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

STANISLAW BARANCZAK
 
 
 

THAT MOZART ARIA

That Mozart aria up there, which floor? Ten?
which window, sixteenth from the left? Empires
were tumbling down and rising up again.

That "Non so piu," that lucid lion's den
that frail fortress's flight, that friendly fire,
that anapestic pulsing from Floor Ten

had to be heard precisely there and then,
claiming its makeshift right not to expire,
though empires were rising up again

and our consent had mixed with their cement,
one Mozart tape may still salve the entire
globe's pain--if played in time on some Floor Ten.

As if that long-dead hand still tried to lend 
us all its wealth--us, those cheats and rogues for hire,
rubble from whom empires rose again,

but who held, too, a prayer with no amen,
who hoped this aria will never tire
or err, the Mozart aria from Floor Ten.
Empires fell down and rose up again.
 
 

SHE CRIED THAT NIGHT, BUT NOT FOR HIM TO HEAR

            To Ania, the only one

She cried that night, but not for him to hear.
In fact her crying wasn't why he woke.
It was some other sound; that much was clear.

And this half-waking shame. No trace of tears
all day, and still at night she works to choke
the sobs; she cries, but not for him to hear.

And all those other nights: she lay so near
but he had only caught the breeze's joke,
the branch that tapped the roof. That much was clear.

The outside dark revolved in its own sphere:
no wind, no window pane, no creaking oak
had said: "She's crying, not for you to hear."

Untouchable are those tangibly dear,
so close, they're closed, too far to reach and stroke
a quaking shoulder-blade. This much is clear.

And he did not reach out--for shame, for fear
of spoiling the tears' tenderness that spoke:
"Go back to sleep. What woke you isn't here.
It was the wind outside, indifferent, clear."