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Metaphor

Polish Poet Adam Zagajewski

Polish Poet Adam Zagajewski

Increasingly often and striking powerful chords, Eastern Europe calls to me. While I was looking for something else on my shelves, I pulled out Adam Zagajewski’s Unseen Hands and started scanning it. Here is a poem of his called “Metaphor”:

Metaphor

Every metaphor is a failure, said
the very old poet in the hotel bar,
turning to his rapt pupils.
The very old poet was in fine form
and said, with a wineglass in his hand:
It’s the fundamental problem of incarnation,
the things we love, the unseen things,
take flesh, of course, in what can
be seen and said, though never
absolutely, one to one,
so it follows that there’s always a little too much
or a little too little, the seams remain on the surface,
fingers jut, buttons, umbrellas, fingernails,
uncollected letters in azure airmail envelopes,
the sense of shortfall or excess remains,
someone is ominously silent, someone else
summons help, the ice cracks, the ambulance
arrives, too late, alas, but just wait,
thanks to this, thanks to this incongruity,
thanks to this inexplicable rupture,
we may keep chasing the chimera of metaphor,
all our lives we walk in darkness,
in a dim forest, we track the trail of simile,
imperfect, just like my
speech, just now reaching
its conclusion, although there is
no doubt much more to add,
but I fear that I’m already
growing weary and seem
to hear sleep calling.

I can just imagine the very old poet beginning to nod off, somewhat dismayed by the imperfection of language. Just as, I might add, I am beginning to nod off as my bedtime hour approaches. I like the use of the word “incarnation” to describe metaphor, an “unseen thing taking flesh.”