Adam Zagajewski (1945-2021)

WITHOUT END: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS, Adam Zagajewski. Trans. Clare Cavanagh et al, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 18 West 18th Street, New York 10011, 2002, 287 pages, paper, $15.

I admit I am phoning-it-in this morning. But one of the poetry books I purchased last year, after borrowing it numerous times from my local library, was Adam Zagajewski’s Without End. No, I did not read the entire book this morning, but, hearing the Ukrainian president call for musicians to “fill the silence with music,” I thought of this poem, shared widely at another moment in recent history when the arts responded to a crisis.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

—Adam Zagajewski

This poem was widely circulated after 9/11, and you can hear it read aloud at Poetry Foundation.  (Which I definitely recommend.) This is the sort of poem that makes me glad to be a poet. And if I were teaching a class titled “Writing Your Memorable Poem,” it would be the first poem I’d want to discuss.

For more current responses to our wounded world, check out Rattle’s “Poets Respond” series.

I’ll be back with another book review tomorrow.

New Year’s Poem

I was casting about for something to post here to mark the so-far quiet beginning of 2022, and at I found this brilliant essay by northwest poet Linda Bierds about a poem by Margaret Avison. As a bonus, I learned about this book — Dark Horses: Poets on Overlooked Poems — published a while back, in 2006. I found a copy at Abe Books and ordered it.

Margaret Avison (1918-2007) is gone, but the poetry lingers on, and we can know her through it. That might give heart to all of us, laboring here in the dark.

“New Year’s Poem” by Margaret Avison. Reprinted from Always Now: The Collected Poems (in three volumes) by Margaret Avison, by permission of the Porcupine’s Quill. © The Estate of Margaret Avison, 2003.

Source: Always Now: The Collected Poems (The Porcupine’s Quill, 2003)

New Year’s Poem

The Christmas twigs crispen and needles rattle
Along the window-ledge.
             A solitary pearl
Shed from the necklace spilled at last week’s party
Lies in the suety, snow-luminous plainness
Of morning, on the window-ledge beside them.
And all the furniture that circled stately
And hospitable when these rooms were brimmed
With perfumes, furs, and black-and-silver
Crisscross of seasonal conversation, lapses
Into its previous largeness.
             I remember
Anne’s rose-sweet gravity, and the stiff grave
Where cold so little can contain;
I mark the queer delightful skull and crossbones
Starlings and sparrows left, taking the crust,
And the long loop of winter wind
Smoothing its arc from dark Arcturus down
To the bricked corner of the drifted courtyard,
And the still window-ledge.
             Gentle and just pleasure
It is, being human, to have won from space
This unchill, habitable interior
Which mirrors quietly the light
Of the snow, and the new year.