Mysticism for Beginners: Poems

by Adam Zagajewski, Clare Cavanagh (Translator)

Powerful New work by a modern master.

You must listen, listen, listen.
Tired springs breathe under water.
At four in the morningthe last, lonely bolt of lightning
scribbles something quickly in the sky.
It says "No." Or "Never.
"Or "Take courage, the fire's not dead."
-from "The Last Storm"

Mysticism for Beginners is the third and most beautiful of Adam Zagajewski's collections to appear in English. The poems are about nature, history, the life of cities, the transformations of art, the spiritual essence of everyday life. Their remarkable staying power derives from the gentle meditative authority of Zagajewski's voice, here expertly rered into English by Clare Cavanagh. Zagajewski's committed, compassionate poems offer access to the mysteries at the heart of experience.

Genres: Poetry, Poland

80 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1997

About the author

Adam 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

Reviews

[Courtney Johnston · Rating 3 out of 5]

Adam Zagajewski might be a little quiet, a little plain-spoken, a little lacking in the electric-skin-flicker I'm looking for right now. Whatever the reason, these poems largely flowed over me without catching.

One thing did catch me though: his repeated use (or Clare Cavanagh's repeated use in her translation) of the zeugma, a rhetorical device in which two words or phrases are yoked together. Most of the examples you find online help not at all to explain this idea - my favourite is, I believe, from Dickens; the image of little girls dressed in muslin and tears. One literal description, one figurative, yoked by the verb. (It is entirely possible I made this example up. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Once I noticed this in Zagajewski's writing, reading became a bird-spotting activity rather than an absorbing one:

The tablecloths smell of starch and morals

Mountain streams lay on their backs
greedily lapping up water and October

The taxi smelled of anise and the twentieth century

As always though, a couple of poems slipped under my skin. The double restraint (of the written words and the described world) of 'Transformation' is lifted by the tension and power of the final lines:

I haven’t written a single poem
in months.
I’ve lived humbly, reading the paper,
pondering the riddle of power
and the reasons for obedience.
I’ve watched sunsets
(crimson, anxious),
I’ve heard the birds grow quiet
… and night’s muteness.
I’ve seen sunflowers dangling
their heads at dusk, as if a careless hangman
had gone strolling through the gardens.
September’s sweet dust gathered
on the windowsill and lizards
hid in the bends of walls.
I’ve taken long walks,
craving one thing only:
lightning,
transformation,
you.

And then 'Three Angels', which I fell straight into, and emerged the other side feeling like I always do when a writer's words sink into me, like I've been coloured in a little bit, made a little richer and deeper ...

Suddenly three angels appeared
right here by the bakery on St. George Street.
Not another census bureau survey,
one tired man sighed.
No, the first angel said patiently,
we just wanted to see
what your lives have become,
the flavor of your days and why
your nights are marked by restlessness and fear.
That's right, fear, a lovely, dreamy-eyed
woman replied; but I know why.
The labors of the human mind have faltered.

They seek help and support
they can't find. Sir, just take a look
-- she called the angel "Sir"! --
at Wittgenstein. Our sages
and leaders are melancholy madmen
and know even less than us
ordinary people (but she wasn't
ordinary).

Then too, said one boy
who was learning to play the violin, evenings
are just an empty carton,
a casket minus mysteries,
while at dawn the cosmos seems as
parched and foreign as a TV screen.
And besides, those who love music for itself
are few and far between.

Others spoke up and their laments
surged into a swelling sonata of wrath.
If you gentlemen want to know the truth,
one tall student yelled -- he'd
just lost his mother -- we've had enough
of death and cruelty, persecution, disease,
and long spells of boredom still
as a serpent's eye. We've got too little earth
and too much fire. We don't know who we are.
We're lost in the forest, and black stars
move lazily above us as if
they were only our dream.

But still, the second angel mumbled shyly,
there's always a little joy, and even beauty
lies close at hand, beneath the bark
of every hour, in the quiet heart of concentration,
and another person hides in each of us --
universal, strong, invincible.
Wild roses sometimes hold the scent
of childhood, and on holidays young girls
go out walking just as they always have,
and there's something timeless
in the way they wind their scarves.
Memory lives in the ocean, in galloping blood,
in black, burnt stones, in poems,
and in every quiet conversation.
The world is the same as it always was,
full of shadows and anticipation.

He would have gone on talking, but the crowd
was growing larger and waves
of mute rage spread
until at last the envoys rose lightly
into the air, whence, growing distant,
they gently repeated: peace be unto you,
peace to the living, the dead, the unborn.
The third angel alone said nothing,
for that was the angel of long silence.

... there's always a little joy, and even beauty / lies close at hand, beneath the bark / of every hour - beautiful.

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

The day was mild, the light was generous.
The German on the café terrace
held a small book on his lap.
I caught sight of the title:
Mysticism for Beginners.
Suddenly I understood that the swallows
patrolling the streets of Montepulciano
with their shrill whistles,
and the hushed talk of timid travelers
from Eastern, so-called Central Europe,
and the white herons standing—yesterday? the day before?
—like nuns in fields of rice,
and the dusk, slow and systematic,
erasing the outlines of medieval houses,
and olive trees on little hills,
abandoned to the wind and heat,
and the head of the Unknown Princess
that I saw and admired in the Louvre,
and stained-glass windows like butterfly wings
sprinkled with pollen,
and the little nightingale practicing
its speech beside the highway,
and any journey, any kind of trip,
are only mysticism for beginners,
the elementary course, prelude
to a test that's been
postponed.

[Melissa · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Oh, tell me how to cure myself of irony, the gaze/ that sees but doesn't penetrate..."

He did, he did. These are poems without armor.

Also, Clare Cavanaugh worked magic with the internal rhymes in the translation from Polish.

[Dom Zuccone · Rating 5 out of 5]

For those of us feeling increasingly rootless, Zagajewski finds a place in the beauty of the shower of the world in flight

[Caroline · Rating 5 out of 5]

There are so many Vermeers and Dutch girls here that it reads like an index of secret passcodes. It was a perfect birthday gift, and I love that one of his primary grammars is "picnic, lightning."

Transformation, Adam Zagajewski

I haven’t written a single poem
in months.
I’ve lived humbly, reading the paper,
pondering the riddle of power
and the reasons for obedience.
I’ve watched sunsets
(crimson, anxious),
I’ve heard the birds grow quiet
and night’s muteness.
I’ve seen sunflowers dangling
their heads at dusk, as if a careless hangman
had gone strolling through the gardens.
September’s sweet dust gathered
on the windowsill and lizards
hid in the bends of walls.
I’ve taken long walks,
craving one thing only:
lightning,
transformation,
you.

[Jim · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poetry is an unusual animal: One doesn't take to it right away. In fact, when I was younger, I thought of it more as a chore than anything else. Now that I have lived for 77 years, I find that nothing can be more powerful, more concise, and more revealing than great poetry. Adam Zagajewski's Mysticism for Beginners: Poems struck me like a bolt of lightning. I kept running into poems, stanzas, or even individual lines that opened my eyes. Lines like these:

Our dead don't dwell in this country,
they pitch their tents in other dead men's memories,
in the fruits of hawthorn and lead.

Or this:

This moment, mortal as you or I,
was full of boundless, senseless,
silly joy, as if it knew
something we didn't.

Or this:

The world is the same as it always was,
full of shadows and anticipation.

This collection is one of the best I have ever read, with startling images and, yes, even mysticism for beginners like me. Excuse me while I look for more poems by this wizard, who, alas, is no longer with us.

[Sara! · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mysticism for Beginners
Adam Zagajewski
.
“Someone sleeps, becoming a warm object/that breathes like an accordion”

“Fog infiltrated lips and lungs/ as if it were sobbing,/ going on about itself, about the cold dawn,/how long the night is,/ and how ruthless stars can be.”

“I live in strange cities and sometimes talk/ with strangers about matters strange to me.”

Tender, earnest, with a wonderful eye for the magic in everyday life and the echoes of history. I really enjoy Zagajewski’s writing and this book was inspiring and soothing.

And guess what!!! I bought it used online and, what do I find on the flyleaf, but his signature and the city/date of the signing!!!!

#zagajewski #mysticismforbeginners

[lennibird · Rating 4 out of 5]

Favorite poem out of this collection is the titled, Transformation.


I haven’t written a single poem
in months.
I’ve lived humbly, reading the paper,
pondering the riddle of power
and the reasons for obedience.
I’ve watched sunsets
(crimson, anxious),
I’ve heard the birds grow quiet
and night’s muteness.
I’ve seen sunflowers dangling
their heads at dusk, as if a careless hangman
had gone strolling through the gardens.
September’s sweet dust gathered
on the windowsill and lizards
hid in the bends of walls.
I’ve taken long walks,
craving one thing only:
lightning,
transformation,
you.

[Astrid · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is easily now one of my favorite poetry books; spectacular contemplations on time and art. Faves listed below in order of appearance:
1. Transformation
2. September
3. Mysticism for Beginners (Title poem!)
4. Dutch Painters
5. Referendum
6. Letter from a Reader
7. For M.
8. Vermeer's Little Girl
9. Self-Portrait
10. Moment
11. Elegy
12. Planetarium
13. Long Afternoons
14. Three Angels

[Evan]

"I write as slowly as if I'll live two hundred years.
I seek images that don't exist,
and if they do they're crumpled and concealed
like summer clothes in winter,
when frost stings the mouth.
I dream of perfect concentration; if I found it
I'd surely stop breathing.
Maybe it's good I get so little done...
I drink from a small spring,
my thirst exceeds the ocean."

[Piper Deakins · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars yet another poetry collection for a class it was good I feel like if I hadn’t read it after diadem it maybe would have felt stronger but I loved diadem too much! He has a very simplistic and to the point vibe for his poetry that makes it easy to read and not super complicated. Very pretty poems though it was a fun read still!

[Tuhin Bhowal · Rating 4 out of 5]

At the end of my years, I would rather be a Cavanagh than a Zagajewski.

[Bob · Rating 4 out of 5]

A wonderful book of poetry.

[BAM · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the first collection I read by Adam Zagajewski and - wow!

I only wish the print version of this book was as beautiful as the translation.

[Max Morton · Rating 5 out of 5]

Unreal collection nothing else to be said that Mr Adam doesn’t say 1000x better. Lyrical goodness! Took me back to traveling in a visceral way…needed it. Thanks jodi ❤️

[Ema · Rating 5 out of 5]

Gorgeous.

[Dani Barnhart · Rating 4 out of 5]

Mysticism for Beginners by Adam Zagajewski (translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh) is rich, ponderous, inquisitive, and full of both dark and light splendor. Written in free-verse, and in widely varying lengths, the poems somehow capture the elusive stuff of life that draws us into our own brands of spirituality. Zagajewski plays with artists and their subjects, meditate with the sounds of life, and even seems to dance with the dead.

This book of poetry was such a delightful surprise at every turn. His mastery of language and ability to find joy in simply being alive gave me a far better grasp of what mysticism truly is. The metaphors are fresh and emotionally authentic. I find myself reading so many of these poems over and over again. It is a rare treat to feel like I am taking part in life actively while reading. There is absolutely something discretely spiritual in an experience like this.

Dutch Painters
Pewter bowls heavy and swelling with metal.
Plump windows bulging from the light.
The palpability of leaden clouds.
Gowns like quilts. Moist oysters.
These things are immortal, but don’t serve us.
The clogs walk by themselves.
The floor tiles are never bored,
and sometimes play chess with the moon.
An ugly girl studies a letter
written in invisible ink.
Is it about love or money?
The tablecloths smell of starch and morals.
The surface and depths don’t connect.
Mystery? There’s no mystery here, just blue sky,
restless and hospitable like a seagull’s cry.
A woman neatly peeling a red apple.
Children dream of old age.
Someone reads a book (a book is read),
someone sleeps, becoming a warm object
that breathes like an accordion.
They liked dwelling. They dwelt everywhere,
in a wooden chair back,
in a milky streamlet narrow as the Bering Straits.
Doors were wide open, the wind was friendly.
Brooms rested after work well done.
Homes bared all. The painting of a land
without secret police.
Only on the young Rembrandt’s face
an early shadow fell. Why?
Tell us, Dutch painters, what will happen
when the apple is peeled, when the silk dims,
when all the colors grow cold.
Tell us what darkness is.

[Nils · Rating 4 out of 5]

Overwhelmingly grand. Even without all the historic or intertextual references (which you don't necessarily need) the language here is rich and broad but without becoming pedantic or stilted. Some of the poems here took me considerable time and several rereads to grasp. But even in the longer poems you get the experience, the emotion before you 'understand' or are able to visualize anything or reflect on it. Remarkably, the shorter poems aren't that much easier but they're just as strong and have that immediate impact, e.g. This

This that lies
heavy and weighs down,
that aches like ache
and burns like a slap in the face,
is a stone
or an anchor.

[Garrett · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm not really in any position to review poetry, but this guy writes some good poems. He's Polish, so some of it I can't relate with, which means I probably just don't get the deeper meaning of the poem. The stuff I do get is really good, though, for what it's worth.

[Ching-In · Rating 2 out of 5]

I took one star away for the Oriental/exotic/blank slate references.

[toni · Rating 5 out of 5]

Favorites:
The City Where I Want to Live; On Swimming

[Mills College Library]

891.85173 Z18 1998

[hh · Rating 2 out of 5]

some stand out lines & stunning images, but i suspect too much gets lost in the translation shuffle. 2.5