Tuesday, 5 January 2010

julia hartwig

Return to My Childhood Home

Amid a dark silence of pines - the shouts of young
birches calling to each other
Everything is at it was. Nothing is as it was.
Speak to me, Lord of the child. Speak innocent
terror!
To understand nothing. Each time in a different
way, from the first cry to the last breath.
Yet happy moments come to me from the past, like
bridesmaids carrying oil lamps


trans by john and bogdana carpenter

4 comments:

Totalfeckineejit said...

' To understand nothing. Each time in a different
way, from the first cry to the last breath.'

Ain't that the truth!

swiss said...

came across this in waterstones, read the above - exactly the same line! - and had to buy it. apparently, according to czelaw milosz, the 'grande dame of polish poetry'. up to now, never heard of her!

Roxana said...

this is breathtaking - i am stunned!
(and i am ashamed to admit i had also never heard of her,i'm off reading about her now)

swiss said...

yes, i'm still easing my way into this - in paraise of the unfinished. i may have to post more in due course...