Zbigniew Herbert's "A Life"

"A Life"

I was a quiet boy a little sleepy and--amazingly--
unlike my peers--who were fond of adventures--
I didn't expect much--didn't look out the window
At school more diligent than able--docile stable

Then a normal life at the level of a regular clerk
up early street tram office again tram home sleep

I truly don't know why I'm tired uneasy in torment
perpetually even now--when I have a right to rest

I know I never rose high--I have no achievements
I collected stamps medicinal herbs was O.K. at chess

I went abroad once--on a holiday to the Black Sea
in the photo a straw hat tanned face--almost happy

I read what came to hand: about scientific socialism
about flights into space and machines that can think
and the thing I liked most: books on the life of bees

Like others I wanted to know what I'd be after death
whether I'd get a new apartment if life had meaning

And above all how to tell the good from what's evil
to know for sure what is white and what's all black

Someone recommended a classic work--as he said
it changed his life and the lives of millions of others
I read it--I didn't change--and I'm ashamed to admit
for the life of me I don't remember the classic's name

Maybe I didn't live but endured--cast against my will
into something hard to govern and impossible to grasp
a shadow on a wall
so it was not a life
a life up to the hilt

How could I explain to my wife or to anyone else
that I summoned all my strength
so as not to commit stupidities cede to insinuation
not to fraternize with the strongest

It's true--I was always pale. Average. At school
in the Army in the office at home and at parties

Now I'm in the hospital dying of old age.
Here is the same uneasiness and torment.
Born a second time perhaps I'd be better.

I wake at night in a sweat. Stare at the ceiling. Silence.
And again--one more time--with a bone-weary arm
I chase off the bad spirits and summon the good ones.

--Zbigniew Herbert (translated, from the Polish, by Alissa Valles)



Honestly, although I may be an English/Creative Writing major, I'm not very proficient at understanding poems, thus hindering my ability to talk about them. But practice apparently makes perfect.

This poem was featured in the Jan. 22, 2007 issue of the New Yorker (p. 68-69), where I get my dose of poetry these days. "A Life" is just one of those things that I like without really knowing why. I suppose I'm intrigued by Herbert's reflective tone and purposeful (mis)use of punctuation; it seems to follow the speaker's stream of consciousness--if you think about your own, it's often fluid and choppy at the same time, repetitive, has tangents, and doesn't follow a logical order--and by the end of the poem, when they are finally used, the periods seem to tack on a sense of finality of his life and a sense of certainty that his life was indeed nothing special.

Alyssa

P.S. All of the lines in second to last stanza are supposed to be indented, but I can't figure out how to make that happen--