bound tight to a tree 
meticulously stripped of his skin 
Marsyas
howls
before the howl reaches his tall ears 
he reposes in the shadow of that howl

shaken by a shudder of disgust 
Apollo is cleaning his instrument

only seemingly 
is the voice of Marsyas 
monotonous
and composed of a single-vowel 
Aaa

in reality 
Marsyas relates 
the inexhaustible 
wealth of his body

bald mountains of liver 
white ravines of aliment 
rustling forests of lung 
sweet hillocks of muscle 
joints bile blood and shudders 
the wintry wind of bone 
over the salt of memory 

shaken by a shudder of disgust 
Apollo is cleaning his instrument

now to the chorus
is joined the backbone of Marsyas 
in principle the same A 
only deeper with the addition of rust

this is already beyond the endurance 
of the god with nerves of artificial fibre

along a gravel path 
hedged with box 
the victor departs 
wondering
whether out of Marsyas' howling 
there will not some day arise 
a new kind
of art - let us say - concrete

suddenly 
at his feet 
falls a petrified nightingale

he looks back and sees
that the hair of the tree to which Marsyas was fastened
is white 

completely

At the Gate of the Valley

After the rain of stars 
on the meadow of ashes
they all have gathered under the guard of angels

from a hill that survived 
the eye embraces 
the whole lowing two-legged herd

in truth they are not many 
counting even those who will come
from chronicles fables and the lives of the saints

but enough of these remarks 
let us lift our eyes 
to the throat of the valley 
from which comes a shout

after a loud whisper of explosion 
after a loud whisper of silence 
this voice resounds like a spring of living water 

it is we are told
a cry of mothers from whom children are taken 
since as it turns out
we shall be saved each one alone

the guardian angels are unmoved 
and let us grant they have a hard job

she begs
- hide me in your eye
in the palm of your hand in your arms 
we have always been together
you can't abandon me 
now when I am dead and need tenderness

a higher ranking angel 
with a smile explains the misunderstanding

an old woman carries 
the corpse of a canary 
(all the animals died a little earlier) 
he was so nice - she says weeping - 
he understood everything 
and when I said to him 
her voice is lost in the general noise

even a lumberjack
whom one would never suspect of such things 
an old bowed fellow
catches to his breast an axe
- all my life she was mine 
she will be mine here too 
she nourished me there
she will nourish me here
nobody has the right
- he says -
I won't give her up

those who as it seems
have obeyed the orders without pain 
go lowering their heads as a sign of consent 
but in their clenched fists they hide 
fragments of letters ribbons clippings of hair 
and photographs
which they naively think 
won't be taken from them

so they appear 
a moment before 
the final division
of those gnashing their teeth 
from those singing psalms

Jonah

"Now the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah"

Jonah son of Amittai 
running away from a dangerous mission 
boarded a ship sailing
from Joppa to Tarshish
the well-known things happened 
great wind tempest
the crew casts Jonah forth 
into the deep 
the sea ceases 
from her raging the foreseen fish 
comes swimming up 
three days and three nights 
Jonah prays in the fish's belly 
which vomits him out at last on dry land

the modern Jonah goes down like a stone 
if he comes across a whale 
he hasn't time even to gasp

saved
he behaves more cleverly 
than his biblical colleague 
the second time he does not take on 
a dangerous mission
he grows a beard and 
far from the sea 
far from Nineveh 
under an assumed name 
deals in cattle and antiques 
agents of Leviathan can be bought 
they have no sense of fate 
they are the functionaries of chance
in a neat hospital 
Jonah dies of cancer 
himself not knowing very well 
who he really was

the parable applied to his head expires
and the balm of the legend does not take to his flesh

The Return of the Proconsul

I've decided to return to the emperor's court 
once more I shall see if it's possible to live there 
I could stay here in this remote province 
under the full sweet leaves of the sycamore 
and the gentle rule of sickly nepotists

when I return I don't intend to commend myself 
I shall applaud in measured portions
smile in ounces frown discreetly 
for that they will not give me a golden chain 
this iron one will suffice

I've decided to return tomorrow or the day after 
I cannot live among vineyards nothing here is mine 
trees have no roots houses no foundations the rain is glassy flowers smell of wax 
a dry cloud rattles against the empty sky
so I shall return tomorrow or the day after in any case I shall return

I must come to terms with my face again 
with my lower lip so it knows how to curb scorn 
with my eyes so they remain ideally empty 
and with that miserable chin the hare of my face 
which trembles when the chief of guards walks in

of one thing I am sure I will not drink wine with him 
when he brings his goblet nearer I will lower my eyes 
and pretend I'm picking bits of food from between my teeth
besides the emperor likes courage of convictions 
to a certain extent to a certain reasonable extent 
he is after all a man like everyone else 
and already tired by all those tricks with poison 
he cannot drink his fill incessant chess
this left cup is for Drusus from the right one pretend to sip
then drink only water never lose sight of Tacitus 
take a walk in the garden and return when the corpse has
been removed

I've decided to return to the emperor's court yes I hope that things will work out somehow

A Halt

We halted in a town the host
ordered the table to be moved to the garden the first star shone out and faded we were breaking bread crickets were heard in the evening weeds
a cry but a cry of a child otherwise the bustle of insects of men a thick scent of earth those who were sitting with their backs to the wall saw the gallows hill now a violet hill
on the wall the dense ivy of executions .

we were eating a lot
as is usual when no one must pay

The Divine Claudius

It was said
I was begotten by Nature 
but unfinished 
like an abandoned sculpture 
a sketch
the damaged fragment of a poem

for years I played the half-wit 
idiots live more safely 
I calmly put up with insults 
if I planted all the pits 
thrown into my face an olive grove would spring up 
a vast oasis of palms

I received a many-sided education
Livy the rhetoricians philosophers
I spoke Greek like an Athenian
although Plato I recalled
only in the lying position

I completed my studies 
in dockside taverns and brothels
those unwritten dictionaries of vulgar Latin 
bottomless treasuries of crime and lust

after the murder of Caligula 
I hid behind a curtain 
they dragged me out by force
I didn't manage to adopt an intelligent expression 
when they threw at my feet the world 
ridiculous and flat

from then on I became the most diligent 
emperor in universal history
a Hercules of bureaucracy 
I recall with pride my liberal law 
giving permission to let out 
sounds of the belly during feasts

I deny the charge of cruelty often made against me 
in reality I was only absentminded
on the day of Messalina's violent murder--
the poor thing was killed I admit on my orders--
I asked during the banquet--Why hasn't Madame come 
a deathly silence answered me
really I forgot

sometimes it would happen I invited
the dead to a game of dice
I punished failure to attend with a fine
overburdened by so many labors
I might have made mistakes in details

it seems

I ordered thirty-five senators 
and the cavalrymen of some three centurions 
to be executed
well what of it 
a bit less purple 
fewer gold rings
on the other hand--
and this isn't a trifle--
more room in the theater

no one wanted to understand 
that the goal of these operations was sublime 
I longed to make death familiar to people 
to dull its edge
bring it down to the banal everyday dimension 
of a slight depression or runny nose

and here is the proof 
of my delicacy of feeling
I removed the statue of gentle Augustus 
from the square of executions 
so the sensitive marble 
wouldn't hear the roars of the condemned

my nights were devoted to study
I wrote the history of the Etruscans
a history of Carthage
a bagatelle about Saturn
a contribution to the theory of games
and a treatise on the venom of serpents

it was I who saved Ostia 
from the invasion of sand 
I drained swamps 
built aqueducts 
since then it has become easier in Rome 
to wash away blood

I expanded the frontiers of the empire 
by Brittany Mauretania
and if I recall correctly Thrace

my death was caused by my wife Agrippina 
and an uncontrollable passion for boletus
mushrooms--the essence of the forest--became the essence of death

descendants--remember with proper respect and honor 
at least one merit of the divine Claudius
I added new signs and sounds to our alphabet 
expanded the limits of speech that is the limits of freedom

the letters I discovered--beloved daughters--Digamma and Antisigma 
led my shadow
as I pursued the path with tottering steps to the dark land of Orkus

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz

Damastes (Also Known as Procrustes) Speaks

My movable empire between Athens and Megara 
I ruled alone over forests ravines precipices
without the advice of old men foolish insignia with a simple club 
dressed only in the shadow of a wolf
and terror caused by the sound of the word Damastes

I lacked subjects that is I had them briefly 
they didn't live as long as dawn however it is slander 
to say I was a bandit as the falsifiers of history claim

in reality I was a scholar and social reformer 
my real passion was anthropometry

I invented a bed with the measurements of a perfect man 
I compared the travelers I caught with this bed 
it was hard to avoid--I admit--stretching limbs cutting legs
the patients died but the more there were who perished 
the more I was certain my research was right
the goal was noble progress demands victims

I longed to abolish the difference between the high and the low
I wanted to give a single form to disgustingly varied humanity
I never stopped in my efforts to make people equal

my life was taken by Theseus the murderer of the innocent Minotaur 
the one who went through the labyrinth with a woman's ball of yarn 
an impostor full of tricks without principles or a vision of the future

I have the well-grounded hope others will continue my labor
and bring the task so boldly begun to its end

Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter

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.

The End of a Dynasty

The whole royal family was living in one room at that time. Outside the windows was a wall, and under the wall, a dump. There, rats used to bite cats to death. This was not seen. The windows had been painted over with lime.

When the executioners came, they found an everyday scene.
His Majesty was improving the regulations of the Holy Trinity regiment, the occultist Philippe was trying to soothe the Queen's nerves by suggestion, the Crown Prince, rolled into a ball, was sleeping in an armchair, and the Grand (and skinny) Duchesses were singing pious songs and mending linen.

As for the valet, he stood against a partition and tried to imitate the tapestry.

The Emperor's Dream

A crevice! shouts the Emperor in his sleep, and the canopy of ostrich plumes trembles. The soldiers who pace the corridors with unsheathed swords believe the Emperor dreams about a siege. Just now he saw a fissure in the wall and wants them to break into the fortress.

In fact the Emperor is now a woodlouse who scurries across the floor, seeking remnants of food. Suddenly he sees overhead an immense foot about to crush him. The Emperor hunts for a crevice in which to squeeze. The floor is smooth and slippery.

Yes. Nothing is more ordinary than the dreams of Emperors.

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz

Transformations of Livy

How did they understand Livy my grandfather my great grandfather 
certainly they read him in high school
at the not very propitious time of the year
when a chestnut stands in the window--fervent candelabras of blooms--
all the thoughts of grandfather and great grandfather running breathless to Mizia
who sings in the garden shows her decolletage also her heavenly legs up to the knees
or Gabi from the Vienna opera with ringlets like a cherub Gabi with a snub nose and Mozart in her throat 
or in the end to kindhearted Jozia refuge of the dejected
with no beauty talent or great demands
and so they read Livy--O season of blossoms--
in the smell of chalk boredom naphthalene for cleaning the floor 
under a portrait of the emperor
because at that time there was an emperor 
and the empire like all empires 
seemed eternal

Reading the history of the City they surrendered to the illusion 
that they are Romans or descendants of the Romans 
these sons of the conquered themselves enslaved 
surely the Latin master contributed to this
with his rank of Court Councillor
a collection of antique virtues under a worn-out frock coat
so following Livy he implanted in his pupils the contempt for the mob 
the revolt of the people--res tam foede--aroused loathing in them 
whereas all of the conquests appeared just
they showed simply the victory of what is better stronger
that is why they were pained by the defeat at Lake Trasimeno 
the superiority of Scipio filled them with pride
they learned of the death of Hannibal with genuine relief
easily too easily they let themselves be led 
through the entrenchments of subordinate clauses 
complex constructions governed by the gerund 
rivers swollen with elocution
pitfalls of syntax
--to battle
for a cause not theirs

Only my father and myself after him 
read Livy against Livy
carefully examining what is underneath the fresco
this is why the theatrical gesture of Scaevola awoke no echo in us 
shouts of centurions triumphal marches
while we were willing to be moved by the defeat 
of the Samnites Gauls or Etruscans
we counted many of the names of peoples turned to dust by the Romans 
buried without glory who for Livy
were not worth even a wrinkle of style 
those Hirpins Apulians Lucanians Osunans 
also the inhabitants of Tarentum Metapontum Locri

My father knew well and I also know 
that one day on a remote boundary 
without any signs in heaven in Pannonia Sarajevo or Trebizond 
in a city by a cold sea
or in a valley of Panshir 
a local conflagration will explode

and the empire will fall

Rovigo

Rovigo station. Unclear associations. A drama of Goethe 
or something from Byron. I traveled through Rovigo 
n times and exactly at the nth time I understood 
that in my inner geography it is a special 
place although it certainly yields 
to Florence. I never touched it with my living foot 
and Rovigo was always approaching or fleeing behind

At the time I was filled with love for the Altichiera 
at the Oratory of San Giorgio in Padua and for Ferrara 
which I loved because it reminded me 
of the pillaged city of my fathers. I lived stretched 
between the past and the present moment 
many times crucified by a place and a time

And yet happy firmly trusting 
the sacrifice will not be wasted

Rovigo wasn't distinguished by anything particular it was 
a masterpiece of mediocrity straight streets plain houses
only before or after the city (depending on the train's direction) 
a mountain suddenly rose from the plain - sliced open by a red quarry 
like an Easter Ham surrounded by kale 
besides that nothing to amuse sadden dazzle the eye

And yet it was a city of blood and stone - just like the others
a city in which yesterday somebody died someone went mad
someone coughed hopelessly throughout the night

ACCOMPANIED BY WHICH BELLS DO YOU APPEAR ROVIGO

Reduced to a station to a comma a crossed letter 
nothing but a station - arrivi - partenze 
and why do I think about you   Rovigo   Rovigo

The Head

Theseus strides across an ocean 
of blood-stained columns leaves at the time of renewal 
he carries in his clenched fist a trophy 
the lopped-off head of the Minotaur

The bitterness of the victory A cry of an owl 
marks off dawn with a coppery measure 
so that he feels sweet defeat to the end of his life 
warm breath on the nape of the neck

Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter