My first class of the semester was Slavic studies 307: Literature and Film in Eastern Europe. The class started out with heavy material and I do not think it will get any lighter. Our focus is on Polish literature and film, with the holocaust as a main theme. Today we watched one film and discussed a poem.

“The Passenger” is an unfinished film directed by Andrzej Munk; the central theme seems to be about perspective and memory; it is haunting how a German SS woman remembers a story of one woman in Auschwitz. The film leaves many unanswered questions, but I am not too sure if it is to do with its unfinished state or not.

The poem is called “Dedication” and was written by Czeslaw Milosz. I think that it speaks volumes of the sensitivity of reduced language and the role of literature in the wake of something horrible.

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.

Czeslaw Milos, Warsaw 1945