At the poetry meeting that I attend once a month, we have had some brief but interesting discussions about the merits of poetry in translation: as to whether or not two people can write a poem. But for me it has never been an issue of any consequence, for not having the option to read poems in languages other than English, the yardstick by which I judge the quality of what I am reading, is in its effect: as to whether or not I feel enriched by the experience. So it is thanks to Robert Fagle's translations from the Greek, that I am able to enjoy Homer's epic poems, The Iliad, and Odyssey. And to James McGowan, whose translations from the French, allow me to enter the Parisian, and in some respects seedy world, of Charles Baudelaire And James E Falen, whose translation from the Russian, has allowed me to enjoy Alexander Pushkin's novel, Eugene Onegin. Written in verse, and set in imperial Russia, it draws the reader into a web of complex personal and political relationships, and intrigue. But if reading poetry in translation, (or novels, for that matter,) has to be second best, someone who helps to redress the balance, is the Polish poet and Nobel prizewinner, Czeslaw Milosz.
Now as a general rule, I don't pay too much attention to what a dust cover has to say, but in the case of Czeslaw Milosz, (and having read all his work,) I am happy to make an exception, so here it is:
"One of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. Czeslaw Milosz defined the tragedy and beauty of his age with an unrivaled elegance and precision. Whether describing his early youth in Poland, the anguish of war-torn Warsaw, or his personal search for religious meaning, his poetry brilliantly evokes the wonder, amazement and sensuous detail of living, and the particular individuality of every life. Compelling explorations of mortality, war, love and faith, these unique poems are at once unsettling and deeply inspiring: a passionate confirmation that "to exist on earth is beyond any power to name.""
This appraisal is taken from a publication of his work by Penguin Classics, the title for which, in contrast to the above, is drab in comparison: "New and Collected Poems 1931-2001 " But what really matters in the context of this blog is, that these poems were translated from Polish into English, by the man himself,. and that surely has to be as close as you can get to the original, when reading in translation.
Now for our last meeting the theme was "a journey", so I brought along one of his poems and introduced it as representing, life's journey.
POET AT SEVENTY
Thus, brother theologian, here you are,
Connoisseur of heavens and abysses,
Year after year perfecting your art,
Choosing bookish wisdom for your mistress,
Only to discover you wander in the dark.
Ai, humiliated to the bone
By tricks that crafty reason plays,
You searched for peace in human homes
But they, like sailboats, glide away,
Their goal and port, alas, unknown.
You sit in taverns drinking wine,
Pleased by the hubbub and the din,
Voices grow loud and then decline
As if played out by a machine
And you accept your quarrantine.
On this sad earth no time to grieve,
Love potions every spring are brewing,
Your heart, in magic, finds relief,
Though Lenten dirges cut your cooing.
And thus you learn how to forgive.
Veracious, frivolous, and dazed
As if your time were without end
You run around and loudly praise
Theatrum where the flesh pretends
To win the game of nights and days.
In plumes and scales to fly and crawl,
Put on mascara, fluffy dresses,
Attempt to play like beasts and fowl,
Forgetting interstellar spaces:
Try, my philosopher, this world.
And all your wisdom came to nothing
Though many years you worked and strived
With only one reward and trophy:
Your happiness to be alive
And sorrow that your life is closing.
__________
Now without going in too too much analysis, this poem is remarkable in its conclusion: in his happiness at being alive, and his "sorrow" at the prospect of death, and that despite the fact that life was a paradox: a myriad of experiences that besides being contradictory, often provef illusory But however "dark" or "sad" life was, (a life lived in the teeth of the Nazi occupation of Poland,) or certain he was, that all his "wisdom" had "come to nothing", the word that puts the poem in a true perspective is, "sorrow". Why? Because implicit in "sorrow" is the idea of goodness.
Well at seventy-three I too have been looking back, and musing on how, despite all expectations, I have defied the odds: the teenage premonition that I would die young. But unlike Saint Paul, who had an altogether more profound experience on the road to Damascus, and who was told where to go and what to do, I found myself alone and grappling with the question, What is young? And such were the subtleties of the teenage mind, that my premonition came with its own fell-safe mechanism. Though it seemed most likely that I would die in my thirties, there was an outside chance, that I would just scrape past the half-century. ..
Now in light-hearted moments my mother had a saying, "when the head's gone, all's gone," and calling it to mind allows me to tell you, that as things stand, my head is in very good order, as are my limbs, (no aches, pains or weaknesses in the extremities,) as is my appetite. For apart from the porridge, bread and honey, and pot of tea that I put in front of myself each morning, there is never anything of what Jenny provides, that gets wasted. And all the anatomical unmentionable bits of me, are in good order also, and I sleep well. But for all that, I am now on the cusp, and. as they would say, "physically and psychologically challenged", for what has changed is, that I can no longer take my daily walks for granted. And for someone like me, who all his life has been physically active, if this is to last, it will be a sea change.
So what has changed.
Well to begin with, I have never had a heart attack, nor could my local doctor, either this year, or last, find evidence of anything wrong with my heart or lungs. But as last year, I was complaining of tightness in the chest and difficulty in breathing, I was referred back to cardiology for an angiogram. On that visit they confirmed that the stent, (a small tube) that was inserted into an artery in 2006,) was clear and working well. But on the basis that they had detected a "pinched artery" in the heart, that might be the cause of my problems, I was referred for what is known as an Adenosine stress MRI scan. This scan involves a medically induced stress test, (a test that allows them to study the heart working under pressure.) But here too, as with my local doctor, the end result was the same, they found nothing to be concerned about.
Now if we link these medical details, (and in particular the result of the stress test,) to the description of my general health, the signs, so far, are all positive. But of course, what remains unexplained is, why if the results are positive, am I struggling with angina. As for the "pinched artery", that is not unknown, and many people who have the condition, pass through life unaffected by it.
And there is this final perplexing detail.
When the "pinched artery" was identified I was prescribed 30mg of a slow release nitrate, that has the effect of relaxing the artery so as to improve the the flow of blood around the heart. Now when I saw my doctor recently, and he was deciding what to do, I was happy to agree to his suggestion that, "we try simple things first", which was to increase the nitrate from 30 to 60mg. Well the long and the short of it is, that despite that, and the fact that I have added to this, the occasional use of a liquid nitrate spray before going walking, the symptoms persist. So I am headed back to cardiology at the end of July, and wondering why no one has had this conversation with me:
"Mr McCloskey, you are 73, and these things happen, and I am afraid that the test results tell us that your heart is only 85 per cent efficient."
To which, by way of reassurance, they might have added:
"But for you, the good news is, that we have patients your age, and younger, whose hearts are 65 per cent, and less, efficient."
Now it was this absence of an explanation in the face of medical investigation and intervention, that left me feeling depressed; to which I might add, that I was neither physically or psychologically ready to have my wings clipped, never mind die, and that despite the fact that I have a significant spiritual life:of prayer and surrender to God.
But the good news is, that the depression didn't last long, and here's why
When I set about studying a diagram of the heart, so as to understand better how it is structured and how it works, it was only a matter of moments, and against all expectations, before I had lost all sense of self, and instead, was lost in the contemplation of something extraordinary, beautiful, and riven with intelligence. It was the sort of response that I had in my youth, when I looked into the night sky, or tried, as best I could, to comprehend existence, and the every-day cycle of life. Long before I had heard of Aristotle, I found God, self-evidently manifest in creation. And for the first time ever, as I considered this diagram of the heart: its structure, purpose, and precision, I found in it, a new universe, with that same beauty and manifest intelligence, so that I understood, as never before, how it is possible for scientists, (as distinct from those of us who are preoccupied with the arts,) to find beauty, in all its fullness, in their work. .
__________
© Cormac McCloskey
Czeslaw Milosz
New and Collected Poems 1931-2001
Penguin Modern Classics
ISBN [none given]
"to exist on earth is beyond any power to name"
Czeslaw Milosz
