Summer 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2011 |

Wandering

From the Polish.  We were vacationing with friends: a writer from the States, whose poems measure justice, and an actor from Warsaw, his face open to both good and evil guests; it was in a sheer, deep valley of the young Rodan, a sweltering late August day, one of those days when autumn wakens from its catnap in the forest's depths. We tried to find the spot we remembered so clearly from the photo—the proud tower, secluded, full of solitude, elegies, and sonnets, poetry's tower, but new suburbs surrounded us, white houses, and cars as clean as a bureaucrat's conscience; children walked their dogs, dogs walked their adults, in gardens roses awaited the gardener's shears. We were among friends, bees frantically built frail walls for their winter homes, on mild, musing hillsides wine was gathered like a crimson mountain stream, embankments of wild dreams. We made our pilgrimage to Rilke's tower, which had become a strange cathedral, and our journeying, se

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Café

By Adam Zagajewski, translated by Clare Cavanagh

From the Polish.  We were vacationing with friends: a writer from the States, whose poems measure justice, and an actor from Warsaw, his face open to both good and evil […]

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