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"
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