On the Pleasures of Milosz (Part 2)

by Czeslaw Milosz

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.


2 thoughts on “On the Pleasures of Milosz (Part 2)

  1. Darren says:

    One of the reasons I love Milosz is that he’s about the same age as my grandfather who grew up very near to where he lived (though my grandfather was an Austrian/German Mennonite farmer). So Milosz is a voice, for me, from a place to which I have no/little other access. My grandfather was no poet or man of letters. I have a little autobiography that his wife wrote down for him so it wouldn’t be forgotten. And then poems like this one. The evocation of place in a simple line is breathtaking. And I know why the bird and the man who moved his arm are no longer.


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