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Here
An exciting collection of poems by Wislawa Szymborska. When Here was published in Poland, reviewers marveled, “How is it that she keeps getting better?” These twenty-seven poems, as rendered by prize-winning translators Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak, are among her greatest work. Whether writing about her teenage self, microscopic creatures, or the upsides to living on Earth, she remains a virtuoso of form, line, and thought.
From the title poem:
I can’t speak for elsewhere,
but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins, teacups, dams, and quips . . .
Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
you’re given your own torso here,
equipped with the accessories required
for adding your own children to the rest.
Not to mention arms, legs, and astonished head.
From the title poem:
I can’t speak for elsewhere,
but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins, teacups, dams, and quips . . .
Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
you’re given your own torso here,
equipped with the accessories required
for adding your own children to the rest.
Not to mention arms, legs, and astonished head.
96 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2009
79 people are currently reading
2194 people want to read
About the author
Wisława Szymborska
210 books1,573 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 - 30 of 284 reviews
May 19, 2023
Finally, some poetry I can understand and enjoy reading. Wisława Szymborska won the Nobel prize for Literature in 1996 and I believe it was well deserved. Took this poem from Sidharth Vardhan's review because I cannot copy from my book.
NONREADING
"Bookstores don't provide
a remote control for Proust,
you can't switch
to a soccer match,
or a quiz show, win a Cadillac.
We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.
We travel faster, farther, more often,
but bring back slides instead of memories.
Here I am with some guy.
There I guess that's my ex.
Here everyone's naked
so this must be a beach.
Seven volumes—mercy.
Couldn't it be cut or summarized,
or better yet put into pictures.
There was that series called "The Doll,"
but my sister-in-law says that's some other P.
And by the way, who was he anyway.
They say he wrote in bed for years on end.
Page after page
at a snail's pace.
But we're still going in fifth gear
and, knock on wood, never better."
NONREADING
"Bookstores don't provide
a remote control for Proust,
you can't switch
to a soccer match,
or a quiz show, win a Cadillac.
We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.
We travel faster, farther, more often,
but bring back slides instead of memories.
Here I am with some guy.
There I guess that's my ex.
Here everyone's naked
so this must be a beach.
Seven volumes—mercy.
Couldn't it be cut or summarized,
or better yet put into pictures.
There was that series called "The Doll,"
but my sister-in-law says that's some other P.
And by the way, who was he anyway.
They say he wrote in bed for years on end.
Page after page
at a snail's pace.
But we're still going in fifth gear
and, knock on wood, never better."
June 9, 2016
She wants me to live only for her and with her. Ideally in a dark, locked room, but my plans still feature today’s sun, clouds in progress, ongoing roads.With this singular clarity, Wislawa Szymborska views memory. By running a casual yet assertive hand, she makes the memory cursive; memory that is stitched into seamless minute knots connecting the present, illuminating the present.
Here is a solace, a silent hurrah. Written in small, fresh bud-like paragraphs, this collection of poems comes with the agenda of a butterfly – fragile at first sight, intriguing at second sight, rejuvenating at third sight and unforgettable after its flight.
Since her love for art found life and prosperity under difficult, turbulent times, her perspective emerged as a rough-cut diamond.
And so I have before me two views in one: a mournful cemetery made of tiny eternal rests or, rising from the sea, the azure sea, dazzling white cliffs, cliffs that are here because they are.So she says about death and argues whether the event, in itself, deserves an eulogy or the legacy it has left behind does.
She expresses her relief in witnessing the continuity of life despite fatal twists and turns and in doing so, becomes the possessor of a rare, comforting clairvoyance. She balances the animate and inanimate in the same sentence, annulling any tremulous ideas pushing the divide. So while she challenges the motives of fanatics and dictators and dismisses the inflammable roquettes of opportunists and cynics, she also finds happiness in stepping back when life beats her with its wisdom.
She writes in deceptively easy streams, words that almost quietly go past an onlooker. But once an undercurrent from her observant vase touches a dangling feet, it becomes nigh impossible to hold back the curiosity.
Wislawa Szymborska came across as a content wanderer to me, who after collecting the green as well as brown leaves on the path of life, learnt to care for both, keeping their existence safe in the vaults of her eyes and memory.
July 30, 2015
Keeping aside all the Tagore verses devoured and regurgitated in near by-rote-memorized answers in high school (no disrespect meant towards Tagore but required reading), bits of Eliot and Yeats and Neruda sampled in the last few years, Wislawa Szymborska is the first and the only Nobel winning poet that I have picked up of my own free volition so far, with no vague threats looming over my head of being chastised as a philistine. I can like or dislike her as I wish to, no English Lit students or academics are going to bay for my blood if I diss her on GR. Now one cannot do that with Eliot or Yeats. But thankfully, I have no need for anticipating any possible backlash from besotted fanboys/girls.
These poems are deceptively easy to read and do not pose any significant challenge in understanding. Szymborska's words do not leave any permanent etchings on the memory slate, slipping away like sand grains held futilely inside a closed fist. But they do leave a warm afterglow, like the pleasant feeling one is left with immediately after sipping on a steaming cup of chai latte.
I breezed through this volume in under an hour, wondering if I ought to have taken more time to dwell on lines and tried harder to disinter buried meaning. A second reading proved how redundant my effort was.
Szymborska writes with wit, with wisdom, with a childlike appreciation for life and its assorted quirks. She does not play an unnecessary game of literary hide-and-seek in these verses. She does not allude to Baudelaire or Thomas Middleton or the classics. She does not imagine the world as a barren, bleak wasteland or exalt artistic endeavour as the redeemer of all human barbarity or delineate the contours of the beloved's anatomy while depriving her of all vitality and agency. Instead all her themes share a universality, a timeless relevance that will appeal to poetry lovers across the spectrum of age, gender and ethnicity. She is gently sardonic, mildly critical of war, greed, rabid materialism, and the unruffled nature of everyday domesticity.
If her words appear too simple to merit poetic immortality, then the uncanniness of her thoughts certainly does elicit awe. Sometimes in a distinct throwback to a Doctor Who episode, she imagines a rendezvous with her favorite, already deceased, Polish poet and the comical conversation that might follow between them. Sometimes, she wistfully contemplates impossible scenarios like an awkward meeting with her own teenage self -
Or accords a persona to her Memory so it becomes a character engaged in a sibling-like love-hate relationship with the poet.
Grief is examined as unsentimentally as possible, the aftermath of the death of a loved one dawning on the mourner slowly, but with heartbreaking effect. A divorce merely becomes a trigger for a calculated division of assets and trifles, memories, shared years but strangely enough Szymborska does not lose her casually jocular tone even here. Unimaginable as it is, there is a poem on microscopic organisms. Even the essence of a complex subject like metaphysics which constitutes libraries' worth of discourse and theory, is teased out deftly in a bare minimum of words.
There is a restrained kind of genius palpable in these poems. At a perfunctory glance, they may appear drab and uninspiring. But Szymborska's brilliant but lucid thought patterns emerge on a closer reading, some bearing startling new insight and carrying a whiff of some potent emotion too fleeting to pin down at once. Perhaps, she is not at her best here as Bloodorange (if I remember correctly) advised me against starting with this particular collection. But I guess I liked this enough anyway.
These poems are deceptively easy to read and do not pose any significant challenge in understanding. Szymborska's words do not leave any permanent etchings on the memory slate, slipping away like sand grains held futilely inside a closed fist. But they do leave a warm afterglow, like the pleasant feeling one is left with immediately after sipping on a steaming cup of chai latte.
I breezed through this volume in under an hour, wondering if I ought to have taken more time to dwell on lines and tried harder to disinter buried meaning. A second reading proved how redundant my effort was.
Szymborska writes with wit, with wisdom, with a childlike appreciation for life and its assorted quirks. She does not play an unnecessary game of literary hide-and-seek in these verses. She does not allude to Baudelaire or Thomas Middleton or the classics. She does not imagine the world as a barren, bleak wasteland or exalt artistic endeavour as the redeemer of all human barbarity or delineate the contours of the beloved's anatomy while depriving her of all vitality and agency. Instead all her themes share a universality, a timeless relevance that will appeal to poetry lovers across the spectrum of age, gender and ethnicity. She is gently sardonic, mildly critical of war, greed, rabid materialism, and the unruffled nature of everyday domesticity.
Wars, wars, wars.
But there are pauses in between them too.
Attention!-people are evil.
At ease-people are good.
At attention wastelands are created.
At ease houses are constructed in the sweat of brows,
and quickly inhabited.
Life on Earth is quite a bargain.
Dreams, for one, don't charge admission.
Illusions are costly only when lost.
The body has its own installment plan.
And as an extra, added feature,
you spin on the planets' carousel for free,
and with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard,
with times so dizzying
that nothing here on Earth can even tremble.
If her words appear too simple to merit poetic immortality, then the uncanniness of her thoughts certainly does elicit awe. Sometimes in a distinct throwback to a Doctor Who episode, she imagines a rendezvous with her favorite, already deceased, Polish poet and the comical conversation that might follow between them. Sometimes, she wistfully contemplates impossible scenarios like an awkward meeting with her own teenage self -
The conversation stumbles.
On her pathetic watch
time is still cheap and unsteady.
On mine it's far more precious and precise.
Or accords a persona to her Memory so it becomes a character engaged in a sibling-like love-hate relationship with the poet.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
Grief is examined as unsentimentally as possible, the aftermath of the death of a loved one dawning on the mourner slowly, but with heartbreaking effect. A divorce merely becomes a trigger for a calculated division of assets and trifles, memories, shared years but strangely enough Szymborska does not lose her casually jocular tone even here. Unimaginable as it is, there is a poem on microscopic organisms. Even the essence of a complex subject like metaphysics which constitutes libraries' worth of discourse and theory, is teased out deftly in a bare minimum of words.
A trite conclusion, not worth writing
if it weren't an unquestionable fact,
a fact for ever and ever,
for the whole cosmos, as it is and will be,
that something really was
until it was gone,
even the fact
that today you had a side of fries.
There is a restrained kind of genius palpable in these poems. At a perfunctory glance, they may appear drab and uninspiring. But Szymborska's brilliant but lucid thought patterns emerge on a closer reading, some bearing startling new insight and carrying a whiff of some potent emotion too fleeting to pin down at once. Perhaps, she is not at her best here as Bloodorange (if I remember correctly) advised me against starting with this particular collection. But I guess I liked this enough anyway.
February 19, 2025
In her poetry W. Szymborska fuses trivial objects with transcendent truths. Each poem is a reflection on life as it is (or was). If I were asked to describe her poetry in three words, I would say : deceptively simple, delightful and profound.
I can’t speak for elsewhere,
but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins, teacups, dams, and quips. . .
Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
you’re given your own torso here,
equipped with the accessories required
for adding your own children to the rest.
Not to mention arms, legs, and astonished head.(...)
I can’t speak for elsewhere,
but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins, teacups, dams, and quips. . .
Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
you’re given your own torso here,
equipped with the accessories required
for adding your own children to the rest.
Not to mention arms, legs, and astonished head.(...)
Read
July 26, 2021The Three Oddest
Words
When I pronounce the word
Future,
the first syllable already belongs
to the past.
When I pronounce the word
Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word
Nothing,
I make something no non- being
can hold.
Words
When I pronounce the word
Future,
the first syllable already belongs
to the past.
When I pronounce the word
Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word
Nothing,
I make something no non- being
can hold.
Read
January 31, 2020“A Hard Life With Memory
I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.”
I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.”
January 6, 2016
Here , here,
In this moment when
Thoughts that visit me on a busy street
run amok into An Idea that is I.
Of how Hard Life with memory is
and how much harder it would be without it.
A Teenager crossing the street, it is me...
my realities will be Assassins for all his dreams.
A Microcosmos living inside these lines,
restless Foraminifera of words and meaning
Before a journey, already seeking Divorce
with their poet.
Vermeer Dreams of Ella in Heaven,
and his women a Portrait from Memory.
Identification they did seek for when he was alive,
in Nonreading eyes of society.
A Highway accident, I imagined once
sitting by myself In a Mail Coach.
A Labyrinth of Metaphysics had been the reason
for the driver's Absence of mind.
In fact every poem,even this for Example,
be it written for a Greek Statue
or inspired by an empty sky,
lives alone somewhere The day after -> without us.
And when we visit it again looking for meaning,
All it speaks is...
Here, Here,
In this moment...
PS:The fans please forgive me, for 27 Titles are hard to embrace in a huddle of a single poem.Yet, I try...
PPS: Foraminifera are a class of amoeba
characterized by streaming granular ectoplasm that among other things is used for catching food,
In this moment when
Thoughts that visit me on a busy street
run amok into An Idea that is I.
Of how Hard Life with memory is
and how much harder it would be without it.
A Teenager crossing the street, it is me...
my realities will be Assassins for all his dreams.
A Microcosmos living inside these lines,
restless Foraminifera of words and meaning
Before a journey, already seeking Divorce
with their poet.
Vermeer Dreams of Ella in Heaven,
and his women a Portrait from Memory.
Identification they did seek for when he was alive,
in Nonreading eyes of society.
A Highway accident, I imagined once
sitting by myself In a Mail Coach.
A Labyrinth of Metaphysics had been the reason
for the driver's Absence of mind.
In fact every poem,even this for Example,
be it written for a Greek Statue
or inspired by an empty sky,
lives alone somewhere The day after -> without us.
And when we visit it again looking for meaning,
All it speaks is...
Here, Here,
In this moment...
PS:The fans please forgive me, for 27 Titles are hard to embrace in a huddle of a single poem.Yet, I try...
PPS: Foraminifera are a class of amoeba
characterized by streaming granular ectoplasm that among other things is used for catching food,
November 9, 2017
This was my first reading of Szymborska's poetry, recipient of the Nobel prize, she writes not how I would have expected, but still, so full of life. The 27 poems on offer were not fancy in any way, but retained a vibrancy that was down to earth and easily likeable. Ingeniously written, that it almost seems like she's whispering them to you as a close friend or relative sitting next to you, with tea and biscuits. It still strike me how she manage to express so much, with such width and mindfulness in so few words, I guess this what makes a great poet, an instant connection with the reader.
Although the title poem 'Here' was a marvel, some others such as 'Teenager' and 'Microcosmos' were equally as good, and on the whole, while it's short, the diversity and range of emotions she utilizes results in a fantastic collection of her work. I think of other great poets who didn't exactly see eye to eye with the world, reading Szymborska felt fresh, something different from the poets I would normally read. With a purity and crisp humor this was a delight to navigate through. Look forward to more of her work, she seems like a worthy Nobel laureate.
Although the title poem 'Here' was a marvel, some others such as 'Teenager' and 'Microcosmos' were equally as good, and on the whole, while it's short, the diversity and range of emotions she utilizes results in a fantastic collection of her work. I think of other great poets who didn't exactly see eye to eye with the world, reading Szymborska felt fresh, something different from the poets I would normally read. With a purity and crisp humor this was a delight to navigate through. Look forward to more of her work, she seems like a worthy Nobel laureate.
May 7, 2018
EXAMPLE
"A gale
stripped all the leaves from the trees last night
except for one leaf
left
to sway solo on a naked branch.
With this example
Violence demonstrates
that yes of course—
it likes its little joke from time to time."
NONREADING
"Bookstores don't provide
a remote control for Proust,
you can't switch
to a soccer match,
or a quiz show, win a Cadillac.
We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.
We travel faster, farther, more often,
but bring back slides instead of memories.
Here I am with some guy.
There I guess that's my ex.
Here everyone's naked
so this must be a beach.
Seven volumes—mercy.
Couldn't it be cut or summarized,
or better yet put into pictures.
There was that series called "The Doll,"
but my sister-in-law says that's some other P.
And by the way, who was he anyway.
They say he wrote in bed for years on end.
Page after page
at a snail's pace.
But we're still going in fifth gear
and, knock on wood, never better."
HARD LIFE WITH MEMORY
"I'm a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don't,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She's got no problem when I sleep.
The day's a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I'm always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today's sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads."
"A gale
stripped all the leaves from the trees last night
except for one leaf
left
to sway solo on a naked branch.
With this example
Violence demonstrates
that yes of course—
it likes its little joke from time to time."
NONREADING
"Bookstores don't provide
a remote control for Proust,
you can't switch
to a soccer match,
or a quiz show, win a Cadillac.
We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.
We travel faster, farther, more often,
but bring back slides instead of memories.
Here I am with some guy.
There I guess that's my ex.
Here everyone's naked
so this must be a beach.
Seven volumes—mercy.
Couldn't it be cut or summarized,
or better yet put into pictures.
There was that series called "The Doll,"
but my sister-in-law says that's some other P.
And by the way, who was he anyway.
They say he wrote in bed for years on end.
Page after page
at a snail's pace.
But we're still going in fifth gear
and, knock on wood, never better."
HARD LIFE WITH MEMORY
"I'm a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don't,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She's got no problem when I sleep.
The day's a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I'm always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today's sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads."
April 16, 2025
من تعریف شعرهای شیمبورسکا رو از برنامهٔ اکنون شنیدم و در جهت پروژهی شعر خوندنم - که مدت طولانیایه دلم میخواد انجامش بدم-، این کتاب رو خوندم. راستش رو بخواید، اون قسمت کوتاهی که دربارهی سخنرانیها و مصاحبههای شیمبورسکا بود رو خیلی بیشتر از شعرهاش دوست داشتم.
April 18, 2025
متاسفانه در این حد بد بود که حتی نتونستم دو خط ازش جدا کنم اینجا بنویسم
November 24, 2017
به نسبت مجموعه "هیچچیز دوبار اتفاق نمیافتد" کمتر دوستش داشتم،(کمتر شگفتزده، خیرهم کرد) اما باز هم عالی بود.
July 26, 2020
The last week or so has been kind of terrible due to various reasons. It has forced me to ask questions that I didn't want to ask and consider things that I just didn't want to ever consider. Somehow, although nothing has technically changed, it feels like this week was life changing. I feel like I've grown. I can feel the direction of my life shifting during this week, my priorities are no longer the same and I'm not sure if they'll ever return to what they were or if I'm happy with where they are now. That's incredibly jarring (future me is probably rolling their eyes about this dramatic statement).
And when things go terribly, I am so very grateful poets like Szymborska exist. It genuinely felt like she was speaking to me, in the most self centered way possible. Her words were a huge comfort. It was like visiting a grandparent and having them give you perspective that everything is going to be fine, even when it all feels like it's collapsing into itself (I'm pretty sure that I've cried more times this week than in the past three months but this is fine because as Szymborska says "You may choose/ where to be or not to be/ to overpass or pull over/ only not to overlook.").
I don't know why these poems spoke so much to me. Is it because there's something comforting about a Nobel winning poet so deeply paranoid about people writing better poetry than her? Or perhaps it's because these poems are so intimate? They're dark and light at the same time ("The body has its own installment plan"), they're descriptive and they're gentle. Usually when I think about famous writers, I imagine thick prose and big words but Szymborska writes clearly and elegantly without needing to thicken her words.
I have so much to do and this week is far from being over but I'm so glad I took an hour to read this. I hope it'll stay with me, that I'll be able to hold on to Szymborska's thoughts on dreams, labyrinths, faith, family and poetry. If you're looking for some poetry, I really think you can't go wrong with this collection.
What I'm Taking With Me
- It feels a little wrong to count this as my Polish book for my reading challenge because the poems here are so international but at the same time, I don't have any other idea for a Polish book and well, she is Polish.
- I'm positive at least some of my panic is coming from the realization that my birthday is coming up and I'm already starting up with the anxiety.
- And I'm just so so tired, who knew critical thinking was so exhausting
And when things go terribly, I am so very grateful poets like Szymborska exist. It genuinely felt like she was speaking to me, in the most self centered way possible. Her words were a huge comfort. It was like visiting a grandparent and having them give you perspective that everything is going to be fine, even when it all feels like it's collapsing into itself (I'm pretty sure that I've cried more times this week than in the past three months but this is fine because as Szymborska says "You may choose/ where to be or not to be/ to overpass or pull over/ only not to overlook.").
I don't know why these poems spoke so much to me. Is it because there's something comforting about a Nobel winning poet so deeply paranoid about people writing better poetry than her? Or perhaps it's because these poems are so intimate? They're dark and light at the same time ("The body has its own installment plan"), they're descriptive and they're gentle. Usually when I think about famous writers, I imagine thick prose and big words but Szymborska writes clearly and elegantly without needing to thicken her words.
I have so much to do and this week is far from being over but I'm so glad I took an hour to read this. I hope it'll stay with me, that I'll be able to hold on to Szymborska's thoughts on dreams, labyrinths, faith, family and poetry. If you're looking for some poetry, I really think you can't go wrong with this collection.
What I'm Taking With Me
- It feels a little wrong to count this as my Polish book for my reading challenge because the poems here are so international but at the same time, I don't have any other idea for a Polish book and well, she is Polish.
- I'm positive at least some of my panic is coming from the realization that my birthday is coming up and I'm already starting up with the anxiety.
- And I'm just so so tired, who knew critical thinking was so exhausting
December 11, 2019
"And I know what else you’re thinking.
Wars, wars, wars.
But even between them there happen to be breaks.
Attention—people are evil.
At ease—people are good.
At attention we produce wastelands.
At ease by the sweat of our brows we build houses
and quickly live in them."
From 'Here', the title poem of the collection HERE by Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak.
My second Szymborska poetry collection, and it solidifies her place as one of my must-read poets. This volume, much smaller than my read of MAP last year, but equally impressive.
Her poetry is simple - observational, that kind that elicits a wry smirk rather than a full laugh or a whimper. She's clever. She imagines her parents meeting other people and the children they would have had, perhaps even playing together at recess. She describes the centuries of wear in a Greek statue, only the torso remains.
Other highlights in the collection:
Identification
Absence
Greek Statue
Divorce
Wars, wars, wars.
But even between them there happen to be breaks.
Attention—people are evil.
At ease—people are good.
At attention we produce wastelands.
At ease by the sweat of our brows we build houses
and quickly live in them."
From 'Here', the title poem of the collection HERE by Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak.
My second Szymborska poetry collection, and it solidifies her place as one of my must-read poets. This volume, much smaller than my read of MAP last year, but equally impressive.
Her poetry is simple - observational, that kind that elicits a wry smirk rather than a full laugh or a whimper. She's clever. She imagines her parents meeting other people and the children they would have had, perhaps even playing together at recess. She describes the centuries of wear in a Greek statue, only the torso remains.
Other highlights in the collection:
Identification
Absence
Greek Statue
Divorce
February 28, 2021
Life on Earth is quite a bargain.
Dreams, for one, don't charge admission.
Illusions are costly only when lost.
The body has its own installment plan.
And as an extra, added feature,
you spin on the planets' carousel for free,
and with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard,
with times so dizzying
that nothing here on Earth can even tremble.
January 23, 2023
what a joy to brighten a monday morning! i'll definitely come back to these; they're simple, but hide such complex truths.
not to mention a great variety of topics, which she explores with such admirable wit
not to mention a great variety of topics, which she explores with such admirable wit
November 15, 2015
تعدادی از شعرها -در مجموعهای با 19 شعر- تصویرهای دلچسبی دارند که با وجود اینکه کاملاً غیرشاعرانهاند اما به شدت در ذهن جان میگیرند. و گمانم ترجمه کمی در نارسایی تعداد دیگری از شعرها دخیل است.
November 23, 2024
It is a smoggy day today, and I have had a raging headache.
Then I read this:
“So long as that woman from the Rijksmuseum
in painted quiet and concentration
keeps pouring milk day after day
from the pitcher to the bowl
the World hasn’t earned
the world’s end.”
And all seemed better.
Because I know at Rijksmuseum, the woman is still pouring milk.
Szymborska wrote this collection in her 80s.
I guess I could see clues of her age in poems such as “Teenager “ and “Hard Life with Memory”, which deal with nostalgia, memory and the passage of time.
I guess I also saw some of that wisdom that could only be achieved by a mature, life-long thinker from poems such as Labyrinth and Metaphysics.
Other than that, I would say Szymborska, at the age of 80s, still had a youthful heart full of whimsical and playful ideas…and how I long to have a friend like her!
Szymborska had a great sense of humour too, and she used that humour to tackle serious issues such as the destructive effects of war and dictatorship in her poems .
A perfect example of this is An Interview with Atropos, which is also one of my favourites in this collection.
I highly recommend this collection to anyone who loves poetry.
她要我只为她而活，
只与她一起生活。
最好是在黑暗、上锁的房间，
而我老规划着当下的阳光，
流动的云，以及脚下的路。
—与回忆共处的艰辛时光
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today's sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
-Hard Life with Memory
Then I read this:
“So long as that woman from the Rijksmuseum
in painted quiet and concentration
keeps pouring milk day after day
from the pitcher to the bowl
the World hasn’t earned
the world’s end.”
And all seemed better.
Because I know at Rijksmuseum, the woman is still pouring milk.
Szymborska wrote this collection in her 80s.
I guess I could see clues of her age in poems such as “Teenager “ and “Hard Life with Memory”, which deal with nostalgia, memory and the passage of time.
I guess I also saw some of that wisdom that could only be achieved by a mature, life-long thinker from poems such as Labyrinth and Metaphysics.
Other than that, I would say Szymborska, at the age of 80s, still had a youthful heart full of whimsical and playful ideas…and how I long to have a friend like her!
Szymborska had a great sense of humour too, and she used that humour to tackle serious issues such as the destructive effects of war and dictatorship in her poems .
A perfect example of this is An Interview with Atropos, which is also one of my favourites in this collection.
I highly recommend this collection to anyone who loves poetry.
她要我只为她而活，
只与她一起生活。
最好是在黑暗、上锁的房间，
而我老规划着当下的阳光，
流动的云，以及脚下的路。
—与回忆共处的艰辛时光
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today's sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
-Hard Life with Memory
January 12, 2020
استخوانهایمان شکل هماند،
قوس جمجمه، حدقهی چشمها
قوس جمجمه، حدقهی چشمها
January 3, 2015
Contributo para as Estatísticas
Em cem pessoas,
sabedoras de tudo melhor -
cinquenta e duas;
inseguras de cada passo -
quase todo o resto;
prontas para ajudar,
desde que não demore muito -
quarenta e nove;
sempre boas,
porque não conseguem de outra forma -
quatro, talvez cinco;
dispostas a admirar sem inveja -
dezoito;
constantemente receosas
de algo ou alguém -
setenta e sete;
aptas para a felicidade -
vinte e tal, quando muito;
individualmente inofensivas,
em grupo ameaçadoras -
mais de metade, com certeza;
cruéis,
por força das circunstâncias -
é melhor não sabê-lo,
nem aproximadamente;
com trancas na porta depois da casa roubada -
quase tantas como
aquelas que as têm, antes da casa roubada;
não levando nada da vida a não ser coisas -
quarenta,
embora preferisse estar enganada;
agachadas, doloridas
e sem lanterna no escuro -
oitenta e três,
mais tarde ou mais cedo;
dignas de compaixão -
noventa e nove;
mortais -
cem em cem.
Número, até agora, não sujeito a alterações.
Em cem pessoas,
sabedoras de tudo melhor -
cinquenta e duas;
inseguras de cada passo -
quase todo o resto;
prontas para ajudar,
desde que não demore muito -
quarenta e nove;
sempre boas,
porque não conseguem de outra forma -
quatro, talvez cinco;
dispostas a admirar sem inveja -
dezoito;
constantemente receosas
de algo ou alguém -
setenta e sete;
aptas para a felicidade -
vinte e tal, quando muito;
individualmente inofensivas,
em grupo ameaçadoras -
mais de metade, com certeza;
cruéis,
por força das circunstâncias -
é melhor não sabê-lo,
nem aproximadamente;
com trancas na porta depois da casa roubada -
quase tantas como
aquelas que as têm, antes da casa roubada;
não levando nada da vida a não ser coisas -
quarenta,
embora preferisse estar enganada;
agachadas, doloridas
e sem lanterna no escuro -
oitenta e três,
mais tarde ou mais cedo;
dignas de compaixão -
noventa e nove;
mortais -
cem em cem.
Número, até agora, não sujeito a alterações.
July 29, 2022
Gdyby zamknąć ten tomik w jednym doznaniu zmysłowym, byłoby nim zdziwione westchnienie; paralela między chęcią udelikatnienia świata, w którym wszystkie idee są wybrzuszone, a wszystkie materializmy nadmiernie wyraźne. To wyraz samouzalążkowanej fascynacji, wobec której słowa są tylko cienką błoną przekazu.
Zawsze będzie mnie w poetyckim toku myślowym Szymborskiej wzruszać ta szalona czułość do rzeczy oczywistych. To, jak prześwietla ludzi, pisząc o ich rzeczywistościach. Jak dezharmonizuje naiwne zobojętnienie człowieka na jego ludzkość. Ironizuje ze świata (lub czasem ze światem) w sposób tak trzecioosobowy i inteligentny, że aż chce się ukryć między własnymi codziennostkami i czekać na innych poetów, którzy zechcą o tym pisać tak (nie)ludzko pięknie jak ona.
Zawsze będzie mnie w poetyckim toku myślowym Szymborskiej wzruszać ta szalona czułość do rzeczy oczywistych. To, jak prześwietla ludzi, pisząc o ich rzeczywistościach. Jak dezharmonizuje naiwne zobojętnienie człowieka na jego ludzkość. Ironizuje ze świata (lub czasem ze światem) w sposób tak trzecioosobowy i inteligentny, że aż chce się ukryć między własnymi codziennostkami i czekać na innych poetów, którzy zechcą o tym pisać tak (nie)ludzko pięknie jak ona.
September 23, 2014
For the longest time I could not appreciate poetry without form. In fact it is probably only in the last year that I have really grown to love and appreciate the style of 'free verse' which seemed to me, before, the realm of lazy poets. However, since then, some free verse poetry have become favorites of mine, Neruda's "Ode to Common Things" and "If You Forget Me" are poems I return to over and over, for their imagery and use of language in a way that, while not conforming to a structure per-se, follow some internal rhythm of their own, some inner logic, illusory contours which trace the subverted patterns of genius. This brilliance is sometimes found in Here by Wislawa Szymborska, but ultimately I was rather disappointed. I was introduced to the Polish poetess rather recently with her poem "First Love" which I thought was a wonderful mix of images and profound self-reflection. Her tone is casual and frank, but at times she chafes on something which seems infinitely wise. I apologize for quoting her a poem which is not in this collection:
In Here, there is still such profundity, but the language which pulled me in, the metaphoric power comparing loves to sighs, to breaths, inside of us, which I found ultimately lacking. This collection seemed a bit too political for my tastes, maybe a bit too coldly academic. There are some nice poems collected here, for example "Thoughts That Visit Me on Busy Streets" which begs the question:
They sayThis appraisal of first loves is very frank, and contrary to the frequent romanticized view of first loves, especially the rosy-glossed images of poets and novelists of the past centuries. She goes on to say:
the first love's most important.
That's very romantic,
but not my experience.
Other lovesHow true it is that, really, our first "loves" are barely sighs in us, once it has ended. They are the prelude quickly forgotten, the first swipe, the first attempt which does not count, only for practice. First loves prepare us for our second loves, but they stop there in importance, they are a primer. But Szymborska goes on to relate that these first loves, in fact, are our introduction to death, to ending. It is this first death which is the same as a first love: only practice. If our first loves were true, where real and powerful inside of us, we would never recover from them when they ended - it is that they are superficial and misguided that makes that first ending manageable, which toughens our skins but does not lacerate us, bleed us out.
still breathe deep inside me.
This one's too short of breath even to sigh.
In Here, there is still such profundity, but the language which pulled me in, the metaphoric power comparing loves to sighs, to breaths, inside of us, which I found ultimately lacking. This collection seemed a bit too political for my tastes, maybe a bit too coldly academic. There are some nice poems collected here, for example "Thoughts That Visit Me on Busy Streets" which begs the question:
Faces.This is an interesting concept but the imagery becomes quickly tiresome of ancient pharoahs and philosophers in jeans and scarves and sneakers and waving down cabs and picking their noses. There seems to be something lacking, some power of emotion, or some distancing from experience. I have never loved big idea poetry, writing about the abstractness of abstract things, comparing love to dusty white pigeons or bravery to a tawny lion, the apogee of genius to a distant ball of fire, or any of that other metaphorical nonsense which has circled tirelessly in the dryer of poetry, worn thin like old jeans. There is no poem in this collection which I want to commit to memory. That is probably the true test of poetry, of whether it should last. Whether it lives on pages in libraries or in the electronic annals of the internet: that does not matter, that is not life, that is a poor refuge for art. Poetry must live in the minds of the people who read it, who love it, who whisper lines to themselves on busy trains or on bad days when they have forgotten their umbrellas and they're late for work, and it's raining and it's cold. That is poetry, isn't it? I have memorized many lines of many poems: my mind is a sort of hodgepodge of poetic fragments, some which make me laugh, or make me think, or comfort me when I am sad, or lacerate my heart with honesty when I need it; they are collected scraps from all sorts, from Yeats and from Rilke, Neruda and Ronsard, Keats and Shelley, and some bruised and broken pieces of my own (which once or twice I've liked). And I won't be unfair to Mme. Szymborska, she is there too, and maybe this is not her best collection (not for me, anyway), but I have always loved a live from her poem "Nothing Twice" - and even if it is a bit hackneyed sounding or cliche, I will likely always remember it:
Billions of faces on the earth's surface.
Each different, so we're told,
from those that have been and will be.
But Nature—since who really understands her?—
may grow tired of her ceaseless labors
and so repeats earlier ideas
by supplying us
with preworn faces.
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It’s in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
March 27, 2015
Teenager
Me—a teenager?
If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me,
would I need to treat her as near and dear,
although she's strange to me, and distant?
Shed a tear, kiss her brow
for the simple reason
that we share a birthdate?
So many dissimilarities between us
that only the bones are likely still the same,
the cranial vault, the eye sockets.
Since her eyes seem a little larger,
her eyelashes are longer, she's taller,
and the whole body is tightly sheathed
in smooth, unblemished skin.
Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,
but in her world nearly all are living,
while in mine almost no one survives
from that shared circle.
We differ so profoundly,
talk and think about completely different things.
She knows next to nothing—
but with a doggedness deserving better causes.
I know much more—
but not for sure.
She shows me poems,
written in a clear and careful script
I haven't used for years.
I read the poems, read them.
Well, maybe that one
if it were shorter
and touched up in a couple of places.
The rest do not bode well.
The conversation stumbles.
On her pathetic watch
time is still cheap and unsteady.
On mine it's far more precious and precise.
Nothing in parting, a fixed smile
and no emotion.
Only when she vanishes,
leaving her scarf in her haste.
A scarf of genuine wool,
in colored stripes
crocheted for her
by our mother.
I've still got it.
January 29, 2016
Reading these alongside some Tsvetaeva only emphasised that the poems in Here are relatively comfortable and happy. The work of a secure and wise old age, having endured and seen the back of an oppressive government, and achieved no less than a Nobel Prize. The rapturously smiling old lady on the front cover is a lovely representation of the author of these lines:
I can’t speak for elsewhere, but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins,
teacups, dams, and quips.
There may be more of everything elsewhere,
but for reasons left unspecified they lack paintings,
picture tubes, pierogies, handkerchiefs for tears.
Here we have countless places with vicinities.
You may take a liking to some, give them pet names,
protect them from harm.
The opposite of the grinding sense of scarcity in her country during years of food queues.
There isn't - or maybe I just haven't read - much happy sort of poetry that isn't outright comic. Both the glow this lit, and the form of the translation, reminded me of reading Frank O'Hara, though more grounded, slower.
I've favourite themes I always notice in poetry if they're there, (it must get a bit boring for some friends, as I quote variations on the same thing over and over) and here is one of these spine-tingling ideas again: a panoramic overview of people through time, feeling time and history around one like a tangible dimension.
(It was also in a verse from another collection, quoted in this recent article about Szymborska:
In an early poem, after describing the voluptuous “female fauna” of so many of Rubens’ paintings, Szymborska imagines “their skinny sisters” who “went single file / along the canvas’s unpainted side”:
Exiled by style. Only their ribs stood out.
With birdlike feet and palms, they strove
to take wing on their jutting shoulder blades.
The thirteenth century would have given them golden halos.
The twentieth, silver screens.
The seventeenth, alas, holds nothing for the unvoluptuous.
For even the sky bulges here
with pudgy angels and a chubby god.
I quite often look at people like this, think what decade or century their look might suit, or try to transpose people in old portraits to the present. Szymborska had changed from someone abstract to a poet I was sure I would like.)
Here, in Here (sadly there are no hares in Here), is something similar:
But Nature—since who really understands her?—
may grow tired of her ceaseless labors
and so repeats earlier ideas
by supplying us
with preworn faces.
Those passersby might be Archimedes in jeans,
Catherine the Great draped in resale,
some pharaoh with briefcase and glasses.
An unshod shoemaker’s widow
from a still pint-sized Warsaw,
the master from the cave at Altamira
taking his grandkids to the zoo,
a shaggy Vandal en route to the museum
to gasp at past masters.
The fallen from two hundred centuries ago,
five centuries ago,
half a century ago.
One brought here in a golden carriage,
Another conveyed by extermination transport,
On a smaller, far more ominous scale - ordinary life oblivious to what was and is round the corner:
They still don’t know
what happened on the highway
half an hour ago.
On their watches
it’s just the same old time,
afternoonish, Thursdayish, September.
Someone is draining macaroni.
Someone is raking leaves.
Squealing children race around the table.
The poet's view is as if from a satellite, long perspective producing benevolent omniscience. Predator and prey on the savannah:
A sudden uproar in the blissful stillness.
Two creatures who want to live suddenly bolt.
Later On the question of guilt,
nothing, only silence.
The collection never becomes too heavy; a poem named 'Metaphysics', refusing to become too solemn, ends with:
even the fact
that today you had a side of fries.
And if one travels in time oneself, it's to tell another poet that, actually, it will be alright later.
(The Ella Fitzgerald poem, yes, is a low point. I imagine Szymborska having been inspired whilst reading a biography of Fitzgerald - the idea is a lot like a bit in Maya Angelou's and probably too many others. The poet's intention is more kindly than that of plenty of older people in the conservative and homogenous society she lived in, but elsewhere the result reads badly.)
Two other whole poems have been added to the quotes section: here and here.
Strange to read this on a device where the following is now possible after all:
Bookstores don’t provide
a remote control for Proust,
you can’t switch to a soccer match,
or a quiz show, win a Cadillac.
I can’t speak for elsewhere, but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins,
teacups, dams, and quips.
There may be more of everything elsewhere,
but for reasons left unspecified they lack paintings,
picture tubes, pierogies, handkerchiefs for tears.
Here we have countless places with vicinities.
You may take a liking to some, give them pet names,
protect them from harm.
The opposite of the grinding sense of scarcity in her country during years of food queues.
There isn't - or maybe I just haven't read - much happy sort of poetry that isn't outright comic. Both the glow this lit, and the form of the translation, reminded me of reading Frank O'Hara, though more grounded, slower.
I've favourite themes I always notice in poetry if they're there, (it must get a bit boring for some friends, as I quote variations on the same thing over and over) and here is one of these spine-tingling ideas again: a panoramic overview of people through time, feeling time and history around one like a tangible dimension.
(It was also in a verse from another collection, quoted in this recent article about Szymborska:
In an early poem, after describing the voluptuous “female fauna” of so many of Rubens’ paintings, Szymborska imagines “their skinny sisters” who “went single file / along the canvas’s unpainted side”:
Exiled by style. Only their ribs stood out.
With birdlike feet and palms, they strove
to take wing on their jutting shoulder blades.
The thirteenth century would have given them golden halos.
The twentieth, silver screens.
The seventeenth, alas, holds nothing for the unvoluptuous.
For even the sky bulges here
with pudgy angels and a chubby god.
I quite often look at people like this, think what decade or century their look might suit, or try to transpose people in old portraits to the present. Szymborska had changed from someone abstract to a poet I was sure I would like.)
Here, in Here (sadly there are no hares in Here), is something similar:
But Nature—since who really understands her?—
may grow tired of her ceaseless labors
and so repeats earlier ideas
by supplying us
with preworn faces.
Those passersby might be Archimedes in jeans,
Catherine the Great draped in resale,
some pharaoh with briefcase and glasses.
An unshod shoemaker’s widow
from a still pint-sized Warsaw,
the master from the cave at Altamira
taking his grandkids to the zoo,
a shaggy Vandal en route to the museum
to gasp at past masters.
The fallen from two hundred centuries ago,
five centuries ago,
half a century ago.
One brought here in a golden carriage,
Another conveyed by extermination transport,
On a smaller, far more ominous scale - ordinary life oblivious to what was and is round the corner:
They still don’t know
what happened on the highway
half an hour ago.
On their watches
it’s just the same old time,
afternoonish, Thursdayish, September.
Someone is draining macaroni.
Someone is raking leaves.
Squealing children race around the table.
The poet's view is as if from a satellite, long perspective producing benevolent omniscience. Predator and prey on the savannah:
A sudden uproar in the blissful stillness.
Two creatures who want to live suddenly bolt.
Later On the question of guilt,
nothing, only silence.
The collection never becomes too heavy; a poem named 'Metaphysics', refusing to become too solemn, ends with:
even the fact
that today you had a side of fries.
And if one travels in time oneself, it's to tell another poet that, actually, it will be alright later.
(The Ella Fitzgerald poem, yes, is a low point. I imagine Szymborska having been inspired whilst reading a biography of Fitzgerald - the idea is a lot like a bit in Maya Angelou's and probably too many others. The poet's intention is more kindly than that of plenty of older people in the conservative and homogenous society she lived in, but elsewhere the result reads badly.)
Two other whole poems have been added to the quotes section: here and here.
Strange to read this on a device where the following is now possible after all:
Bookstores don’t provide
a remote control for Proust,
you can’t switch to a soccer match,
or a quiz show, win a Cadillac.
August 7, 2021
A friend lent me her copy of this poetry collection, and as grateful as I am to her for acquainting me with the great Wisława Szymborska, I regret ever returning it to her. Sigh!!!! I'll be missing this little book dearly.
It's hard to pick a favorite, but two in particular refuse to leave me, as they speak to my own relationship with creativity and memory.
An Idea
An idea came to me
for a rhyme? a poem?
Well, fine — I say — stay awhile, we’ll talk.
Tell me a little more about yourself.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Ah, so that’s the story — I say — intriguing.
These matters have long weighed upon my heart.
But a poem about them? I don’t think so.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
It may seem that way — I reply —
but you overestimate my gifts and powers.
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
You’re wrong — I say — a short, pithy poem
is much harder than a long one.
Don’t pester me, don’t nag, it won’t turn out.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
All right then, I’ll try, since you insist.
But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I write, tear it up, and toss it out.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
You’re right — I say — there are always other poets.
Some of them can do better.
I’ll give you names and addresses.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Of course I’ll envy them.
We envy even the weak poems.
But this one should . . . it ought to have . . .
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Exactly, to have the qualities you’ve listed.
So let’s change the subject.
How about a cup of coffee?
It just sighed.
And started vanishing.
And vanished.
Hard Life with Memory
I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.
It's hard to pick a favorite, but two in particular refuse to leave me, as they speak to my own relationship with creativity and memory.
An Idea
An idea came to me
for a rhyme? a poem?
Well, fine — I say — stay awhile, we’ll talk.
Tell me a little more about yourself.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Ah, so that’s the story — I say — intriguing.
These matters have long weighed upon my heart.
But a poem about them? I don’t think so.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
It may seem that way — I reply —
but you overestimate my gifts and powers.
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
You’re wrong — I say — a short, pithy poem
is much harder than a long one.
Don’t pester me, don’t nag, it won’t turn out.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
All right then, I’ll try, since you insist.
But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I write, tear it up, and toss it out.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
You’re right — I say — there are always other poets.
Some of them can do better.
I’ll give you names and addresses.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Of course I’ll envy them.
We envy even the weak poems.
But this one should . . . it ought to have . . .
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Exactly, to have the qualities you’ve listed.
So let’s change the subject.
How about a cup of coffee?
It just sighed.
And started vanishing.
And vanished.
Hard Life with Memory
I’m a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don’t,
step out, come back, then leave again.
She wants all my time and attention.
She’s got no problem when I sleep.
The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.
She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.
In her stories I’m always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.
She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.
She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today’s sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.
At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too.
May 29, 2016
تا زمانی که زنی در موزه ی ملی
،در سکوت و تمرکزِ نقاشی
شیر می ریزد پیوسته
از قدحی به پیاله ای
جهان سزاوار پایان جهان نیست.
،در سکوت و تمرکزِ نقاشی
شیر می ریزد پیوسته
از قدحی به پیاله ای
جهان سزاوار پایان جهان نیست.
March 7, 2016
I feel a little guilty giving this book only 2 stars. There was nothing really bad about it; I enjoyed reading it; seeing the original Polish (even though I can't understand a word of Polish) fascinated me; Wislawa Szymborska is one of my favorite Polish poets; and I'm even biased in favor of the book because of its lovely cover. But I give it 2 stars because nothing in the book really moved me. She had some interesting twists of phrase and wrote about a range of topics, avoiding cliches, but nonetheless, I don't find myself coming back to these poems or drawing any inspiration from them. They're interesting and creative and fun to read, but not meaningful to me and so not worth reading twice (some may disagree, and I see that some other reviewers have, which is fine).
My advice is, if you want to read Wislawa Szymborska, read some of her other work instead of this one. I love, love, love some of her poems, but not these poems.
My advice is, if you want to read Wislawa Szymborska, read some of her other work instead of this one. I love, love, love some of her poems, but not these poems.
January 11, 2022
Here, the words spill their syllables and letters, arrange, as life continues to transform and evolve itself through entwined beauty and grime of experiences and emotions.
** 'Life on Earth is quite a bargain.
Dreams, for one, don't change admission.
Illusions are costly only when lost.
The body has its own installment plan.'
— from HERE
** 'Billions of faces on the earth's surface.
My face, yours, whose —
you'll never know.
Maybe Nature has to shortchange us,
and to keep up, meet demand,
she fishes up what's been sunk
in the mirror of oblivion.'
— from THOUGHTS THAT VISIT ME ON BUSY STREETS
Here, there is overt wonder and amazement of life's miracle and power, mundanity and imperceptibility; the anguish and denial of its end, of death; familiar in-betweens of past identities and selves, estrangements and engagements.
** 'Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,
but in her world nearly all are living,
while in mine almost no one survives
from that shared circle.'
— from TEENAGER
Here is a portrait of being alive and being human. Human. A spiritual pilgrimage which coalesces itself with the colour and pallor of time and space. The constant change of the everyday, the cost of these changes, the fantasy of being another.
** 'And as a bonus, despite our own freedom,
the choices of our heart, our tastes,
we're swept away
by amorous yearnings for —
and the alarm clock rings.'
— from DREAMS
** 'We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.'
— from NONREADING
Szymborska's poems speak of the dole and toll of existence, of being, of presence and absence. Most particularly the profound and resonant HARD LIFE WITH MEMORY and the afflicting IDENTIFICATION. Here is an affecting and brilliant poetry collection. Read Here.
** 'For the kids the first ending of the world.
For the cat a new master.
For the dog a new mistress.
For the furniture stairs, thuds, my way or the highway.
For the walls bright squares where pictures once hung.
For the neighbors new subjects, a break in the boredom.
For the car better if there were two.
For the novels, the poems — fine, take what you want.
Worse with encyclopedias and VCRs,
not to mention the guide to proper usage,
which doubtless holds pointers on two names —
are the still linked with the conjunction "and"
or does a period divide them.'
— DIVORCE
** 'Life on Earth is quite a bargain.
Dreams, for one, don't change admission.
Illusions are costly only when lost.
The body has its own installment plan.'
— from HERE
** 'Billions of faces on the earth's surface.
My face, yours, whose —
you'll never know.
Maybe Nature has to shortchange us,
and to keep up, meet demand,
she fishes up what's been sunk
in the mirror of oblivion.'
— from THOUGHTS THAT VISIT ME ON BUSY STREETS
Here, there is overt wonder and amazement of life's miracle and power, mundanity and imperceptibility; the anguish and denial of its end, of death; familiar in-betweens of past identities and selves, estrangements and engagements.
** 'Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,
but in her world nearly all are living,
while in mine almost no one survives
from that shared circle.'
— from TEENAGER
Here is a portrait of being alive and being human. Human. A spiritual pilgrimage which coalesces itself with the colour and pallor of time and space. The constant change of the everyday, the cost of these changes, the fantasy of being another.
** 'And as a bonus, despite our own freedom,
the choices of our heart, our tastes,
we're swept away
by amorous yearnings for —
and the alarm clock rings.'
— from DREAMS
** 'We live longer
but less precisely
and in shorter sentences.'
— from NONREADING
Szymborska's poems speak of the dole and toll of existence, of being, of presence and absence. Most particularly the profound and resonant HARD LIFE WITH MEMORY and the afflicting IDENTIFICATION. Here is an affecting and brilliant poetry collection. Read Here.
** 'For the kids the first ending of the world.
For the cat a new master.
For the dog a new mistress.
For the furniture stairs, thuds, my way or the highway.
For the walls bright squares where pictures once hung.
For the neighbors new subjects, a break in the boredom.
For the car better if there were two.
For the novels, the poems — fine, take what you want.
Worse with encyclopedias and VCRs,
not to mention the guide to proper usage,
which doubtless holds pointers on two names —
are the still linked with the conjunction "and"
or does a period divide them.'
— DIVORCE
December 28, 2022
In 1996 werd de Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur aan de Poolse dichter Wisława Szymborska toegekend. Als je haar leest is dat logisch. Niet om hoe ze schrijft, maar om wat ze schrijft. De inhoud. Ik las haar bundel Hier uit 2009, waarin je de indruk krijgt dat eigenlijk niets zomaar gebeurt. Dat is op zich een geruststellende gedachte: je maakt deel uit van de geschiedenis, van een evolutie en jouw aanwezigheid, precies hier, is voor een groot deel bepaald door diegenen die voor jou waren.
Ja, maar hoe? Ja, maar wat als? Eenvoudige vragen, maar je moet ze kunnen stellen om een vaak al even eenvoudig als filosofisch antwoord aan jezelf te ontfutselen.
“Hier” - Wisława Szymborska (2009)
●●●●○ (4,5/5)
Voor de volledige recensie, met plaatjes en fragmenten: https://rondetijd.blogspot.com/2021/0...
Ja, maar hoe? Ja, maar wat als? Eenvoudige vragen, maar je moet ze kunnen stellen om een vaak al even eenvoudig als filosofisch antwoord aan jezelf te ontfutselen.
“Hier” - Wisława Szymborska (2009)
●●●●○ (4,5/5)
Voor de volledige recensie, met plaatjes en fragmenten: https://rondetijd.blogspot.com/2021/0...
February 7, 2017
Después de más de 3 semanas y 3000 páginas de Proust, encontrarse por azar con este poema es una sonrisa del destino:
"A las obras de Proust
no les añaden en la librería un mando a distancia,
no podemos cambiar
a un partido de fútbol
o a un concurso donde ganar un volvo.
[...]
Siete tomos: piedad.
¿No se podría resumir, abreviar,
o mejor mostrar en imágenes todo eso?
[...]
Además, seamos sinceros, quien es ese.
Al parecer escribió en la cama un montón de años.
Página tras página
a una velocidad limitada.
Y nosotros con la quinta puesta
y -toquemos madera- saludables."
(Muero.)
"A las obras de Proust
no les añaden en la librería un mando a distancia,
no podemos cambiar
a un partido de fútbol
o a un concurso donde ganar un volvo.
[...]
Siete tomos: piedad.
¿No se podría resumir, abreviar,
o mejor mostrar en imágenes todo eso?
[...]
Además, seamos sinceros, quien es ese.
Al parecer escribió en la cama un montón de años.
Página tras página
a una velocidad limitada.
Y nosotros con la quinta puesta
y -toquemos madera- saludables."
(Muero.)
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