Anyone like intelectual, philosophical poetry? For me it is the only kind of poetry that i like. Especially i like polish poet named Zbigniew Herbert.
I just found a page that someone who liked his poetry dedicated to him:
http://www.durham21.co.uk/archive/archive.asp?ID=1312 - http://www.durham21.co.uk/archive/archive.asp?ID=1312
From all what the person who wrote that article i have read I especially agree with this quote:
"As an occasional bystander of the history of philosophy I must admit to hating Herbert for being able to say in one sentence what would take Hegel or Kant a lifetime."
I have even found on the net 3 pieces translated into english. "The power of taste" "Elegy of Fortinbras" and "Report from a Besieged City".
The Power of Taste
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It didn't require great character at all our refusal disagreement and resistance we had a shred of necessary courage but fundamentally it was a matter of taste Yes taste in which there are fibers of soul the cartilage of conscience
Who knows if we had been better and more attractively tempted sent rose-skinned women thin as a wafer or fantastic creatures from the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch but what kind of hell was there at this time a wet pit the murderers' alley the barrack called a palace of justice a home-brewed Mephisto in a Lenin jacket sent Aurora's grandchildren out into the field boys with potato faces very ugly girls with red hands
Verily their rhetoric was made of cheap sacking (Marcus Tullius kept turning in his grave) chains of tautologies a couple of concepts like flails the dialectics of slaughterers no distinctions in reasoning syntax deprived of beauty of the subjunctive
So aesthetics can be helpful in life one should not neglect the study of beauty
Before we declare our consent we must carefully examine the shape of the architecture the rhythm of the drums and pipes official colors the despicable ritual of funerals
Our eyes and ears refused obedience the princes of our senses proudly chose exile
It did not require great character at all we had a shred of necessary courage but fundamentally it was a matter of taste Yes taste that commands us to get out to make a wry face draw out a sneer even if for this the precious capital of the body the head must fall
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--translated by John Carpenter
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Elegy of Fortinbras
Now that we’re alone we can talk prince man to man though you lie on the stairs and see no more than a dead ant nothing but black sun with broken rays I could never think of your hands without smiling and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests they are as defenceless as before The end is exactly this The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart and the knight’s feet in soft slippers
You will have a soldier’s funeral without having been a soldier the only ritual I am acquainted with a little there will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts crepe dragged on the pavement helmets boots artillery horses drums drums I know nothing exquisite those will be my manoeuvres before I start to rule one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit
Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life you believed in crystal notions not in human clay always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe
Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me you chose the easier part an elegant thrust but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching with a cold apple in one’s hand on a narrow chair with a view of the ant-hill and the clock’s dial
Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project and a decree on prostitutes and beggars I must also elaborate a better system of prisons since as you justly said Denmark is a prison I go to my affairs This night is born a star named Hamlet We shall never meet what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy
It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on archipelagos and that water these words what can they do what can they do prince
(translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz)
Report from a Besieged City
Too old to carry arms and fight like the others –
they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler I record – I don't know for whom – the history of the siege
I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday
at dawn everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time
all we have left is the place the attachment to the place we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses if we lose the ruins nothing will be left
I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned
our messengers we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance
all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone
I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write
about the facts only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children our children don’t like fairy tales they play at killing awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones just like dogs and cats
in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the City along the frontier of our uncertain freedom I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the
Transfiguration who can count them the colors of their banners change like the forest on the horizon from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to
winter's black
and so in the evening released from facts I can think about distant ancient matters for example our friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice they don’t even know their fathers betrayed us our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are
grateful they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity those struck by misfortune are always alone the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers
now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance
cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller yet the defense continues it will continue to the end and if the City falls but a single man escapes he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile he will be the City we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death worst of all – the face of betrayal
and only our dreams have not been humiliated
------------- "I am a pure-blooded Polish nobleman, without a single drop of bad blood, certainly not German blood" - Friedrich Nietzsche
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