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Poems Before & After: Collected English translations
Miroslav Holub was the Czech Republic's most important poet, and also one of her leading immunologists. His fantastical and witty poems give a scientist's bemused view of human folly and other life on the planet. Mixing myth, history and folktale with science and philosophy, his plainly written, sceptical poems are surreal mini-dramas often pivoting on paradoxes. Poems Before & After covers thirty years of his poetry. Before are his poems from the fifties and sixties, poems written before the Soviet invasion of first published in English in his Penguin Selected Poems (1967) and in Bloodaxe's The Fly (1987), with some additional poems. After are translations of his later poetry, all written after 1968, including not only those from his two Bloodaxe editions, On the Contrary (1984) and Supposed to Fly (1996), but also the entire texts of two late collections published by Faber, Vanishing Lung Syndrome (1990) and The Rampage (1997). With additional translations by David Young, Dana Hábová, Rebekah Bloyd and Miroslav Holub.
- GenresPoetryCzech Literature
437 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1990
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
March 3, 2017
Favorites:
In The Microscope
Pathology
Casualty
Five Minutes After The Air Raid
Voices In The Landscape
A History Lesson
The Fly
On The Origin Of 6pm
----
IN THE MICROSCOPE
Here too are dreaming landscapes,
lunar, derelict.
Here too are the masses,
tillers of the soil.
And cells, fighters
who lay down their lives
for a song.
Here too are cemeteries,
fame and snow.
And I hear murmuring,
the revolt of immense estates
-
Pathology
Here in the Lord’s bosom rest
the tongues of beggars,
the lungs of generals,
the eyes of informers,
the skins of martyrs,
in the absolute
of the microscope’s lenses. I leaf through Old Testament slices of liver,
in the white monuments of brain I read
the hieroglyphs
of decay.
Behold, Christians,
Heaven, Hell, and Paradise
in bottles.
And no wailing,
not even a sigh.
Only the dust moans.
Dumb is history
strained
through capillaries.
Equality dumb.
Fraternity dumb.
And out of the tricolours of mortal suffering
we day after day
pull
threads of wisdom
-
CASUALTY
They bring us crushed fingers,
mend it, doctor.
They bring burnt-out eyes,
hounded owls of hearts,
they bring a hundred white bodies,
a hundred red bodies,
a hundred black bodies,
mend it, doctor,
on the dishes of ambulances they bring
the madness of blood
the scream of flesh,
the silence of charring,
mend it, doctor.
And while we are suturing
inch after inch,
night after night,
nerve to nerve,
muscle to muscle,
eyes to sight,
they bring in
even longer daggers,
even more thunderous bombs,
even more glorious victories, idiots
-
A HELPING HAND
We gave a helping hand to grass –
and it turned into corn.
We gave a helping hand to fire –
and it turned into a rocket.
Hesitatingly,
cautiously,
we give a helping hand
to people,
to some people …
-
THE END OF THE WORLD
The bird had come to the very end of its song and the tree was dissolving under its claws. And in the sky the clouds were twisting
and darkness flowed through all the cracks into the sinking vessel of the landscape. Only in the telegraph wires
a message still
crackled: C–·–·o–––m––e· h···o–––m––e· y–·––o–––u··– h···a·–v···–e·
a·– s···o–––n–
-
1751
That year Diderot began to publish his Encyclopaedia, and the first insane asylum was founded in London.
So the counting out began, to separate the sane, who veil themselves in words, from the insane, who rip off feathers from their bodies.
Poets had to learn tightrope-walking.
And to make sure, officious types began to publish instructions on how to be normal
-
FUNERALS
Chekhov’s body
was shipped
from Badeweiler to Moscow
in a railroad car
that said, in large letters,
FOR OYSTERS.
Gorky didn’t conceal his indignation. He went to the funeral with Chaliapin –
they joined a procession
with a military band.
It was the funeral of General Keller
killed in Manchuria.
Gorky didn’t conceal his chagrin at the mistake. But what’s so bad about oysters? Poets kept on ice
(swimming in their liquor
and bordered by lemon wedges),
extracted from the shell
(parsley, garlic, oil, thyme; grill), yes, why such a fuss,
cherry orchards of the General Staff,
seagulls of subordination,
gloomy comedies of epaulettes,
bass voices of infantry bears – only in later years, it turned out,
did Gorky learn
to conceal his feelings a little
-
GLASS
Li Po was glass.
Kant was glass.
We observe ourselves like transparent
sea anemones.
We see the dark purple heart
beating,
we see the grey lungs, wings
rising and falling,
we see the oligochaetic
worms of thought
gnawing under the cap. Linnaeus was glass.
Mozart was glass.
Franz Josef was glass.
In the transparent belly
we see the tubular moon,
and behind the crystalline mouth
the swallowed words.
A prisoner is glass,
a policeman is glass,
sixty glass robots
reside in the castle.
Behind the swallowed words
we see the glass-wool
of incessant melody.
Only the dead
draw the curtain
from within
-
PIETY
They always
put the flowers right into a vase
the vase into the hall, in a dark cool place
to make the bouquet last. They died.
The little urns with their ashes stand
in the hall, in a dark cool place,
and a blind spider
looks after them, so that… Otherwise all this
would be too sad
-
MY MOTHER LEARNS SPANISH
She started at the age
of eighty-two. She falls asleep
each time, page 26.
Algo se trama.
The pencil that underlines verbs
sets out on the page reluctantly
tracing the delicate outlines
of death.
No hay necesidad de respuestas. It draws the routes
of Hernando Cortés’s expeditions.
It draws El Greco’s eye.
It draws Picasso’s fish,
too big for its own aquarium. A pencil as stubborn
as Fuente Ovejuna.
As the bull in the arena
Plaza de Toros Monumental,
already on its knees
while horses wait
to drag away its body.
No hay necesidad de respuestas,
no answers are needed.
Now or ever.
She sleeps
ever
now.
While Gaudi
as if in homage
never completes
his cathedral,
Sagrada Familia
In The Microscope
Pathology
Casualty
Five Minutes After The Air Raid
Voices In The Landscape
A History Lesson
The Fly
On The Origin Of 6pm
----
IN THE MICROSCOPE
Here too are dreaming landscapes,
lunar, derelict.
Here too are the masses,
tillers of the soil.
And cells, fighters
who lay down their lives
for a song.
Here too are cemeteries,
fame and snow.
And I hear murmuring,
the revolt of immense estates
-
Pathology
Here in the Lord’s bosom rest
the tongues of beggars,
the lungs of generals,
the eyes of informers,
the skins of martyrs,
in the absolute
of the microscope’s lenses. I leaf through Old Testament slices of liver,
in the white monuments of brain I read
the hieroglyphs
of decay.
Behold, Christians,
Heaven, Hell, and Paradise
in bottles.
And no wailing,
not even a sigh.
Only the dust moans.
Dumb is history
strained
through capillaries.
Equality dumb.
Fraternity dumb.
And out of the tricolours of mortal suffering
we day after day
pull
threads of wisdom
-
CASUALTY
They bring us crushed fingers,
mend it, doctor.
They bring burnt-out eyes,
hounded owls of hearts,
they bring a hundred white bodies,
a hundred red bodies,
a hundred black bodies,
mend it, doctor,
on the dishes of ambulances they bring
the madness of blood
the scream of flesh,
the silence of charring,
mend it, doctor.
And while we are suturing
inch after inch,
night after night,
nerve to nerve,
muscle to muscle,
eyes to sight,
they bring in
even longer daggers,
even more thunderous bombs,
even more glorious victories, idiots
-
A HELPING HAND
We gave a helping hand to grass –
and it turned into corn.
We gave a helping hand to fire –
and it turned into a rocket.
Hesitatingly,
cautiously,
we give a helping hand
to people,
to some people …
-
THE END OF THE WORLD
The bird had come to the very end of its song and the tree was dissolving under its claws. And in the sky the clouds were twisting
and darkness flowed through all the cracks into the sinking vessel of the landscape. Only in the telegraph wires
a message still
crackled: C–·–·o–––m––e· h···o–––m––e· y–·––o–––u··– h···a·–v···–e·
a·– s···o–––n–
-
1751
That year Diderot began to publish his Encyclopaedia, and the first insane asylum was founded in London.
So the counting out began, to separate the sane, who veil themselves in words, from the insane, who rip off feathers from their bodies.
Poets had to learn tightrope-walking.
And to make sure, officious types began to publish instructions on how to be normal
-
FUNERALS
Chekhov’s body
was shipped
from Badeweiler to Moscow
in a railroad car
that said, in large letters,
FOR OYSTERS.
Gorky didn’t conceal his indignation. He went to the funeral with Chaliapin –
they joined a procession
with a military band.
It was the funeral of General Keller
killed in Manchuria.
Gorky didn’t conceal his chagrin at the mistake. But what’s so bad about oysters? Poets kept on ice
(swimming in their liquor
and bordered by lemon wedges),
extracted from the shell
(parsley, garlic, oil, thyme; grill), yes, why such a fuss,
cherry orchards of the General Staff,
seagulls of subordination,
gloomy comedies of epaulettes,
bass voices of infantry bears – only in later years, it turned out,
did Gorky learn
to conceal his feelings a little
-
GLASS
Li Po was glass.
Kant was glass.
We observe ourselves like transparent
sea anemones.
We see the dark purple heart
beating,
we see the grey lungs, wings
rising and falling,
we see the oligochaetic
worms of thought
gnawing under the cap. Linnaeus was glass.
Mozart was glass.
Franz Josef was glass.
In the transparent belly
we see the tubular moon,
and behind the crystalline mouth
the swallowed words.
A prisoner is glass,
a policeman is glass,
sixty glass robots
reside in the castle.
Behind the swallowed words
we see the glass-wool
of incessant melody.
Only the dead
draw the curtain
from within
-
PIETY
They always
put the flowers right into a vase
the vase into the hall, in a dark cool place
to make the bouquet last. They died.
The little urns with their ashes stand
in the hall, in a dark cool place,
and a blind spider
looks after them, so that… Otherwise all this
would be too sad
-
MY MOTHER LEARNS SPANISH
She started at the age
of eighty-two. She falls asleep
each time, page 26.
Algo se trama.
The pencil that underlines verbs
sets out on the page reluctantly
tracing the delicate outlines
of death.
No hay necesidad de respuestas. It draws the routes
of Hernando Cortés’s expeditions.
It draws El Greco’s eye.
It draws Picasso’s fish,
too big for its own aquarium. A pencil as stubborn
as Fuente Ovejuna.
As the bull in the arena
Plaza de Toros Monumental,
already on its knees
while horses wait
to drag away its body.
No hay necesidad de respuestas,
no answers are needed.
Now or ever.
She sleeps
ever
now.
While Gaudi
as if in homage
never completes
his cathedral,
Sagrada Familia
June 9, 2024
One of the best books of poetry I have ever read. I had heard the name 'Miroslav Holub' but knew nothing at all about him. For some reason, I have been reading more poetry in the past few months than I usually do. I had a sudden urge to pluck this book from the library shelf and read it and I am glad that I did. Magnificent work!
As it happens, a grand total of one of the poems in this large 400+ page book was familiar to me, namely 'A Boy's Head', which I suppose I must have encountered in school in some anthology or other. I remember back then not understanding it. Now, of course, it turns out to be a great and perfectly concise poem about the power of a young imagination.
All these poems are taken from Holub's individual poetry volumes and the selections of each section appear chronologically. But there is also a bigger division, between 'Before' and 'After'. I found the earlier poems of the 'Before' era less complex is form and theme, though some of them remained rather mysterious. The poems of the 'After' era were often very enigmatic indeed, utterly beyond my comprehension, and yet I somehow absorbed their essence nonetheless and felt enthralled, shocked, amazed by their words, images and power.
I felt enriched by this reading experience.
As it happens, a grand total of one of the poems in this large 400+ page book was familiar to me, namely 'A Boy's Head', which I suppose I must have encountered in school in some anthology or other. I remember back then not understanding it. Now, of course, it turns out to be a great and perfectly concise poem about the power of a young imagination.
All these poems are taken from Holub's individual poetry volumes and the selections of each section appear chronologically. But there is also a bigger division, between 'Before' and 'After'. I found the earlier poems of the 'Before' era less complex is form and theme, though some of them remained rather mysterious. The poems of the 'After' era were often very enigmatic indeed, utterly beyond my comprehension, and yet I somehow absorbed their essence nonetheless and felt enthralled, shocked, amazed by their words, images and power.
I felt enriched by this reading experience.
June 1, 2013
Another one of my favorite poetry finds this year. Weaves together science with the dramas of living. Loved almost every poem.
December 15, 2008
Holub is one of the most literal poets I've read. Ever. Don't read anything into this. It's great!
March 18, 2020
On the whole, I prefer the earlier poems to the later poems. It was great to revisit Holub's poems after many years away.
June 13, 2025
Napoleon
Children, when was
Napoleon Bonaparte born,
asks teacher.
A thousand years ago, the children say.
A hundred years ago, the children say.
Last year, the children say.
No one knows.
Children, what did
Napoleon Bonaparte do,
asks teacher.
Won a war, the children say.
Lost a war, the children say.
No one knows.
Our butcher had a dog
called Napoleon,
says Frantisek.
The butcher used to beat him and the dog died
of hunger
a year ago.
And all the children are now sorry
for Napoleon.
—————————————-*—————————————
Theatre
Only sorcerers believe that the theatre is a mingling of the blood of the poet with the blood of the actor. The simple magic of the theatre is in the fact that an empty space which signifies nothing is entered by people with tickets and by people who tear off the tickets, and by people in overcoats and people without overcoats, and by people who know it all by heart and by people who don’t know it by heart yet.
They have all read the inscription THEATRE and for a while they act accordingly.
For that period of time everything signifies something. Even the space, even the hush, even the breath, even the blood, even the shadow.
One of the troubles with the world is that the inscription THEATRE is found in so few places.
——————————————*——————————————
Children, when was
Napoleon Bonaparte born,
asks teacher.
A thousand years ago, the children say.
A hundred years ago, the children say.
Last year, the children say.
No one knows.
Children, what did
Napoleon Bonaparte do,
asks teacher.
Won a war, the children say.
Lost a war, the children say.
No one knows.
Our butcher had a dog
called Napoleon,
says Frantisek.
The butcher used to beat him and the dog died
of hunger
a year ago.
And all the children are now sorry
for Napoleon.
—————————————-*—————————————
Theatre
Only sorcerers believe that the theatre is a mingling of the blood of the poet with the blood of the actor. The simple magic of the theatre is in the fact that an empty space which signifies nothing is entered by people with tickets and by people who tear off the tickets, and by people in overcoats and people without overcoats, and by people who know it all by heart and by people who don’t know it by heart yet.
They have all read the inscription THEATRE and for a while they act accordingly.
For that period of time everything signifies something. Even the space, even the hush, even the breath, even the blood, even the shadow.
One of the troubles with the world is that the inscription THEATRE is found in so few places.
——————————————*——————————————
February 13, 2021
I haven't read every single one yet because this is a chonky boi, but I've marked lots that I liked. I love the language and biological imagery in Holub's poems, and always find myself inspired after reading.
May 13, 2023
Since I often feel guilty about not knowing enough about "world poetry", I sometimes read collections that feature several different poets. That's how I discovered Miroslav Holub ... and fell in love! The next thing was naturally to hunt down any English versions of his poetry. Many of the poems are quite moving and it's a pity that the short stories right at the end of this volume brought me to a complete standstill. Why were they included? I find them completely inaccessible. It goes without saying that I'm forever grateful to the translators who sat down to bring some understanding to those of us who can't read a word of Czechoslovakian!
If you flick to page 197 of this book, you will come across United Flight 1011. It's stunning:
Megalopolis far behind,
engulfed by air. Remaining only
a few towers, the din of millions,
the shells on Coney Island beach
and the gentle yielding of your body
in the atmospheric disturbance
called morning.
Thirty thousand feet up
you answered: Yes,
I love, yes.
Then the sign came up to
Fasten Seat Belts and the B-737
set down for a smooth landing.
Basically, of course, it remained fixed
in the vast white box of the sky
like a butterfly on the pin of a word.
For where would we be
if love were not stronger than poetry
and poetry stronger than love?
If you flick to page 197 of this book, you will come across United Flight 1011. It's stunning:
Megalopolis far behind,
engulfed by air. Remaining only
a few towers, the din of millions,
the shells on Coney Island beach
and the gentle yielding of your body
in the atmospheric disturbance
called morning.
Thirty thousand feet up
you answered: Yes,
I love, yes.
Then the sign came up to
Fasten Seat Belts and the B-737
set down for a smooth landing.
Basically, of course, it remained fixed
in the vast white box of the sky
like a butterfly on the pin of a word.
For where would we be
if love were not stronger than poetry
and poetry stronger than love?
June 1, 2025
wove together medicine and myth and the beauty of being alive so so perfectly. i savored this collection and ill definitely keep returning to it.
Currently reading
March 10, 2008Some of these poems are great; some are... not. I can't tell if the trouble lies in the translations or somewhere else.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews