142
Of E and of the claw hammer
You bought yes terday, its head
Tas ting of li ght o il , th e juice
O f dead striving-th e haft
O f ash, fo r all its ureth ane va rni sh, is
Poli shed by body salts.
Pull, clawhead. Hold , shaft. Steel face,
Strike and reli eve me. Voice
O f th e maker loc ked in th e bari tone
Whi ne of th e handsaw working.
Los t, lingerer like th e dead so uls of
Viln a, reve nant. Mac hin e-so ul.
PA ln lSAN
I"tEV IEW
Here's another Milosz poem. " My Faithful Mother Tongue."
Faithful mo th er to ngue,
I have been serving yo u .
Every ni ght, I used to set before
YO ll
littl e bowls of colo rs
so you could have your birch, yo ur cri cket, yo ur fin ch
as preserved in m y meIllo ry.
Thi s las ted many yea rs.
You were m y native la nd ; I lacked any oth er.
I believed that you would also be a Ill essenger
betwee n me and some good people
even if th ey were few, twe nry, te n
o r no t bo rn , as ye t.
Now, I confess m y do ubt.
There are moments when it see llls to Ille I have squandered Ill y life.
For you are a tongue of th e debased,
of th e unreaso nable, hating th emselves.
I· . ·1
Faith ful mo th er tongue,
perh aps after all it's I who Illust try to save you .
So I will continue to set befo re you
Ii
ttl e bowls of colo rs
bright and pure if possible,
fo r w hat is needed in mi sfortun e is a littl e o rder and bea uty.
