In the dim light on the trampled grassesGirls lie still with soldiers in their arms.Until the image alters: dark glanceOf a shoulder, an unbuttoned blouse.
Trees spring from the ancient bedrockAnd the sprays of leaves fall like chords.When nature becomes a theatre,The silvery machinery of the skyline shifts.
The summits of the abstract city quiverUnder murky rainbows in the humid air.Honeycombs of metal, or stalactites,Divide the distance into sheer domains.
· · ·
I remember a field where the radianceOf the burning city colors the dry wormwoodAnd crickets play, red from the glow,Through which an army of smoke marches.
The water rushing along the road fluttersThe dress on the corpse of a woman,As the city descends long days and nightsInto legend, which won’t compensate for its disasters.
This memory contains a warning for thoseWho spend their nights on soft couches:An errant fire will often burn right throughThe rosy stains on bedsheets.
Whoever enters the human microcosmosWhere marvels are performed should knowThat it delivers, serenely, on a daily basis,The retributions of a malignant fate.
They don’t hear this. As if the fresh earthHad brought forth the first palm after the flood,Trembling, they enter the quiet groves of sexAnd simply give themselves to each other.
And yet even here, in the middle of Manhattan,I could see how, at a warning sound,Their faces blanch in the glare of the screenAnd sudden fright weakens their legs.
Here, in the line of cars along 5th Avenue,I see how the ambassador’s limousine glidesPast the white masts on which various flagsOf fictitious color sway in a mild breeze.
The poor envoys. Their labors are great,As they, eyes asquint, compose a holy covenantWith duplicitous ink, or the pactBetween the Athenians and the Lacedemonians.
And what sort of power was granted to us,Juliusz, when we foresaw the fateOf our native realm, which was to be broughtUnder the militarized feet of foreign powers.
We had barely mourned in our secret heartsThat Europe, mother of arts and sciencesWith its old wisdom and bloody cobblestones,As we placed it on the scales opposite the new faith.
Looking calmly at force, we know that the onesWho want to rule the world will pass awayAnd we know that it isn’t always necessaryTo live by the knife and the submachine gun.
We know that the ingenuity of our weaponsIs disastrous, that the whirlwind shreds banners,And that the heirs to the glory of the Greek name(But glory, our heritage from Greece)Will last as long as humankind lasts.
And that this age of darkness will pass the way wintersPass when strong sap rises under the brittle bark.The smile of the Sophists, as in papal Rome,Will knock the pen from the hand of the Inquisitors.
Just as once upon a time books were broughtFrom Constantinople to the northern lands,The voices of wise men in the wild landsWill become a source of creative power.
It is this honor, Juliusz, that is granted us:To resurrect new forms, forged of gold.In spite of the leisurely pace of change,To mix valiant drinks for the future.
Greet the Parisian streets for me, please,And the fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens.Likewise the Seine where, to this day, I can seeThe Cathedral’s arches and the sleeping boats.
I don’t know whether Montaigne’s monumentStill stands, whose white marble lipsA girl, as a joke, has painted blush red,And run off, lowering her head in laughter.
There are, according to the Greek philosophers,Seven stages to the journey. We may not be familiarWith them all, so let this wandering roadThrough the ashes of war be your chosen path.
And receive as a gift an afternoon’s descriptionOf this excessively proud landAnd with it my hope that books will preserveThis little drawing of Central Park.
Washington, D.C., 1948
“This is drawn from “Poet in the New World: Poems, 1946-1953.”
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