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Miracle Fair: Selected Poems of Wisława Szymborska
Winner of the Heldt Prize for Translation. A new translation of the Nobel Prize-winning Polish poet, with an introduction by Czeslaw Milosz. This long-awaited volume samples the full range of Wislawa Szymborska's major themes: the ironies of love, the wonders of nature's beauty, and the illusory character of art. Szymborska's voice emerges as that of a gentle subversive, self-deprecating in its wit, yet graced with a gift for coaxing the extraordinary out of the ordinary.
159 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2001
22 people are currently reading
1039 people want to read
About the author
Wisława Szymborska
210 books1,573 followersWisława Szymborska (Polish pronunciation: [vʲisˈwava ʂɨmˈbɔrska], born July 2, 1923 in Kórnik, Poland) is a Polish poet, essayist, and translator. She was awarded the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. In Poland, her books reach sales rivaling prominent prose authors—although she once remarked in a poem entitled "Some like poetry" [Niektórzy lubią poezję] that no more than two out of a thousand people care for the art.
Szymborska frequently employs literary devices such as irony, paradox, contradiction, and understatement, to illuminate philosophical themes and obsessions. Szymborska's compact poems often conjure large existential puzzles, touching on issues of ethical import, and reflecting on the condition of people both as individuals and as members of human society. Szymborska's style is succinct and marked by introspection and wit.
Szymborska's reputation rests on a relatively small body of work: she has not published more than 250 poems to date. She is often described as modest to the point of shyness[citation needed]. She has long been cherished by Polish literary contemporaries (including Czesław Miłosz) and her poetry has been set to music by Zbigniew Preisner. Szymborska became better known internationally after she was awarded the 1996 Nobel Prize. Szymborska's work has been translated into many European languages, as well as into Arabic, Hebrew, Japanese and Chinese.
In 1931, Szymborska's family moved to Kraków. She has been linked with this city, where she studied, worked.
When World War II broke out in 1939, she continued her education in underground lessons. From 1943, she worked as a railroad employee and managed to avoid being deported to Germany as a forced labourer. It was during this time that her career as an artist began with illustrations for an English-language textbook. She also began writing stories and occasional poems.
Beginning in 1945, Szymborska took up studies of Polish language and literature before switching to sociology at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków. There she soon became involved in the local writing scene, and met and was influenced by Czesław Miłosz. In March 1945, she published her first poem Szukam słowa ("I seek the word") in the daily paper Dziennik Polski; her poems continued to be published in various newspapers and periodicals for a number of years. In 1948 she quit her studies without a degree, due to her poor financial circumstances; the same year, she married poet Adam Włodek, whom she divorced in 1954. At that time, she was working as a secretary for an educational biweekly magazine as well as an illustrator.
During Stalinism in Poland in 1953 she participated in the defamation of Catholic priests from Kraków who were groundlessly condemned by the ruling Communists to death.[1] Her first book was to be published in 1949, but did not pass censorship as it "did not meet socialist requirements." Like many other intellectuals in post-war Poland, however, Szymborska remained loyal to the PRL official ideology early in her career, signing political petitions and praising Stalin, Lenin and the realities of socialism. This attitude is seen in her debut collection Dlatego żyjemy ("That is what we are living for"), containing the poems Lenin and Młodzieży budującej Nową Hutę ("For the Youth that Builds Nowa Huta"), about the construction of a Stalinist industrial town near Kraków. She also became a member of the ruling Polish United Workers' Party.
Like many Polish intellectuals initially close to the official party line, Szymborska gradually grew estranged from socialist ideology and renounced her earlier political work. Although she did not officially leave the party until 1966, she began to establish contacts with dissidents. As early as 1957, she befriended Jerzy Giedroyc, the editor of the influential Paris-based emigré journal Kultura, to which she also contributed. In 1964 s
Szymborska frequently employs literary devices such as irony, paradox, contradiction, and understatement, to illuminate philosophical themes and obsessions. Szymborska's compact poems often conjure large existential puzzles, touching on issues of ethical import, and reflecting on the condition of people both as individuals and as members of human society. Szymborska's style is succinct and marked by introspection and wit.
Szymborska's reputation rests on a relatively small body of work: she has not published more than 250 poems to date. She is often described as modest to the point of shyness[citation needed]. She has long been cherished by Polish literary contemporaries (including Czesław Miłosz) and her poetry has been set to music by Zbigniew Preisner. Szymborska became better known internationally after she was awarded the 1996 Nobel Prize. Szymborska's work has been translated into many European languages, as well as into Arabic, Hebrew, Japanese and Chinese.
In 1931, Szymborska's family moved to Kraków. She has been linked with this city, where she studied, worked.
When World War II broke out in 1939, she continued her education in underground lessons. From 1943, she worked as a railroad employee and managed to avoid being deported to Germany as a forced labourer. It was during this time that her career as an artist began with illustrations for an English-language textbook. She also began writing stories and occasional poems.
Beginning in 1945, Szymborska took up studies of Polish language and literature before switching to sociology at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków. There she soon became involved in the local writing scene, and met and was influenced by Czesław Miłosz. In March 1945, she published her first poem Szukam słowa ("I seek the word") in the daily paper Dziennik Polski; her poems continued to be published in various newspapers and periodicals for a number of years. In 1948 she quit her studies without a degree, due to her poor financial circumstances; the same year, she married poet Adam Włodek, whom she divorced in 1954. At that time, she was working as a secretary for an educational biweekly magazine as well as an illustrator.
During Stalinism in Poland in 1953 she participated in the defamation of Catholic priests from Kraków who were groundlessly condemned by the ruling Communists to death.[1] Her first book was to be published in 1949, but did not pass censorship as it "did not meet socialist requirements." Like many other intellectuals in post-war Poland, however, Szymborska remained loyal to the PRL official ideology early in her career, signing political petitions and praising Stalin, Lenin and the realities of socialism. This attitude is seen in her debut collection Dlatego żyjemy ("That is what we are living for"), containing the poems Lenin and Młodzieży budującej Nową Hutę ("For the Youth that Builds Nowa Huta"), about the construction of a Stalinist industrial town near Kraków. She also became a member of the ruling Polish United Workers' Party.
Like many Polish intellectuals initially close to the official party line, Szymborska gradually grew estranged from socialist ideology and renounced her earlier political work. Although she did not officially leave the party until 1966, she began to establish contacts with dissidents. As early as 1957, she befriended Jerzy Giedroyc, the editor of the influential Paris-based emigré journal Kultura, to which she also contributed. In 1964 s
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 62 reviews
October 1, 2019
Of the three Szymborska books I've read, this is my favourite. What beautifully created poems these were. Always thought-provoking, and filled with moments of such wonder, intelligence, and heart.
Great translation as well, which makes a big difference.
Some of my favourites were -
I am too close for him . . .
Parting with a view
Love at first sight
The turn of the century
The end and the beginning
Seen from above
A speech at the lost and found
Miracle fair
The joy of writing
THE TURN OF THE CENTURY
It was supposed to be better than the rest, our twentieth century,
But it won't have time to prove it.
Its years are numbered,
its step unsteady,
its breath short.
Already too much has happened
that was not supposed to happen.
What was to come
has yet to come.
Spring was to be on its way,
and happiness, among other things.
Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.
The truth was supposed to finish before the lie.
Certain misfortunes
were never to happen again
such as war and hunger and so forth.
The defenselessness of the defenseless,
was going to be respected.
Same for trust and the like.
Whoever wanted to enjoy the world
faces an impossible task.
Stupidity is not funny.
Wisdom is not cheerful.
Hope
is no longer the same young girl
et cetera. Alas.
God was at last to believe in man:
good and strong,
But good and strong
are still two different people.
How to live--someone asked me in a letter,
someone I had wanted
to ask the very same thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones.
Great translation as well, which makes a big difference.
Some of my favourites were -
I am too close for him . . .
Parting with a view
Love at first sight
The turn of the century
The end and the beginning
Seen from above
A speech at the lost and found
Miracle fair
The joy of writing
THE TURN OF THE CENTURY
It was supposed to be better than the rest, our twentieth century,
But it won't have time to prove it.
Its years are numbered,
its step unsteady,
its breath short.
Already too much has happened
that was not supposed to happen.
What was to come
has yet to come.
Spring was to be on its way,
and happiness, among other things.
Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.
The truth was supposed to finish before the lie.
Certain misfortunes
were never to happen again
such as war and hunger and so forth.
The defenselessness of the defenseless,
was going to be respected.
Same for trust and the like.
Whoever wanted to enjoy the world
faces an impossible task.
Stupidity is not funny.
Wisdom is not cheerful.
Hope
is no longer the same young girl
et cetera. Alas.
God was at last to believe in man:
good and strong,
But good and strong
are still two different people.
How to live--someone asked me in a letter,
someone I had wanted
to ask the very same thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones.
November 29, 2019
Những bài thơ của Wisława Szymborska là những kỳ quan, bà là một trong những điều tuyệt vời nhất từng tồn tại trên trái đất này. Thơ bà dịu dàng nhưng cũng rắn rỏi, sâu sắc, đẹp đẽ, giàu lòng trắc ẩn nhưng tuyệt nhiên không ủy mị. Đọc thơ bà trong những buổi sáng âm u giao mùa và trong khoảnh khắc ấy, ta quên đi nỗi hoang vu trên mặt đất này.
July 4, 2012
Ms. Szymborska has that wonderful eastern European ability to show us that everything matters -- our words, our thoughts, our ancestors, our own mortality make us who we are, and who we are exists in an eternal Now. Reading Szymborska proves an entirely new way of looking at poetry. Szymborska is a very conscious and aware poet and she brings the outside political world inside and the inside personal world out. The microcosm and macrocosm of humanity is continually balanced and the poems will undoubtedly be read in the centuries to come. Szymborska knows that there are not only unimaginable horrors in the world, but also "miracles," small truths that are awesome and often wonderful - not because of any religious or magical event, but because they remind us, once again, of our humanity and of what good things might be possible. She treasures ordinary life, love, physicality - and communion. Her poems on love (and lovers) are beautiful, and beautifully simple. At her most luminous, Szymborska strikes me as firmly in the great tradition of poet-prophets exemplified by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, and other great voices.
March 20, 2015
I have read two of Szymborska's Poetry books, one translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavagnah and this one by the great Polish Poet Czeslaw Milosz. Szymborska and Milosz have been both rewarded with a Nobel Prize for literature. I couldn't describe the uniqueness and individual style, nourished by her refusal to surrender to the collectivism, the communist propaganda and the social realism literature, better than the Academy that has praised "her poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to cone to light in fragments of human reality"..
~ Her poems touches on many existential subjects and problems, but my favourite poem of Szymborska is "An Opinion on the Question of Pornography", written when she was silenced by the Government and victim of censorship because of her subversive texts, filled with double entendres and clever expressions, highlighted with the usage of erotic insinuations about sexual liberalism while indirectly taking a stance on freedom of expression and political rights:
"There's nothing more debauched than thinking.
This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weed on a plot laid out for daisies.
Nothing's sacred for those who think.
Calling things brazenly by name,
risque analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects,
discussion in heat--it's music to their ears.
In broad daylight or under cover of the night they form circles, triangles, or pairs.
The partners' age and sex are unimportant.
Their eyes glitter, their cheeks are flushed.
Friend leads friend astray.
Degenerate daughters corrupt their fathers.
A brother pimps for his little sister.
They prefer the fruits from the forbidden tree of knowledge
to the pink buttocks found in glossy magazines--
all the ultimately simple-hearted smut.
The books they relish have no pictures.
What variety they have lies in certain phrases marked with a thumbnail or a crayon.
It's shocking, the positions,
the unchecked simplicity with which one mind contrives to fertilize another!
Such positions the Kamasutra itself doesn't know.
During these trysts of theirs the only thing that's steamy is the tea.
People sit on their chairs and move their lips.
Everyone crosses only his own legs so that one foot is resting on the floor, while the other dangles freely in midair.
Only now and then does somebody get up, go to the window and through a crack in curtains
take a peep out at the street."
~ Another wonderful yet poignant poem I particularly like is "Torture" (which reminds me of some of Anna Akhmatova's poems, written when she was persecuted and suffering, imbued with melancholy, bitterness and even a pervasive ubiquitous sense of pessimistic nihilism ):
"Nothing has changed. Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
its legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,
it turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.
Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,
the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,
while the body is and is and is
and has no place of its own".
~ Her poem "A Few Words On The Soul" is the perfect example of her capability with ease to touch to profound metaphysical subjects with the simplicity of her own craft of writing and with a keen sense of wit:
"We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too."
[Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh]
~ Her poems touches on many existential subjects and problems, but my favourite poem of Szymborska is "An Opinion on the Question of Pornography", written when she was silenced by the Government and victim of censorship because of her subversive texts, filled with double entendres and clever expressions, highlighted with the usage of erotic insinuations about sexual liberalism while indirectly taking a stance on freedom of expression and political rights:
"There's nothing more debauched than thinking.
This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weed on a plot laid out for daisies.
Nothing's sacred for those who think.
Calling things brazenly by name,
risque analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects,
discussion in heat--it's music to their ears.
In broad daylight or under cover of the night they form circles, triangles, or pairs.
The partners' age and sex are unimportant.
Their eyes glitter, their cheeks are flushed.
Friend leads friend astray.
Degenerate daughters corrupt their fathers.
A brother pimps for his little sister.
They prefer the fruits from the forbidden tree of knowledge
to the pink buttocks found in glossy magazines--
all the ultimately simple-hearted smut.
The books they relish have no pictures.
What variety they have lies in certain phrases marked with a thumbnail or a crayon.
It's shocking, the positions,
the unchecked simplicity with which one mind contrives to fertilize another!
Such positions the Kamasutra itself doesn't know.
During these trysts of theirs the only thing that's steamy is the tea.
People sit on their chairs and move their lips.
Everyone crosses only his own legs so that one foot is resting on the floor, while the other dangles freely in midair.
Only now and then does somebody get up, go to the window and through a crack in curtains
take a peep out at the street."
~ Another wonderful yet poignant poem I particularly like is "Torture" (which reminds me of some of Anna Akhmatova's poems, written when she was persecuted and suffering, imbued with melancholy, bitterness and even a pervasive ubiquitous sense of pessimistic nihilism ):
"Nothing has changed. Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
its legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,
it turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.
Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,
the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,
while the body is and is and is
and has no place of its own".
~ Her poem "A Few Words On The Soul" is the perfect example of her capability with ease to touch to profound metaphysical subjects with the simplicity of her own craft of writing and with a keen sense of wit:
"We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too."
[Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh]
August 12, 2009
I was truly disappointed by this particular Szymborska collection of selected poems. The poems are poorly chosen, and are not representative of her best work. The translation appears to be mediocre, and poems that soar in the far superior collection, View With A Grain Of Sand, fall flat in Miracle Fair, due to the lack of flow for one poem to the next. None of this is the fault of the poet, whose genius flashes through in poems such as "Openness": "Here we are, naked lovers,/beautiful to each other-and that's enough/...Even the birds are in the know:/I saw them writing in the sky/brazenly and openly/the very name I call you by." (pg.15) Or in "The Turn of the Century": "How to live-someone asked me in letter,/someone I had wanted/to ask the same thing." (pg.43) "Nothing Nothinged Itself For Me As Well...": "Nothing nothinged itself for me as well./It truly turned itself inside out/...But it just so happens that I am with you./And I really see nothing/ordinary about it." (pg.113) "Miracle Fair": "First among equal miracles:/cows are cows.//Second to none:/just this orchard/from just that seed." (pg.119) Poor Szymborska to be so poorly represented in such a collection as this. Do yourself a favor, and read View With A Grain Of Sand. Then read it again.
January 4, 2015
O Silêncio das Plantas
O relacionamento unilateral entre mim e vocês
não vai mal de todo.
Sei o que são folhinhas, pétalas, espigas, pinhas, caules
e o que se passa convosco em Abril e Dezembro.
E embora a minha curiosidade não seja correspondida,
inclino-me especialmente sobre umas
e ergo a cabeça para outras.
Para mim, vocês têm nomes:
ácer, bardana, anémona,
urze, zimbro, visgo, miosótis,
já eu, para vocês, nenhum.
Viajamos juntas.
E nas viagens conversa-se.
Trocam-se opiniões, nem que seja sobre o tempo
ou sobre as estações velozmente atravessadas.
Temas não faltariam, pois muito temos em comum.
Estamos ao alcance da mesma estrela.
Fazemos sombra, regidas pelas mesmas leis.
Tentamos saber algo, cada uma à sua maneira
e o que não sabemos também nos assemelha.
Perguntem, tentarei esclarecer-vos:
o que é ver com os olhos,
para que me bate o coração
e porque o meu corpo não cria raízes.
Mas como responder às perguntas não colocadas,
ainda por cima, sendo eu para vocês assim,
tão ninguém.
Moitas, pinhais, prados e juncais,
tudo o que vos digo é um monólogo,
mas não são vocês que o ouvem.
Uma conversa com vocês é imprescendível e impossível.
Urgente nesta vida apressada
e adiada para nunca.
O relacionamento unilateral entre mim e vocês
não vai mal de todo.
Sei o que são folhinhas, pétalas, espigas, pinhas, caules
e o que se passa convosco em Abril e Dezembro.
E embora a minha curiosidade não seja correspondida,
inclino-me especialmente sobre umas
e ergo a cabeça para outras.
Para mim, vocês têm nomes:
ácer, bardana, anémona,
urze, zimbro, visgo, miosótis,
já eu, para vocês, nenhum.
Viajamos juntas.
E nas viagens conversa-se.
Trocam-se opiniões, nem que seja sobre o tempo
ou sobre as estações velozmente atravessadas.
Temas não faltariam, pois muito temos em comum.
Estamos ao alcance da mesma estrela.
Fazemos sombra, regidas pelas mesmas leis.
Tentamos saber algo, cada uma à sua maneira
e o que não sabemos também nos assemelha.
Perguntem, tentarei esclarecer-vos:
o que é ver com os olhos,
para que me bate o coração
e porque o meu corpo não cria raízes.
Mas como responder às perguntas não colocadas,
ainda por cima, sendo eu para vocês assim,
tão ninguém.
Moitas, pinhais, prados e juncais,
tudo o que vos digo é um monólogo,
mas não são vocês que o ouvem.
Uma conversa com vocês é imprescendível e impossível.
Urgente nesta vida apressada
e adiada para nunca.
January 31, 2009
She's a great poet. I realize this is a translation, but her lines are so uncluttered, so profound. This from the poem, Torture:
Nothing has changed. Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
its legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,
it turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.
Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,
the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,
while the body is and is and is
and has no place of its own.
-- Wislawa Szymborska
Nothing has changed. Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
its legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,
it turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.
Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,
the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,
while the body is and is and is
and has no place of its own.
-- Wislawa Szymborska
March 6, 2012
If this truly is a lousy translation or not representative of her best work as some other reviewers claim, her other stuff must be effing phenomenal.
Read
November 29, 2020Wow, I really liked this collection. Has a light touch but is never facile; restrained yet incisive; thoughtful both about people and about nature. This selection also comes with illustrations by the author (!). Now I need to read everything else by Szymborska too.
_________
Source of the book: Friends of Lawrence Public Library book sale (a while ago)
_________
Source of the book: Friends of Lawrence Public Library book sale (a while ago)
October 25, 2014
My favourite thing this year. Borrowed from a friend and will get my own copy to go back to. She's like a really cool grandma that jolts you into reality when you are being an idiot. And much more.
September 12, 2023
How I love when poetry can make me cry. Anyway my girl Wislawa, as always, touches me in such a unique and profound way, I want to absorb all these poems intravenously.
Drinking Wine
He looked at me, bestowing beauty,
and I took it for my own.
Happy, I swallowed a star.
I let him invent me
in the image of the reflection
in his eyes. I dance, I dance
in an abundance of sudden wings.
A table is a table, wine is wine
in a wineglass, which is a wineglass
and it stands standing on a table
but I am a phantasm,
a phantasm beyond belief,
a phantasm to the core.
I tell him what he wants to hear—about ants
dying of love
under a dandelion's constellation.
I swear that sprinkled with wine
a white rose will sing.
I laugh, and tilt my head
carefully, as if I were testing
an invention. I dance, I dance
in astounded skin, in the embrace
that creates me.
Eve from a rib, Venus from sea foam,
Minerva from the head of Jove
were much more real.
When he's not looking at me,
I search for my reflection
on the wall. All I see
is a nail on which a painting hung.
And I'd quite frankly die without putting this one here as well. This was never intended to be a review but a ~divine~ appreciation of her work and an itchy need to show these poems to..everyone.
Under a Certain Little Star
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity in case I'm mistaken.
Don't be angry, happiness, that I take you for my own.
May the dead forgive me that their memory's but a flicker.
My apologies to time for the quantity of world overlooked per second.
My apologies to an old love for treating a new one as the first.
Forgive me, far-off wars, for carrying my flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
My apologies for the minuet record, to those calling out from the abyss.
My apologies to those in train stations for sleeping soundly at five in the morning.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing sometimes.
Pardon me, deserts, for not rushing in with a spoonful of water.
And you, O hawk, the same bird for years in the same cage,
staring, motionless, always at the same spot,
absolve me, even if you happen to be stuffed.
My apologies to the tree felled for four table legs.
My apologies to large questions for small answers.
Truth, do not pay me too much attention.
Solemnity, be magnanimous toward me.
Bear with me, O mystery of being, for pulling threads from your veil.
Soul, don't blame me that I've got you so seldom.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere.
My apologies to all for not knowing how to be every man and woman.
I know that as long as I live, nothing can excuse me,
since I am my own obstacle.
Do not hold it against me, O speech, that I borrow weighty words,
and then labor to make them light.
Honestly, as someone who feels the happiest (and most depressed) while writing, I truly hope that one day I will achieve the mastery of using words the way Szymborska does.
Drinking Wine
He looked at me, bestowing beauty,
and I took it for my own.
Happy, I swallowed a star.
I let him invent me
in the image of the reflection
in his eyes. I dance, I dance
in an abundance of sudden wings.
A table is a table, wine is wine
in a wineglass, which is a wineglass
and it stands standing on a table
but I am a phantasm,
a phantasm beyond belief,
a phantasm to the core.
I tell him what he wants to hear—about ants
dying of love
under a dandelion's constellation.
I swear that sprinkled with wine
a white rose will sing.
I laugh, and tilt my head
carefully, as if I were testing
an invention. I dance, I dance
in astounded skin, in the embrace
that creates me.
Eve from a rib, Venus from sea foam,
Minerva from the head of Jove
were much more real.
When he's not looking at me,
I search for my reflection
on the wall. All I see
is a nail on which a painting hung.
And I'd quite frankly die without putting this one here as well. This was never intended to be a review but a ~divine~ appreciation of her work and an itchy need to show these poems to..everyone.
Under a Certain Little Star
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity in case I'm mistaken.
Don't be angry, happiness, that I take you for my own.
May the dead forgive me that their memory's but a flicker.
My apologies to time for the quantity of world overlooked per second.
My apologies to an old love for treating a new one as the first.
Forgive me, far-off wars, for carrying my flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
My apologies for the minuet record, to those calling out from the abyss.
My apologies to those in train stations for sleeping soundly at five in the morning.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing sometimes.
Pardon me, deserts, for not rushing in with a spoonful of water.
And you, O hawk, the same bird for years in the same cage,
staring, motionless, always at the same spot,
absolve me, even if you happen to be stuffed.
My apologies to the tree felled for four table legs.
My apologies to large questions for small answers.
Truth, do not pay me too much attention.
Solemnity, be magnanimous toward me.
Bear with me, O mystery of being, for pulling threads from your veil.
Soul, don't blame me that I've got you so seldom.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere.
My apologies to all for not knowing how to be every man and woman.
I know that as long as I live, nothing can excuse me,
since I am my own obstacle.
Do not hold it against me, O speech, that I borrow weighty words,
and then labor to make them light.
Honestly, as someone who feels the happiest (and most depressed) while writing, I truly hope that one day I will achieve the mastery of using words the way Szymborska does.
March 12, 2015
Another fine selection of poems by the marvelous Wislawa Szymborska. I've probably read all the currently available English language translations of her work. Unsurprisingly, various collections include versions of the same poem, making it possible and enlightening to compare translations. Here, for example, are the last several lines of the poem variously called "A Great Number," "A Large Number," or "Big Numbers":
From "Miracle Fair," translated by Joanna Trzeciak:
My dreams--even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet
valley, seemingly no one's--an anachronism by now.
Where does all this space still in me come from--
that I don't know.
From "Poems, New and Collected, 1957-1997," translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh:
My dreams, even they're not as populous as they should be.
They hold more solitude than noisy crowds.
Sometimes a long-dead friend stops by for awhile.
A single hand turns the knob.
An echo's annexes overgrow the empty house.
I run from the doorstep into a valley
that is quiet, as if no one owned it, already an anachronism.
Why there's still all this space inside me
I don't know.
From "People on a Bridge," translated by Adam Czernniawski:
My dreams--even they are not, as they ought to be, populous.
They have more solitariness than tumults and crowds.
Occasionally someone long-dead drops in for a moment.
A single hand turns the door-knob.
The empty house is overgrown with echo's extensions.
From its steps I run down into a peaceful
valley, apparently unclaimed, already out-of-date.
But whence this space in me still--
I have no idea.
From "Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts," translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire:
My dreams--even they are not, as is proper, inhabited.
There's more in them of solitude than crowds and tumult.
Someone long dead may drop by for a moment.
The handle is moved by a lone hand.
The empty house is crowded round with annexes of echoes.
I run from the doorstep down into the tranquil
valley that seems to be no one's, already anachronistic.
Where this space within me comes from still--
that I do not know.
From "Miracle Fair," translated by Joanna Trzeciak:
My dreams--even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet
valley, seemingly no one's--an anachronism by now.
Where does all this space still in me come from--
that I don't know.
From "Poems, New and Collected, 1957-1997," translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh:
My dreams, even they're not as populous as they should be.
They hold more solitude than noisy crowds.
Sometimes a long-dead friend stops by for awhile.
A single hand turns the knob.
An echo's annexes overgrow the empty house.
I run from the doorstep into a valley
that is quiet, as if no one owned it, already an anachronism.
Why there's still all this space inside me
I don't know.
From "People on a Bridge," translated by Adam Czernniawski:
My dreams--even they are not, as they ought to be, populous.
They have more solitariness than tumults and crowds.
Occasionally someone long-dead drops in for a moment.
A single hand turns the door-knob.
The empty house is overgrown with echo's extensions.
From its steps I run down into a peaceful
valley, apparently unclaimed, already out-of-date.
But whence this space in me still--
I have no idea.
From "Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts," translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire:
My dreams--even they are not, as is proper, inhabited.
There's more in them of solitude than crowds and tumult.
Someone long dead may drop by for a moment.
The handle is moved by a lone hand.
The empty house is crowded round with annexes of echoes.
I run from the doorstep down into the tranquil
valley that seems to be no one's, already anachronistic.
Where this space within me comes from still--
that I do not know.
April 16, 2013
От онези стихотворения, за които ми е най-добре да си мълча, защото, с всяка дума по техен адрес, имам усещането, че ги развалям:)
Ето едно от любимите ми:
The Three Oddest Words
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
(Или както казва Шимборска, "i prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.")
Ето едно от любимите ми:
The Three Oddest Words
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
(Или както казва Шимборска, "i prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.")
August 15, 2022
Rather uneven translations and disappointing when compared to Baranczak and Cavanagh who translated all of Szymborska's poems. Sometimes Trzeciak's lines would be exactly the same as theirs, making only slight modifications and usually for worse. Other times, they sounded more original but usually felt forced and effortful. There were a few exceptions when I enjoyed her renditions as in 'Thank-You Note' or 'On Death, without Exaggeration.'
2.5 stars for Trzeciak's translations
5 stars for Szymborska's amazing poetry, but I'd recommend alternative translators
2.5 stars for Trzeciak's translations
5 stars for Szymborska's amazing poetry, but I'd recommend alternative translators
June 25, 2022
Have read through many times. DEEP DEEP LOVE! Some quotes:
"Do not hold it against me, O speech, that I borrow weighty words,
and then labor to make them light."
"Nothing nothinged itself for me as well.
It truly turned itself inside out.
Where did I find myself?
From head to toe among the planets,
not even remembering how it was for me not to be."
"Silence has closed over him, his voice leaving no scar."
Pure brilliance and never ending inspiration! LOVE LOVE LOVE!
"Do not hold it against me, O speech, that I borrow weighty words,
and then labor to make them light."
"Nothing nothinged itself for me as well.
It truly turned itself inside out.
Where did I find myself?
From head to toe among the planets,
not even remembering how it was for me not to be."
"Silence has closed over him, his voice leaving no scar."
Pure brilliance and never ending inspiration! LOVE LOVE LOVE!
November 18, 2008
I am a rock, said the rock.
December 30, 2017
Czeslow Milosz has written the forward to this remarkable volume which retains its allure for English speakers since its publication in 2002. When he speaks of " the clearly perceived need for intelligent discourse on lifes cheerless dance" p4 we can be sure that we have found in WS a capable and eloquent partner. her poems are almost like conversations in their casual intensity.
WS has looked deeply at her surroundings, and even her nature poems are not merely word pictures but conveyors of raw experience. From Clouds, p71
Unburdened by the memory of anything
they float effortlessly above the facts.
For WS, the political and the philosophical are not at odds within the poem.
It is a matter of contrast
between
clatter and silence. p50
WS has looked deeply at her surroundings, and even her nature poems are not merely word pictures but conveyors of raw experience. From Clouds, p71
Unburdened by the memory of anything
they float effortlessly above the facts.
For WS, the political and the philosophical are not at odds within the poem.
It is a matter of contrast
between
clatter and silence. p50
Read
September 19, 2023started leaving this by my bed to read a few poems every night before going to sleep. she’s truly one of the best to ever do it
March 15, 2016
My professor recommended I read this collection after I expressed an interest in Milosz’s work and a specific admiration of his style. Reading “Miracle Fair” was like an exploration of the self. I felt myself get lost in tiny cracks and crevices within and after reemerging there was a certain feeling of lightness and delight. I only wish that one day my own writing can be as honest and wispy as Szymborska’s.
In comparison to Milosz, I felt Szymborska had a lighter step to her writing, the words guiding the reader along effortlessly while still pointing out moments of shock or irony without making it outright. And the imagery – oh the imagery. It was by far the best part of the collection.One of the memorable poems from this collection, “Drinking Wine”, was simply full of them. There was a whole stanza I mauled over and lost myself in:
I tell him what he wants to hear – about ants / dying of love / under a dandelion’s constellation. / I swear that sprinkled with wine / a white rose will sing.
There was a dreamy quality throughout most of the poems yet they were, for lack of a better word, sophisticated in their use of it. It was incorporated seamlessly and an entire world was constructed around these images, yet they managed to retain their uniqueness and wonder. Particular attention should be paid to the section “I knock at the door of the rock”, where the poems “Seen from Above” and “The Silence of Plants” deserve to be the topic of lengthy midnight discussions between lovers or just groups of friends. Here, the imagery emphasized the topics of death and identity in a way that offers new ideas and angles.
This is a beautiful collection, a perfect balance of style and topic, both light and heavy, but an overall delight.
In comparison to Milosz, I felt Szymborska had a lighter step to her writing, the words guiding the reader along effortlessly while still pointing out moments of shock or irony without making it outright. And the imagery – oh the imagery. It was by far the best part of the collection.One of the memorable poems from this collection, “Drinking Wine”, was simply full of them. There was a whole stanza I mauled over and lost myself in:
I tell him what he wants to hear – about ants / dying of love / under a dandelion’s constellation. / I swear that sprinkled with wine / a white rose will sing.
There was a dreamy quality throughout most of the poems yet they were, for lack of a better word, sophisticated in their use of it. It was incorporated seamlessly and an entire world was constructed around these images, yet they managed to retain their uniqueness and wonder. Particular attention should be paid to the section “I knock at the door of the rock”, where the poems “Seen from Above” and “The Silence of Plants” deserve to be the topic of lengthy midnight discussions between lovers or just groups of friends. Here, the imagery emphasized the topics of death and identity in a way that offers new ideas and angles.
This is a beautiful collection, a perfect balance of style and topic, both light and heavy, but an overall delight.
April 26, 2012
This collection of Szymborska’s poetry only touches upon how gifted a poet she was. Here we are able to delve into life and hope, fear and despair as only Szymborska can describe it. She is somehow able to convey both the horror of humanity and the rich complexity of love with an immense compassion that fills every page. Included in this collection is the poem “The End and the Beginning,” one of the greatest pieces ever written about the human condition after war. Szymborska has a unique way of reaching in and grabbing your heart, then slowly easing her grasp and massaging the heart back into believing that everything is going to turn out ok in the end. Her voice on the world stage will be missed though we will always have her incredible words to caress us.
November 22, 2023
I don’t even know where to begin. Wislawa has such an eye for the little details, the little truths, or how she would call it: the miracles, of life. She would brings us back to a childlike view of the world. She sees the extraordinary in the ordinary, the things our eyes would gloss over. To read Szymborska is to read of humanity, to read of history, to read of nature, beauty, the world, and of life.
February 4, 2009
This is the work of a firecely intellectual, calm and attentive mind. Szymborska once said that poetry involved sitting in a quiet room, pen in hand, and staring at a wall for hours. Hard to believe that that was where these beautiful and affirming poems were borne. While not as comprehensive as her collected poems, this is a winsome offering, superbly translated.
June 27, 2010
This was great -- the editing and arrangement of poems are an unusual twist; grouping the poems by loose themes as opposed to arranging them chronologically. As you can imagine, it works better at certain points than others. Translations are excellent and Szymborska's work is, as always, eminently readable, although I'll probably reread 'View with a Grain of Sand' before this collection.
November 8, 2010
My favorite Polish poet. Which is saying a lot! Perhaps Poland produces exemplary poets, or Polish translates particularly well into English, or maybe the fact that my great-grandparents came to Michigan from Poland makes Polish lines resonate with me in some special way. Whatever it is, "Wendy's favorite Polish poet" is a hard-won prize. This collection does not disappoint.
February 11, 2008
Strength in vulnerability. Walking around with your eyes open, unafraid to peer into dark corners. Narrative in place of sharp edged opinion takes the form of Woman, or has been Woman all along. I love her.
February 15, 2009
Actually, I didn't make it to the end. Nothing really compelled me to finish it. Perhaps it was the translation, or perhaps I'll come back in a few years and enjoy it more. It seemed rather flat to me.
October 27, 2011
I read this in conjunction with "Slaughterhouse Five," which was interesting, because she has a chapter that reflects on the horrors of war - " . . . too much has happened that was not supposed to happen . . ." My favorite poem is "Conversation with a Rock."
June 7, 2013
I first picked up Szymborska because I have Polish ancestry. But I enjoyed reading her poems very much. They range from the personal to the political, not too many of either, but a nice balance within this collection. An important voice which will be greatly missed.
January 30, 2013
Wislwa szymborska is MY ULTIMATE FANATIC POET!
Every poem was a journey through captivating blessings to the greatness of the spirit, I Loved every metphor, word, letter and title. It made me Happy. it's like rising through ashes!
AHA!! Eureka! :)
Every poem was a journey through captivating blessings to the greatness of the spirit, I Loved every metphor, word, letter and title. It made me Happy. it's like rising through ashes!
AHA!! Eureka! :)
January 23, 2016
This woman is my favorite poet of all time. I was lent this book by my poetry teacher and I fell in love. I read all of it in about a day. My favorite is Cat In An Empty Apartment. It wreaks me every time I read it.
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