Ars Poetica?
I have always aspired to a more spacious
form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or
prose
and would let us understand each other without
exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something
indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in
us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung
out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a
daimonion,
though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an
angel.
It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes
from,
when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of
their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of
demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many
tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or
hand,
work at changing his destiny for their
convenience?
It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued
today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I’ve devised just one more means
of praising Art with the help of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were
read,
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric
clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to
be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent
integrity,
thus earning the respect of their relatives and
neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one
person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree,
poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and
reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the
hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their
instrument.
(Translated by Czesław Miłosz and Lillian Vallee)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.