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Wilno, 1936 By Czeslaw Milosz from “The Collected Poems 1931-1987”, 1988

The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. O my love, where are they, where are they going Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture. We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert PinskyĬopyright © Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Pinsky Brie-Comte-Robert, 1954 By Czeslaw Milosz from “The Collected Poems 1931-1987”, 1988 A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is! And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. The lights of métro stations flew by I didn’t notice them. Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian ValleeĬopyright © Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee Berkeley, 1969 By Czeslaw Milosz from “The Collected Poems 1931-1987”, 1988 Share via Email: Czeslaw Milosz – Poetry Share this content via Email.Share on LinkedIn: Czeslaw Milosz – Poetry Share this content on LinkedIn.Tweet: Czeslaw Milosz – Poetry Share this content on Twitter.