The Collected Poems by Zbigniew Herbert

world
not from atoms
but from remnants
    forest of arden
from umbrella
ionian sea
from parkers quink
    just as long as
his look is wise
just as long as
his hand is sure—
    and presto the—world—
    hooks of flowers
on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by wind
    Â 
IN THE STUDIO
    With a light step
he moves
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
    the good gardener
props a flower with a stick
a human being with joy
the sun with deep blue
    then
nudges his glasses
puts on a tea kettle
mumbles to himself
strokes the cat
    When God built the world
he wrinkled his forehead
calculated and calculated
hence the world is perfect
and impossible to live in
    on the other hand
a painter’s world
is good
and full of error
the eye strolls
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit
    the eye purrs
the eye smiles
the eye remembers
the eye says you’ll last
if you manage to enter
right into that center
where the painter was
he who has no wings
wears floppy slippers
he who has no Virgil
with a cat in a pocket
a genial imagination
an unconscious hand
correcting the world
    Â 
GAUGUIN—THE END
    Mango blossoms in white sun in black rain
raking images and leaves in a broad sweep
on the rue des Fourneaux and on the Pacific
giant Gauguin heavy muted clogs knocking
seeks out a source then langorously drinks in
a sky slashed open and falls into sweet sleep
    he didn’t want rest he wanted a dream
which is work a long march at noon
carrying the shadowy pails of images
    Â Â Â Â Â sometimes he still hears
the hissing of Paris salons at home he left
a white woman now his curtains are shut
he must still be sleeping
let him sleep
    ocean driftwood guitars O parrot
he didn’t love girls not Téhoura
nor Mette Gad spit strung between her lips
Alina died too early mildew disgusted him
    a great vehicle goes with mango blossoms
the last king Pomare this rotting pineapple
in an admiral’s coat drives into the country
a wooden bell rings
    patient Vincent a sunflower in the sun
the sun will burn out his ruddy brain
he was brave he painted with a razor
it isn’t Monet he cried I won’t exhibit
avec le premier barbouilleur venu
    he who comprehends cobalt leaves the guild
there was no other path just a path to the sea
Gauguin moves his body on hands and knees
fruits are like boils the forest has eczema
the Maori gods pick their teeth moodily
ocean driftwood guitars a parrot
    between a fiery sky fiery grass—snow
a Breton village with mango blossoms
    Â 
BLACK ROSE
    it emerges
black
from eyes blinded
by lime
    it touches the air
and stands
diamond
black rose
amid planetary chaos
    blowing
the imagination’s little pipe
lead out
colors
from a black
rose
like a memory
from a burned city
    violet—for poison and cathedral
red—for a steak and an emperor
blue—for a clock
yellow—for a bone and an ocean
green—for a girl turned into a tree
white—for white
    O black rose
in a black rose
what do you hide
amid the dead flies of electrons
    Â 
APOLLO AND MARSYAS
    The real duel of Apollo
with Marsyas
(absolute ear
versus immense range)
takes place in the evening
when as we already know
the judges
have awarded victory to the god
    bound tight to a tree
meticulously stripped of his skin
Marsyas
howls
before the howl reaches his tall ears
he reposes in the shadow of that howl
    shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
    only seemingly
is the voice of Marsyas
monotonous
and composed of a single vowel
A
    in reality
Marsyas relates
the inexhaustible wealth
of his body
    bald mountains of liver
white ravines of aliment
rustling forests of lung
sweet hillocks of muscle
joints bile blood and shudders
    the wintry wind of bone
over the salt of memory
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument
    now to the chorus
is joined the backbone of Marsyas
in principle the same A
only deeper with the addition of rust
    this is already beyond the endurance
of the god with nerves of