The Art of Poetry No. 70
“A book is finished and appears and I feel, Well, next time I will unveil myself. And when the next book appears, I have the same feeling. And then your life ends, and that's it.”
Czeslaw Milosz, the Polish poet, essayist, and novelist, was born in Lithuania. Milosz received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1980 for a body of work that had once circulated secretly under the communist regime in Poland. When stationed with the Polish diplomatic service in Paris, Milosz defected, living in France and later San Francisco, where he taught at the University of California, Berkeley. Beginning with The Captive Mind (1953), Milosz bore witness to artistic life under communism, establishing the dialectic between Eastern Europe and the West that would shape his body of work. Mixing contemporary and medieval Polish, Lithuanian, and Old Church Slavonic languages in poetry, Milosz broke barriers between personal and public history. He worked in close collaboration with poet Robert Hass on English translations of his work. Milosz is known for The Seizure of Power (1953), Native Realm: A Search for Self-Definition (1968), The Witness of Poetry (1983), The Separate Notebooks (1984), Unattainable Earth (1986), and New and Collected Poems, 1931–2001 (2001), among other works.
“A book is finished and appears and I feel, Well, next time I will unveil myself. And when the next book appears, I have the same feeling. And then your life ends, and that's it.”
“So lasting they are, the rivers!” Only think. Sources somewhere in the mountains pulsate and springs seep from a rock, join in a stream, in the current of a river, and the river flows through centuries, millennia.
Faithful mother tongue
I have been serving you.
Every night, I used to set before you little bowls of colors
Faithful mother tongue
I have been serving you.
Every night, I used to set before you little bowls of colors
Now I will tell Meader’s story; I have a moral in view.
He was pestered by a Grizzly so bold and malicious
That he used to snatch caribou meat from the eaves of the cabin.
On the banks of the beautiful Loire,
There was my birth and my cradle.
Two kinds of goods flow from that land:
Why should that city, defenseless and pure as the wedding necklace of a forgotten tribe, keep offering itself to me? Like blue and red brown seeds beaded