bread and reading the newspaper.
They said. - Now let's talk.
Man to man.
The babble on the poster is not true.
It is the truth in our clenched teeth.
The truth is brutal, a little too heavy.
So we bear the burden alone.
We are not happy.
And we're willing to do it without complaint.
Stay here. These are, of course, just dreams.
They are possible.
Or maybe not.
So we will.
Keep up the good work. Our dirty square.
Stone Square. Our heads fluttered.
A cigarette behind his ear.
There is not a drop of hope in my heart.
Chords
Translated by Xia Chao. The birds flew away.
The shadow remains in the nest.
So leave the lights.
Musical instruments and books. Let's go climb the mountain.
There the air grows.
I will point out. The vanishing star.
Tender roots.
Buried by turf.
The source of the clouds. Rise purely.
The wind lends its mouth.
We can sing.
We frowned. Not a word.
Clouds with light wheels.
Like a saint. We have black pebbles.
The eyes should be there.
Faithful memory**.
Loss of the wounds left behind.
The light will come.
Behind our bends.
I say to you with the utmost certainty.
We and the light. between.
The abyss is so great.
Biology teacher
Translated by Xia Chao. I can't remember.
His face. He's a lot taller than me.
Long leg stretch. I see.
A gold chain. A gray vest.
A thin neck.
A dead bowtie butterfly.
Nail it to it. He showed us for the first time.
The leg of a dead frog.
Prick with a needle. It shrinks violently.
He took us. Through a binocular microscope.
* Our ancestors.
Paramecium. Private life.
He brought. A grain of rye.
Say: Ergot disease.
At his insistence.
At the age of ten. I became a father.
After a nervous wait.
When the chestnuts sink to the bottom.
Yellow buds are emitted. Everything around.
Singing. The second year of the war.
Our biology teacher.
Killed by the ** of the Historical Stadium.
If he goes to heaven-
Maybe now he's along the way.
Long light walks.
Wear grey stockings.
Carry a huge net.
Clamping a large box.
Hit happily.
But if he didn't
Once on the road in the summer.
I saw a beetle.
Hard climb on the sand.
I stepped forward. Take a bow.
Then he said: — Hello sir.
Allow me to help you-
I carefully moved over him.
Watch him go away. Until he disappears.
In his dimly lit office.
At the end of the leafy boulevard.
Rose-colored ears
Translated by Xia Chao. I thought.
I know her well.
We have lived together for so many years.
I'm familiar with it. Her bird-like head.
White arms.
and abdomen. Until one time.
One winter night.
She sat next to me.
Behind us.
In the pouring lights.
I saw a rose-colored ear.
A lovely **.
in the auricle. Blood is flowing.
I didn't say anything at the time.
Can write a song about.
How good a poem with a rose-colored ear could be.
But don't write so that people say.
He chose such a title.
He wanted to play tricks.
Write so that no one even laughs.
Write so they can understand that I'm going public.
A secret. I didn't say anything at the time.
But that night we were in bed together.
I tried it gently.
A rose-colored ear.
Strange taste.
Repayment
Translated by Xia Chao. What can I do with you in the end - pay it back.
Repay the birds, repay the people, repay the stones.
You should sleep in the palms of your hands and deep in your eyes.
That is your home, and may no one wake you up.
You destroy everything, and you turn everything upside down.
You reduce tragedy to romance.
You will think about the flight of the treble.
It turns into sobbing and exclamation into moaning.
The description is because your character is.
Sitting in the darkness of the cold, empty auditorium.
Sit alone when reason chatters.
Fog streamed down the marble eyes.