Adam Zagajewski
A Polish poet born in 1945, he emigrated to Paris in 1982 but has also lived and taught in the United States. I love his poetry and discovering him was one of the best things that happened to me in recent years. His poetry is delicate, sensitive, introspective, sorrowful, gentle and softly ironic.
He writes about his memories of Soviet Poland, of the pains of exile, of his travels; or he simply muses about aspects of life in unique ways. Most of his poetry is translated into English by Clare Cavanagh.
POETRY SEARCHES FOR RADIANCE
Poetry searches for radiance,
poetry is the kingly road
that leads us farthest.
We seek radiance in a gray hour,
at noon or in the chimneys of the dawn,
even on a bus, in November,
while an old priest nods beside us.
The waiter in a Chinese restaurant bursts into tears
and no one can think why.
Who knows, this may also be a quest,
like that moment at the seashore,
when a predatory ship appeared on the horizon
and stopped short, held still for a long while.
And also moments of deep joy
and countless moments of anxiety.
Let me see, I ask.
Let me persist, I say.
A cold rain falls at night.
In the streets and avenues of my city
quiet darkness is hard at work.
Poetry searches for radiance.
VAPORETTO
In the wind-breaker’s pocket you find
a light blue ticket for the vaporetto
(il biglietto, non cedibile).
A light blue ticket, slightly larger
than a stamp from the republic of Togo,
promising a change, a journey.
Sealing-wax melts on a memory,
an almond of alpine snow thaws.
The expedition may proceed.
You’re in Texas, on flat land,
surrounded by evergreen oaks
that remember nothing.
You’ll swim through cramped canals
upstream, in a strong wind;
you’ll meet with icebergs, grayness.
The ticket says: corsa semplice,
but not a word about the desert,
the monotony of heavy seas,
about longing, or the spiteful customs man
who’s waiting, and not for you alone,
about islands of indifference and ash.
You’ll swim a long time. And may reach
the place where Venice the sea-urchin rests:
water, lace and gold.
You may reach the place where Venice’s
red towers rise, faithful towers,
the needles of a compass lost at sea.
DECEMBER
December, herald of destruction,
takes you on a long stroll
through the black torsos of trees
and leaves scorched in autumn’s fire,
as if to say: so much then for
your secrets and your treasures,
the fervent trill of small birds,
the promises of summer months.
Your dreams have been dissected,
the blackbird’s song now has a rationale,
plants’ corpses clutter the herbarium.
Only the laboratory’s hard stone remains.
Don’t listen: they may take everything away,
but they can’t have your ignorance,
they can’t take your mysteries, strip you
of your third homeland.
Don’t listen: the holidays draw near
and frozen January, snow’s white paper.
What you’ve waited for is being born.
The one you’re seeking will begin to sing.
IN A LITTLE APARTMENT
I ask my father, ‘What do you do all day?’ ‘I remember.’
So in that dusty little apartment in Gliwice,
in a low block in the Soviet style
that says all towns should look like barracks,
and cramped rooms will defeat conspiracies,
where an old-fashioned wall clock marches on, unwearied,
he relives daily the mild September of ’39, its whistling bombs,
and the Jesuit Garden in Lvov, gleaming
with the green glow of maples and ash trees and small birds,
kayaks on the Dniester, the scent of wicker and wet sand,
that hot day when you met a girl who studied law,
the trip by freight car to the west, the final border,
two hundred roses from the students
grateful for your help in ’68,
and other episodes I’ll never know,
the kiss of a girl who didn’t become my mother,
the fear and sweet gooseberries of childhood, images drawn
from that calm abyss before I was.
Your memory works in the quiet apartment – in silence,
systematically, you struggle to retrieve for an instant
your painful century.
I recommend two collections of his poems: Eternal Enemies and Without End; I think fans of contemporary poetry will be pleased with them.
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Few days ago you wrote about Joseph Conrad, now you write about Adam Zagajewski. By the way, from many years he is our candidate for the Nobel Prize. Last year I had the honor to talk to Adam Zagajewski. This is an extremely modest man who has a great sense of humor. I do not know whether his collection of essays, "The poet speaks of the philosopher" has been translated into English. If not, I'll try to translate some interesting passages, showing the poet as an outstanding thinker and essayist.
