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Polish poetry



Adam Mickiewicz		 Adam Mickiewicz

(1798-1855)

Author of the Polish epic Pan Tadeusz (Lord Thaddeus), Adam Mickiewicz is held in the highest esteem in his homeland as "The National Poet of Poland". Moreover, highly regarded throughout Europe as an accomplished scholar and teacher, Mickiewicz was awarded professorships in Latin language and literature by the University of Lausanne in Switzerland and in Slavonic literature in the College de France.

This poet's intense involvement in literary affairs, however, did not deter him from political activity. During a trying period of Poland's history, Mickiewicz kept up the spirit of the nation, healing its suffering and instilling in its people a faith in a better future. In that period when Poland was forgotten and stricken from the roster of living nations, he made its name known all over the world.

Mickiewicz's devotion to liberty, equality and moral idealism was not limited to mere movements of the pen. His public actions in defense of these principles led first to arrest and deportation to Russia in 1824 (he never returned to Poland), and eventually to his death from cholera in Constantinople, where he had organized a Polish legion to aid the Turkish army in its fight against Russia during the Crimean War. Buried in Paris until 1890, his body was then transferred amid great ceremony to Krakow's Wawel Castle, the resting place of Poland's greatest men.

FARIS
TWARDOWSKY'S WIFE
THE THREE BROTHERS BUDRYS


CRIMEAN SONNETS
"Wer den Dichter will verstehen
Muss in Dtchlers Lunde gehen."
Goethe.
THE CALM OF THE SEA
(from the heights of Tarkankut)

The flag on the pavilion barely stirs,
The water quivers gently in the sun
Like some young promised maiden dreaming on,
Half-waking, of the joy that shall be hers,
The sails upon the masts' bare cylinders
Are furled like banners when the war is done;
The ship rocks, chained on waters halcyon,
With idle sailors, laughing passengers.
O sea, among thy happy creatures, deep
Below, a polyp slumbers through the storm,
Its long arms ever lifted, poised to dart.
O thought, the hydra, memory, asleep
Through evil days, in peace will lift its form
And plunge its talons in thy quiet heart.

Translated by Dorothea Prall Radin, 1938 		THE STORM

The rudder breaks, the sails are ripped, the roar
Of waters mingles with the ominous sound
Of pumps and panic voices; all around
Torn ropes. The sun sets red, we hope no more -
The tempest howls in triumph; from the shore
Where wet cliffs rising tier on tier surround
The ocean chaos, death advances, bound
To carry ramparts broken long before,
One man has swooned, one wrings his hands ,one sinks
Upon his friends, embracing them. Some say
a prayer to death that it may pass them by.
One traveller sits apart and sadly thinks:
,,Happy the man who faints or who can pray
Or has a friend to whom to say goodbye."

Translated by Dorothea Prall Radin, 1938
BAKHCHISARAY

Those halls of the Gireys - still vast and great! -
Are galleries where desolation falls;
Those varicolored domes, those crumbling halls
Where proud pashas upon rich divans sate:
Retreats of love and palaces of state -
Here now the locust leaps, the serpent crawls,
And bindweed Ruin writes, as on the walls
The hand of doom once traced Belshazzar's fate.
Within, the marble fountain made to hold
The harem waters still unbroken stands,
Which shedding pearly fears, 'neath shattered panes,
Cries: ,,Where are ye, O Glory, Love, and Gold?
You should endure, while streams waste into sands.
O shame, ye pass - the agelles sprong remains!"

THE GRAVE OF THE COUNTESS POTOCKl

In spring's own country, where the gardens blow,
You faded, tender rose! For hours now past,
Like butterflies departing, on you're cast
The worms of memories to work you woe.
Northward toward Poland stars in thousands glow:
Why in that region are such myriads massed?
Did your bright glance, before it died at last,
Light sparks along the path it loved to go?
O Polish maid! I die an exile too;
Let some kind hand throw on me friendly mold!
Here travelers gathering often talk of you
And I shall hear the speech I knew of old,
And he who sings your praise will also view
My grave near by, and I shall be consoled
THE PILGRIM

A rich and lovely country wide unrolled,
A fair face by me, heavens where white clouds sail,
Why does my heart forever still bewail
Far-distant lands, more distant days of old?
Litwa! your roaring forests sang more bold
Than Salhir maid, Baydary nightingale;
Id'rather walk your marshes than this vale
Of mulberries, and pineapples of gold.
Here are new pleasures, and I am so far!
Why must I always sigh distractedly
For her I loved when first my morning star
Arose? In that dear house I may not see,
Where yet the tokens of her lover are,
Does she still walk my ways and think of me?
THE RUINS OF THE CASTLE AT BALAKLAVA

These castles heaped in shattered piles once graced
And guarded you, Crimea, thankless land!
Today like giant skulls set high they stand
And shelter reptiles, or men more debased.
Upon that tower a coat of arms is traced,
And letters, some dead hero's name, whose hand
Scourged armies. Now he sleeps forgotten and
The grapevine holds him, like a worm, embraced.
Here Greeks have chiseled Attic ornament,
Italians cast the Mongols into chains
And pilgrims chanted slowly, Mecca bent:
Today the black-winged vulture only reigns
As in a city, dead and pestilent,
Where mourning banners flutter to the plains.