Czeslaw Milosz

(30 June 1911 – 14 August 2004 / Kedainiai)

Czeslaw Milosz Poems

1. Preface 3/23/2012
2. Veni Seer 3/23/2012
3. Raja Rao 3/23/2012
4. The Road 3/23/2012
5. By The Peonies 3/23/2012
6. Road-Side Dog 3/23/2012
7. To Mrs. Professor In Defense Of My Cat's Honor And Not Only 4/21/2010
8. The Dining Room 3/23/2012
9. You Whose Name 3/23/2012
10. An Hour 3/23/2012
11. It Was Winter 4/21/2010
12. Sarajevo 3/23/2012
13. Where The Sun Rises And Where It Sets 3/23/2012
14. Christopher Robin 3/23/2012
15. Faith 3/23/2012
16. The Rising Of The Sun 3/23/2012
17. Theodicy 4/21/2010
18. Earth Again 3/23/2012
19. My Faithful Mother Tongue 3/23/2012
20. One More Contradiction 3/23/2012
21. And The City Stood In Its Brightness 2/20/2015
22. Winter 4/21/2010
23. You Who Wronged 4/21/2010
24. Annalena 3/23/2012
25. Hope 3/23/2012
26. In Warsaw 3/23/2012
27. How It Was 4/21/2010
28. A Treatise On Poetry: Iv Natura 4/21/2010
29. City Without A Name 4/21/2010
30. Woe! 1/8/2004
31. Not Mine 1/1/2004
32. Window 1/3/2003
33. Statue Of A Couple 1/3/2003
34. What Does It Mean 1/3/2003
35. A Felicitous Life 4/21/2010
36. A Magic Mountain 4/21/2010
37. Unde Malum 1/8/2004
38. A Song On The End Of The World 4/21/2010
39. A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto 4/21/2010
40. On Angels 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Czeslaw Milosz

Incantation

Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
No sentence of banishment can prevail against it.
It establishes the universal ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
It puts what should be above things as they are,
Is an enemy of despair and a friend of hope.
It does not know Jew from Greek or slave from master,
Giving us the estate of the world to manage.
It saves austere and transparent phrases
From the filthy discord of tortured ...

Read the full of Incantation

Study Of Loneliness

A guardian of long-distance conduits in the desert?
A one-man crew of a fortress in the sand?
Whoever he was. At dawn he saw furrowed mountains
The color of ashes, above the melting darkness,
Saturated with violet, breaking into fluid rouge,
Till they stood, immense, in the orange light.
Day after day. And, before he noticed, year after year.
For whom, he thought, that splendor? For me alone?
Yet it will be here long after I perish.

[Hata Bildir]