Zbigniew Herbert

(29 October 1924 – 28 July 1998 / Lvov)

Zbigniew Herbert Poems

1. What Our Dead Do 12/29/2011
2. The Fable About A Nail 12/29/2011
3. Wasp 12/29/2011
4. The Return Of The Proconsul 12/29/2011
5. To My Bones 4/21/2010
6. Rovigo 12/29/2011
7. In A City 12/29/2011
8. Prayer Of Pan Cogito – Traveller 12/29/2011
9. Daedalus And Icarus 12/29/2011
10. The Power Of Taste 12/29/2011
11. The Rain 4/21/2010
12. Why The Classics 4/21/2010
13. The Tongue 12/29/2011
14. Elegy Of Fortinbras 12/29/2011
15. An Answer 4/21/2010
16. Episode 4/21/2010
17. The Trial 1/3/2003
18. How We Were Introduced 4/21/2010
19. Report From Paradise 4/21/2010
20. First The Dog 4/21/2010
21. Our Fear 4/21/2010
22. Three Poems By Heart 1/3/2003
23. The Ardennes Forest 1/3/2003
24. A Halt 1/3/2003
25. About Troy 1/3/2003
26. A Description Of The King 1/3/2003
27. A Knocker 1/3/2003
28. Lament 1/3/2003
29. Objects 1/3/2003
30. Nothing Special 1/3/2003
31. A Russian Tale 1/3/2003
32. From The Top Of The Stairs 1/3/2003
33. Architecture 1/3/2003
34. The Monster Of Mr Cogito 1/3/2003
35. A Ballad That We Do Not Perish 1/3/2003
36. Home 1/3/2003
37. I Would Like To Describe 1/3/2003
38. The Envoy Of Mr Cogito 1/3/2003
39. Pebble 1/3/2003
40. Mr. Cogito And The Imagination 1/20/2003
Best Poem of Zbigniew Herbert

Report From The Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -

they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege

I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time

all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left

I write as I can...

Read the full of Report From The Besieged City

The Ardennes Forest

Cup your hands to scoop up sleep
as you would draw a grain of water
and the forest will come: a green cloud
a birch trunk like a chord of light
and a thousand eyelids fluttering
with forgotten leafy speech
then you will recall the white morning
when you waited for the opening of the gates

[Hata Bildir]