Try to Praise the Mutilated World
By Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
I had a reasonably low-key and nice Thanksgiving with my kids, parents, in-laws, and my parents' long-time friend Ruth, who hosts us to break the fast after Yom Kippur. We all slept late -- well, after cats were fed and let us go back to sleep -- and watched most of the Macy's parade. Paul's parents arrived after lunch; we worked on their Christmas letter for a bit while watching Detroit beat Philadelphia and UConn lose to Syracuse.
Then we went to my parents' house and ate an enormous amount (for me it was cheese and crackers, fruit salad, veggie turkey and stuffing, carrot souffle, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, cranberries, apple pie, and chocolate roll -- most others had actual turkey). Everything was delicious. Eventually we made our way home, watched Elementary, and tried to figure out our schedule for Saturday when Daniel wants to visit friends in Baltimore!
Paul's annual cookie cake (previous cakes: 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014).