To Ryszard Krynicki – A Letter
Not much will remain Ryszard in truth not much
of the poetry of our mad century Rilke Eliot sure
a few other worthy shamans who knew the secret
of word spells time-resistant forms without which
no phrase deserves memory and speech is like sand
our school notebooks subjected to earnest torture
with their traces of sweat tears and blood will be
to the eternal proofreader a song without a score
nobly righteous and all too self-evident
we came too easily to believe beauty does not save
that it leads wantons from dream to dream to death
none of us was able to wake the dryad of a poplar
or to decipher the handwriting of the clouds
that is why no unicorn will stray across our tracks
we'll raise up no ship in the bay no peacock no rose
nakedness was left to us and we stand here naked
on the right the better side of the triptych
The Last Judgment
we took public affairs onto our lanky shoulders
the battle with tyranny lies the recording of pain
but our foes - you admit - were despicably small
and so was it worth it to bring down holy speech
to rostrum gibberish to a newspaper's black foam
so little joy - sister of the gods - in our poems Ryszard
too few glimmering twilights mirrors wreaths ecstasies
nothing just obscure psalmodies the whine of animulae
urns of ash in a burned-out garden
what forces do we need - in spite of destiny
the decrees of history and human iniquity -
to whisper a good night in treason's garden
what forces of the spirit do we need
blindly beating despair against despair
to ignite a spark a word of atonement
that the dancing circle might last on the soft grass
that a child's birth and every beginning be blessed
the gifts of the air of the earth of fire and of water
I don't know - my friend - and that's why
I send you these owl's riddles in the night
a warm embrace
a bow from my shadow
– Zbigniew Herbert