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Without End: New and Selected Poems
I love to swim in the sea, which keeps
talking to itself
in the monotone of a vagabond
who no longer recalls
exactly how long he’s been on the road.
Swimming is like
palms join and part,
join and part,
almost without end.
--from "On Swimming"
Without End draws from each of Adam Zagajewski's English-language collections, both in and out of print-- Tremor, Canvas, and Mysticism for Beginners-- and features new work that is among his most refreshing and rewarding. These poems, lucidly translated, share the vocation that allows us, in Zagajewski's words, "to experience astonishment and to stop still in that astonishment for a long moment or two."
talking to itself
in the monotone of a vagabond
who no longer recalls
exactly how long he’s been on the road.
Swimming is like
palms join and part,
join and part,
almost without end.
--from "On Swimming"
Without End draws from each of Adam Zagajewski's English-language collections, both in and out of print-- Tremor, Canvas, and Mysticism for Beginners-- and features new work that is among his most refreshing and rewarding. These poems, lucidly translated, share the vocation that allows us, in Zagajewski's words, "to experience astonishment and to stop still in that astonishment for a long moment or two."
304 pages, Paperback
First published February 10, 2002
26 people are currently reading
1478 people want to read
About the author
Adam Zagajewski
109 books203 followersAdam Zagajewski was a Polish poet, novelist, translator and essayist. He was awarded the 2004 Neustadt International Prize for Literature.
The Zagajeski family was expelled from Lwów by the Ukrainians to central Poland in 1945.
In 1982 he emigrated to Paris, but in 2002 he returned to Poland, and now resides in Kraków.
His poem "Try To Praise The Mutilated World", printed in The New Yorker, became famous after the 9/11 attacks.
He is considered a leading poet of the Generation of '68, or Polish New Wave (Polish: Nowa fala), and one of Poland's most prominent contemporary poets.
Source: wikipedia.com
The Zagajeski family was expelled from Lwów by the Ukrainians to central Poland in 1945.
In 1982 he emigrated to Paris, but in 2002 he returned to Poland, and now resides in Kraków.
His poem "Try To Praise The Mutilated World", printed in The New Yorker, became famous after the 9/11 attacks.
He is considered a leading poet of the Generation of '68, or Polish New Wave (Polish: Nowa fala), and one of Poland's most prominent contemporary poets.
Source: wikipedia.com
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews
March 29, 2018
From "Try to Praise the Mutilated World" to "Watching Shoah in a Hotel Room in America," Zagajewski's images are trenchant and affecting. Not entirely dissimilar to Simic's Eastern European sensibility, Zagajewski's poetry has a slightly more densely allusive Central European style. He seems less at home in America, but more at home in the world, while Simic writes from New Hampshire as if he's lived there his entire life, but sees mystery in every wooden bucket, every dying pine. Zagajewski doesn't confront the absurdity of the world with more absurdity, as does Simic through his surrealistic imagery; rather, Zagajewski peels back the layers of our desensitization to reveal the raw nerve, the perfect image, the crystaline metaphor, that re-sensitizes us and re-awakens us to the pain and suffering we are made to ignore, and make ourselves ignore.
July 28, 2013
Agree with other reviews - 'what is it about Polish poets?' Milosz, Szymborska, Herbert, Zagajewski - one can only imagine how beautiful these poems are in their native language. I once heard Zagajewski translator Clare Cavanaugh speak about her translation of the deeply moving poem, Let us Praise the Mutilated World. When she sent AZ her English translation, he responded (as I recall) "dead kittens... dead puppies". Is it too late to learn Polish at age 61?
November 13, 2013
"You’d think it would be easy, living.
All you need is a fistful of earth, a boat, a nest, a jail,
a little breath, some drops of blood, and longing."
Some of the lines from this collection have become my friends. Many of them slid straight away. To write a legitimate review, I would have to speak a different language.
All you need is a fistful of earth, a boat, a nest, a jail,
a little breath, some drops of blood, and longing."
Some of the lines from this collection have become my friends. Many of them slid straight away. To write a legitimate review, I would have to speak a different language.
August 3, 2023
Houses, waves, clouds, and shadows
(deep-blue roofs, brownish bricks),
all of you finally became a glance.
The quiet pupil of things, unreined,
glittering with blackness.
You'll outlive our admiration, our tears,
and our noisy, despicable wars.
March 5, 2020
I had never heard of this poet before and was looking at one of those Listmania things on amazon, years ago and someone had done a modern poetry favourites list and this was on it, as well as Montale collected poems and so I bought both books, as they sounded intriguing. I've still not read the Montale one yet but hopefully will one day, but I did read this one and really enjoyed it. He's a Polish poet and I don't think I've read anything by a Polish author before, so that was a bit new for me and there was generally a freshness to the collection and a good sprinkling of originality. I don't know why but the poem that stuck in my mind the most was one about the philosopher Schopenhauer...he seemed to have it in for the poor lad and in the poem, Zagajewski wonders if the philosopher was a little meek old man in real life, almost hiding behind his challenging, damning philosophies and really being a scared, bitter and cowardly individual. I have no idea what Schopers was like personality wise, but it was an interesting poem and the book is full of thought provoking, honest and refreshing writing, which I found unlike much other poetry I'd read before...
Try this if you are after accessible poems that still make you think- I would certainly like to revisit this collection one day as I reckon it would offer up even more on a second read.
February 2, 2009
A collection I return to again and again. What is it about the Poles and poetry? Is it that they do not operate in the kind of toxic "publish or perish" environment that has increasingly infected American literary publishing? These poems are quiet, lyrical, beautifully detailed, connected to the larger world of politics and tragic events, deeply melancholy and often surprising.
March 27, 2008
Zagajewski’s collection was vast in its range and was somewhat reminiscent of Herbert or Milosz His poems create a sense of longing for some lost innocence of place like his birth city Lvov. This is a running theme present in many of the poems in this collection.
I found some of Zagajewski’s poems powerful and immediate such as, Try To Praise The Mutilated World, with its wonderful images and its wonderful juxtapositions. I think this is where Zagajewski’s strength lies, his startling and at other times subtle juxtaposition of images give his poetry its impact
I found some of Zagajewski’s poems powerful and immediate such as, Try To Praise The Mutilated World, with its wonderful images and its wonderful juxtapositions. I think this is where Zagajewski’s strength lies, his startling and at other times subtle juxtaposition of images give his poetry its impact
November 19, 2013
You must praise the mutilated world
A beautiful, touching collection by a fine poet. Zagajewski is witty, humorous, accessible and, unlike so many contemporary American poets, he is not afraid of sentimentality. An example to learn from.
A beautiful, touching collection by a fine poet. Zagajewski is witty, humorous, accessible and, unlike so many contemporary American poets, he is not afraid of sentimentality. An example to learn from.
August 20, 2023
Late Beethoven
I haven't yet known a man who loved virtue as strongly as one loves beauty. --Confucius
Nobody knows who she was, the Immortal
Beloved. Apart from that, everything is
clear. Feathery notes rest
peacefully on the threads of the staff
like martins just come
from the Atlantic. What would I have to be
in order to speak about him, he who's still
growing. Now we are walking alone
without ghosts or banners. Long live
chaos, say our solitary mouths.
We know that he dressed carelessly,
that he was given to fits of avarice, that he wasn't
always fair to his friends.
Friends are a hundred years
late with their impeccable smiles. Who
was the Immortal Beloved? Certainly,
he loved virtue more than beauty.
But a nameless god of beauty dwelled
in him and compelled his obedience.
He improvised for hours. A few minutes
of each improvisation were noted down.
These minutes belong neither to the nineteenth
nor to the twentieth century; as if hydrochloric
acid burned a window in velvet, thus
opening a passage to even
smoother velvet, thin as
a spiderweb. Now they name
ships and perfumes after him. They don't know who
the Immortal Beloved was, otherwise
new cities and pâtés would bear her
name. But it's useless. Only velvet
growing under velvet, like a leaf hidden
safely in another leaf. Light in darkness.
Unending adagios. That's how tired freedom
breathes. Biographers argue only
over details. Why he tormented
his nephew Karl so much. Why
he walked so fast. Why he didn't go
to London. Apart from that, everything is clear.
We don't know what music is. Who speaks
in it. To whom it is addressed. Why it is
so obstinately silent. Why it circles and returns
instead of giving a straight answer
as the Gospel demands. Prophecies
were not fulfilled. The Chinese didn't reach
the Rhine. Once more, it turned out that
the real world doesn't exist, to the immense
relief of antiquaries. The secret was hidden
somewhere else, not in soldiers'
napsacks, but in a few notebooks.
Grillparzer, he, Chopin. Generals are
cast in lead and tinsel to
give hell's flame a moment of respite
after kilowatts of straw. Unending adagios,
but first and foremost joy, wild
joy of shape, the laughing sister of death.
I haven't yet known a man who loved virtue as strongly as one loves beauty. --Confucius
Nobody knows who she was, the Immortal
Beloved. Apart from that, everything is
clear. Feathery notes rest
peacefully on the threads of the staff
like martins just come
from the Atlantic. What would I have to be
in order to speak about him, he who's still
growing. Now we are walking alone
without ghosts or banners. Long live
chaos, say our solitary mouths.
We know that he dressed carelessly,
that he was given to fits of avarice, that he wasn't
always fair to his friends.
Friends are a hundred years
late with their impeccable smiles. Who
was the Immortal Beloved? Certainly,
he loved virtue more than beauty.
But a nameless god of beauty dwelled
in him and compelled his obedience.
He improvised for hours. A few minutes
of each improvisation were noted down.
These minutes belong neither to the nineteenth
nor to the twentieth century; as if hydrochloric
acid burned a window in velvet, thus
opening a passage to even
smoother velvet, thin as
a spiderweb. Now they name
ships and perfumes after him. They don't know who
the Immortal Beloved was, otherwise
new cities and pâtés would bear her
name. But it's useless. Only velvet
growing under velvet, like a leaf hidden
safely in another leaf. Light in darkness.
Unending adagios. That's how tired freedom
breathes. Biographers argue only
over details. Why he tormented
his nephew Karl so much. Why
he walked so fast. Why he didn't go
to London. Apart from that, everything is clear.
We don't know what music is. Who speaks
in it. To whom it is addressed. Why it is
so obstinately silent. Why it circles and returns
instead of giving a straight answer
as the Gospel demands. Prophecies
were not fulfilled. The Chinese didn't reach
the Rhine. Once more, it turned out that
the real world doesn't exist, to the immense
relief of antiquaries. The secret was hidden
somewhere else, not in soldiers'
napsacks, but in a few notebooks.
Grillparzer, he, Chopin. Generals are
cast in lead and tinsel to
give hell's flame a moment of respite
after kilowatts of straw. Unending adagios,
but first and foremost joy, wild
joy of shape, the laughing sister of death.
November 3, 2019
Hallowed out. Lonesome. The infection of the individual with the historical. Haunting. Grim. Life.
February 23, 2009
Adam Zagajewski’s beautifully somber poetry evokes images of European cities tinged with soot and choked with the history of failed leaders. Reading his poems is like viewing human nature as daguerreotype--sepia-toned, sad, and proud, but with the thinnest crescent of hope.
Zagajewski’s work at its best is sublimely insightful. However, his frequent use of naming European artists and politicos feels clunky at times, and, lacking reference points for many of them, I found my attention wandering.
Regardless, I encourage you to at least find a couple of his poems online and get a taste of his wonderfully perceptive work.
Zagajewski’s work at its best is sublimely insightful. However, his frequent use of naming European artists and politicos feels clunky at times, and, lacking reference points for many of them, I found my attention wandering.
Regardless, I encourage you to at least find a couple of his poems online and get a taste of his wonderfully perceptive work.
August 13, 2014
This is the collection with which I found the poetry of Adam Zagajewski. Up until this point poetry was always a terrain of uncertainty for me. Finding jewels in the rough, but only just and, with large spaces in between. Then I found (Without End). As clear and as lucid as a message from the mouth of a monk yet as surreal as two planets colliding over the top of your clothesline. Every one of these exquisite poems filled me with life and the knowledge that there are no limits to restraint or, an untethered imagination.
April 2, 2008
I found Zagajewski's poetry completely by accident. It's wonderful and powerful. This book has new poems, but also selection of poem from every stage of his life and writing career. It is always interesting to see how a poet's work evolves from decade to decade. He is one of my favorites, especially his later work.
July 2, 2007
"Philosophers" is one of my very favorite poems, as bitter as it is. I saw Zagajewski in person last year, and thought him not only impeccable in mind but also in speech. He's very old and careful, yet there's a dynamism and sense of humor there that's really wonderful.
Want to read
November 17, 2009NOT A REVIEW: Poland is at the center of my new world order. Considering making a proposal for artistic exchange between contemporary Polish dance and poetry. Let me know what other contemporary Polish poets I should read.
February 2, 2009
Loaned to me by a student who couldn't stop reading him. Zagajewski writes wonderful transcendent stuff. The reading of this collection was made even better by my student's marginalia. She writes,"yes! yes!" and then, "look this word up." Le Sigh.
July 7, 2007
A newly canonized member of my favorite poets club. Able to be accessible, emotionally-charged and deep all together.
August 7, 2007
Some of the best poems I've read in a while. Zagajewski has such an incredible range of style and the poems are packed with intellect and wonderful worldly imagery
January 23, 2008
Read one or two poems a day out of this, and you'll be glad you did.
October 5, 2016
Brilliant. I need to get my own copy so I can read it a dozen more times.
May 13, 2016
Pretty Dang Good.
August 13, 2007
One of the best and most underrated collections of poetry. Sheer genius.
March 7, 2021
Three stars for the whole collection but all the stars in the universe for this one:
TRY TO PRAISE THE MUTILATED WORLD
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rose 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
and returns.
TRY TO PRAISE THE MUTILATED WORLD
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rose 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
and returns.
October 13, 2018
A wonderful poet who writes about place most of all. And of intertwined in those places are memories of people he's known, the brutal history of Europe, cityscapes, water, nature and, of course, the passage of time into death. I like him a lot, his later poems probably more consistently. Well worth reading each poem over four years, slowly and one at a time.
August 25, 2020
Interesting play with language, leaps, turns, all of which were compelling to this reader. Some ekphrastic poems: "Dutch Painters," "Vermeer's Little Girl," "Degas: The Milliner's Shop," etc. I especially loved the inclusion of his new poems. The poem, "Try to Praise the Mutilated World" is stunning! I use this poem in each of my classes. Read this book!
February 2, 2024
Walk through the remembered streets and crisp midnights of one of the best poets of our time.
Favorites from this book
At Midnight
Self Portrait
Sunrise over Cassis
R. Says
Transformation
Shell
Degas
Planetarium
Airport in Amsterdam
The Close of Summer
Don't Allow the Lucid Moment to Dissolve
Favorites from this book
At Midnight
Self Portrait
Sunrise over Cassis
R. Says
Transformation
Shell
Degas
Planetarium
Airport in Amsterdam
The Close of Summer
Don't Allow the Lucid Moment to Dissolve
July 24, 2025
The joy of a collected poems is seeing the repeated images and ideas that recur over the years. Zagajewski was absolutely masterful at the quiet city at dusk, with both beauty and violence (always the state’s doing) on the horizon.
October 31, 2022
this is fantastic
Read
June 8, 2023First read: June 8, 2023, Thursday
April 24, 2024
"God, give us a long winter
and quiet music, and patient mouths,
and a little pride—before
our age ends.
Give us astonishment
and a flame, high, bright."
and quiet music, and patient mouths,
and a little pride—before
our age ends.
Give us astonishment
and a flame, high, bright."
Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews