Zbigniew Herbert

(29 October 1924 – 28 July 1998 / Lvov)

Zbigniew Herbert Poems

1. CO MYŚLI PAN COGITO O PIEKLE 7/24/2018
2. Episode 7/24/2018
3. How We Were Introduced 7/24/2018
4. A Knocker 7/24/2018
5. The Last Attack. To Klaus 7/24/2018
6. What Our Dead Do 7/24/2018
7. I Would Like to Describe 7/24/2018
8. The Envoy of Mr. Cogito 7/24/2018
9. What Our Dead Do 12/29/2011
10. Wasp 12/29/2011
11. Rovigo 12/29/2011
12. To My Bones 4/21/2010
13. In A City 12/29/2011
14. Prayer Of Pan Cogito – Traveller 12/29/2011
15. The Fable About A Nail 12/29/2011
16. Daedalus And Icarus 12/29/2011
17. The Rain 4/21/2010
18. The Power Of Taste 12/29/2011
19. The Return Of The Proconsul 12/29/2011
20. The Tongue 12/29/2011
21. Why The Classics 4/21/2010
22. Elegy Of Fortinbras 12/29/2011
23. Episode 4/21/2010
24. How We Were Introduced 4/21/2010
25. An Answer 4/21/2010
26. The Trial 1/3/2003
27. Report From Paradise 4/21/2010
28. First The Dog 4/21/2010
29. Three Poems By Heart 1/3/2003
30. Our Fear 4/21/2010
31. A Halt 1/3/2003
32. About Troy 1/3/2003
33. A Description Of The King 1/3/2003
34. The Ardennes Forest 1/3/2003
35. A Knocker 1/3/2003
36. Lament 1/3/2003
37. Objects 1/3/2003
38. Nothing Special 1/3/2003
39. A Russian Tale 1/3/2003
40. From The Top Of The Stairs 1/3/2003

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Best Poem of Zbigniew Herbert

Report From The Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -

they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege

I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time

all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left

I write as I can...

Read the full of Report From The Besieged City

The Ardennes Forest

Cup your hands to scoop up sleep
as you would draw a grain of water
and the forest will come: a green cloud
a birch trunk like a chord of light
and a thousand eyelids fluttering
with forgotten leafy speech
then you will recall the white morning
when you waited for the opening of the gates

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