Bridge of Air

Bridge of ConcreteVintage Postcard of the Henry Avenue Bridge
over the Wissahickon Creek, Philadelphia
Erected in 1932, masonry construction, 915 feet long, 84 feet wide
185 feet above water level in Wissahickon Creek
One of the most beautiful bridges in Philadelphia --
connecting Roxborough and Germantown.
In her comments about poet Czeslaw Milosz (click or scroll down) my friend Beata describes life in the United States after her immigration from Poland as "a different world . . . a different market, a different air," stretching across the vast distance between her two lives. Of her fellow countryman Milosz, she observes that his writing "helped me to build and cross my invisible bridge above the Atlantic Ocean."

Bridge imagery, similar to that in Beata's reminiscence, can also be found in Seamus Heaney's eulogy of Czeslaw Milosz:

"Somewhere, for example, he compares a poem to a bridge built out of air over air, and one of the great delights of his work is a corresponding sensation of invigilating reality from a head-clearing perspective, being liberated into the authentic solitude of one's own being and at the same time being given gratifying spiritual companionship, so that one is ready to say something like 'It is good for us to be here.'

"Milosz was well aware of this aspect of his work and explicit about his wish that poetry in general should be capable of providing such an elevated plane of regard."

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I am not entirely sure which work Heaney had in mind, but here are a couple of poems containing memorable bridge imagery:

#1
On Prayer
You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.
All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge
And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard,
Above landscapes the color of ripe gold
Transformed by a magic stopping of the sun.
That bridge leads to the shore of Reversal
Where everything is just the opposite and the word 'is'
Unveils a meaning we hardly envisioned.
Notice: I say we; there, every one, separately,
Feels compassion for others entangled in the flesh
And knows that if there is no other shore
We will walk that aerial bridge all the same.


#2
Dedication
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.

What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty,
Blind force with accomplished shape.

Here is the valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city,
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.

What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.

both poems by Czeslaw Milosz
[emphasis added]

Czeslaw Milosz

World - Class Poets:
Czeslaw Milosz and Seamus Heaney
[photo source]
My Polish born friend, Beata, occasionally asks me to help her with her American English, but as you will see from her prose below, she already has a beautiful grasp of the language.

Last summer, I sent Beata a short email after a weekend visit from three of my five siblings, telling her that I was feeling blue because the house felt so empty after their departure.

She wrote back to say: "Kitti, You are so lucky! I don't have any siblings and no one comes to me because we live sooo far away from the family. And it is tooo expensive for them to come. If we meet it is always like walking on the high wire. I wish for just a normal, regular, informal visit."

And I replied: "Thank you so much for reminding me of my good fortune. It made me think of this poem, that you might already know:

My - ness
My parents, my husband, my brother, my sister . . .
I delight in being here on earth
For one more moment, with them, here on earth,
To celebrate our tiny, tiny my-ness.

by Polish poet, Czeslaw Milosz"
[see previous post: January 24, 2010]
To which Beata responded:

"Thank you for your email, Kitti. The poet you've mentioned is dear to my heart. At the time of the Solidarity Revolt, he was on the list of prohibited authors. When I was in Poland I used to buy his books on the black market, and they were very, very expensive. Being able to catch them on an illegal sale was delightful and made me feel as if someone had put me on the wave of a breeze of independency. I dreamed about a free world and a free Poland.

"When I arrived in the United States, I saw these same books on the shelves of a Slavic bookstore in Palo Alto. No one was rushing to have them; there was no elbow pushing to get to them or neck stretching to see if some copies were left. I asked myself: 'Where is the breeze of independency? Where are the people who want to read the works of Czeslaw Milosz? Why are people are not forming a line to buy his books?'

"And then it came to me that I was now INSIDE of independency! I did not need to rush or look around suspiciously for somebody who wanted to catch me red - handed buying illegal, independent books. I had these books NEXT to me, available, ready. I was free to read them in a free world . . . I had only to stretch my arm and reach my wallet.

"I realized that I was in not only a different world but also a different market, a different air. I felt a strange happiness to be in America but also a great distance. That air separated my spirit, like a wounded soldier taken by his fellows from the battlefield, blessed to be saved but longing to return for another fight, or a legless invalid who could hear church bells calling him to pray for a miracle . . . but there was no way to get there. Still, I could hear the sweet sound of bells ringing in afternoon sunshine, falling peacefully, on a quiet town.

"I was also very lucky to see Czeslaw Milosz in person. He went to the same church in Berkeley. He looked serious, composed, and I never saw him talking to other people. He liked to sit in the middle of the pew, not far from the altar, and usually stayed there alone. He rarely looked around, and usually disappeared quickly after the mass was over while the other people socialized and exchanged greetings.

"I remember hearing that his wife had died not long before and that he preferred to stay very private. I think perhaps he wanted to stay iconic, historical, and in the shadow. Many times I thought about approaching to ask for his autograph (I planned to leave the service earlier and wait for him) but we moved to Massachusetts before I worked up the nerve, and the opportunity was lost. Still, I think he helped me to build and cross my invisible bridge above the Atlantic Ocean."

[Thanks to Beata
for sharing these amazing thoughts and memories.]
Gravestone of Czeslaw Milosz, 1911 -2004
Polish Poet and Essayist
Became an American Citizen, 1970
Won the Nobel Prize in Literature, 1980

Click for more good poems by Czelaw Milosz

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Learning:
To believe you are magnificent.
And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent.
Enough labor for one human life.

Consolation:
Calm down.
Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.

Esse:
I was left behind with the immensity of existing things.
A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself;
a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees
are not clouds and trees.

Click for more good quotations by Czeslaw Milosz