Map (33 page)

 

 

Sky, earth, morning,

the time is eight fifteen.

Peace and quiet

in the savanna's yellowed grass.

An ebony tree in the distance

with evergreen leaves

and spreading roots.

 

A sudden uproar in the blissful stillness.

Two creatures who want to live suddenly bolt.

An antelope in violent flight,

a breathless hungry lioness behind her.

Their chances are equal for the moment.

The antelope may even have the edge.

And if not for the root

that thrusts from the ground,

if not for the stumble

of one of four hooves,

if not for the split second

of disrupted rhythm

that the lioness seizes

with one prolonged leap—

 

 

 

 

On the question of guilt,

nothing, only silence.

The sky,
circulus coelestis,
is innocent.

Terra nutrix,
breadwinner earth, is innocent.

Tempus fugitivum,
time, is innocent.

The antelope,
gazella dorcas,
is innocent.

The lioness,
leo massaicus,
is innocent.

The ebony tree,
diospyros mespiliformis,
is innocent.

And the observer who watches through binoculars

is, in such instances,

homo sapiens innocens.

 

 

Darwin.

They say he read novels to relax.

But only certain kinds:

nothing that ended unhappily.

If he happened on something like that,

enraged, he flung the book into the fire.

 

True or not,

I'm ready to believe it.

 

Scanning in his mind so many times and places,

he'd had enough of dying species,

the triumphs of the strong over the weak,

the endless struggles to survive,

all doomed sooner or later.

He'd earned the right to happy endings,

at least in fiction

with its microscales.

 

Hence the indispensable silver lining,

the lovers reunited, the families reconciled,

the doubts dispelled, fidelity rewarded,

fortunes regained, treasures uncovered,

stiff-necked neighbors mending their ways,

good names restored, greed daunted,

old maids married off to worthy parsons,

troublemakers banished to other hemispheres,

forgers of documents tossed down the stairs,

seducers scurrying to the altar,

orphans sheltered, widows comforted,

pride humbled, wounds healed,

prodigal sons summoned home,

cups of sorrow tossed into the ocean,

hankies drenched with tears of reconciliation,

general merriment and celebration,

and the dog Fido,

gone astray in the first chapter,

turns up barking gladly

in the last.

 

 

I asked him about the old days,

when we were still so young,

naïve, hotheaded, silly, green.

 

Some of that remains, except the young part,

he replied.

 

I asked if he still knew for sure

what was good and bad for humankind.

 

The most deadly of all illusions,

he replied.

 

I asked about the future,

did he still see it clearly.

 

I've read too many history books,

he replied.

 

I asked about the photo,

the framed one, on his desk.

 

Here and gone. Brother, cousin, sister-in-law,

my wife, my daughter on her lap,

the cat in my daughter's arms,

and the cherry tree blossoming, and above it

an unidentified bird flying

—he replied.

 

I asked if he was happy sometimes.

 

I work,

he replied.

 

I asked about his friends, did he still have them.

 

A few former assistants,

who have their own former assistants,

Ludmila, who looks after the house,

someone very close, but far away,

two ladies from the library, both smiling,

little Grześ across the hall and Marcus Aurelius,

he replied.

 

I asked about his health, his state of mind.

 

They won't give me coffee, vodka, cigarettes,

won't let me carry heavy memories and objects.

I just pretend that I can't hear them

—he replied.

 

I asked about the garden and the garden bench.

 

When the night is clear, I watch the sky.

I can't get enough of it,

so many points of view,

he replied.

 

 

They passed like strangers,

without a word or gesture,

she off to the store,

he heading to his car.

 

Were they panicked

or distracted,

or forgetting

that for a little while

they'd been in love forever.

 

There's no guarantee, though,

that it was them.

Maybe at a distance

but not close up.

 

I watched them from a window,

but observers from above

are easily mistaken.

 

She vanished behind glass doors,

he sat behind the wheel

and took off.

Nothing happened, that is,

even if it did.

 

But sure of what I'd seen

just for a moment,

I try in this chance poem

to persuade you, oh readers,

it was sad.

 

 

The poet reads his lines to the blind.

He hadn't guessed that it would be so hard.

His voice trembles.

His hands shake.

 

He senses that every sentence

is put to the test of darkness.

He must muddle through alone,

without colors or lights.

 

A treacherous endeavor

for his poems' stars,

dawns, rainbows, clouds, their neon lights, their moon,

for the fish so silvery thus far beneath the water

and the hawk so high and quiet in the sky.

 

He reads—since it's too late to stop now—

about the boy in a yellow jacket on a green field,

red roofs that can be counted in the valley,

the restless numbers on soccer players' shirts,

and the naked stranger standing in a half-shut door.

 

He'd like to skip—although it can't be done—

all the saints on that cathedral ceiling,

the parting wave from a train,

the microscope lens, the ring casting a glow,

the movie screens, the mirrors, the photo albums.

 

But great is the courtesy of the blind,

great is their forbearance, their largesse.

They listen, smile, and applaud.

 

One of them even comes up

with a book turned wrong side out

asking for an unseen autograph.

 

 

There are dogs and dogs. I was among the chosen.

I had good papers and wolf's blood in my veins.

I lived upon the heights inhaling the odors of views:

meadows in sunlight, spruces after rain,

and clumps of earth beneath the snow.

 

I had a decent home and people on call,

I was fed, washed, groomed,

and taken for lovely strolls.

Respectfully, though, and comme il faut.

They all knew full well whose dog I was.

 

Any lousy mutt can have a master.

Take care, though—beware comparisons.

My master was a breed apart.

He had a splendid herd that trailed his every step

and fixed its eyes on him in fearful awe.

 

For me they always had smiles,

with envy poorly hidden.

Since only I had the right

to greet him with nimble leaps,

only I could say goodbye by worrying his trousers with my teeth.

Only I was permitted

to receive scratching and stroking

with my head laid in his lap.

Only I could feign sleep

while he bent over me to whisper something.