On Angels
by Czeslaw MiloszOriginal Language Polish
All was taken away from you: white dresses,
wings, even existence.
Yet I believe in you,
messengers.
There, where the world is turned inside out,
a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,
you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seams.
Short is your stay here:
now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,
in a melody repeated by a bird,
or in the smell of apples at close of day
when the light makes the orchards magic.
They say somebody has invented you
but to me this does not sound convincing
for the humans invented themselves as well.
The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof,
as it can belong only to radiant creatures,
weightless and winged (after all, why not?),
girdled with the lightening.
I have heard that voice many a time when asleep
and, what is strange, I understood more or less
an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue:
day draw near
another one
do what you can.
 | -- from Against Forgetting: Twentieth-Century Poetry of Witness, Edited by Carolyn Forche |
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This poem raises some interesting questions as it wrestles with the idea of angels and spiritual realities in general.
In the opening verse, although Milosz asserts that he believes in the "messengers" or angels, it also speaks from a thoroughly modern viewpoint. First, he points out the process of demythologizing, the stripping away of tangibility from the notion of angels in modern consciousness: "All was taken away from you: white dresses, / wings, even existence."
When Milosz proclaims "Yet I believe in you, messengers," he knows he is making a bold statement. Because of modern sensibilities, it is assumed that one does not believe in angels, at least not publicly among intellectuals. What would have been, in past centuries, a bland statement of belief, reads as startlingly sincere, maybe even intentionally naive in a modern poem.
As the poem continues, however, we begin to wonder if he is talking about the same notion of angels that the religiously minded might imagine. He offers us not winged, robed titans of the sky, but instead something ephemeral, delicate, all too easily missed. Milosz's angels are the presence that rides in upon living moments and touch a hidden part of ourselves...
Short is your stay here:
now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,
in a melody repeated by a bird...
His angels seem to be that special touch upon the awareness when we truly encounter the moment... through the call of a bird before dawn, the warm scent of apples at sunset, when we pause and recognize that magic reaching out to us. What is it that reaches out to us? What is it that touches us and revives? Why not name it an angel? A messenger, a voice.
Czeslaw Milosz is a modern poet writing for a modern audience, what isn't modern is his internal quiet. The modern mind is too often caught in staccato details, yet gently filling this entire poem is a sense of rest, wholeness, even timelessness. This poem quietly glows.
When we adopt Milosz's stillness and learn to truly pay attention, we might just feel the brush of angel wings "in the smell of apples at close of day / when the light makes the orchards magic."
Recommended Books: Czeslaw Milosz
