Zybégen neu Herbert, born in 1924 in Lovell, eastern Poland, studied law and philosophy in Warsaw. Although his poems were published in magazines very early, his first collection of poems, A Harmony of Light, was not published until 1956, after Stalin's death. He went on to publish several important collections of poems, Hermes, The Dog, and the Stars (1957), A Study of The Object (1961), and Mr. I Think (1974), and Herbert was also a prominent historian of art and wrote radio plays. His works have been translated into many languages. Herbert's poetry has a deep cultural and historical perspective, and the style is varied, belonging to the kind of poets who write in different styles at different times.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="6" > sound</h1>
I walked on the beach
Look for that sound
Between the gasps of one wave and another
.
But there's no sound here
There is only the ancient rap of water
But it's not funny
Wings of a white bird
Dry on a stone
I walked towards the forest
There it remains
The faint sound of a huge hourglass
The leaves are screened for humus
The humus is screened for leaves
The insects have powerful mouths
Eat all the silence on the earth
I walked toward the field
Large patches of green and yellow
Stuck in the legs of the little creatures
Sing in every touch with the wind
In the endless monologues of the earth
If there is a pause at some point
That's the kind of sound
It must be clear and loud
Nothing but whispers
Gentle pats suddenly increased
I went home
My experience presents
The shape of a dilemma
Or the world is dumb
Either I'm deaf myself
But maybe
We both
Doomed to distress
So we must
Arm in arm
Aimlessly continued
Towards the dull throat
Rise from there
A vague sound
(Translated by Cui Weiping)
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="487" > our fears</h1>
Our fears
I don't wear a night shirt
Does not have owl eyes
Not to lift the lid of a coffin
Or extinguish a candle that is still burning
It doesn't even have a dead man's face
It is found in the pocket
A sentence written on paper
"Remind Vucic
Old place on Drauga Street is dangerous"
It does not rise from the wings of a hurricane
It does not stop falling on the spire of a church
It's in reality
It has
A hastily made shape
Wear clothes with body temperature
Carrying rations
and weapons
Does not possess a dead man's face
The dead are gentle to us
We carry them on our shoulders
Wrapped under the same blanket
Close their eyes
Straighten their lips
Dig a dry pit
Bury them
Don't go too deep
Also don't be too shallow
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="488" > a poet's retelling (a radio drama).</h1>
Homer: Poetry is a shout. Do you know what's left of a poem after you get rid of that clamor?
Elpeni: I don't know.
Homer: Nothing.
Professor: In Anoni near Miletus, Anomi of Milo is a deaf man next to the giant.
(The ticking sound of water coming from a tap)
...... Unimportant and common topics. Anomi insisted on dedicating a poem to a tamarind, an ordinary plant, flourishing and useless.
Homer: I used to talk about war
Lighthouses and boats
The hero who was killed
and murderous heroes
But I forgot one thing.
I once told the story of the landscape at sea
The collapse of the city walls
Grain in a fire
Flipped mounds
But I forgot about the tamarind
When he was alive
Break through with a spear
His wounded mouth
Closed
He didn't see it
That sea
That city-state
I didn't see my friends
He saw it
Near his face
One share 柽yanagi
His gaze stretched
to the highest place
The dry twigs of tamarix,
At the same time avoided
Brown and green leaves
Cross the sky
No wings
No blood
No thoughts
Nothing --
Professor: The meaninglessness of the subject and the degeneration of form go hand in hand.
Homer:...... In the darkness and silence my body is maturing. It's like the earth of spring, full of unforeseen possibilities. A new layer of fur is covering my skin. I began to discover myself, began to investigate and describe.
First of all, I want to describe myself
Start with my head
Or better off from my arm
Left arm, to be precise
Or start with my hand
From the little thumb of the left hand
My little thumb
It's warm
Gently bends inwards
Until a nail
It consists of three parts
Grows directly from the palm of the hand
If separated from the palm of the hand
It will turn into a full-fledged worm
It is a special finger
It is the only little thumb of the left hand in the world
Straight to me
Other little thumbs of the left hand
It's a cold abstraction
Follow me
We have a common birth day
A day of death together
And a common loneliness
Just my blood
Punching flat comes from the dark repetition
Tug at that distant shore
Use that lifeblood of survival.
Carefully, I began to investigate the world. I learned everything until it became useless. It seems to be from another plot set. I had to observe every new thing, not starting with Troy, starting with Achilles, but with a sandal, a sandal with a buckle, starting with a stone that I had inadvertently kicked on the path.
A stone is a living thing
It was perfect
Consistent with itself
Respect your own boundaries
Rightly owned
Meaning as a stone
Has a scent that is different from anything else
Never panic or desire
It's passionate and indifferent
Just and dignified
When I squeeze it in my hand
I feel a great condemnation
Its noble and solemn body
A false warmth is discerned
Stones cannot be tamed
They will always look at us
With a brilliant and calm eye
I will never return to Miletus. That's where my shouting stays. It will catch me with some dark path and kill me.
Shouting in life
And between the shouts of death
Keep a tight eye on your nails
Stare at a sunset
Staring at the tail of a fish
What you're going to see
Not brought to the market
Something to sell at a reduced price
Not shouting
Those gods are like lovers
Like a great silence
At the beginning of the hustle and bustle
And between the end of the hustle and bustle
Like an elusive melody
No sound
And it has all the sound
This is just the beginning. The beginning is always quirky. I sat on the lowest steps of the temple of Zeus, and Miloculus and I were praising a little thumb, a tamarix tree, a pebble.
I have never had disciples or listeners. People are still terrified of the great fire of that epic. But it's going out. Soon those charred things will be covered with grass. I am the grass.
Sometimes I think I might be able to attract new audiences with new poetry, and that will no longer be from courage to courage, from shouting to shouting, from fear to fear. In its place, it is from grain to grain, leaves to leaves, feelings to feelings. From words to silence.
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="489" > why it is a classic</h1>
One
In the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War
Thucydides described his failed expedition
In those sieges, battles, diseases
The generals gave long speeches
Dragnet
Diplomatic strategy
This episode is like in the forest
A thin needle
Athens belongs to Amphipolis
Lost to Brahidas
Because Thucydides' rescue came too late
For this he was exiled for life
From the city-state where he was born
A whole lifetime of exile
Understand the cost
Two
Generals in today's wars
In a similar predicament
Nonsense about their submission
Boast about your heroism
And how innocent
They complained about their subordinates
Complain about jealous colleagues
And hostile winds
Thucydides said only
It was winter
He had seven boats
It's already at full power
Three
Is the subject of art
It must become a broken crock pot
A small broken soul
Filled with self-pity
So left for us
It will be lover's tears and the like
In a dimly lit little hotel
When the paste wallpaper peels off
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="490" > knocker</h1>
Some people have their heads
A courtyard with blooming
Pull a trail out of your hair
Access to a city sprinkled with sunshine and white
For these people
They close their eyes
Imagine the waterfall in an instant
It flowed down their foreheads
My imagination
It is a plank
My only tool
It's a branch
I tapped the plank
It responded to me
Yes – No
Others there are tree green bells
Blue bells on the surface of the water
But I have a knocker
From an unattended garden
I pounded the plank
It egged me on
Use the moralist's dry verses
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="491" > Proclust says</h1>
My mobile kingdom is between Athens and Megara
There I ruled alone over the forest gully cliffs
The advice of the old man without the king's scepter is only a stick
Cloaked only in the cloak of a wolf
I also have no subjects
If there had been they would not have lived longer than dawn
Mythologists mistakenly call me a robber
Actually I was just a scholar and reformer
My real passion lies in anthropometrics
I made a bed out of the size of a perfect person
I use this bed to measure the passers-by who have been caught
I had to — I admit — elongate — some arms and truncations
Some legs
The patients who are treated die the more they die
The more I became convinced that my research was legitimate
Therefore, the so-called progress cannot be without victims
I long to abolish the difference between tall and dwarf
I want to give a single style to the diverse human beings who hate it
I do my best to keep people in line
My head was cut off by Theseus from the murderer of the innocent Notaonos
He used a woman's ball of thread to escape the maze
A smart man with no principles and no prospects
I have a real hope that someone will continue my labor
Carry out such a wonderful undertaking at the beginning to the end
< h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="492" > tongue</h1>
Accidentally, I crossed her teeth and swallowed her clever tongue. It now grows inside my body, like a Japanese goldfish. It brushed my heart and diaphragm like the walls of a fish tank, and it stirred up the silt from the bottom.
The one who had been stripped of her throat by me stared at me with wide eyes waiting for me to speak.
But I didn't know which tongue to say to her—the one that had been stolen, or the one that had already grown in my mouth, too good?
(Translated by Davon)
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="493" > the power of fun</h1>
This doesn't require great character at all
We reject, disappoint and resist
Just have a little bit of courage
But it's mostly a fun thing
Yes it's fun
In it there is the texture of the soul and the cartilage of the conscience
Who knows if we can do better
It is to offer roses to a woman who is as thin as a pancake
Or dedicated to the fascinating characters in Bosch's paintings
But what a horror at this time
Terrible traps, alleys, barracks of murderers
Called the temple of justice
A native Mephistopheles dressed in a Lenin suit
Send Aurora's grandchildren into the wilderness
The boy had a potato-like face
The ugly girl's hands were red
Their rhetoric was made of cheap sacks
(Marcus. Tulles flipped in the grave)
A series of concepts that repeat itself synonymously resemble a falling whip
The dialectics of the murderer are unreasonable
Their syntax comes from the beauty of subjectivity
So aesthetics can be helpful in life
One cannot ignore the study of beauty
We must look carefully before announcing our promise
The style of the building, the rhythm of the brass drums and wind music
The colors of the office and the despicable ceremony of the funeral
Our eyes and ears refuse to obey
We feel that the king proudly chose exile
We have only a little bit of courage
It asks us to walk away, to make a twisted face and a mockery
Even for this rare physical gratification is necessary
Bow your head
<h1 class="pgc-h-arrow-right" data-track="494" > I want to describe</h1>
I want to describe the most concise emotions
Joy or sorrow
It's not like other people do
Lightning that touches the sun or rain
I want to describe a beam of light
It was born inside me
But I know it
Not like any starlight
Because it's not that bright
That's pure
It's not certain
I want to describe courage
And there was not a single dusty lion dragging behind him
Want to describe anxiety
Without shaking a bouquet filled with water
In another way
I would like to use all metaphors
Back to a word
It came out of my chest like a rib
Back to that word
It contains in my skin
Within boundaries
But while that's not possible
Just in time to say – I love
I ran around madly
Pick up bird feathers
And my tenderness
It's not made with water at all
But asked the water for a face
And anger
It is different from a flame
Just borrowed the flames
A chirping tone
So vague
Inside me
There are gentlemen who are quite good at maintenance
The ones that are forever abandoned
And said
This is the subject
This is the object
We lay down and went to sleep
A hand pressed under the head
The other hand reached into a pile of planets
Our feet abandoned us
Use their tiny roots
Experience the earth
The next morning
We pulled it out in pain
Focus on reading and sleeping, poetic inhabitation
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Facing the sea, look for light with black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "giving voice to grassroots poets" as its mission and carries forward the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of the truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, and the spiritual pleasure of poetry. He has published a collection of poems co-authored by poets, "Spring Blossoms of Reading Sleeping Poems" and "Grass Long Warblers Flying in Reading Sleeping Poems"