zbigniew herbert

Achilles. Penthesilea

When Achilles with his short sword pierced the breast of
Penthesilea
and as usual twisted the blade thrice in the wound, he
noticed
that the queen of the Amazons was lovely.
He laid her carefully on the sand, took off her heavy helmet,
unclasped her hair,
and gently arranged her hands on her bosom. He lacked,
however, the courage
to shut her eyes.
He gave her one more, last, farewell look, and, as though
suddenly overpowered
by an outer force, cried—the way neither he nor other
heroes of that great war ever cried—in a quiet, mesmeric,
dawdling,
aimless voice, ebbing with grief and with
rue, whose cadence was new to the offspring of Thetis. The
cry’s lengthy vowels, like
leaves, were falling upon the neck, breasts, knees of
Penthesilea,
wrapping the length of her grown-cold body.
She herself was preparing for Eternal Hunts in the
fathomless forests.
Her still open eyes stared from afar at the victor
with azure, steady hatred.

trans by joseph brodsky

zbigniew herbert

The Fathers of a Star

Clocks were running as usual
so they waited only for the avalanche effect
and whether it would follow
the curve traced on a sheet of ether
they were calm and certain on the tower
of their calculations
amid gentle volcanoes
under the guard of lead
they were covered by glass and silence
and a sky without
secrets
clocks were running as usual
so the explosion came

with their hats pulled tightly over their brows
they walked away
smaller than their clothes
the fathers of a star
they thought about a kite from childhood
the tense
string trembled in their hands
and now everything was separated from them
clocks worked for them
they were left only like an heirloom from father
an old silver pulse

in the evening
in a house
near a forest
without animals or ferns
with a concrete path and an electric owl
they will read the tale of Daedalus to their children
the Greek was right
he didn't want the moon or the stars
he was only a bird
he remained in the order of nature
and the things he created
followed him like animals
like a cloak he wore on his shoulders
his wings and his
fate

trans czeslaw miloscz

it turns out 2008 is the year of zbigniew herbert. i haven't read him in an age and it's a pleasure to come back to his writing and find it just as i remebered it, if not better. you can read the above and more here