This set of poems contains three poems by major Polish poets – ‘Blacksmith Shop’ by Czeslaw Milosz, ‘Nothing Special’ by Zbigniew Herbert and ‘Star’ by Adam Zagajewski. The poets were close friends and associates, writing in the dark shadow of Polish suffering during and after the Second World War. Czesław Miłosz – a Nobel Laureate (1990) - translated the poems of Herbert and introduced Adam Zagajewski to English-speaking readers; Zagajewski wrote the Introduction to Herbert’s Collected Poems. All three poets were ‘makers’ in the oldest sense, artists building a world ‘from remnants’, celebrating the joys of ordinary life despite the ravages of history. Three poems by British poets continue a theme of the power of poetry to record the world, to ‘tease out the melody’ and to give weight to memory and hope: • ‘The Windhover’ by Gerard Manley Hopkins, written in Hopkins’ personal language of religious ecstasy. • ‘At Sixty’ by the Shetlandic poet Christine de Luca, about reaching the age of sixty in the far north. The poem is written in Shetlandic, a Scots dialect still spoken in the Shetland Islands—which just happen to lie on the 60th parallel. • ‘Ourstory’ by Carole Satyamurti, a tribute to the unsung ‘awkward women’ whose tenacity helped to liberate the lives of women today.

1. Blacksmith Shop B
I liked the bellows operated by rope. And horses hitched to be shod,
A hand or foot pedal—I don’t remember which. Tossing their manes; and in the grass by the river
But that blowing, and the blazing of the fire! Plowshares, sledge runners, harrows waiting for repair.
And a piece of iron in the fire, held there by tongs,
Red, softened for the anvil, At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor,
Beaten with a hammer, bent into a horseshoe, Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds.
Thrown in a bucket of water, sizzle, steam. I stare and stare. It seems I was called for this:
To glorify things just because they are.
Czesław Miłosz (1911-2004)
Translated by Czesław Miłosz and Robert Hass
Reprinted by permission of Penguin from New and Collected Poems 1931-2001 © Czesław Miłosz Royalties Inc., 1991 (2001)
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2. Star
I returned to you years later, and wandered in the maze
gray and lovely city, of narrow streets and illusions.
unchanging city The sovereign of clocks and shadows
buried in the waters of the past. has touched my brow with his hand,
I’m no longer the student but still I’m guided by
of philosophy, poetry, and curiosity, a star by brightness
I’m not the young poet who wrote and only brightness
too many lines can undo or save me.
Adam Zagajewski (b. 1945)
Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, from Eternal Enemies (2008)
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3. Nothing Special mr artist
builds a world
just as long as
his look is wise
not from atoms just as long as
but from remnants his hand is sure —
nothing special forest of arden and presto the world —
boards paint from umbrella
nails paste ionian sea hooks of flowers
paper string from parkers quink on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by wind
Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998)
Translated by Czesław Miłosz and Peter Dale Scott
Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins from The Collected Poems 1956-1998 (2007) © 2007 The Estate of Zbigniew Herbert
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4. The Windhover r
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
in his riding Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,–the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
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5. At Sixty
Dat line whaar birds, hurless, cross where birds, exhausted ta tree score year is harkin for dat line, to three-score listening
a treshel-tree, winter at der back, a threshold anidder saison o sang. Hit’s shivvin it’s pushing
or a skirl o simmer afore dem. a shrill laugh of summer fornenst da door, liftin da sneck, takkin against the door,
lifting the latch
Whaar, alang da sixtieth parallel, da fiddle doon an tunin whit’s left ta mak
sheerlin on ringin strings vimmers birdsong trembles on da notes. Fingers rekk farder, trivvel reach further, grope gently
on a nordern palette. Hingin in ringing strings da missin string, tize oot da melody. tease out the melody
Hanging on
Christine De Luca (b. 1947)
Written in Shetlandic, Scots dialect of the Shetland Isles, lying on the 60th parallel
Reprinted by permission of the author and Luath Press from North End of Eden (2010)
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6. Ourstory
Let us now praise women who sang their own numbers, went uninsured,
with feet glass slippers wouldn’t fit; knew best what they were missing.
not the patient, nor even the embittered Our misfit foremothers are joining forces
ones who kept their place, underground, their dusts mingling
but awkward women, tenacious with truth, breast-bone with scapula, forehead
whose elbows disposed of the impossible; with forehead. Their steady mass
who split seams, who wouldn’t wait, bursts locks; lends a springing foot
take no, take sedatives; to our vaulting into enormous rooms.
Carole Satyamurti (b. 1939)
Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe from Stitching the Dark: New & Selected Poems (2005)
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