Member-only story
The Poet’s Lament
What kind of poetry is that which does not save
Nations or peoples?
A conspiracy of official lies.
A ton of drunks whose throats will be slashed immediately.
A conference for ladies.
I’ve been craving good poetry without knowing it,
I discovered, long time ago, its healthy purpose.
In her and in her alone, I find salvation.
— Czeslaw Milosz, Fragment of “Dedication, Warsaw”
*
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
