TO GO TO LVOV
By Adam Zagajewski. Translated by Renata
Gorczynski
To go to Lvov. Which station
for Lvov, if not in a dream, at dawn, when
dew
gleams
on a suitcase, when express
trains
and bullet trains are being born. To leave
in
haste for Lvov, night or day, in September
or
in March. But only if Lvov exists,
if
it is to be found within the frontiers and not just
in
my new passport, if lances of trees
—of
poplar and ash—still breathe aloud
like
Indians, and if streams mumble
their
dark Esperanto, and grass snakes like soft signs
in
the Russian language disappear
into
thickets. To pack and set off, to leave
without
a trace, at noon, to vanish
like
fainting maidens. And burdocks, green
armies
of burdocks, and below, under the canvas
of
a Venetian café, the snails converse
about
eternity. But the cathedral rises,
you
remember, so straight, as straight
as
Sunday and white napkins and a bucket
full
of raspberries standing on the floor, and
my
desire which wasn’t born yet,
only
gardens and weeds and the amber
of
Queen Anne cherries, and indecent Fredro.
There
was always too much of Lvov, no one could
comprehend
its boroughs, hear
the
murmur of each stone scorched
by
the sun, at night the Orthodox church’s silence was unlike
that
of the cathedral, the Jesuits
baptised
plants, leaf by leaf, but they grew,
grew
so mindlessly, and joy hovered
everywhere,
in hallways and in coffee mills
revolving
by themselves, in blue
teapots,
in starch, which was the first
formalist,
in drops of rain and in the thorns
of
roses. Frozen forsythia yellowed by the window.
The
bells pealed and the air vibrated, the cornets
of
nuns sailed like schooners near
the
theatre, there was so much of the world that
it
had to do encores over and over,
the
audience was in frenzy and didn’t want
to
leave the house. My aunts couldn’t have known
yet
that I’d resurrect them,
and
lived so trustfully; so singly;
servants,
clean and ironed, ran for
fresh
cream, inside the houses
a
bit of anger and great expectation, Brzozowski
came
as a visiting lecturer, one of my
uncles
kept writing a poem entitled Why,
dedicated
to the Almighty, and there was too much
of
Lvov, it brimmed the container,
it
burst glasses, overflowed
each
pond, lake, smoked through every
chimney,
turned into fire, storm,
laughed
with lightning, grew meek,
returned
home, read the New Testament,
slept
on a sofa beside the Carpathian rug,
there
was too much of Lvov, and now
there
isn’t any, it grew relentlessly
and
the scissors cut it, chilly gardeners
as
always in May, without mercy,
without
love, ah, wait till warm June
comes
with soft ferns, boundless
fields
of summer, i.e., the reality.
But
scissors cut it, along the line and through
the
fibre, tailors, gardeners, censors
cut
the body and the wreaths, pruning shears worked
diligently,
as in a child’s cutout
along
the dotted line of a roe deer or a swan.
Scissors,
penknives, and razor blades scratched,
cut,
and shortened the voluptuous dresses
of
prelates, of squares and houses, and trees
fell
soundlessly, as in a jungle,
and
the cathedral trembled, people bade goodbye
without
handkerchiefs, no tears, such a dry
mouth,
I won’t see you anymore, so much death
awaits
you, why must every city
become
Jerusalem and every man a Jew,
and
now in a hurry just
pack,
always, each day,
and
go breathless, go to Lvov, after all
it
exists, quiet and pure as
a
peach. It is everywhere.
I didn't go to Lvov,
at least not the real place though Zagajewski's long, free verse poem offers the
possibility that Lvov does not exist, except in dreams.
if
it is to be found within the frontiers and not just
in
my new passport
I spent a dreamlike
week with the theatre makers at Gardzienice, between Lublin and Lvov
on the Poland-Ukraine border and came to know
Frozen
forsythia yellowed by the window.
Zagajewski's
city is Lvov, Lviv, Lemberg,
Lvivska,
Львів,
Львов, לעמבער,
Leopolis: so many cities.
The
poet repeats
There
was always too much of Lvov, no one could
comprehend
its boroughs, hear
the
murmur of each stone scorched
by
the sun,
There
is rampage and rage with the arrival of war and violence
But
scissors cut it, along the line and through
the
fiber, tailors, gardeners, censors
cut
the body and the wreaths, pruning shears worked
diligently,
as in a child's cutout
along
the dotted line of a roe deer or a swan.
Zagajewski saddens
to realise
I won't see you
anymore, so much death
awaits you, why
must every city
become Jerusalem
and every man a Jew.
He ends with an
injunction that we visit the city, that 'every city', for it really
is there; visit
at dawn, when dew
gleams on a
suitcase, when express
trains and bullet
trains are being born.
For, he asserts,
this 'every' city is everyWHERE and advises us
now in a hurry
just
pack, always,
each day,
and go
breathless, go to Lvov, after all
it exists, quiet
and pure as
a peach. It is
everywhere.
It persists. And
that is is power and beauty, where
joy hovered
everywhere, in
hallways and in coffee mills
revolving by
themselves, in blue
teapots
This free verse
exhortation visits a city and its history, to see the movement of
people from residents to refugees, as much a part of a city as smog,
now in Mosul, Aleppo and Sana. And who knows where tomorrow. Your
city?
To go to Lvov.
Which station
for Lvov
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