520
and a motionless forest
and my dreams make blizzards
and intersperse them with guards
in snowy hoods
A POLISH DAY
In our large box
we sit with ears pressed
to a smaller box
where rasps and whistles
penetrate the jamming's violence
bits of a word Freedom
emerge from the whirlpool
the wet sliver of a word Poland
the salty remains of a few other crippled words
the longed-for voice
from a world that can do nothing
Adam Zagajewski
CHRISTMAS EVE '81
Even holidays can become
a prison if suddenly some fist shoves
them into the darkness of the past, so
that it could be Bethlehem or
December 1791 or Christmas Eve
in Siberia, the dishes set out
the exiles' cheeks clean shaven,
the table cloth snow white , a touch
of frost bite's blue, dreams
PARTISAN REVIEW