does not have a dead man's face either

our fear
is a scrap of paper found in a pocket 

"warn Wojcik the place on Dluga Street is hot"
our fear
does not rise on the wings of the tempest 
does not sit on a church tower it is down-to-earth

it has the shape of a bundle made in haste 
with warm clothing provisions
and arms

our fear
does not have the face of a dead man 
the dead are gentle to us 
we carry them on our shoulders 
sleep under the same blanket 
close their eyes
adjust their lips 
pick a dry spot 
and bury them

not too deep 
not too shallow

The Rain

When my older brother came back from war
he had on his forehead a little silver star 
and under the star
an abyss
a splinter of shrapnel hit him at Verdun 
or perhaps at Grunwald 
(he'd forgotten the details)

he used to talk much in many languages 
but he liked most of all the language of history

until losing breath
he commanded his dead pals to run 
Roland Kowalski Hannibal

he shouted
that this was the last crusade 
that Carthage soon would fall 
and then sobbing confessed 
that Napoleon did not like him

we looked at him getting paler and paler 
abandoned by his senses 
he turned slowly into a monument

into musical shells of ears 
entered a stone forest 
and the skin of his face 
was secured with the blind dry buttons of eyes
nothing was left him but touch

what stories he told with his hands
in the right he had romances 
in the left soldier's memories

they took my brother and carried him out of town 
he returns every fall 
slim and very quiet 
(he does not want to come in) 
he knocks at the window for me

we walk together in the streets 
and he recites to me improbable tales 
touching my face with blind fingers of rain

A Naked Town

On the plain 
that town 
flat like an iron sheet 
with mutilated hand of its cathedral 
a pointing claw 
with pavements the colour of intestines 
houses stripped
of their skin

the town 
beneath a yellow wave of sun 
a chalky wave of moon
o town 
what a town 
tell me 
what's the name of that town
under what star 
on what road

about people: 
they work at the slaughter-house 
in an immense building
of raw concrete blocks 
around them 
the odour of blood 
and the penitential psalm of animals 
Are there poets there
(silent poets)
there are troops 
a big rattle of barracks 
on the outskirts 
on Sunday 
beyond the bridge 
in prickly bushes on cold
sand 
on rusty grass 
girls receive soldiers
there are as well some places 
dedicated to dreams 
The cinema
with a white wall 
on which splash the shadows of the absent
little halls 
where alcohol is poured into glass 
thin and thick
there are also dogs at last 
hungry dogs that howl 
and in that fashion indicate 
the borders of the town 

Amen

so you still ask 
what's the name of that town 
which deserves biting anger 
where is that town 
on the cords of what winds 
beneath what column of air 
and who lives there 
people with the same skin as ours 
or people with our faces or

Report from a Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and to fight like others-
they generously assigned to me the inferior role of a chronicler 
I record--not knowing for whom--the history of the siege

I have to be precise but I don't know when the invasion began 
two hundred years ago in December in autumn perhaps yesterday at dawn
here everybody is losing the sense of time

we were left with the place an attachment to the place
still we keep ruins of temples phantoms of gardens of houses 
if we were to lose the ruins we would be left with nothing

I write as I can in the rhythm of unending weeks 
monday: storehouses are empty a rat is now a unit of currency 
tuesday: the mayor is killed by unknown assailants
wednesday: talks of armistice the enemy interned our envoys
we don't know where they are being kept i.e. tortured
thursday: after a stormy meeting the majority voted down the motion of spice merchants on unconditional surrender friday: the onset of plague saturday: the suicide of N.N., 
the most steadfast defender sunday: no water we repulsed
the attack at the eastern gate named the Gate of the Alliance

I know all this is monotonous nobody would care

I avoid comments keep emotions under control describe facts
they say facts only are valued on foreign markets 
but with a certain pride I wish to convey to the world 
thanks to the war we raised a new species of children 
our children don't like fairy tales they play killing 
day and night they dream of soup bread bones 
exactly like dogs and cats

in the evening I like to wander in the confines of the City
along the frontiers of our uncertain freedom
I look from above on the multitude of armies on their lights
I listen to the din of drums to barbaric shrieks
it's incredible that the City is still resisting
the siege has been long the foes must replace each other they have nothing in common except a desire to destroy us
the Goths the Tartars the Swedes the Emperor's troupes regiments of Our Lord's Transfiguration
who could count them
colors of banners change as does the forest on the horizon
from the bird's delicate yellow in the spring through the green the red
to the winter black

and so in the evening freed from facts I am able to 
give thought to bygone faraway matters for instance to our
allies overseas I know they feel true compassion 
they send us flour sacks of comfort lard and good counsel
without even realizing that we were betrayed by their fathers
our former allies from the time of the second Apocalypse their sons are not guilty they deserve our gratitude so we are grateful 
they have never lived through the eternity of a siege 
those marked by misfortune are always alone
Dalai Lama's defenders Kurds Afghan mountaineers

now as I write these words proponents of compromise 
have won a slight advantage over the party of the dauntless
usual shifts of mood our fate is still in the balance

cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders shrinks 
but the defense continues and will last to the end 
and even if the City falls and one of us survives 
he will carry the City inside him on the roads of exile 
he will be the City

we look at the face of hunger the face of fire the face of death
and the worst of them all--the face of treason

and only our dreams have not been humiliated

Warsaw 1982

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz

The Power of Taste

For Professor Izydora Dambska

It didn't require great character at all 
our refusal disagreement and resistance 
we had a shred of necessary courage 
but fundamentally it was a matter of taste
Yes taste
in which there are fibers of soul the cartilage of conscience

Who knows if we had been better and more attractively tempted 
sent rose-skinned women thin as a wafer
or fantastic creatures from the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch 
but what kind of hell was there at this time
a wet pit the murderers' alley the barrack 
called a palace of justice
a home-brewed Mephisto in a Lenin jacket 
sent Aurora's grandchildren out into the field 
boys with potato faces
very ugly girls with red hands

Verily their rhetoric was made of cheap sacking 
(Marcus Tullius kept turning in his grave) 
chains of tautologies a couple of concepts like flails 
the dialectics of slaughterers no distinctions in reasoning 
syntax deprived of beauty of the subjunctive

So aesthetics can be helpful in life 
one should not neglect the study of beauty

Before we declare our consent we must carefully examine 
the shape of the architecture the rhythm of the drums and pipes 
official colors the despicable ritual of funerals

Our eyes and ears refused obedience 
the princes of our senses proudly chose exile

It did not require great character at all 
we had a shred of necessary courage 
but fundamentally it was a matter of taste
Yes taste
that commands us to get out to make a wry face draw out a sneer 
even if for this the precious capital of the body the head
must fall

Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter

The Buttons

In memoriam Captain Edward Herbert

Only buttons were relentless survived 
and now turn up Unbent 
eyewitnesses to buried crimes 
The mass grave's only monument

They'll testify and God will count them
He'll take pity on their toil
But how can they be freed in flesh
from this dank resisting soil

A bird flies by A cloud sets sail
A leaf drifts down The mallows bloom
Silence in the heavens while
the Smolensk forest exhales gloom

And only the relentless buttons 
still sounding voice of silenced swarms 
the buttons the unyielding bones 
of overcoats and uniforms

Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Claire Cavanagh