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Author Topic: Czeslaw Milosz dies
lagatta
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Babbler # 2534

posted 14 August 2004 09:48 AM      Profile for lagatta     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Nobel Prize-winning Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz has died.

Campo di Fiori
 

  In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.

Czeslaw Milosz


From: Se non ora, quando? | Registered: Apr 2002  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
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Babbler # 478

posted 14 August 2004 10:02 AM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
The first bio I could find.

That's a very beautiful one, lagatta. From the ABC obit:

quote:
Aleksander Fiut, a philology professor at Krakow's Jagiellonian University said Milosz attained new relevance amid the post-communist change that swept Poland.

Milosz looked "for hope in what's beyond the sphere of everyday life which is so fragile, beyond the consumption," Fiut told The Associated Press.

"He refers to religious imagination, he upholds that a human being is a value."


Great lives can be such hard lives -- and vice versa, of course.


From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:14 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
No waay. lagatta please see my Pm.

The very worst thing ive done

involves Milosc


From: the flop | Registered: Jul 2002  |  IP: Logged
flotsom
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Babbler # 2832

posted 14 August 2004 10:16 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
I will tell.

I copied out a smack of poems by Milosc.

Later I met an older woman with the Queen's own red hair


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flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:16 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
i read a hundred pages of Milosc
From: the flop | Registered: Jul 2002  |  IP: Logged
flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:17 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
and said "yes, they are mine."
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flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:18 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
that's pretty bad
From: the flop | Registered: Jul 2002  |  IP: Logged
flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:26 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
yup
From: the flop | Registered: Jul 2002  |  IP: Logged
flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:28 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
"in fear and trembling i think i woul fulfill my life only if i could make one public confessiom, revealing a sham, of my own and of my epoch's..."
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flotsom
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posted 14 August 2004 10:29 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
"namely that we were premitted in the tongues of dwarfs or demons..."
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flotsom
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Babbler # 2832

posted 14 August 2004 10:30 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
(sorry, i messed that)

namely that we were premitted TO SHRIEK in the tongues of dwarfs or demons..." From: the flop | Registered: Jul 2002 | IP: Logged


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flotsom
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Babbler # 2832

posted 14 August 2004 10:31 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
"but sure and generous words"
From: the flop | Registered: Jul 2002  |  IP: Logged
flotsom
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Babbler # 2832

posted 14 August 2004 10:32 AM      Profile for flotsom   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
"were forbidden under so stiif a penalty"
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'lance
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Babbler # 1064

posted 23 August 2004 02:05 PM      Profile for 'lance     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Yes, well, back to our regularly scheduled thread.

From the NRYB, here's An Honest Description of Myself with a Glass of Whiskey at an Airport, Let Us Say, in Minneapolis

My ears catch less and less of conversations, and my eyes have weakened, though they are still insatiable.

I see their legs in miniskirts, slacks, wavy fabrics.

Peep at each one separately, at their buttocks and thighs, lulled by the imaginings of porn.

Old lecher, it's time for you to the grave, not to the games and amusements of youth.

But I do what I have always done: compose scenes of this earth under orders from the erotic imagination.

It's not that I desire these creatures precisely; I desire everything, and they are like a sign of ecstatic union.

It's not my fault that we are made so, half from disinterested contemplation, half from appetite.

If I should accede one day to Heaven, it must be there as it is here, except that I will be rid of my dull senses and my heavy bones.

Changed into pure seeing, I will absorb, as before, the proportions of human bodies, the color of irises, a Paris street in June at dawn, all of it incomprehensible, incomprehensible the multitude of visible things.

--

and Forget

Forget the suffering
You caused others.
Forget the suffering
Others caused you.
The waters run and run,
Springs sparkle and are done,
You walk the earth you are forgetting.

Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.
What does it mean, you ask, who is singing?
A childlike sun grows warm.
A grandson and a great-grandson are born.
You are led by the hand once again.

The names of the rivers remain with you.
How endless those rivers seem!
Your fields lie fallow,
The city towers are not as they were.
You stand at the threshold mute.


From: that enchanted place on the top of the Forest | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
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posted 23 August 2004 02:09 PM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Thank you, 'lance.
From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
'lance
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posted 28 August 2004 10:26 PM      Profile for 'lance     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Here's one from the New Yorker.

--
Merchants

In a town where a miracle occurred, merchants install their booths,
side by side, along a street through which pilgrims proceed.

They display their goods, wondering at the stupidity which compels people to buy little crosses, tiny medals, rosaries.

Even plastic bottles in the shape of the Madonna for preservation of the healing water.

The sick on their stretchers, the paralyzed in their wheelchairs

fortify the merchants in their disdainful believe that religion is self-
consolation, based on the understandable need for any kind of rescue.

They rub their hands, reckon, add to their inventory new supplies
of crucifixes, or nickel coins imprinted with the effigies of Popes.

And the pilgrims, looking at their faces, onto which have crept
scarcely noticeable smiles, feel threatened in their faith, just as
children feel threatened by grownups, keepers of a secret, guessed at,
but still vague.


From: that enchanted place on the top of the Forest | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged

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