NARODNajčistiji narod na zemlji kada ga opseda blesak munja,Nemisleći i lukav u trudu običnog dana.Bez milosti za udovice i siročad, bez milosti za starce,Ispred ruke deteta krade koru hleba.Život stavlja na žrtvu da bi navukao gnev neba na neprijatelje,Plačem siročadi i žena neprijatelja poražava.Daje vlast ljudima sa očima prekupaca zlata,Dopušta da ga uzdižu ljudi sa svešću vlasnika bordela.Njegovi najbolji sinovi ostaju nepoznati,Samo jednom se javljaju, da bi umrli na barikadama.Gorke suze toga naroda prekidaju pesmu na polovini,A kad pesma ućuti, glasno se govore dosetke.U uglovima soba zastaje senka i pokazuje na srce,Napolju pas zavija na nevidljivu planetu.Narod veliki, narod nepobedivi, narod ironični,Ume da raspozna istinu, čuvajući o tome ćutanje.Skita po sajmovima, sporazumeva se šalama,Trguje starim kvakama, ukradenim na ruševinama.Narod u izgužvanim kapama, s celom imovinom na plećima,Ide tražeći kućište na zapad i na jug.Nema gradova ni spomenika, ni vajarstva ni slikarstva,Samo od usta do usta prenosi reč i proroštva pesnika.Čovek toga naroda, stojeći nad kolevkom sina,Ponavlja reči nade, do sada uvek uzaludne.(U Krakovu, 1945.)
AncestorsTo tell the truth, we should not exist. We, not any collective plural, just you and me. Let us use our imaginations to visualize for a moment the circumstances and conditions of the life of our parents, then our grandparents, then great-grandparents, thus further and further back. Even if among them all there happened to be wealthy individuals or men of privilege, the stench and filth in which they lived, as that then was the rule, would have astonished us who use showers and toilets. What was even more certain was among them the presence of starvelings, for whom a piece of dry bread in pre-harvest time meant happiness. Our ancestors died like flies from epidemics, from starvation, from wars, though children swarmed, for every twelve of them only one or two survived. And what strange tribes, what ugly snouts behinds you and me, what bloody rites in honor of gods carved in the trunk of a linden tree! Back to those who are stalking through the undergrowth of a murky primeval forest with chipped stones for their only weapons, in order to split the skulls of their enemies. It would seem as if we had only parents and that's all, but those other pre-pre-predecessors exist, and with them their afflictions, manias, mental illnesses, syphilis, tuberculosis, and whatnot, and how do you know they do not continue on in you? And what was the probability that among the children of your great-great-grandparents the one survived who would beget your ancestor? And what the probability that this would repeat itself in the next generation?Altogether, a very slim chance that we would be born in these skins, as these, not other, individuals, in whom the genes met those of the devil knows what whores and oafs. The very fact that our species survived and even multiplied beyond measure is astonishing, for it had much against it, and the primeval forest full of animals stronger than humans may serve till now as a metaphor for man's precarious situation - let us add viruses, bacteria, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, but also his own works, atomic weapons and the pollution of nature. Our species should have disappeared a long time ago, and it is still alive, incredibly resistant. That you and I happen to be part of it should be enough to give us pause for meditation.
To be a man and live among men is miraculous, even if we know the vile deeds and crimes that people are capable of. Every day we build together an enormous beehive with our thoughts, discoveries, inventions, works, lives. Even that analogy is hardly accurate; it is too static, since our collective work is constantly changing and displaying itself in various colors, subject to time or history. Again, this is an insufficient description, because it ignores the most important thing: that this collective creation is given life by the most private, hidden fuel of all individual aspirations and decisions. The oddity of man's exceptional calling rests principally on his being a comical being, forever immature, so that a group of children with their easy mood swings from laughter to crying is the best illustration of his lack of dignity. A few years pass, and suddenly they are adults, taking control and supposedly prepared to make pronouncements on public matters and even to take upon themselves the duties of father and mother, although it would be good if they first had an entire life of their own to prepare for this.
Christopher Robin[In April of 1996 the international press carried the news of the death, at age seventy-five, of Christopher Robin Milne, immortalized in a book by his father, A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh, as Christopher Robin.]I must think suddenly of matters too difficult for a bear of little brain. I have never asked myself what lies beyond the place where we live, I and Rabbit, Piglet and Eeyore, with our friend Christopher Robin. That is, we continued to live here, and nothing changed, and I just ate my little something. Only Christopher Robin left for a moment.Owl says that immediately beyond our garden Time begins, and that it is an awfully deep well. If you fall in it, you go down and down, very quickly, and no one knows what happens to you next. I was a bit worried about Christopher Robin falling in, but he came back and then I asked him about the well. 'Old bear,' he answered. 'I was in it and I was falling and I was changing as I fell. My legs became long, I was a big person, I grew old, hunched, and I walked with a cane, and then I died. It was probably just a dream, it was quite unreal. The only real thing was you, old bear, and our shared fun. Now I won't go anywhere, even if I'm called in for an afternoon snack.
Mano atmintis, tokia ištikima ir gerbianti detalę, yra taip supjaustyta, jog, bijodama galinčio atsinaujinti skausmo, tuštuma paverčia ištisus metus ir periodus. Tad nė kalbos negali būti apie dienoraštį. Vaikštau su korsetu, viską sutramdęs, nepalikęs vietos jokiam „natūralumui“. Esu antifroidistas, niekada netįsojau ant psichoanalitiko kanapos, jam tikriausiai būčiau įdomus egzempliorius, tačiau tai turbūt labiau pakenktų nei padėtų.
The world deprived of clear-cut outlines, of the up and the down, of good and evil, succumbs to a peculiar nihilization, that is, it loses its colors, so that grayness covers not only things of this earth and of space, but also the very flow of time, its minutes, days and years. Abstract considerations will be of little help, even if they are intended to bring relief. Poetry is quite different. By its very nature it says: All those theories are untrue. Since poetry deals with the singular, not hte general, it can't - if it is good poetry - look at things of this earth other than as colorful, variegated, and exciting, and so, it cannot reduce life, with all its pain, horror, suffering, and ecstasy, to a unified tonality of boredom or complaint. By necessity poetry is therefore on the side of being and against nothingness.
When everything was fineAnd the notion of sin had vanishedAnd the earth was readyIn universal peaceTo consume and rejoiceWithout creeds and utopias,I, for unknown reasons,Surrounded by the booksOf prophets and theologians,Of philosophers, poets,Searched for an answer,Scowling, grimacing,Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.What oppressed me so muchWas a bit shameful.Talking of it aloudWould show neither tact nor prudence.It might even seem an outrageAgainst the health of mankind. . .