AutumnAutumn is always too early.The peonies are still blooming, beesare still working out ideal states,and the cold bayonets of autumnsuddenly glint in the fields and the windrages.What is its origin? Why should it destroydreams, arbors, memories?The alien enters the hushed woods,anger advancing, insinuating plague;woodsmoke, the raucous howlsof Tatars.Autumn rips away leaves, names,fruit, it covers the borders and paths,extinguishes lamps and tapers; youngautumn, lips purpled, embracesmortal creatures, stealingtheir 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, blueknives glinting in her glance.She scythes names like herbs with her keensickle, merciless in her blazeand her breath. Anonymous letter, terror,Red Army.
Wait for an Autumn DayWait 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
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
autumn -- anticipating visiting writers
who: adam zagajewski