Czeslaw Milosz

(30 June 1911 – 14 August 2004 / Kedainiai)

Czeslaw Milosz Poems

1. Preface 3/23/2012
2. Theodicy 4/21/2010
3. The Road 3/23/2012
4. Road-Side Dog 3/23/2012
5. The Dining Room 3/23/2012
6. You Whose Name 3/23/2012
7. An Hour 3/23/2012
8. It Was Winter 4/21/2010
9. Sarajevo 3/23/2012
10. Where The Sun Rises And Where It Sets 3/23/2012
11. Christopher Robin 3/23/2012
12. One More Contradiction 3/23/2012
13. Veni Seer 3/23/2012
14. Annalena 3/23/2012
15. Earth Again 3/23/2012
16. By The Peonies 3/23/2012
17. My Faithful Mother Tongue 3/23/2012
18. And The City Stood In Its Brightness 2/20/2015
19. Raja Rao 3/23/2012
20. To Mrs. Professor In Defense Of My Cat's Honor And Not Only 4/21/2010
21. You Who Wronged 4/21/2010
22. Faith 3/23/2012
23. Hope 3/23/2012
24. Winter 4/21/2010
25. In Warsaw 3/23/2012
26. A Treatise On Poetry: Iv Natura 4/21/2010
27. The Rising Of The Sun 3/23/2012
28. City Without A Name 4/21/2010
29. How It Was 4/21/2010
30. Woe! 1/8/2004
31. Statue Of A Couple 1/3/2003
32. Not Mine 1/1/2004
33. A Song On The End Of The World 4/21/2010
34. A Felicitous Life 4/21/2010
35. On Angels 1/13/2003
36. A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto 4/21/2010
37. Unde Malum 1/8/2004
38. A Magic Mountain 4/21/2010
39. Window 1/3/2003
40. Late Ripeness 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Czeslaw Milosz

Ars Poetica?

I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess ...

Read the full of Ars Poetica?

What Does It Mean

It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.

And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.

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