autumn -- anticipating visiting writers

Autumn

by Adam Zagajewski

Autumn is always too early.

The peonies are still blooming, bees

are still working out ideal states,

and the cold bayonets of autumn

suddenly glint in the fields and the wind

rages.

What is its origin? Why should it destroy

dreams, arbors, memories?

The alien enters the hushed woods,

anger advancing, insinuating plague;

woodsmoke, the raucous howls

of Tatars.

Autumn rips away leaves, names,

fruit, it covers the borders and paths,

extinguishes lamps and tapers; young

autumn, lips purpled, embraces

mortal creatures, stealing

their existence.

Sap flows, sacrificed blood,

wine, oil, wild rivers,

yellow rivers swollen with corpses,

the curse flowing on: mud, lava, avalanche,

gush.

Breathless autumn, racing, blue

knives glinting in her glance.

She scythes names like herbs with her keen

sickle, merciless in her blaze

and her breath. Anonymous letter, terror,

Red Army.

Wait for an Autumn Day

Wait for an autumn day, for a slightly
weary sun, for dusty air,
a pale day's weather.

Wait for the maple's rough, brown leaves,
etched like an old man's hands,
for chestnuts and acorns,

for an evening when you sit in the garden
with a notebook and the bonfire's smoke contains
the heady taste of ungettable wisdom.

Wait for afternoons shorter than an athlete's breath,
for a truce among the clouds,
for the silence of trees,

for the moment when you reach absolute peace
and accept the thought that what you've lost
is gone for good.

Wait for the moment when you might not
even miss those you loved
who are no more.

Wait for a bright, high day,
for an hour without doubt or pain.
Wait for an autumn day.

-- Adam Zagajewski