Sobs, by Tin Moe

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Sobs (The Desert Years)

An intake of breath.
A sliver of glass.
Old decades of years
cannot consider.
In these years the bees cannot
make honey the mushrooms
cannot sprout.
All the fields are out of
crops — Dry.

The mist is damp.
The storm is dim.
The dust rising in clouds,
Along the road where
the bullock cart
has traveled.

Encircled by thorns
The hta-naung tree its trunk
Cat’s claw scratched, is trying
To bloom.

It does not rain.

When it does – it’s not enough
To soak the earth.

In the monastery at
The edge of the village
Bells
Are not heard. If they are
they do not enter the ears
blissfully.

There are no novices
Saffron clad
Zilch sounds of young
Voices
Reciting the scriptures only the
Kappiya attendant
With his
shaved head falls between the
pillars and the columns of the building.

The earth doesn’t dare
To put forth fruit
It abandons all
And looks at me
At once feeling embarrassed
And frightened as if she
Cannot talk.

When will the sobs change
and the bells ring sweetly again?

— U Tin Moe
trans. Kyi May Kaung

What we have here is a failure of imagination

I saw a bumper sticker today that said, "Visualize Peace through U.S. Military Dominance."

A Life, by Zbigniew Herbert

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 other I'd 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 the 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—witha bone-weary arm
I chase off the bad spirits and summon the good ones.

—Zbigniew Herbert
Translated, from the Polish, by Alissa Valles. Published in The New Yorker, January 22, 2007.