Map (24 page)

in a man both good and strong,

but good and strong

are still two different men.

 

“How should we live?” someone asked me in a letter.

I had meant to ask him

the same question.

 

Again, and as ever,

as may be seen above,

the most pressing questions

are naïve ones.

 

 

We are children of our age,

it's a political age.

 

All day long, all through the night,

all affairs—yours, ours, theirs—

are political affairs.

 

Whether you like it or not,

your genes have a political past,

your skin, a political cast,

your eyes, a political slant.

 

Whatever you say reverberates,

whatever you don't say speaks for itself.

So either way you're talking politics.

 

Even when you take to the woods,

you're taking political steps

on political grounds.

 

Apolitical poems are also political,

and above us shines a moon

no longer purely lunar.

To be or not to be, that is the question.

And though it troubles the digestion

it's a question, as always, of politics.

 

To acquire a political meaning

you don't even have to be human.

Raw material will do,

or protein feed, or crude oil,

 

or a conference table whose shape

was quarreled over for months:

Should we arbitrate life and death

at a round table or a square one?

 

Meanwhile, people perished,

animals died,

houses burned,

and the fields ran wild

just as in times immemorial

and less political.

 

 

Nothing has changed.

The body is a reservoir of pain;

it has to eat and breathe the air, and sleep;

it has thin skin and the blood is just beneath it;

it has a good supply of teeth and fingernails;

its bones can be broken; its joints can be stretched.

In tortures, all of this is considered.

 

Nothing has changed.

The body still trembles as it trembled

before Rome was founded and after,

in the twentieth century before and after Christ.

Tortures are just what they were, only the earth has shrunk

and whatever goes on sounds as if it's just a room away.

 

Nothing has changed.

Except there are more people,

and new offenses have sprung up beside the old ones—

real, make-believe, short-lived, and nonexistent.

But the cry with which the body answers for them

was, is, and will be a cry of innocence

in keeping with the age-old scale and pitch.

 

Nothing has changed.

Except perhaps the manners, ceremonies, dances.

The gesture of the hands shielding the head

has nonetheless remained the same.

The body writhes, jerks, and tugs,

falls to the ground when shoved, pulls up its knees,

bruises, swells, drools, and bleeds.

 

Nothing has changed.

Except the run of rivers,

the shapes of forests, shores, deserts, and glaciers.

The little soul roams among those landscapes,

disappears, returns, draws near, moves away,

evasive and a stranger to itself,

now sure, now uncertain of its own existence,

whereas the body is and is and is

and has nowhere to go.

 

 

Under what conditions do you dream of the dead?

Do you often think of them before you fall asleep?

Who appears first?

Is it always the same one?

First name? Surname? Cemetery? Date deceased?

 

To what do they refer?

Old friendship? Kinship? Fatherland?

Do they say where they come from?

And who's behind them?

And who besides you sees them in his dreams?

 

Their faces, are they like their photographs?

Have they aged at all with time?

Are they robust? Are they wan?

The murdered ones, have their wounds healed yet?

Do they still remember who killed them?

 

What do they hold in their hands? Describe these objects.

Are they charred? Moldy? Rusty? Decomposed?

And in their eyes, what? Entreaty? A threat? Be specific.

Do you only chat about the weather?

Or about flowers? Birds? Butterflies?

 

No awkward questions on their part?

If so, what do you reply?

Instead of safely keeping quiet?

Or evasively changing the dream's subject?

Or waking up just in time?

 

 

What needs to be done?

Fill out the application

and enclose the résumé.

 

Regardless of the length of life,

a résumé is best kept short.

 

Concise, well-chosen facts are de rigueur.

Landscapes are replaced by addresses,

shaky memories give way to unshakable dates.

 

Of all your loves, mention only the marriage;

of all your children, only those who were born.

 

Who knows you matters more than whom you know.

Trips only if taken abroad.

Memberships in what but without why.

Honors, but not how they were earned.

 

Write as if you'd never talked to yourself

and always kept yourself at arm's length.

 

Pass over in silence your dogs, cats, birds,

dusty keepsakes, friends, and dreams.

 

Price, not worth,

and title, not what's inside.

His shoe size, not where he's off to,

that one you pass off as yourself.

In addition, a photograph with one ear showing.

What matters is its shape, not what it hears.

What is there to hear, anyway?

The clatter of paper shredders.

 

 

“so suddenly, who could have seen it coming”

“stress and smoking, I kept telling him”

“not bad, thanks, and you”

“these flowers need to be unwrapped”

“his brother's heart gave out, too, it runs in the family”

“I'd never know you in that beard”

“he was asking for it, always mixed up in something”

“that new guy was going to make a speech, I don't see him”

“Kazek's in Warsaw, Tadek has gone abroad”

“you were smart, you brought the only umbrella”

“so what if he was more talented than they were”

“no, it's a walk-through room, Barbara won't take it”

“of course, he was right, but that's no excuse”

“with body work and paint, just guess how much”

“two egg yolks and a tablespoon of sugar”

“none of his business, what was in it for him”

“only in blue and just small sizes”

“five times and never any answer”

“all right, so I could have, but you could have, too”

“good thing that at least she still had a job”

“don't know, relatives, I guess”

“that priest looks just like Belmondo”

“I've never been in this part of the grounds”

“I dreamed about him last week, I had a feeling”

“his daughter's not bad-looking”

“the way of all flesh”

“give my best to the widow, I've got to run”

“it all sounded so much more solemn in Latin”

“what's gone is gone”

“goodbye”

“I could sure use a drink”

“give me a call”

“which bus goes downtown”

“I'm going this way”

“we're not”

 

 

There's nothing more debauched than thinking.

This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weed

on a plot laid out for daisies.

 

Nothing's sacred for those who think.

Calling things brazenly by name,

risqué analyses, salacious syntheses,

frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts,

the filthy fingering of touchy subjects,

discussion in heat—it's music to their ears.

 

In broad daylight or under cover of night

they form circles, triangles, or pairs.

The partners' age and sex are unimportant.

Their eyes glitter, their cheeks are flushed.

Friend leads friend astray.

Degenerate daughters corrupt their fathers.

A brother pimps for his little sister.

 

They prefer the fruits

from the forbidden tree of knowledge

to the pink buttocks found in glossy magazines—

all that ultimately simple-hearted smut.

The books they relish have no pictures.

What variety they have lies in certain phrases

marked with a thumbnail or a crayon.

 

It's shocking, the positions,

the unchecked simplicity with which

one mind contrives to fertilize another!

Such positions the Kama Sutra itself doesn't know.