Poem of the Day

I got this one from poets.org quite a while ago and it got lost in my inbox. I’m glad to rediscover it. P.S. It’s currently 50F in my “arctic landscape”. Woohoo!

Balance
By Adam Zagajewski

I watched the arctic landscape from above
and thought of nothing, lovely nothing.
I observed white canopies of clouds, vast
expanses where no wolf tracks could be found.

I thought about you and about the emptiness
that can promise one thing only: plenitude—
and that a certain sort of snowy wasteland
bursts from a surfeit of happiness.

As we drew closer to our landing,
the vulnerable earth emerged among the clouds,
comic gardens forgotten by their owners,
pale grass plagued by winter and the wind.

I put my book down and for an instant felt
a perfect balance between waking and dreams.
But when the plane touched concrete, then
assiduously circled the airport’s labryinth,

I once again knew nothing. The darkness
of daily wanderings resumed, the day’s sweet darkness,
the darkness of the voice that counts and measures,
remembers and forgets.

—translated by Clare Cavanagh

I got to see my poetry pals yesterday afternoon. It was short notice and I don’t have a printer so I couldn’t select some recently posted poems. Instead I brought 180 more extraordinary poems for every day, selected by Billy Collins, which Ryan gave me for Christmas. I was randomly flipping through it, looking for names I recognized and I landed on this one. We talked about it for a good 30 minutes, and it was a pleasant surprise that it had so many layers. It was translated by Clare Cavanagh.

Long Afternoons
By Adam Zagajewski

Those were the long afternoons when poetry left me.
The river flowed patiently, nudging lazy boats to sea.
Long afternoons, the coast of ivory.
Shadows lounged in the streets, haughty manikins in shopfronts
stared at me with bold and hostile eyes.

Professors left their schools with vacant faces,
as if the Iliad had finally done them in.
Evening papers brought disturbing news,
but nothing happened, no one hurried.
There was no one in the windows, you weren’t there;
even nuns seemed ashamed of their lives.

Those were the long afternoons when poetry vanished
and I was left with the city’s opaque demon,
like a poor traveler stranded outside the Gare du Nord
with his bulging suitcase wrapped in twine
and September’s black rain falling.

Oh, tell me how to cure myself of irony, the gaze
that sees but doesn’t penetrate; tell me how to cure myself
of silence.

I had nothing to post today and no time all day to do it. Lo and behold, when I got home there was a poem from my buddies in west Texas, so now I do have something to share! I believe this was in The New Yorker and it was translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh.

Karmelicka
By Adam Zagajewski

Karmelicka Street, a sky-blue train, the sun,
September, the first day after vacation,
some have come home from long trips,
armored divisions enter Poland,
children off to school dressed in their best,
white and navy blue, like sails and sea,
like memory and grapes and inspiration.
The trees stand at attention, honoring
the power of young minds that haven’t yet
known fire and sleep and can do what they want,
nothing can stop them
(not counting invisible limits).

The trees greet the young respectfully,
but your—be truthful—envy
that starting out, that setting off
from home, from childhood, from the sweet darkness
that tastes of almonds, raisins, and poppyseeds,
you stop in the store for bread
and then walk home, unhurried,
whistling and humming carelessly;
your school still hasn’t started,
the teachers have gone, the masters remain,
distant as summer, your sleep sails through the clouds
across the sky.