An Analysis Of My Faithful Mother Tongue By Czeslaw Milosz
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What "The World" did, at a moment when brutality and atrocity were the daily reality, was to create a picture of the very opposite state of affairs. In this idyll, children are trusting and secure, parents kind and reliable, the landscape and seasons a storybook delight. And all this was presented while the country was in the cruel grip of the occupying army. It was a case of beauty holding a plea with rage, a kind of answer to Shakespeare's question about how such a thing might be done. And from beginning to end the poems do seem to arrive with an unforced certitude, to be touching down into the here and now out of an elsewhere, as if he were "no more than a secretary of the invisible thing".
And that brimming creativity gives credence to his traditional sense of himself as the inspired poet:. Whatever I hold in my hand, a stylus, reed, quill or a ballpoint, Wherever I may be, on the tiles of an atrium, in a cloister cell, in a hall before the portrait of a king, I attend to matters I have been charged with. And yet the poem which opens on these long perspectives "From the Rising of the Sun" is suddenly dramatising the displaced person's predicament in an immediate heartfelt idiom:. Never again will I kneel in my small country, by a river, So that what is stone in me could be dissolved, So that nothing would remain but my tears, tears. He was poised between lyricism and witness.
In "The Poor Poet", written in Warsaw in , the eponymous poet finds that his pen is putting forth twigs and leaves and blossoms and a scent that is "impudent", "like an insult to suffering humanity". This sense of guilt and the impulse to rebuke himself as much as others is a constant throughout the work, and never more powerfully deployed than in The Captive Mind , the prose book by which he was principally known in English until the poems began to be translated and published from the late s and then came the Nobel prize in Written in France in the mids, it is a j'accuse directed at members of the Polish intelligentsia who had succumbed to the lure of Marxism.
It is, however, written with such insight into those particular minds as they become captivated that it is clear the poet must have thought and known, "There but for the grace of God go I". It was the strange destiny of this poet so entangled in dread historical experience to end up in in Berkeley. Berries swarmed on the bushes. As Walter made his way up the hill, he stripped a branch of its fruit.
He liked to roll the black beads around his teeth, to break the freshness from their skin. The firmness of the flesh, the juices spitting through his mouth reminded Walter of me, and for a moment Walter chewed the berries, mulled them over, slowly, sensually. Then a distant cough put things right. Walter was not out for a walk with his wife. Walter was out for a walk with his mother and he swallowed the mouthful whole. Above him the sky was so blue the branches of the Douglas firs looked black. Around him the day was so still the song of a distant hiker hovered above the hills and Walter looked back at his mother. But there was no point calling the song or the deer that crossed the path between them to her attention.