Late Ripeness

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,

I felt a door opening in me and I entered 

the clarity of early morning. 

One after another my former lives were departing, 

like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas 

assigned to my brush came closer, 

ready now to be described better than they were before. 

I was not separated from people, 

grief and pity joined us. 

We forget — I kept saying — that we are all children of the King. 

For where we come from there is no division 

into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be. 

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part 

of the gift we received for our long journey. 

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago - 

a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror 

of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel 

staving its hull against a reef — they dwell in us, 

waiting for a fulfillment. 

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard, 

as are all men and women living at the same time, 

whether they are aware of it or not. 

~Czeslaw Milosz

from Collected Poems, 1931-1987

art by van gogh

with thanks to http://deathdeconstructed.blogspot.com/

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love

Love means to learn to look at yourself

The way one looks at distant things

For you are only one thing among many.

And whoever sees that way heals his heart,

Without knowing it, from various ills—

A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things

So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.

It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:

Who serves best doesn't always understand.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

translation by Robert Hass

from The Collected Poems

art by Picasso

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gift

A day so happy.

Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.

Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.

There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.

I knew no one worth envying him.

Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.

To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.

In my body I felt no pain.

When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails. 

~ Czeslaw Milosz 

with thanks to  the mark on the wall

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late ripeness

.

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,

I felt a door opening in me and I entered

the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,

like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas

assigned to my brush came closer,

ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,

grief and pity joined us.

We forget – I kept saying – that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division

into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part

of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago – 

a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror

of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel

staving its hull against a reef – they dwell in us,

waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,

as are all men and women living at the same time,

whether they are aware of it or not.

.

~ Czeslaw Milosz
from Collected Poems, 1931-1987
translation by Robert Hass

.

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a song on the end of the world

On the day the world ends

A bee circles a clover,

A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

By the rainspout young sparrows are playing

And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends

Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,

Vegetable peddlers shout in the street

And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,

The voice of a violin lasts in the air

And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder

Are disappointed.

And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps

Do not believe it is happening now.

As long as the sun and the moon are above,

As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,

As long as rosy infants are born

No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet

Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,

Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:

There will be no other end of the world,

There will be no other end of the world.

~  Czeslaw Milosz 

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this only

.

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.

A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.

Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,

When snow first fell, riding this way

He felt joy, strong, without reason,

Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm

Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,

Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.

He returns years later, has no demands.

He wants only one, most precious thing:

To see, purely and simply, without name,

Without expectations, fears, or hopes,

At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

(The Collected Poems, 1931-1987, trans. by Robert Hass)

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Encounter

.

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. 

A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road. 

One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive, 

Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going? 

The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. 

I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

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