Adam Mickiewicz
(pron. Adam Meetzkyevich) (1798-1855) was born in a small town called
Nowogrodek (or Navahrudak), which is in today's Belarus. The very
beginning of his greatest poem start with the words: "Lithuania,
my motherland..." These very words are written, however, in
Polish, as are all his poems. For which reason he is considered a
Polish poet. Which may well sound strange to an English speaker;
after all no Irishman would call himself English because he writes
poems the English language. In fact Mickiewicz himself considered himself to be a
Polish-speaking Lithuanian (the kingdom that usually is called Polish
was actually the United Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania). Born only a
few years after Poland lost its independence, conquered by Russia,
Germany and Austria, Mickiewicz was the leading poet that encouraged
his countrymen to struggle to regain it. He was born in Nowogrodek, studied in Vilnius (today the capital of
Lithuania), travelled in Russia, emigrated to France, died in Turkey,
he actually has never been to Poland proper. In France he taught
Slavonic Literature at Sorbonne and was a member of Academie
Francaise. In Turkey he tried to organise a Polish legion that would
fight against Russia during the Crimean war.
Throughout
the 19th
century many Polish poets wrote poems that would help to keep the
fighting spirit, so one day the independence might be regained.
Mickiewicz is the best known of those poets. Of course this was not
the only subject of his poetry. His best work, entitled “Pan
Tadeusz” is a masterpiece unique in the whole European literature.
It is a multi-plot novel written entirely in beautiful and majestic
verse. Set in a manor in rural Lithuania, it has a romantic plot as
well as a fast action plot, and a dark past of one of the main
characters being slowly discovered. Of course there is also a fight
between Russians and Poles, which in the book the Poles win.
I am publishing this at the time
of war between Russia and Ukraine. I just read the "Ordon's
Rampart" again and it struck me as very up to date, except that
the name of "Ordon" (a name of a Polish officer) could be
substituted for "Ukraine". The second fragment of Ordon's
Rampart" could be a perfect description of one Mr. Putin.
However, Mickiewicz was not always
political. The other poem, "Dad's homecoming", is an
example of his non-political poetry.
ORDON'S RAMPART
We
weren't told to shoot; I stepped on a gun
And
looked at the field – 200 cannons thundered.
Rows
of Russian artillery are in lines
Spread
far and wide, like shores of a sea.
I
saw their captain – he came, signalled with his sword
And
like a bird he closed a wing of his army.
From
under that wing infantry spills out
In
long and grey columns, like a torrent of mud
Sprinkled
with flashing bayonets; like vultures
The
black banners lead those columns to their deaths.
Against
them stands a white, narrow, sharp bastion
Like
a rock cutting through the sea – Ordon's rampart.
It
only had six guns, all flashing and smoking
And
an angry mouth won't say as many words
A
despairing soul wont change it's mood as quickly
As
those guns shot cannonballs, bombs and grenades.
Look,
there a grenade plunges into the middle of a column
Like
a lava into the waves of the sea – it covers the column with smoke
The
grenade explodes in a cloud of smoke, the column flies to the sky
And
a great clearing shines among the lines.
(...)
Where
is the king, who sends those crowds to the slaughter?
Does
he share their courage? Does he risk his life?
No,
he sits 500 miles away on his throne.
A
great king, the autocrat of a half of the world.
He
frowns – a thousand prisoners are sent to Siberia.
Puts
a signature – a thousand mothers cry over graves of their children.
He
nods – whips are cracked from Niemen to Khiva.
O
strongman, powerful as God, malevolent as the devil
When
the Turks beyond the Balkans are scared of your guns
When
the envoy from Paris licks your feet
Warsaw
alone laughs at you omnipotence
She
lifts her hand against you to take down the crown
The
crown of king Casimir and of king Boleslaus
Because
you have stolen it and stained it with blood, you son of a Russian...
DAD'S
HOMECOMING (Powrot taty)
Come
here children, come all together
Out
of town by the pole on the hill.
Let's
kneel there before a holy icon
And
piously say a prayer.
Your
dad is not coming and I wait for him
Each
morning and evening, in tears and fear.
Rivers
burst their banks, forests are full of wild animals
And
roads are full of brigands.
When
the children hear this, they run all together
Out
of town by the pole on the hill.
There
they kneel before the holy icon
And
they start the prayer.
They
kiss the ground, then: „In the Name of the Father
The
Son and the Holy Spirit.
Be
praised, Most Holy Trinity
Now
and forever, Amen.”
Then
„Our Father...” and „Hail Mary” and the Creed,
The
Ten Commandments and more
And
when they have finished the set prayers
They
take a book prom a pocket.
And
the litany to the Holy Virgin
The
eldest brother sings, and with him
„O
Holy Mother” all the children sing
„Protect,
protect our father”.
Creaking
wheels of carts suddenly are heard
Familiar
carts can be seen.
The
children jump, shout as loud as they can:
“It's
our dad, he is coming!”
The
merchant saw them, shed tears of happiness
Jumped
to the ground from his cart.
“How
are you all, what are news from home?
Did
you long for your dad?”
“Is
your mum well? Your auntie? Everybody else?
Here
are raisins in the basket.”
This
one is talking and that one is talking
Lots
of happiness and noise.
“Go”
the merchant commands his servants,
“I
will walk to the town with the children”
Suddenly
robbers appear all around.
There
is twelve of them.
They
have long beards, long and twisted whiskers
Wild
eyes, dirty garments.
Knives
behind their belts, a sword flashes by the side
A
huge mace held in a hand.
The
children cry, they cling to their father
They
hide under his mantle.
The
servants tremble, the masters face is pale
His
shaking hands he lifts to the robbers.
“Take
all the carts with all the goods with them
But
let us walk away.
Don't
make the little children orphans
Don't
make a young wife a widow.”
The
brigands don;'t listen, one leads away horses,
Another
shouts: “Where is the money!”
And
grabs the enormous mace,
Another
threatens the servants with a sword.
Suddenly
a senior brigand shouts “Stop it!”
And
drives away the gang.
He
lets go the father and children
and
says: “Go without fear”
The
merchant thanks, but the robber says:
“Don't
thank me, I tell you honestly.
I'd
be the first to crack your head with a mace
If
not for the children's prayers.”
“It
is because of the children I am letting you go
Thanks
to them you are alive and well.
You
can thank them for what has happened
And
I will tell you why.
“Long
ago we heard that a merchant will pass this way
So
I and my companions
Here
outside the town, by a pole on a hill
Were
sitting in an ambush.”
“Today
I came and looking through bushes
I
saw them praying to God.
I
heard them, at first it made me laugh
But
then my heart started trembling.”
“I
heard them and I remembered my own home
Suddenly
I dropped my mace.
I
also have a wife, and with my wife
There
is my little son.”
“O
merchant, go to the town, I will go to the woods.
You,
children, sometimes come to this hill
And
for my soul
Sometimes
say a prayer.”
If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper,
You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"
