Zbigniew Herbert

PL

I would like to describe

I would like to describe the simplest emotion

joy or sadness

but not as others do

reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light

which is being born in me

but I know it does not resemble

any star

for it is not so bright

not so pure

and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage

without dragging behind me a dusty lion

and also anxiety

without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way

I would give all metaphors

in return for one word

drawn out of my breast like a rib

for one word

contained within the boundaries

of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say -- I love

I run around like mad

picking up handfuls of birds

and my tenderness

which after all is not made of water

asks the water for a face

and anger different from fire

borrows from it

a loquacious tongue

so is blurred

so is blurred

in me

what white-haired gentleman

separated once and for all

and said

this in the subject

this is the object

we fall asleep

with one hand under our head

and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us

and taste the earth

with their tiny roots

which next morning

we tear out painfully

Home

A home above the year's seasons

home of children animals and apples

a square of empty space

under an absent star

home was the telescope of childhood

the skin of emotion

a sister's cheek

branch of a tree

the cheek was extinguished by flame

the branch crossed out by a shell

over the powdery ash of the nest

a song of homeless infantry

home is the die of emotion

home is the cube of childhood

the wing of a burned sister

leaf of a dead tree

Pebble

The pebble

is a perfect creature

equal to itself

mindful of its limits

filled exactly

with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything

does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness

are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse

when I hold it in my hand

and its noble body

is permeated by false warmth

Pebbles cannot be tamed

to the end they will look at us

with a calm and very clear eye

The Power Of Taste

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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