46:3 & 4           (FALL 2000)
"NEW   POLISH   WRITING"

ZBIGNIEW HERBERT
 
 

ROVIGO

ROVIGO STATION. Unclear associations. A drama of Goethe
or something from Byron. I traveled through Rovigo
n times and exactly at the nth time I understood
that in my inner geography it is a special
place although it certainly yields
to Florence. I never touched it with my living foot
and Rovigo was always approaching or fleeing behind

At the time I was filled with love for the Altichiera
at the Oratory of San Giorgio in Padua and for Ferrara
which I loved because it reminded me
of the pillaged city of my fathers. I lived stretched
between the past and the present moment
many times crucified by a place and a time

And yet happy firmly trusting
the sacrifice will not be wasted

Rovigo wasn't distinguished by anything particular it was
a masterpiece of mediocrity straight streets plain houses
only before or after the city (depending on the train's direction)
a mountain suddenly rose from the plain--sliced open by a red quarry
like an Easter Ham surrounded by kale
besides that nothing to amuse sadden dazzle the eye

And yet it was a city of blood and stone--just like the others
a city in which yesterday somebody died someone went mad
someone coughed hopelessly throughout the night

ACCOMPANIED BY WHICH BELLS DO YOU APPEAR ROVIGO

Reduced to a station to a comma a crossed letter
nothing but a station--arrivi--partenze
and why do I think about you   Rovigo   Rovigo
 
 
 
 
 

THE HEAD

Theseus strides across an ocean
of blood-stained columns leaves at the time of renewal
he carries in his clenched fist a trophy
the lopped-off head of the Minotaur

The bitterness of the victory A cry of an owl
marks off dawn with a coppery measure
so that he feels sweet defeat to the end of his life
warm breath on the nape of the neck