POEMS
CZESLAW MILOSZ
To
My
Daimonion
I.
Please , my daimonion, ease offjust a bit,
I am still closing accounts and have much to tell.
Your rhythmical whispers intimidate me.
Today for instance, reading about a ce rtain old woman
I saw again - let us call her Priscilla,
Though I am astonished that I can give her any name
And people will not care. So, that Priscilla,
Her gums in poor shape, an old hag,
Is the one to whom I return, in order to throw charms
And grant her eternal youth. I introduce a river,
Green hills, irises wet with rain
And, of course, a conversation. "You know," I say,
" I could never guess what was on your mind
And will never learn. I have a question
That won 't be answered." And you, daimonion,
Just at this moment interfere , interrupt us, averse to
Surnames and fami ly names, actualities,
Too prosaic and ridiculous, no doubt.
II.
My daimonion , it is certain I could not have lived
differently.
I would have perished if not for you. Your in cantation
Would resound in my car, fill me,
And I cou ld on ly repeat it, instead of thinking
About my bad character, the decline of the world,
Or about a lost laundry ticket.
And it seems that while others loved,
Strove, hated , despaired,
I have only been busy with listening intently
To your unclear notes, to change them into words.
I had to accept my fate, call ed today karma,
For it was as it was, though I did not choose it -
And get up every day to honor the work,
Even if there is no gui lt of mine in it and no merit.
