不对称：扎加耶夫斯基诗集

by Adam Zagajewski, 亚当·扎加耶夫斯基, 李以亮 (Translator)

《不对称》是波兰诗人 亚当?扎加耶夫斯基的全新诗集。本书分为三辑，根据所涉主题精心安排。除了延续他以往惯常的诗歌主题之外，本书更多指涉“即兴”与“回忆”，一如既往地在历史感/现实感与审美要求之间寻求着一种理想的平衡。他的诗歌平静、温和、细致而不失力度，在体量上愈发精粹，内容上却愈见厚重。

Genres: Poetry, Poland, Literature, Polish Literature, Contemporary, Fiction

124 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 2014

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

[Jon Nakapalau · Rating 5 out of 5]

Like touring a museum of the heart; portraits hung on the wall of elusive longing. Perception starts to take on new forms as the gallery is explored; and one finds oneself lost in the reflection that is required of works that challenge how we see the world. Sharp and focused meditations that will long stay with the reader.

[Jill · Rating 3 out of 5]

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."

Moving collection of poems.

[Carlos Catena Cózar · Rating 5 out of 5]

Es fantástico este hombre, ojalá lo hubiese leído antes. No quiero decir que me ha cambiado la vida pero he oído un click en algún sitio mientras lo estaba leyendo.

[Nataša · Rating 5 out of 5]

Toliko zvukova niko ne čuje.
A samo jedan je život.

svaki grom ne ubija, niti je svaka smrt
kraj, niti je svako ćutanje tišina.

[Old Man JP · Rating 5 out of 5]

Just like my attempts to name my favorite novelist, I find it hard to identify who my favorite poets are. There are a couple that come immediately to mind, Czeslaw Milosz and Elizabeth Bishop but after reading this collection of poetry I'm reminded how much I like Adam Zagajewski. I hadn't read any of his poetry for several years and so he had faded in my memory but this book brought it all back. The following are a couple examples of his work:

Northern Sea

But maybe we just pretended to know nothing.
Maybe that was easiest, considering the vastness of experience,
and suffering (other's suffering usually).
Maybe there was even a touch of laziness,
a hint of indifference. Maybe we thought:
we're better off being Socrates' distant epigones
than admitting that we know a thing or two.
Maybe on long walks, when the earth
and trees loomed, when we began to understand,
our daring frightened us.
Maybe our knowledge is better, too bitter,
like the gray cold waves of the northern sea
that has swallowed up so many ships,
but stays hungry.

Night, Sea

At night the sea is dark, bleak,
and speaks in a hoarse whisper
Thus we recognize
its shameful secret: it shines
with reflected light
At night, it's as poor as we are,
black, orphaned;
it patiently awaits the sun's return

[Manuel Sanz · Rating 4 out of 5]

En los cuarenta y ocho poemas del libro y en sus muchísimos versos se habla del recuerdo, de la ausencia de los seres queridos, del padre y de la madre por separado,de los amigos que marcharon, de la muerte, de sus poetas favoritos aunque sólo nombra a uno: Osip Mandelstam. Se recuerda de forma bella y emotiva con versos que invitan a la múltiple relectura.

"En ningún lugar" es el primer poema y marca el camino de todo el libro. Las trece palabras de su primer verso lo dicen todo: " Fue un día en ningún lugar al volver del entierro de mi padre"

A su madre le dedica el poema "Acerca de mi madre" :

"Acerca de mi madre no sabría decir nada,/como repetía vas a lamentarlo/cuando ya no esté, y yo no creía / n9 en ya ni en no esté."

Su amor y admiración por el arte y los artistas esta presente en los poemas dedicados a Rajmáninov, a la Chacona, al pintor Eugene Delacroix, a Chopin y sus nocturnos, al pintor Manet y al escritor Bertolt Brecht.

Un libro lleno de poemas perfectos en la técnica y en la belleza.

[Betty-Lou · Rating 5 out of 5]

Once upon a time, I declared that I didn’t like poetry. My daughter decided to introduce me to poetry and poets by emailing a different poem to me every day for the month of April. April is poetry month.
She was successful in helping me discover new worlds in poetry. There is much poetry I do not understand or care for, but she opened a door for me, so I took up the gauntlet and now in April I choose poems to send to her, as well as to my niece. Thanks to Melinda for joining in the fun. Is it your turn this year to pick the poems?

This collection of poetry, from Poland 🇵🇱, is about everyday life, family, love and death. Moving. ❤️

[Kamil · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some of the poems in this collection are fantastic, deep yet simple. Some of them though (and it's a bit uncomfortable to say, considering his notorious nominations to Nobel Prize) are a bit pretentious.

[Sara · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mi amor por Zagajewski empieza a no conocer límites.

[Viktoriia · Rating 5 out of 5]

I was maybe twenty.
In the junkyard under the viaduct built by Hitler
I hunted for relics from that war, relics
of the iron age, bayonets and helmets of whichever
army, I didn't care, I dreamed of great discoveries -
...
but I found neither bayonets
nor gold, only rust was everywhere,
rust's brown hatred; I was afraid
that it might penetrate my heart.
[Polish man reflecting on the poisonous and painful heritage of Nazi ideology].

So intricate, so beautiful.

Zagajewski's poetry collection "Asymmetry" heavily focuses on the idea of heritage, but it never forces you to commemorate said heritage, to glorify or embrace it. Rather it reminds you that it's there - the good, the bad, and the ugly. It reminds you that those experiences and places shaped you into the person you are today; it encourages you as a reader to reflect on them to understand what lays at the foundations of your soul.

Every page either had a line that was so masterfully written that I couldn't comprehend how someone can have such a strong grasp over language, or a line that would send me spiraling so deep into my thoughts and emotions that I'll end up staring at the wall for 10 minutes thinking about an experience I forgot I had as a child.

Each poem resonated with me in its unique way, but if I have to pick my favorites to recommend, I'd say to look into these two. Summer 95' tells a story of how a beautiful careless summer of 1995 in Srebrenica, Bosnia descended into the bloody massacre and madness. Meanwhile, That Day would connect with everyone more personally - I read it around the time of Chadwick Boseman's death, and it perfectly portrayed the emotions one experiences when someone you admire so dearly passes away.

[David Curry · Rating 4 out of 5]

Poland has had two poets in recent years who have been honored with the Novel Prize in Literature — the late Czeslaw Milosz in 1980 and the late Wistawa Szymborska in 1996 — and may very well have a third in the living poet Adam Zagajewski, who in his seventies continues to dazzle us with an exquisite poetic dance between celebration and quandary.

From his 2014 collection Asymmetry, here’s “Mr. Wladziu”:

Mr. Wladziu was a barber (haircuts, men’s
and women’s, on Karmelicka Street). Short snd slight,
interested in one thing only: angling.
He liked to talk about the ways of fish,
how drowsy they become in winter, when the cold
is biting, murderous, almighty,
how you must respect their sleep. They rest
then, lie in the deep water like clocks,
like new arrivals from another planet. They’re different.
.Mr. Wladziu even represented Poland
once or twice in angling,
but something went wrong, I don’t remember what,
too hot, or maybe rain, or low-low-lying clouds.
By the time he got to the doctor, it was too late.

Karmelicka Street didn’t notice his departure:
the trams shriek on the curve,
the chestnuts bloom ecstatically each year.

I’m in no position to judge Clare Cavanaugh’s translations from the Polish, but I do know that in her hands they come across as sharp and clear in their own right as poems in English. (If you ever get a chance to hear Zagajewski and Cavanaugh do a joint public reading of Zagajewski’s work , don’t miss it.)

Here’s “Childhood”:

Give me back my childhood,
republic of loquacious sparrows,
measureless thickets of nettles
and the timid wood owl’s nightly sobs.

Our street, empty on Sunday
the red neo-Gothic church
that didn’t take kindly to mystics,
burdocks whispering in German,

and the alcoholic’s confession
before the altar of a white wall,
and stones, and rain, and puddles
in which gold glistened.

Now I’m sure that I’d know
how to be a child, I’d know
how to see the frost-covered trees,
how to live holding still.

Asymmetry is for folks who already know and admire Zagajewski’s work. If he’s new to you and you’re interested, the book to go to is his Without End: New and Selected Poems.

[Peycho Kanev]

CONVERSATION

There, where you can see the Earth
may actually be round: a narrow path
between idyllic fields outside of town,
on the horizon, a sliver of church tower
mercilessly sliced by a distant hill,
alders above a muddy stream,
in the water Canadian thyme
(which is an invasive species)
and the porcelain shards of a plate,
I sometimes walked there with my father (my mother,
as we knew, didn’t go on longer expeditions),
in the fall or spring, when trees
were momentarily content.
Only now, or so I think,
do I approach the proper tone,
only now could I talk with my parents,
but I can’t hear their answers.

[Janina · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ich habe die Gedichte über seine Mutter sehr genossen. Viele weitere Gedichte hingegen sind oft über andere Menschen (manche davon historische Figuren wie Chopin oder Bertolt Brecht) und die waren nicht ganz nach meinem Geschmack. Sie waren für mich nicht so 'spürbar' wie zum Beispiel die Texte im Zusammenhang mit seiner Mutter oder seinem Vater - bei ihnen habe ich eine persönliche Note in den Zeilen nachgefühlt.

[Ba · Rating 4 out of 5]

I really enjoyed reading a new way of writing poems to a mother. Very unique and it would be so cool to read a whole collection leaning into that, like so focused on that technique, elaborating it. And I loved some of the poems, like the one about "My Favorite Poets" - the image of warm rain, just lovely.

[Francisco Barrios · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un poemario increíble: cotidiano, sentido y personal por un lado; cosmopolita, entrañable y literario por el otro. Otra muestra de la poesía polaca merece ser más que un puñado de nombres célebres y que nos invita a reflexionar sobre el papel de nuestros padres en nuestras vidas.

(De ahí el título, «Asimetría». No digo más).

[Jueria · Rating 5 out of 5]

An exquisite and touching collection of poems. I'm in awe of his imagery and elegance. Adam Zagajewski will make you fall in love with poetry.

[Lidia]

❤️💔

[Mauberley]

Of the previous generation of Polish poets, Zagajewski observed that they (e.g., Milosz, Herbert) was ‘forced to focus on the intellectual articulation of reality and ignored the potentially endless number of human situations created not by hostile outer forces, but by the innate, implacable mutability of the world itself.’ The current volume is an articulation of this translated, as always, with great skill and sympathy by the irreplaceable Clare Cavanagh.
(See ‘Writing in Polish’ in ‘A Defense of Ardour’ (2005))

[Francis Diaz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Es el primer libro que leo de este autor. Me he llevado una gran impresión y quedo con muchas ganas de leer muchos más de sus escritos. Los poemas dedicados a música y músicos (Bach, Chopin, Rachmaninov...) han ocupado un lugar muy especial dentro de mis favoritos.

[Liz Mc2]

My favourites were the poems about his mother, remembering ordinary moments, suffused with regret for not understanding her, or missing the point, or not realizing how precious the ordinary was until too late.

[Justin Goodman · Rating 3 out of 5]

2.5

There's something about Post-Cold War poetry from poets of former Soviet satellites that I've read (thinking here of Illya Kaminsky's Dancing in Odessa and Cristina Bejan's Green Horses on the Walls) which pivots on an overt nostalgic idealism. It calls to mind Svetlana Boym's thoughts in The Future of Nostalgia and an abbreviate piece appropriately named "Nostalgia," where she writes "the imperative of a contemporary nostalgic: to be homesick and to be sick of being at home—occasionally at the same time." Boym is, like the above poets, just as nostalgic in her vision.

I don't have a theory about this. It's just an observation about temperament, and why I consistently don't engage well with these works. The reason I started reading this in the first place was because of Zagajewski's death a little over a week ago, and curiosity when someone shared his post-9/11 poem "Try To Praise A Mutilated World." Yet the very problem I have with this homesick-but-sick-of-home tone in poetry is summarized in the line "You must praise the mutilated world." As touching as flitting, elegaic grief is, it seems to mask a arrogance-bordering certitude. It feels like a depressive helplessly watching a parent sink into Alzheimer's.

Which is more or less the tone of this collection, embodied in poems that depicts a young poet "hunting for relics" from WWII while ironically romanticizing the hunt as "Heinrich Schliemann/once sought Hector and Achilles in Asia Minor." He only finds "rust's brown hatred." In his irony, equivocating wars in pursuit of a transcendent ideal that resists the concept of war (layered irony since Schliemann himself was guilty of erasing history, using dynamite for excavation). As well, lines such as

Your bizarre errors, your worship of doctrine
lie beside you like axes and spears in Neolithic graves
equally useful, equally necessary

in "Bertolt Brecht in Eternity" come across as an attempt to speak with an authoritative voice that rejects the conceit of authority, to speak from a true place of neutral longing. This being heightened by the later lines, "You were a cautious revolutionary—but can an oxymoron/save the world?"

And the problem is clear in the poem which the collection's title refers to, "Senior Dance." Using asymmetry as a way to talk about the inability to admire his mother (metonymic for the past and memory itself) "for different reasons, completely different" before and during the war, and to show the asymmetry between them because she seemed "feeble, old-fashioned." Yet now, as a (then) 72 year old man, he can see her

in truth’s sharp light,
sharp and complex,
complex and just,
just and unattainable,
unattainable and splendid.

Which comes across as insufferably Platonic nostalgia - there is Justice out there, an Ideal, which is both complex (totally real) and impossible. It doesn't have the comical bite of Kafka talking about there being hope for God, but not for us. Nor the rhetorical realism of Hampton exclaiming "revolutionary suicide." Perhaps one could say this is "reflective nostalgia" (using Boym's terms), and I could see the case in other poems, possibly earlier poems. But not in "Senior Dance," and not through most of this collection.

In the end, Asymmetry is at its best when spiritual, familial. When speaking of his mother's constant recalling of a speaking contest where she disproved the sexist assumptions of the judges, but didn't win, recalling himself how he thought he nostalgia was ridiculous, especially since she lost, before concluding that "after decades/of her memory's unceasing labor,/she finally carried the day." When recalling his cousin Hannes who teased him about his poetry, thinking it unintelligent, before dying young, leaving behind his intellectual's notes which no one understood (although this is also another example of irony I'm not entirely a fan of). This is why I rounded up in the first place. Because there is beauty here, but not Just beauty; just beauty.

[Jeffrey · Rating 4 out of 5]

With the exception of his poem Orange Notebook, this book of Zagajewski's poems is written with his eyes wide open and his pen following the curve of personal histories. Though Zagajewski would be considered "old fashion" when held against the poetry schools that currently power the freshest bold words in the medium in the United States, a narrative that is like a short story with a few delicious ironic twists and a last line epiphany--and so the foundation of the poem is laid last--has pleasures too.
All language need not have a revolution at their heart. No matter how hard poets work to bend their language into the truths they believe in, linguistic or political, it is the rare exception, much rarer than an exception could be, who is able to reimagine society with their language.
Please don't get me wrong. I love and respect those willing to dive into the trenches to serve the cause they believe in, but I suspect Zagajewski, coming from a country that's been occupied for much of the last two centuries, has experiences that differ greatly from people in the United States. The great Polish poets of the 20th century all write histories, but Zagajewski celebrates the very personal reflected in the greater mirror of society, and this is his triumph.

[Krys]

A mostly elegiac collection that captures rare moments of clarity in ordinary life, like in the aftermath of a storm when the streets are empty and cleansed by rain, sleek with revelation and a sense of renewal. I especially loved all the ones about his parents and his childhood, but also the elegies to his favourite poets and artists, the delineations of loss in all its different guises which follow us throughout our lives.

If you accept the minimalist definition,
he was happy—he died in his own bed.
Now he lives on a library shelf
like a hiker bivouacking in high mountains.

A faded cover hides bitterness and experience.
A faded canvas cover: a neighbouring volume,
smaller scale, has left its dark
trace upon it—so much tenderness in the touch
of two unread books.

[JUANAN · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Soy tan sólo un turista distraído,/ pero amo la luz." (Maleta)

"Fuiste un revolucionario precavido – ¿puede un oxímoron/ salvar el mundo?" (Bertolt Brecht en la eternidad)

"Tal vez nuestro conocimiento sea amargo, demasiado amargo,/ como la ola gris del mar del Norte/ que ya se ha tragado muchos barcos/ pero que sigue estando hambrienta." (Mar del Norte)

"Por la noche cae una lluvia delicada como un haikú./ Al amanecer sobre la ciudad balbucean unas campanas ligeras./ Mientras sigamos vivos." (Julio)

"...pero dónde están,/ dónde pueden estar nuestras cantatas, dime/ dónde está la otra cara." (Chacona)

"Era una buena persona. Y tenía alma. Creemos saber/ qué significa esto." (Ruth)

"Siguen sobrevolando sobre nosotros/ la muerte y la salvación." (Velas blancas)

"Por la noche nuevos pensamientos, notas, música./ Por la mañana, un desierto." (Cuaderno naranja)

[Nathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

When I feel like I'm getting a bit soft in the middle,
losing the some of the muscle in my writing...
I turn to, say, Bukowski, to rev up the engine.

When I start to get a little rough around the edges,
mean, abrupt, faithless... that's when I turn to
Adam Zagajewski.

"Asymmetry" is a soft and quiet book
that sneaks in on you. As so many
of Zagajewski's books and poems do.

There is so much pain behind. . .
or underneath. . . the restraint
in this Eastern European voice.

A voice that remembers what happened. . .
but chooses not to beat us over the head with it.
Even though it might have the right to do so. . .

The only other way I know to put it would be:
If Adam Zagajewski puts out another book,
I'll buy it. . . sight unseen.

[Anna · Rating 2 out of 5]

I am not sure how I first heard of Adam Zagajewski and this book. After reading about him on Wikipedia, I know that he is a highly regarded poet in Poland who has won numerous awards. For me, the poems did not grab me. There were many references to places in Poland and contemporary or historical events and without a context, they did not mean much to me. I also wonder if some of his words got lost in the translation - that the words were not as powerful when translated into English. There were very few poems that stood out for me in this collection.

Provenance: I cannot recall how I first heard about this book.

[Scott Bielinski · Rating 4 out of 5]

Another great collection from Zagajewski. My favorite poem was "We Know What Art Is." Initially proclaiming, proudly, that "We know what art is," the speaker concludes that art is more elusive, in part, because our souls are so fickle. We don't know,

"Why our souls also close at times, and slam shut, like
an Italian museum on strike (sciopero).
Why art goes mute when terrible things happen,
why we don't need it then - as if terrible things
had overwhelmed the world, filled it completely, totally, to
the roof.
We don't know what art is." (20)

Life, art, the soul - a mysterious medley that requires patience and humility. And, fundamentally, God, of course.

[Kimberly · Rating 4 out of 5]

Often, I detect a little bit of distance from the original in translations, especially poetry--especially when there isn't a sort of translator's note accompanying a volume. But other than that distance, which I am fairly certain is mostly my own shortcoming, I enjoyed this work's elegance and straight-forwardness.

[Cynthia Arrieu-King]

This book centers on recollections of people from the author's past, and a few poems about his mother and how he had never quite appreciated her, in fact saw her as almost an embarassment. The poem "Ruth" is wonderful. Each poem has a lot of space, quiet and history to it. I love certain poems by Zagajewski excessively. This feels like recollections from a far vantage point in life.

[Jane · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have been reading and rereading these poems, trying to learn some of the ways in which Zagajewksi tethers his poems to mood and place rather than story. His writing is so subtle and so grounded in sounds and shadows. He paints actual people, but his words leave them floating, or at least they aren't resolved. I love his work more, the more I read it.