Self-Portrait

　　by Adam Zagajewski

　　 Translated by Clare Cavanagh

　　 Between the computer， a pencil， and a typewriter

　　 half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.

　　 I live in strange cities and sometimes talk

　　 with strangers about matters strange to me.

　　 I listen to music a lot： Bach， Mahler， Chopin， Shostakovich.

　　 I see three elements in music： weakness， power， and pain.

　　 The fourth has no name.

　　 I read poets， living and dead， who teach me

　　 tenacity， faith， and pride. I try to understand

　　 the great philosophers--but usually catch just

　　 scraps of their precious thoughts.

　　 I like to take long walks on Paris streets

　　 and watch my fellow creatures， quickened by envy，

　　 anger， desire； to trace a silver coin

　　 passing from hand to hand as it slowly

　　 loses its round shape （the emperor's profile is erased）。

　　 Beside me trees expressing nothing

　　 but a green， indifferent perfection.

　　 Black birds pace the fields，

　　 waiting patiently like Spanish widows.

　　 I'm no longer young， but someone else is always older.

　　 I like deep sleep， when I cease to exist，

　　 and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses

　　 dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.

　　 Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me

　　 and irony suddenly vanishes.

　　 I love gazing at my wife's face.

　　 Every Sunday I call my father.

　　 Every other week I meet with friends，

　　 thus proving my fidelity.

　　 My country freed itself from one evil. I wish

　　 another liberation would follow.

　　 Could I help in this？ I don't know.

　　 I'm truly not a child of the ocean，

　　 as Antonio Machado wrote about himself，

　　 but a child of air， mint and cello

　　 and not all the ways of the high world

　　 cross paths with the life that--so far--

　　 belongs to me.

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