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Sůl
V roce 1965 vyšel v nakladatelství Mlada fronta výbor z poezie polské básnířky Wislawy Szymborské. Nesl prostý název - Sůl. Bylo to první české setkání s autorkou, kterou později poznal prakticky celý literární svět. V roce 1996 stala se držitelkou Nobelovy ceny za literaturu.
Sbírka veršů mladé básnířky a překladatelky, jedné z nejvýraznějších osobností moderní polské poezie. Jsou inspirovány nejrůznějšími zdroji, např. zlatou svatbou, malým oznamovatelem, výpravou do Himálají, obrazy Breughelových opic a Rubensových žen i T. Mannem.
Sbírka veršů mladé básnířky a překladatelky, jedné z nejvýraznějších osobností moderní polské poezie. Jsou inspirovány nejrůznějšími zdroji, např. zlatou svatbou, malým oznamovatelem, výpravou do Himálají, obrazy Breughelových opic a Rubensových žen i T. Mannem.
- GenresPoetryPolish Literature
76 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1962
7 people are currently reading
70 people want to read
About the author
Wisława Szymborska
210 books1,574 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 - 20 of 20 reviews
March 31, 2024
4/10
Tomik piąty z cyklu dwunastu - na ten moment najgorszy ze wszystkich. Nie wyczułam spójności formy i tematyki - wstępuje tu pomieszanie konceptów, czego nie jestem fanką. Kilka wierszy bardzo mi się spodobało, ale większość zdecydowanie nie była moja.
Tomik piąty z cyklu dwunastu - na ten moment najgorszy ze wszystkich. Nie wyczułam spójności formy i tematyki - wstępuje tu pomieszanie konceptów, czego nie jestem fanką. Kilka wierszy bardzo mi się spodobało, ale większość zdecydowanie nie była moja.
October 14, 2022
Najgorsza z wszystkich dotychczasowych
November 23, 2019
Zdecydowanie moje ulubione to: Woda i Muzeum. Wiersze typowe dla Szymborskiej z kilkoma znaczeniami i skłaniające do namysłu. Polecam
August 2, 2023
śliczny zbiór poezji.
August 2, 2017
L'ombra
La mia ombra è come un buffone
dietro la regina.
Quando lei si alza,
il buffone sulla parete balza
e sbatte nel soffitto col testone.
Il che forse a suo modo duole
nel mondo bidimensionale. Forse
al buffone non va la mia corte
e preferirebbe un altro ruolo.
La regina si sporge dal balcone
e lui dal balcone salta giù.
Così hanno diviso ogni azione,
però a uno ne tocca assai di più.
Quel rozzo si è preso il gesto liberale,
il pathos con la sua impudenza,
tutto ciò per cui non ho la forza
- corona, scettro, manto regale.
Lieve, sarò, ah, nell'agitare il braccio,
ah, lieve nel voltare il capo,
sire, nell'ora del nostro commiato,
sire, alla stazione ferroviaria.
Sire, in quel momento sarà il buffone
a sdraiarsi sui binari alla stazione.
***
Concorso di bellezza maschile
In tensione da mascella a tallone.
Su di lui brilla olio a profusione.
Campione viene acclamato solo chi
come una treccia è attorcigliato.
Ingaggia una zuffa con un orso nero,
minaccioso (ma comunque non vero).
Di tre grossi giaguari invisibili
si disfa con tre colpi, terribili.
Divaricato e accosciato è divino.
La sua pancia ha facce a dozzine.
Lo applaudono, lui fa un inchino
e ciò grazie alle giuste vitamine.
***
Gli sono troppo vicina perché mi sogni
Gli sono troppo vicina perché mi sogni.
Non volo su di lui, non fuggo da lui
sotto le radici degli alberi. Troppo vicina.
Non con la mia voce canta il pesce nella rete.
Non dal mio dito rotola l'anello.
Sono troppo vicina. Una grande casa brucia
senza che io chiami aiuto. Troppo vicina
perché la campana suoni sul mio capello.
Troppo vicina per entrare come un ospite
dinanzi a cui si scostano i muri.
Mai più morirò così leggera,
così fuori dal corpo, così ignara,
come un tempo nel suo sogno. Troppo,
troppo vicina. Sento il sibilo
e vedo la squama lucente di questa parola,
immobile nell'abbraccio. Lui dorme,
più accessibile ora alla cassiera d'un circo
con un leone, vista una sola volta,
che non a me distesa al suo fianco.
Per lei ora cresce in lui la valle
con foglie rossicce, chiusa da un monte innevato
nell'aria azzurra. Io sono troppo vicina
per cadergli dal cielo. Il mio grido
potrebbe solo svegliarlo. Povera,
limitata alla mia forma,
ed ero betulla, ed ero lucertola,
e uscivo dal passato e dal broccato
cangiando colori delle pelli. E possedevo
il dono di sparire agli occhi stupiti,
ricchezza delle ricchezze. Vicina,
sono troppo vicina perché mi sogni.
Tolgo da sotto il suo capo un braccio,
intorpidito, uno sciame di spilli.
Sulla capocchia di ciascuno, da contare,
sono seduti angeli caduti.
La mia ombra è come un buffone
dietro la regina.
Quando lei si alza,
il buffone sulla parete balza
e sbatte nel soffitto col testone.
Il che forse a suo modo duole
nel mondo bidimensionale. Forse
al buffone non va la mia corte
e preferirebbe un altro ruolo.
La regina si sporge dal balcone
e lui dal balcone salta giù.
Così hanno diviso ogni azione,
però a uno ne tocca assai di più.
Quel rozzo si è preso il gesto liberale,
il pathos con la sua impudenza,
tutto ciò per cui non ho la forza
- corona, scettro, manto regale.
Lieve, sarò, ah, nell'agitare il braccio,
ah, lieve nel voltare il capo,
sire, nell'ora del nostro commiato,
sire, alla stazione ferroviaria.
Sire, in quel momento sarà il buffone
a sdraiarsi sui binari alla stazione.
***
Concorso di bellezza maschile
In tensione da mascella a tallone.
Su di lui brilla olio a profusione.
Campione viene acclamato solo chi
come una treccia è attorcigliato.
Ingaggia una zuffa con un orso nero,
minaccioso (ma comunque non vero).
Di tre grossi giaguari invisibili
si disfa con tre colpi, terribili.
Divaricato e accosciato è divino.
La sua pancia ha facce a dozzine.
Lo applaudono, lui fa un inchino
e ciò grazie alle giuste vitamine.
***
Gli sono troppo vicina perché mi sogni
Gli sono troppo vicina perché mi sogni.
Non volo su di lui, non fuggo da lui
sotto le radici degli alberi. Troppo vicina.
Non con la mia voce canta il pesce nella rete.
Non dal mio dito rotola l'anello.
Sono troppo vicina. Una grande casa brucia
senza che io chiami aiuto. Troppo vicina
perché la campana suoni sul mio capello.
Troppo vicina per entrare come un ospite
dinanzi a cui si scostano i muri.
Mai più morirò così leggera,
così fuori dal corpo, così ignara,
come un tempo nel suo sogno. Troppo,
troppo vicina. Sento il sibilo
e vedo la squama lucente di questa parola,
immobile nell'abbraccio. Lui dorme,
più accessibile ora alla cassiera d'un circo
con un leone, vista una sola volta,
che non a me distesa al suo fianco.
Per lei ora cresce in lui la valle
con foglie rossicce, chiusa da un monte innevato
nell'aria azzurra. Io sono troppo vicina
per cadergli dal cielo. Il mio grido
potrebbe solo svegliarlo. Povera,
limitata alla mia forma,
ed ero betulla, ed ero lucertola,
e uscivo dal passato e dal broccato
cangiando colori delle pelli. E possedevo
il dono di sparire agli occhi stupiti,
ricchezza delle ricchezze. Vicina,
sono troppo vicina perché mi sogni.
Tolgo da sotto il suo capo un braccio,
intorpidito, uno sciame di spilli.
Sulla capocchia di ciascuno, da contare,
sono seduti angeli caduti.
May 2, 2019
"Ofelia, que a ti y a mí nos perdone Dinamarca:
moriré con alas, sobreviviré con prácticas garras.
Non omnis morirar de amor"
"Cuando el no me mira,
busco mi reflejo
en la pared. Y solo veo
un clavo del que han descolgado un cuadro"
En esta colección de nuevo me he encontrado con poemas que no me esperaba. Wislawa utiliza un montón de referencias para darle contexto a sus poemas y personificar personajes históricos o ficticios. Si en Llamando al Yeti, nos hablaba del amor joven, en Sal habla del final del amor y de en que se convierte el amor al pasar los años. Sin embargo, de todos, tal vez mis favoritos hayan sido precisamente los que no son poemas: Palabra y Parábola. Estos son dos textos breves que a día de hoy siguen teniendo una relevancia terrorífica, el primero por hablar de la experiencia del emigrante, el segundo por nuestra decisión como sociedad de mirar para otro lado.
moriré con alas, sobreviviré con prácticas garras.
Non omnis morirar de amor"
"Cuando el no me mira,
busco mi reflejo
en la pared. Y solo veo
un clavo del que han descolgado un cuadro"
En esta colección de nuevo me he encontrado con poemas que no me esperaba. Wislawa utiliza un montón de referencias para darle contexto a sus poemas y personificar personajes históricos o ficticios. Si en Llamando al Yeti, nos hablaba del amor joven, en Sal habla del final del amor y de en que se convierte el amor al pasar los años. Sin embargo, de todos, tal vez mis favoritos hayan sido precisamente los que no son poemas: Palabra y Parábola. Estos son dos textos breves que a día de hoy siguen teniendo una relevancia terrorífica, el primero por hablar de la experiencia del emigrante, el segundo por nuestra decisión como sociedad de mirar para otro lado.
June 6, 2022
"Es él
quien nos arrancó del interior de la especie,
quien nos sacó del circulo del sueño
anterior a la palabra sueño
en el que lo que está vivo
nace para siempre
y muere sin muerte"
Hay unos fragmentos de una hermosura sublime dentro de este poemario y otros donde totalmente no pude conectar.
quien nos arrancó del interior de la especie,
quien nos sacó del circulo del sueño
anterior a la palabra sueño
en el que lo que está vivo
nace para siempre
y muere sin muerte"
Hay unos fragmentos de una hermosura sublime dentro de este poemario y otros donde totalmente no pude conectar.
May 16, 2019
"I glimpsed colors older than sight itself."
April 15, 2020
Nothing is better, sublime, ironic and heartfelt more than Szymborska!
April 27, 2021
Zdecydowanie mój ulubiony wiersz to "Rozmowa z kamieniem". Muszę wrócić kiedyś do tych wierszy po latach.
September 15, 2021
Salt (1962) poetry collection. Highlights ~ "A Moment in Troy" "Shadow" " Without a Title" "Golden anniversary" "Parable" "Over Wine" and "A Note".
August 30, 2022
najważniejsze:
- słówka
- bez tytułu
- złote gody
- obóz głodowy pod jasłem
- przy winie (!!)
- prolog komedii
- na wieży babel
- sen
- wiersz ku czci
- rozmowa z kamieniem
- słówka
- bez tytułu
- złote gody
- obóz głodowy pod jasłem
- przy winie (!!)
- prolog komedii
- na wieży babel
- sen
- wiersz ku czci
- rozmowa z kamieniem
July 13, 2023
im speechless
Read
July 8, 2025Read in English as part of ‘Maps’
October 10, 2021
\na wieży Babel, woda, rozmowa z kamieniem
April 1, 2023
Pierwszy tomik poezji od Wisławy Szymborskiej :)
January 17, 2020
To je také zvláštne, povedať na knihu poézie že “toto mám prečítané”. Ako keby báseň stačilo prečítať raz. Mali by sa sem dávať čiarky po každom užití. A keď sa jedného dňa naozaj vstrebú, bar code môžete naskenovať priamo z (milého, dotyčného | milej, dotyčnej) . Ale nie no, vážne. Je to výborné, prečítajte si to. No zároveň mi príde absurdné, aby som ja, smrteľník, akokoľvek hodnotil niekoho ako Szymborská. Len dúfam, že som ju svojimi upatlanými rukami moc neušmudlal.
January 22, 2024
„Muzeum” „Elegia podróżna” „przypowieść” „Wiersz ku czci”
Displaying 1 - 20 of 20 reviews