# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  Zbigniew Herbert

## liliella

keto jane nga nje poet polak zbiegniew herbert



THREE POEMS BY HEART




I

I can't find the title
of a memory about you
with a hand torn from darkness
I step on fragments of faces

soft friendly profiles
frozen into a hard contour

circling above my head
empty as a forehead of air
a man's silhouette of black paper




II

living--despite
living--against
I reproach myself for the sin of forgetfulness

you left an embrace like a superfluous sweater
a look like a question

our hands won't transmit the shape of your hands
we squander them touching ordinary things

calm as a mirror
not mildewed with breath
the eyes will send back the question

every day I renew my sight
every day my touch grows
tickled by the proximity of so many things

life bubbles over like blood
Shadows gently melt
let us not allow the dead to be killed--

perhaps a cloud will transmit remembrance--
a worn profile of Roman coins




III

the women on our street
were plain and good
they patiently carried from the markets
bouquets of nourishing vegetables

the children on our street
scourge of cats

the pigeons--

softly gray

a Poet's statue was in the park
children would roll their hoops
and colorful shouts
birds sat on the Poet's hand
read his silence

on summer evenings wives
waited patiently for lips
smelling of familiar tobacco

women could not answer
their children: will he return
when the city was setting
they put the fire out with hands
pressing their eyes

the children on our street
had a difficult death
pigeons fell lightly
like shot down air



now the lips of the Poet
form an empty horizon
birds children and wives cannot live
in the city's funereal shells
in cold eiderdowns of ashes

the city stands over water
smooth as the memory of a mirror
it reflects in the water from the bottom

and flies to a high star
where a distant fire is burning
like a page of the Iliad




A BALLAD THAT WE
DO NOT PERISH

Those who sailed at dawn
but will never return
left their trace on a wave--

a shell fell to the bottom of the sea
beautiful as lips turned to stone

those who walked on a sandy road
but could not reach the shuttered windows
though they already saw the roofs--

they have found shelter in a bell of air

but those who leave behind only
a room grown cold a few books
an empty inkwell white paper--

in truth they have not completely died
their whisper travels through thickets of wallpaper
their level head still lives in the ceiling

their paradise was made of air
of water lime and earth an angel of wind
will pulverize the body in its hand
they will be
carried over the meadows of this world




THE ARDENNES FOREST

Cup your hands to scoop up sleep
as you would draw a grain of water
and the forest will come: a green cloud
a birch trunk like a chord of light
and a thousand eyelids fluttering
with forgotten leafy speech
then you will recall the white morning
when you waited for the opening of the gates

you know this land is opened by a bird
that sleeps in a tree and the tree in the earth
but here is a spring of new questions
underfoot the currents of bad roots
look at the pattern on the bark where
a chord of music tightens
the lute player who presses the frets
so the silent resounds

push away leaves: a wild strawberry
dew on a leaf the comb of grass
further a wing of a yellow damselfly
and an ant burying its sister
a wild pear sweetly ripens
above the treacheries of belladonnas
without waiting for greater rewards
sit under the tree

cup your hands to draw up memory
of the dead names dried grain
again the forest: a charred cloud
forehead branded by black light
and a thousand lids pressed
tightly on motionless eyeballs
a tree and the air broken
betrayed faith of empty shelters

that other forest is for us is for you
the dead also ask for fairy tales
for a handful of herbs water of memories
therefore by needles by rustling
and faint threads of fragrances--
no matter that a branch stops you
a shadow leads you through winding passages--
you will find and open
our Ardennes Forest




ABOUT TROY




1

Troy O Troy
an archeologist
will sift your ashes through his fingers
yet a fire occurred greater than that of the Iliad
for seven strings--

too few strings
one needs a chorus
a sea of laments
and thunder of mountains
rain of stone

--how to lead
people away from the ruins
how to lead
the chorus from poems--

thinks the faultless poet
respectably mute
as a pillar of salt
--The song will escape unharmed
It escaped
with flaming wing
into a pure sky

The moon rises over the ruins
Troy O Troy
The city is silent

The poet struggles with his own shadow
The poet cries like a bird in the void

The moon repeats its landscape
gentle metal in smoldering ash




2

They walked along ravines of former streets
as if on a red sea of cinders

and wind lifted the red dust
faithfully painted the sunset of the city

They walked along ravines of former streets
they breathed on the frozen dawn in vain

they said: long years will pass
before the first house stands here

they walked along ravines of former streets
they thought they would find some traces

a cripple plays
on a harmonica
about the braids of a willow
about a girl

the poet is silent
rain falls




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




ARCHITECTURE

Over a delicate arch--
an eyebrow of stone--

on the unruffled forehead
of a wall

in joyful and open windows
where there are faces instead of geraniums

where rigorous rectangles
border a dreaming perspective

where a stream awakened by an ornament
flows on a quiet field of surfaces

movement meets stillness a line meets a shout
trembling uncertainty simple clarity

you are there
architecture
art of fantasy and stone

there you reside beauty
over an arch
light as a sigh

on a wall
pale from altitude

and a window
tearful with a pane of glass

a fugitive from apparent forms
I proclaim your motionless dance

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## liliella

ROVIGO 

ROVIGO STATION. Unclear associations. A drama of Goethe 
or something from Byron. I traveled through Rovigo 
n times and exactly at the nth time I understood 
that in my inner geography it is a special 
place although it certainly yields 
to Florence. I never touched it with my living foot 
and Rovigo was always approaching or fleeing behind 

At the time I was filled with love for the Altichiera 
at the Oratory of San Giorgio in Padua and for Ferrara 
which I loved because it reminded me 
of the pillaged city of my fathers. I lived stretched 
between the past and the present moment 
many times crucified by a place and a time 

And yet happy firmly trusting 
the sacrifice will not be wasted 

Rovigo wasn't distinguished by anything particular it was 
a masterpiece of mediocrity straight streets plain houses 
only before or after the city (depending on the train's direction) 
a mountain suddenly rose from the plain--sliced open by a red quarry 
like an Easter Ham surrounded by kale 
besides that nothing to amuse sadden dazzle the eye 

And yet it was a city of blood and stone--just like the others 
a city in which yesterday somebody died someone went mad 
someone coughed hopelessly throughout the night 

ACCOMPANIED BY WHICH BELLS DO YOU APPEAR ROVIGO 

Reduced to a station to a comma a crossed letter 
nothing but a station--arrivi--partenze 
and why do I think about you   Rovigo   Rovigo 



THE HEAD 

Theseus strides across an ocean 
of blood-stained columns leaves at the time of renewal 
he carries in his clenched fist a trophy 
the lopped-off head of the Minotaur 

The bitterness of the victory A cry of an owl 
marks off dawn with a coppery measure 
so that he feels sweet defeat to the end of his life 
warm breath on the nape of the neck

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## liliella

Those who sailed out at dawn
but will never come back
they left their trace on the surface --

at such times into the deep of sea falls a shell
beautiful as a mouth turned to stone

those who walked the sandy trail
but did not make it to the shutters
although the roofs were already in sight

within a bell of air they have shelter

and those who orphaned only
a cold room a few books
an empty inkwell blank sheets --

indeed those did not die completely

their whisper wafts through thickets of wallpaper
in the ceiling a flat head lives on
of air water lime earth
a paradise was fixed for them their angel of wind
crumbles the body in hand
they will 
carry upon the meadows of this here earth





© crossconnect 1995-1998 |
published in association with the |

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## liliella

Elegy of Fortinbras

Now that we're alone we can talk prince man to man
though you lie on the stairs and sec 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
they 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 clock' 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 by Czeslaw Milosz

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## liliella

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 tongue 

    Inadvertently I passed the border of her teeth and swallowed 
her agile tongue. It lives inside me now, like a Japanese fish. It 
brushes against my heart and my diaphragm as if against the walls 
of an aquarium. It stirs silt from the bottom. 
    She whom I deprived of a voice stares at me with big eyes 
and waits for a word. 
    Yet I do not know which tongue to use when speaking to 
her - the stolen one or the one which melts in my mouth from an 
excess of heavy goodness.

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## liliella

Daedalus says:

Go on sonny but remember that you are walking and not flying
the wings are just an ornament and you are stepping on a meadow
that warm gust is just the humid earth of summer
and that cold one is a brook
the sky is full of leaves and small animals


Icarus says:

The eyes like two stones return straight to earth
and see a farmer who knocks asunder oily till
a grub which wiggles in a furrow
bad grub which cuts the bond of a plant with the earth


Daedalus says:

Sonny this is not true  The Cosmos is merely light
and earth is a bowl of shadows  Look as here colors play
dust rises from above the sea smoke rises to the sky
of noblest atoms a rainbow sets itself now


Icarus says:

Arms hurt father from this beating at vacuum
legs are getting numb and miss thorns and sharp stones
I cannot keep looking at the sun as you do father
I sunken whole in the dark rays of the earth


Description of the catastrophe:

Now Icarus falls down head first
the last frame of him is a glimpse of a heal childlike small
being swallowed by the devouring sea
Up above the father cries out the name
which no longer belongs to a neck or a head
but only to a remembrance


Commentary:

He was so young did not understand that wings are just a metaphor
a bit of wax and feathers and a contempt for the laws of gravitation
I cannot hold a body at an elevation of a great many feet
The essence of the matter is in having our hearts
which are coursed by heavy blood
fill with air
and this very thing Icarus did not want to accept

let us pray






ps. ju rekomandoj te lexoni dhe disa te tjera si mr.cogito and the imagination.i am trying to fing one that is related to a stone , the title possibly being "conversation with a stone" . if any one finds it feel free to post it here.

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## ChuChu

Lili, 'conversation with a stone' eshte shkruajtur nga Zsymborzka (spelling?), jo Herbert. 

I knock at the stone's front door. 
"It's only me, let me come in. 
I've come out of pure curiosity. 
Only life can quench it. 
I mean to stroll through your, 
palace, 
then go calling on a leaf, a drop of, 
water. 
I don't have much time. 
My mortality should touch you." 
"I'm made of stone," says the 
stone, 
"and must therefore keep a 
straight face. 
Go away. 
I don't have the muscles to laugh."

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## ChuChu

IN A CITY 


In an eastern city where I won't return
there is a winged stone light and huge
lightning strikes this winged stone
I close my eyes to remember

in my city where I won't return
there is heavy and nourishing water
the one who gives you a cup of this water
gives you the faith you will still return

in my faraway city that has gone
from all maps of the world there is bread that can nourish
throughout life black as the faith you will see again
stone bread water and the presence of towers at dawn

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## liliella

kuqe 
po flisja nje dite me njerin tek puna per herbert dhe me pyeti nese kisha lexuar kete "conversation with stone " dhe une i thashe jo me habi te madhe pasi kujtoja se e njihja mire. kur erdha ne shtepi kerkova ta gjej po pa fat dhe prandaj pyeta nese dikush kishte njohuri mbi te. fajin e ka pas ai robi tjeter qe me beri lemsh dhe qe dy ore rri ta kerkoj dhe spo e gjej. 
te falenderoj shume qe e postove.

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## geni

ketu flitet vetem shqip sa shpejt qe e harruat gjuhen eshte me mire ta harroni dhe kanalin tone albasolin ketu nuk duam njeheres qe kane harruar ose qe nuk duan te flasin gjuhen e tyre gjuhen shqipe ikni se nuk kini vend ketu     [faleminderit]

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## liliella

geni 
xhan! sa shpejt qe hidhesh si peshku mbi uje.meso te besh frymemarrje si ne uje dhe ne toke dhe do te jesh me i fituar. 

 mbase paske harruar te vesh re qe Krijime ne gjuhe te huaja eshte pjese e Albasoulit dhe e ngritur me qellimin qe si shqipetare dhe banore te kesaj bote te zgjerojme njohurite mbi te kombet e tjera dhe gradualisht ate te vetes tone. nuk e di se sa e vlere i jep literatures ne pergjithesi  por do te te keshilloja qe te mos hidhje gjykime mbi mua ose njeri tjeter si te ishim tradhetare te shqipes apo te albasoul. mbase i vetmi mekat eshte qe nuk i perkthejme keto ne shqip  duke u dhene mundesine te gjithve ti lexojne keto poezi.  

cudi se nuk te kisha njohur per doganier gjuhesh?

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