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me from asking Czeslaw about that line. It sometimes seemed to me that
there is a kind of impertin ence in inquiring about th e literal sources of per–
ceptions once they have been transfo rmed in to poetry, though [ realize that
such inhibi ti ons would hamper much Ii terary gossip and much valuabl e Ii t–
erary commentary, but [ do no t know whether that line o r some others nea r
it may have any relati on to that visit and th at walk, altho ugh Puybrun is
there in the vall ey below the fa rmhouse some mil es away, and we can tell
from the sound of the train on the railroad bridge what the coming day's
or night's wea ther mi ght be. [n ano ther secti o n o f the poem he menti ons
The
A d'Jen tIl YCS
of
Te /clllac/IIIS,
th e seventeenth -century novel by Fenel on ,
who lived at Ca rermac some mil es farther down the ri ver. Czeslaw's is a
poem o f el even secti o ns, but I w ill not read mo re than two, much as [ love
it all , but [ want th em to represent no t onl y the res t of th e poem but the
whol e body of Czeslaw's poetry and my g ratitude and love fo r it as they
have grown over the years. Thi s is secti o n 5, a sho rt one.
The scent of freshly mown clover redeemed th e peri shed armies and
the meadows gli ttered in headlights fo rever.
An immense ni ght o f July fill ed m y 11l0uth with a tas te of ra in and
nea r Pu ybrun by the bridges m y childh ood was given bac k.
The warm encampment of crickets chirped under a low cl oud just
as in our lost homelands w here a wooden ca rt goes creakin g.
Bo rne by an insc rutabl e power, one century go ne, I heard , bea ting
in darkness, the hea rt of th e dead and th e living.
And thi s is secti o n 10:
T he dream shared at ni ght by all peopl e has inh abi ta llts, hairy
animals.
It is a huge and snu g fo res t and everyone enterin g it wa lks on all
fours till dawn through th e very thi ck of th e tangle.
Through the w ildern ess in accessible to meta l obj ects, all-embracing
like a wa rm and deep river,
In sa tin tunnels the touch di stin gui shes apples alld th eir colo r that
docs not reca ll anything real.
All are quad rupeds, their thighs rejoice at th e ba dger- bea r softness,
th eir rosy tongues li ck each o th er's fur.
The " I" is fe lt w ith amazement in th e hea rtbeat, bu t so large it
cann o t be fill ed by the w hole Ea rth with her seasons.
N or woul d the sk in guarding a different esse nce trace any boundary.
Later on , in crude li ght, separated ill to you and me, th ey try w ith a
bare foo t pebbl es o f th e fl oor.
