Description Hall of Fame

The Description Hall of Fame welcomes Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert. He joins Willa Cather, Colette, M.F.K Fisher and other masters of the art of description.

Our readers group will be talking about Herbert's collection of essays, "Still Life with a Bridle," in which he describes paintings that have moved and astonished him, among them, Torrentius's "Still Life with a Bridle." Herbert describes his first glimpse of the work: "How to describe this inner state? A suddenly awakened intense curiosity, sharp concentration with the senses alarmed, hope for an adventure and consent to be dazzled."

For the experience of surrendering to art, I like "consent to be dazzled" better than Coleridge's "willing suspension of disbelief."

Herbert is best on the background: "black, deep as a precipice and at the same time flat as a mirror, palpable and disappearing in perspectives of infinity. A transparent cover over an abyss."

Herbert is also very good on weather: "The sky was clear. The wind stopped. Faraway lights went on and off, and all of a sudden without warning, without a breeze or anticipation, a huge cloud the color of ash appeared, a cloud in the shape of a god torn apart.

Yet for all his descriptive power, Herbert in his poem, "I Would Like to Describe," wishes he could write without dramatic effects. (Comparing a cloud to a god torn apart is certainly a dramatic metaphor.)

I would like to describe the simplest emotion

joy or sadness

but not as others do

reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light

which is being born in me

but I know it does not resemble

any star

for it is not so bright

not so pure

and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage

without dragging behind me a dusty lion

and also anxiety

without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way

I would give all metaphors

in return for one word

drawn out of my breast like a rib

for one word

contained within the boundaries

of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say—I love

I run around like mad

picking up handfuls of birds

and my tenderness

which after all is not made of water

asks the water for a face

and anger

different from fire

borrows from it

a loquacious tongue

so is blurred

so is blurred

in me

what white-haired gentlemen

separated once and for all

and said

this is the subject

and this is the object

we fall asleep

with one hand under our head

and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us

and taste the earth

with their tiny roots

which next morning

we tear out painfully

TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ AND PETER DALE SCOTT