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True Life: Poems
A stunning, intimate collection by the late great Polish poet Adam Zagajewski.
. . . I think I sought wisdom
(without resignation) in poems
and also a certain calm madness.
I found, much later, a moment’s joy
and melancholy’s dark contentment.
In True Life, the Polish writer Adam Zagajewski, one of the world’s most admired and beloved poets, turns his gaze to the past with piercing clarity and a tone of wry, lyrical melancholy. He captures the rhythms of a city street on the page and the steady beat of the passage of time against it (“Roads cannot be destroyed // Even if peonies cover them / smelling like eternity”) and writes of the endless struggle between stasis and change, between movement and stillness (“We knew / it would be the same / as always // It would all go back to normal”).
Mary Oliver called Zagajewski “the most pertinent, impressive, meaningful poet of our time,” and Philip Boehm wrote in The New York Times Book Review that his poems “pull us from whatever routine threatens to dull our senses, from whatever might lull us into mere existence.” True Life, first published in Polish in 2019 and translated with genius by Clare Cavanagh, reveals the astonishing, immortal depths of Zagajewski’s insight and artistry.
. . . I think I sought wisdom
(without resignation) in poems
and also a certain calm madness.
I found, much later, a moment’s joy
and melancholy’s dark contentment.
In True Life, the Polish writer Adam Zagajewski, one of the world’s most admired and beloved poets, turns his gaze to the past with piercing clarity and a tone of wry, lyrical melancholy. He captures the rhythms of a city street on the page and the steady beat of the passage of time against it (“Roads cannot be destroyed // Even if peonies cover them / smelling like eternity”) and writes of the endless struggle between stasis and change, between movement and stillness (“We knew / it would be the same / as always // It would all go back to normal”).
Mary Oliver called Zagajewski “the most pertinent, impressive, meaningful poet of our time,” and Philip Boehm wrote in The New York Times Book Review that his poems “pull us from whatever routine threatens to dull our senses, from whatever might lull us into mere existence.” True Life, first published in Polish in 2019 and translated with genius by Clare Cavanagh, reveals the astonishing, immortal depths of Zagajewski’s insight and artistry.
78 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 26, 2019
19 people are currently reading
178 people want to read
About the author
Adam Zagajewski
109 books205 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
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 41 reviews
June 16, 2024
i read this on a whim. i was just in the mood for some poetry about life. and these poems were deeply interested in people and their surroundings and nature and the arts. lots of skies, weather, soft depictions of grief and love. it speaks of what is in front of us. it's quaint, simple and compact. zagajewski's poetry is this floating white ghost lady with elegance and intangible charm. or that moment when someone picks a guitar around a fire and make something so peaceful on the spot.
while his poetry is definitely good, it didn't reach me all that much. maybe it's because of my age. zagajewski does have some of those one-liners that follow us afterwards - like "friendship is the prose of love" and "philosophers must choose their city, only poets can live everywhere " and great poems like 'the calling of saint-matthew' and 'sunday' - but i don't think i will willingly seek more of his poetry.
while his poetry is definitely good, it didn't reach me all that much. maybe it's because of my age. zagajewski does have some of those one-liners that follow us afterwards - like "friendship is the prose of love" and "philosophers must choose their city, only poets can live everywhere " and great poems like 'the calling of saint-matthew' and 'sunday' - but i don't think i will willingly seek more of his poetry.
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May 4, 2023[...]
He doesn’t speak, rarely smiles.
Doctors warn him
to avoid emotion.
He says: I’ve learned one thing
There is only mercy —
for people, animals, trees, and paintings.
Only mercy —
always too late.
(The Twentieth Century in Retirement)
He doesn’t speak, rarely smiles.
Doctors warn him
to avoid emotion.
He says: I’ve learned one thing
There is only mercy —
for people, animals, trees, and paintings.
Only mercy —
always too late.
(The Twentieth Century in Retirement)
October 17, 2023
Los poemas de Zagajewski son fotografías tomadas en días lluviosos. Leerle sirve para empaparse de su melancolía gris pero también para escuchar una voz irónica, sutil, penetrante, protectora, serena. Pocos versos, no le hacen falta más, para rememorar una vida y volver a pasar por el corazón lo importante, sea gozoso o doloroso. Y sigue la lluvia, así son sus libros: territorio de recuerdos, destierro a la memoria como escribió Unamuno.
Mientras tanto aquí andamos leyéndole, señor Zagajewski. No se preocupe, allá, allá lejos está el olvido pero no hemos llegado todavía.
Mientras tanto aquí andamos leyéndole, señor Zagajewski. No se preocupe, allá, allá lejos está el olvido pero no hemos llegado todavía.
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November 22, 2023No sempre entro del tot en la imaginació de Zagajewski. Hi ha algunes maneres seves de fer que em sonen com un xerric enmig del poema. En aquest miracle que són els poetes polonesos de la segona meitat del XX, hi trobem una poesia quasi antilírica, que es mira el món amb uns ulls incapaços de no desdibuixar les formes de la més mínima partícula d'experiència, encara que aquesta sigui aparentment mundana i banal.
En el cas de Zagajewski, en comptes de l'absurd filosòfic de Szymborska o Herbert, la perplexitat taciturna de Milosz, o el simbolisme abrupte de Rozewicz, trobem un to més amable, encara que desencantat i melangiós. En molts sentits, continua la tendència dels seus predecessors, però a mi em sembla que, Zagajewski vol tenir l'esperança que ells sentien que havien extraviat. Just és de dir que no la hi trobem sempre, l'esperança, en els poemes de Zagajewski. Si més no aquesta afirmació de l’esperança de la que parlo, que em sembla massa directa, i que trobo que dilueix la força d’alguns dels seus poemes... així doncs, quan Zagajewski ens parla de la Pau amb la imatge d'una tórtora que beu aigua del toll que es forma a les dutxes d'una platja, tinc la sensació de comprendre què vol fer, però sense que això apaivagui el tuf de profunditat de cartró mullat que sento que es desprèn del poema sencer. Poemes en què parla de l'amistat com "la prosa de l'amor" o en els quals es passegen uns nens que es banyen a la llum del sol, i que són com un decorat per a l'afirmació de felicitat de la veu del poema... em semblen els menys convincents del llibre. Però la meva reacció a la seva poesia és sempre ambivalent, perquè algunes de les seves imatges són sorprenents en el millor dels sentits... per exemple, en els poemes "Una ciutat romana de províncies" o "Al garatge", en el què records, propis o no, es fonen en una mena de cristall de temps, atravessat per una feble llum que el tornasola. No és l'emoció en els seus poemes el que m'incomoda... en el fons, en termes, per dir-ho així, emocionals, soc un lector més aviat classicot. Però si són les emocions "de sempre", és perquè pertanyen al llenguatge i al temps, i no a nosaltres. I el que hi ha de nostre en elles hem de seguir creant-ho mentre ho busquem. És en aquest sentit que el Zagajewski que sembla creure que les posseeix, aquestes emocions, no m'encaixa amb el Zagajewski que les va a buscar fins al fons del terror i la difuminació angoixant de l'experiència... com en el poema "Belzec", en què l'atmosfera d'inquietud i tristesa es crea fent servir unes simples mores, cada vegada més negres. Poemes com aquest últim són, al meu entendre, magistrals. A Verdadera vida n'hi ha uns quants.
Del meu Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/CvAED7gsc2L/
En el cas de Zagajewski, en comptes de l'absurd filosòfic de Szymborska o Herbert, la perplexitat taciturna de Milosz, o el simbolisme abrupte de Rozewicz, trobem un to més amable, encara que desencantat i melangiós. En molts sentits, continua la tendència dels seus predecessors, però a mi em sembla que, Zagajewski vol tenir l'esperança que ells sentien que havien extraviat. Just és de dir que no la hi trobem sempre, l'esperança, en els poemes de Zagajewski. Si més no aquesta afirmació de l’esperança de la que parlo, que em sembla massa directa, i que trobo que dilueix la força d’alguns dels seus poemes... així doncs, quan Zagajewski ens parla de la Pau amb la imatge d'una tórtora que beu aigua del toll que es forma a les dutxes d'una platja, tinc la sensació de comprendre què vol fer, però sense que això apaivagui el tuf de profunditat de cartró mullat que sento que es desprèn del poema sencer. Poemes en què parla de l'amistat com "la prosa de l'amor" o en els quals es passegen uns nens que es banyen a la llum del sol, i que són com un decorat per a l'afirmació de felicitat de la veu del poema... em semblen els menys convincents del llibre. Però la meva reacció a la seva poesia és sempre ambivalent, perquè algunes de les seves imatges són sorprenents en el millor dels sentits... per exemple, en els poemes "Una ciutat romana de províncies" o "Al garatge", en el què records, propis o no, es fonen en una mena de cristall de temps, atravessat per una feble llum que el tornasola. No és l'emoció en els seus poemes el que m'incomoda... en el fons, en termes, per dir-ho així, emocionals, soc un lector més aviat classicot. Però si són les emocions "de sempre", és perquè pertanyen al llenguatge i al temps, i no a nosaltres. I el que hi ha de nostre en elles hem de seguir creant-ho mentre ho busquem. És en aquest sentit que el Zagajewski que sembla creure que les posseeix, aquestes emocions, no m'encaixa amb el Zagajewski que les va a buscar fins al fons del terror i la difuminació angoixant de l'experiència... com en el poema "Belzec", en què l'atmosfera d'inquietud i tristesa es crea fent servir unes simples mores, cada vegada més negres. Poemes com aquest últim són, al meu entendre, magistrals. A Verdadera vida n'hi ha uns quants.
Del meu Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/CvAED7gsc2L/
June 9, 2024
Maybe I'm not picky enough with my poetry, but I think maybe that's okay. I love the simplicity of his words and the way they reveal the ultimate simplicity of a world that we've overcomplicated-- the beauty of music, the horror of war, the wonder of friendship--all things that are so complicated, but ultimately, singular. It would be wrong to say the poetry is "simple" because it is poetic and sometimes beautiful, but it is understandable and universal in a way that doesn't feel like he is trying to purposefully confuse the reader (my number one pet peeve). I can also definitely see Mary Oliver within this writing, which of course is wonderful. It's funny, maybe i like it better because i went into it thinking I would be bored. But even by the first poem, I was a bit entranced. Sorry this review is rlly quirky!!
December 18, 2024
A huge full moon rolls from under a cloud and watches closely like one who comprehends
The tracks were torn up long ago but the road still exists
Roads cannot be destroyed
Even if peonies cover them smelling like eternity
The tracks were torn up long ago but the road still exists
Roads cannot be destroyed
Even if peonies cover them smelling like eternity
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December 27, 2022,,zdarzają się małe miasta
w których cienie
są prawdziwsze
niż rzeczy"
w których cienie
są prawdziwsze
niż rzeczy"
May 15, 2023
i rly liked these!!!
April 11, 2024
My introduction to Zagajewski and I’m hooked. Poems all-encompassing and epic, the subjects remaining quaint. Pictures painted on every page.
Read
January 15, 2024Charlie
in memoriam C. K. Williams
Charlie announced once in New York:
we will be friends—and we were friends
for thirty years.
He was impatient, high-handed at times,
but he understood that only kindness binds.
Tall, with the face of a Spanish nobleman.
He headed for his study every morning
like a worker off to the vineyards
armed with great shears of imagination.
He wrote slowly, revised his poems time
after time—guiding a line of rapture
from thickets of dense prose.
He didn’t seem poetic at first sight.
His father sold refrigerators and TVs
but a messenger approached him, spoke in whispers.
On summer vacations near Lucca he rose first,
and in the garden, in a white djellaba from Morocco,
he hunched over his black computer.
His grandmother told him she came from Austria,
but she was born in Lvov, before Ellis Island
her name was Grabowiecka.
Friendship is immortal and doesn’t demand
many words. It is calm and patient.
Friendship is the prose of love.
Four days before he died he lay in bed, weak, wasted
like an Auschwitz prisoner with large dark eyes
awaiting liberation.
in memoriam C. K. Williams
Charlie announced once in New York:
we will be friends—and we were friends
for thirty years.
He was impatient, high-handed at times,
but he understood that only kindness binds.
Tall, with the face of a Spanish nobleman.
He headed for his study every morning
like a worker off to the vineyards
armed with great shears of imagination.
He wrote slowly, revised his poems time
after time—guiding a line of rapture
from thickets of dense prose.
He didn’t seem poetic at first sight.
His father sold refrigerators and TVs
but a messenger approached him, spoke in whispers.
On summer vacations near Lucca he rose first,
and in the garden, in a white djellaba from Morocco,
he hunched over his black computer.
His grandmother told him she came from Austria,
but she was born in Lvov, before Ellis Island
her name was Grabowiecka.
Friendship is immortal and doesn’t demand
many words. It is calm and patient.
Friendship is the prose of love.
Four days before he died he lay in bed, weak, wasted
like an Auschwitz prisoner with large dark eyes
awaiting liberation.
June 3, 2023
Praise Adam Zagajewski, who sadly is not here anymore to console us in this world with his reminders that the light comes and goes and returns. I wish he’d won the Nobel. He deserved it more than some who’ve won it recently. This collection—his last to be published?—perhaps does not contain his masterpieces, but it is still well worth reading as a noble addition to Zagajewski’s body of work.
October 8, 2024
"And Ostap Ortwin, who
was a valiant man
(he defended Stanisław Brzozowski).
Shot on the street
by the gestapo.
Civilization has five syllables.
Pain--only one."
It helps to have a general knowledge of Polish history when reading Zagajewski. But you don't need it. Robert Pinsky wrote of Zagajewksi: "[His] poems are at an extreme of truth-telling. They deploy understatement like a talisman as they enter the grandly menacing yet oblivious borderland of our worst human doings." Zagajewski's poetry is historical, yes, but also metaphysical, and ultimately ruminative. Zagajewski sees the past as a place rife with possibility and hope. Meaning he is completely open to both what was and what could have been. "So this is it. What we do not know.
We live in the abyss. In dark water. In brightness." (Unseen Hand, 2009). In True Life, mercy comes "always too late," but mercy comes.
Particularly in True Life, he's interested in the interaction between stasis and movement in all areas of life, through the passage of time, and through memory--no matter how we move about or how the months pass, the buildings look on like statues on Easter Island, gazing in one direction only. But when he drives with his mother through a town she took her exams in, it's the town that recedes and shrinks and sinks, moves. "A woman sat by the cathedral / she leaned on her backpack and sobbed / The pilgrimage is over / Where will she go now / Cathedrals are only stones / Stones don't know motion / Evening approaches / and winter." I still don't think I've fully grasped the brilliance of Zagajewski. I'd like to read more of his work. His poems have a meditative and subdued quality that is calming. Mild to the palate, but with a deceptive depth.
"And that is why I paced the corridors
Of those great museums
Gazing at paintings of a world
In which David is blameless as a boy scout
Goliath earns his shameful death
While eternal twilight dims Rembrandt's canvases,
The twilight of anxiety and attention
And I passed from hall to hall
Admiring portraits of cynical cardinals
In Roman crimson
Ecstatic peasant weddings
Avid players at cards or dice
Observing shps of war and momentary truces
And that is why I paced the corridors
Of those renowned museums those celestial palaces
Trying to grasp Isaac's sacrifice
Mary's sorrow and bright skies about the Seine
And I always went back to a city street
Where madness and pain and laughter persisted--
Still unpainted."
--"And That Is Why," True Life
was a valiant man
(he defended Stanisław Brzozowski).
Shot on the street
by the gestapo.
Civilization has five syllables.
Pain--only one."
It helps to have a general knowledge of Polish history when reading Zagajewski. But you don't need it. Robert Pinsky wrote of Zagajewksi: "[His] poems are at an extreme of truth-telling. They deploy understatement like a talisman as they enter the grandly menacing yet oblivious borderland of our worst human doings." Zagajewski's poetry is historical, yes, but also metaphysical, and ultimately ruminative. Zagajewski sees the past as a place rife with possibility and hope. Meaning he is completely open to both what was and what could have been. "So this is it. What we do not know.
We live in the abyss. In dark water. In brightness." (Unseen Hand, 2009). In True Life, mercy comes "always too late," but mercy comes.
Particularly in True Life, he's interested in the interaction between stasis and movement in all areas of life, through the passage of time, and through memory--no matter how we move about or how the months pass, the buildings look on like statues on Easter Island, gazing in one direction only. But when he drives with his mother through a town she took her exams in, it's the town that recedes and shrinks and sinks, moves. "A woman sat by the cathedral / she leaned on her backpack and sobbed / The pilgrimage is over / Where will she go now / Cathedrals are only stones / Stones don't know motion / Evening approaches / and winter." I still don't think I've fully grasped the brilliance of Zagajewski. I'd like to read more of his work. His poems have a meditative and subdued quality that is calming. Mild to the palate, but with a deceptive depth.
"And that is why I paced the corridors
Of those great museums
Gazing at paintings of a world
In which David is blameless as a boy scout
Goliath earns his shameful death
While eternal twilight dims Rembrandt's canvases,
The twilight of anxiety and attention
And I passed from hall to hall
Admiring portraits of cynical cardinals
In Roman crimson
Ecstatic peasant weddings
Avid players at cards or dice
Observing shps of war and momentary truces
And that is why I paced the corridors
Of those renowned museums those celestial palaces
Trying to grasp Isaac's sacrifice
Mary's sorrow and bright skies about the Seine
And I always went back to a city street
Where madness and pain and laughter persisted--
Still unpainted."
--"And That Is Why," True Life
May 20, 2023
a short book of short poems about...ya' know... the moments and melancholy's dark contentment and boogie woogie, etc
Here are a few sweet poems from Zagajewski's true life. The capitalized titles are 'mine' to make it easier to know when a new poem starts here...
STOP
For example a quick stop
at a small beekeeping museum
midway between Belgrade
and Novy Sad; an August day,
-carefree, almost happy.
A beekeeping museum-what could be more blameless?
There are no ministers
or rock stars here, in fact
even the bees have gone.
Or the moments following a reading,
when dailiness gradually resumes
and slowly, quietly you
become yourself again
- life may happen then too.
BOOGIE WOOGIE
You shout from the other room
You ask me how to spell boogie-woogie
And instantly I think what luck
no war has been declared
no fire has consumed
our city’s monuments
our bodies our dwellings
The river didn’t flood
no friends
have been arrested
It’s only boogie-woogie
I sigh relieved
and say it’s spelled just like it sounds
boogie-woogie
ENLIGHTMENT
Poetry is civilization's childhood,
said the Enlightenment philosophers,
so did our Polish professor, tall, thin
as an exclamation point that has lost its faith.
I didn't know what to answer then,
I was still a bit childish myself,
but I think I sought wisdom
(without resignation) in poems
and also a certain calm madness.
I found, much later, a moment's joy
and melancholy's dark contentment.
ISTANBUL
I see those boys once more, in the afternoon
sun, how they pinch their noses
and jump into Istanbul's sea
from a low concrete embankment.
Then they came straight from the water, shining like damp pebbles,
and jumped back in again-
as if there really could be perpetuum mobile.
I don't know if they were happy, but I
was, for a moment,
in the blaze of a May day, watching.
SUNDAY
Yes of course, go to church
on Sunday, at eleven
or twelve, in clean shirts,
carefully pressed dresses.
Go to church, you'll find
a priest with a fat chin.
He'll speak at length
in unimaginably lofty tones,
he'll tell you what to think and do.
God is elsewhere, elsewhere.
We know nothing. We live in darkness.
God is elsewhere, elsewhere.
Here are a few sweet poems from Zagajewski's true life. The capitalized titles are 'mine' to make it easier to know when a new poem starts here...
STOP
For example a quick stop
at a small beekeeping museum
midway between Belgrade
and Novy Sad; an August day,
-carefree, almost happy.
A beekeeping museum-what could be more blameless?
There are no ministers
or rock stars here, in fact
even the bees have gone.
Or the moments following a reading,
when dailiness gradually resumes
and slowly, quietly you
become yourself again
- life may happen then too.
BOOGIE WOOGIE
You shout from the other room
You ask me how to spell boogie-woogie
And instantly I think what luck
no war has been declared
no fire has consumed
our city’s monuments
our bodies our dwellings
The river didn’t flood
no friends
have been arrested
It’s only boogie-woogie
I sigh relieved
and say it’s spelled just like it sounds
boogie-woogie
ENLIGHTMENT
Poetry is civilization's childhood,
said the Enlightenment philosophers,
so did our Polish professor, tall, thin
as an exclamation point that has lost its faith.
I didn't know what to answer then,
I was still a bit childish myself,
but I think I sought wisdom
(without resignation) in poems
and also a certain calm madness.
I found, much later, a moment's joy
and melancholy's dark contentment.
ISTANBUL
I see those boys once more, in the afternoon
sun, how they pinch their noses
and jump into Istanbul's sea
from a low concrete embankment.
Then they came straight from the water, shining like damp pebbles,
and jumped back in again-
as if there really could be perpetuum mobile.
I don't know if they were happy, but I
was, for a moment,
in the blaze of a May day, watching.
SUNDAY
Yes of course, go to church
on Sunday, at eleven
or twelve, in clean shirts,
carefully pressed dresses.
Go to church, you'll find
a priest with a fat chin.
He'll speak at length
in unimaginably lofty tones,
he'll tell you what to think and do.
God is elsewhere, elsewhere.
We know nothing. We live in darkness.
God is elsewhere, elsewhere.
June 25, 2023
The troubled country of Poland has given the world moire than its fair share of indispensable modern poets, not the least of them being the late Adam Zagajewski. Now we have his final slim volume, TRUE LIFE, made available for English readers by his long-term translator Clare Cavanagh.
At one point while reading this book in a Starbuck's, I looked out the window and saw a little boy raptly watching the passing world from the back seat of an obviously expensive convertible. Zagajewski's quiet power had set me up so that I was overcome and had to cover my face. One of the surest urgings of his poetry in these hectic, distracted times is for us to slow down and pay attention.
Here's "In Drohobycz":
But in some small towns
the shadows
are more real
than things
Evening also
arrives there
Old houses
calmly wait
Darkness comes next
See
how gently
In "Self-Portrait Beneath a Drip," as a patient in hospital:
... the antibiotic is transparent
as spring water
and never hurries ...
His poem "The East" begins with:
Sunflowers with crumpled faces,
inquisitive beans ascend thin poles.
The idyll of deep gardens: roosters crow
From his poem "Carmen":
Modest people walk leashed
miniature pinschers, mutts; small dogs prevail
Beside them thrushes like runway models
display their charms.
At last it's May, famous May,
the month of promises
that nobody thinks to check later
Zagajewski died in 2021. We can be grateful that we have his poetry so that such a rare soul does not disappear but remains among us.
I don't know or can't accept what the designer had in mind with the cover of this book's gust jacket, which features a photo of the poet with his face obliterated by a blue blob. I would have sent it back for rethinking.
At one point while reading this book in a Starbuck's, I looked out the window and saw a little boy raptly watching the passing world from the back seat of an obviously expensive convertible. Zagajewski's quiet power had set me up so that I was overcome and had to cover my face. One of the surest urgings of his poetry in these hectic, distracted times is for us to slow down and pay attention.
Here's "In Drohobycz":
But in some small towns
the shadows
are more real
than things
Evening also
arrives there
Old houses
calmly wait
Darkness comes next
See
how gently
In "Self-Portrait Beneath a Drip," as a patient in hospital:
... the antibiotic is transparent
as spring water
and never hurries ...
His poem "The East" begins with:
Sunflowers with crumpled faces,
inquisitive beans ascend thin poles.
The idyll of deep gardens: roosters crow
From his poem "Carmen":
Modest people walk leashed
miniature pinschers, mutts; small dogs prevail
Beside them thrushes like runway models
display their charms.
At last it's May, famous May,
the month of promises
that nobody thinks to check later
Zagajewski died in 2021. We can be grateful that we have his poetry so that such a rare soul does not disappear but remains among us.
I don't know or can't accept what the designer had in mind with the cover of this book's gust jacket, which features a photo of the poet with his face obliterated by a blue blob. I would have sent it back for rethinking.
September 19, 2023
Probably my new favorite volume of poems. A lyrical melancholy that aims to help us see the deeper dimensions of reality. Though I've known of Zagajewski, this is my first foray into a book of his poems. He will be a new companion and friend, and his poems will sit next to Milosz's. Their poetry is a kind of melancholic curiosity about the world. Not too different from Ecclesiastes.
Almost every poem here is worth mentioning, so I will only quote two:
A Provincial Roman Town
The town swept clean by archaeologists
no longer holds secrets.
Since they lived exactly like us.
They gazed at the sea each evening,
sipped sweet wine lazily,
and dreamed the same things we do.
They knew that dreams go unfulfilled.
They had their gods, quarrelsome, preoccupied,
neglectful. But there was also divinity,
hidden everywhere, invisible.
They tried to catch it in paintings,
in poems and melodies, without success.
The town plan was transparent as the dawn,
and the sun made its way without trouble,
summer and winter, always, daily.
They waited for barbarians, afraid,
raising ever higher walls and towers.
(But the barbarians never came.)
Time's light wagons crushed them,
the wheels ran swiftly, silently,
and still run.
Belzec
Summer ends, fall has not yet begun.
What a lovely day, the blackberries in the woods
must be dark as the lips of screen sirens in silent films.
And just then you see Belzec.
Only cinders and grief remain, only quiet,
and sleepy occupants who
still wait for an answer.
The blackberries grow ever darker.
The shadows, hollowed, are black.
Burnt love is black.
Almost every poem here is worth mentioning, so I will only quote two:
A Provincial Roman Town
The town swept clean by archaeologists
no longer holds secrets.
Since they lived exactly like us.
They gazed at the sea each evening,
sipped sweet wine lazily,
and dreamed the same things we do.
They knew that dreams go unfulfilled.
They had their gods, quarrelsome, preoccupied,
neglectful. But there was also divinity,
hidden everywhere, invisible.
They tried to catch it in paintings,
in poems and melodies, without success.
The town plan was transparent as the dawn,
and the sun made its way without trouble,
summer and winter, always, daily.
They waited for barbarians, afraid,
raising ever higher walls and towers.
(But the barbarians never came.)
Time's light wagons crushed them,
the wheels ran swiftly, silently,
and still run.
Belzec
Summer ends, fall has not yet begun.
What a lovely day, the blackberries in the woods
must be dark as the lips of screen sirens in silent films.
And just then you see Belzec.
Only cinders and grief remain, only quiet,
and sleepy occupants who
still wait for an answer.
The blackberries grow ever darker.
The shadows, hollowed, are black.
Burnt love is black.
April 8, 2024
Gorgeous, heartbreaking, melancholy poems. I'm reading for a second time. Sharing a few of the poems seems the best way to encourage you to find and read the collection.
Wick Faber
Wick Faber died young and left behind
a poem: You're so funny underneath the window
and Ewa Demarczyk sings the words
on different records, which spin quickly
but Wick Faber hears nothing
(as the cool dust descends)
for such immortality,
ladies and gentlemen, careless, indifferent
and nothing to be done, dear friends
(dark clouds loom about the city
soon the rain will surely fall.)
Z is a poet whose lines are drenched in an awareness of aging...of its strange gifts, of its paraphernalia. "Istanbul," and "Self Portait Beneath a Drip" capture what aging can mean. Such strange and mind-bending poems.
I'm Fifteen
I'm a boyscout.
I lost my knife nd compass in the woods.
I walk along Dwarcowa Street, high above me,
Silesia's sun and a hawk
who seeks a friend in vain.
I'm an altar boy in an ugly church.
I'm twelve. I know the sacristy smell
a blend of starch and sweat.
I listen to jazz. Charlie Parker is dead now.
I'm eighteen, I'm a high school graduate
in a white shirt and navy tie.
I've started reading poetry, I sometimes
seem to understand everything.
I'm fifteen. I watch adults
indulgently. I'm certain I won't
make the same mistakes.
"Istanbul," "Self Portrait Beneath a Drip,"
Find more of Zagajewski's poems. So many will stop you in your tracks.
Wick Faber
Wick Faber died young and left behind
a poem: You're so funny underneath the window
and Ewa Demarczyk sings the words
on different records, which spin quickly
but Wick Faber hears nothing
(as the cool dust descends)
for such immortality,
ladies and gentlemen, careless, indifferent
and nothing to be done, dear friends
(dark clouds loom about the city
soon the rain will surely fall.)
Z is a poet whose lines are drenched in an awareness of aging...of its strange gifts, of its paraphernalia. "Istanbul," and "Self Portait Beneath a Drip" capture what aging can mean. Such strange and mind-bending poems.
I'm Fifteen
I'm a boyscout.
I lost my knife nd compass in the woods.
I walk along Dwarcowa Street, high above me,
Silesia's sun and a hawk
who seeks a friend in vain.
I'm an altar boy in an ugly church.
I'm twelve. I know the sacristy smell
a blend of starch and sweat.
I listen to jazz. Charlie Parker is dead now.
I'm eighteen, I'm a high school graduate
in a white shirt and navy tie.
I've started reading poetry, I sometimes
seem to understand everything.
I'm fifteen. I watch adults
indulgently. I'm certain I won't
make the same mistakes.
"Istanbul," "Self Portrait Beneath a Drip,"
Find more of Zagajewski's poems. So many will stop you in your tracks.
January 2, 2024
Is the following disrespectful? I did a March Madness style bracket for these translated poems, to sift and re-read and re-re-read.
At the end of the bracket, six poems by Adam Zagajewski "won":
Page 18
(A little girl in an ancient Fiat 125 carefully does homework.)
Page 24
(My grandfather taught the German course at Lvov University.)
Page 25
(That sudden shock of entering another life's dark forest.)
Page 49
(Mad flies circling the table where all of you sat just moments ago.)
Page 63
(We're not at all sure how to live and if errata can really be free of errors.)
Page 8
(You shout from the other room.
You ask me how to spell boogie woogie.)
At the end of the bracket, six poems by Adam Zagajewski "won":
Page 18
(A little girl in an ancient Fiat 125 carefully does homework.)
Page 24
(My grandfather taught the German course at Lvov University.)
Page 25
(That sudden shock of entering another life's dark forest.)
Page 49
(Mad flies circling the table where all of you sat just moments ago.)
Page 63
(We're not at all sure how to live and if errata can really be free of errors.)
Page 8
(You shout from the other room.
You ask me how to spell boogie woogie.)
March 10, 2021
"Prawdziwe życie" to zbiór dobrych wierszy, będących mieszanką różnych wspomnień i refleksji człowieka, który już wiele w życiu widział. Część z nich przypadła mi do gustu bardziej, część mniej, ale jak wiadomo odbiór poezji jest szczególnie subiektywny. Utwory są klasyczne, można by powiedzieć "typowe dla stylu Zagajewskiego". Jest coś niezwykłego w tym, co lektura poezji daje czytelnikowi - pewien moment (spotkanie z wrażeniem).
June 5, 2023
Zagajewski gets to the core of what’s important and what’s real. Delightful contemplations.
For example a quick stop
at a small beekeeping museum
midway between Belgrade
and Novy Sad; an August day,
-carefree, almost happy.
A beekeeping museum-what could be
more blameless?
There are no ministers
or rock stars here, in fact
even the bees have gone.
Or the moments following a reading,
when dailiness gradually resumes
and slowly, quietly you
become yourself again
- life may happen then too.
For example a quick stop
at a small beekeeping museum
midway between Belgrade
and Novy Sad; an August day,
-carefree, almost happy.
A beekeeping museum-what could be
more blameless?
There are no ministers
or rock stars here, in fact
even the bees have gone.
Or the moments following a reading,
when dailiness gradually resumes
and slowly, quietly you
become yourself again
- life may happen then too.
September 18, 2023
(From the book jacket) "Mary Oliver called Zagajewski 'the most pertinent, impressive, meaningful poet of our time,' and Philip Boehm wrote in The New York Times Book Review that his poems 'pull us from whatever routine threatens to dull our senses, from whatever might lull us into mere existence.' True Life...reveals the astonishing immortal depths of Zagajewski's insights and artistry."
Read
January 18, 2025ANOTHER LIFE
You like to read biographies of poets
You rummage through another life
That sudden shock
of entering another life's dark forest
But you may leave at any moment
for the street or the park
or from a balcony at night
you may gaze at stars
belonging to no one
stars that wound like knives
without a drop of blood
stars pure and shining
cruel
You like to read biographies of poets
You rummage through another life
That sudden shock
of entering another life's dark forest
But you may leave at any moment
for the street or the park
or from a balcony at night
you may gaze at stars
belonging to no one
stars that wound like knives
without a drop of blood
stars pure and shining
cruel
February 13, 2025
Spodziewałam się czegoś znacznie gorszego, może nawet grafomańskiego, ale bardzo pozytywnie się zaskoczyłam. Zagajewski bardzo przypadł mi do gustu, więc na pewno przeczytam też inne z jego wierszy. Jedyny zarzut jaki mam, to że zdarzają się często unikać albo gubić pointę i przez to niepotrzebnie się dłużą.
October 27, 2023
Beautiful verses. Full of compassion, love, humanity. A door to enter and share the deep and somehow common sentiments of mankind through Zagajewski’s voice( carefully translated by Farré): Verdadera vida.
March 25, 2024
I really enjoyed these poems. As much poetry as I read I am so struck by how the voice of each poet is so different and yet the gift is what they reveal of their world, of the world, of life and humanity and beauty. It is truly a wonder to me. I am grateful for reading these poems.
April 22, 2020
Zwyczajna poezja w podróży, wspomnieniach i chwilach. A to są chwile i słowa wielkie.
April 5, 2023
"Y siempre volvía a la calle de una gran ciudad
Donde seguían la locura el sufrimiento la risa
Que aún no habían sido pintados"
Donde seguían la locura el sufrimiento la risa
Que aún no habían sido pintados"
August 18, 2023
Man, I hope there are dozens of as-yet untranslated poems out there, but if this is it, it’s a hell of a final volume.
October 4, 2023
Moving and mournful poetry. Several poems made me think of favorites by Cavafy.
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