Sunday, December 16, 2007


Adam Zagajewski (2007)
(Translated, from Polish, by Clare Cavanagh)

I watch William Blake, who spotted angels
every day in treetops
and met God on the staircase
of his little house and found light in grimy alleys—

Blake, who died
singing gleefully
in a London thronged
with streetwalkers, admirals, and miracles,

William Blake, engraver, who labored
and lived in poverty but not despair,
who received burning signs
from the sea and from the starry sky,

who never lost hope, since hope
was always born anew like breath,
I see those who walked like him on graying streets,
headed toward the dawn's rosy orchid.


dan said...

from The New Yorker August 13, 2007
Adam Zagajewski

ethan said...

The end seems rightfully abrupt; like the author ends the poem because he's not sure what to make of it. Sometimes you just watch things, and wonder how? or why? and you don't have much more to say about it. Anyway, that's what I get out of it. Nice poem!