Without End - Collected and New Poems
The best work of one of Poland s greatest poets.
I love to swim in the sea, which keeps
talking to itself
in the monotone of a vagabond
who no longer recalls
exactly how long he s been on the road.
Swimming is like prayer:
palms join and part,
join and part,
almost without end.
—from "On Swimming"
This large selection draws from Adam Zagajewski s English-language collec...more
All you need is a fistful of earth, a boat, a nest, a jail,
a little breath, some drops of blood, and longing."
Some of the lines from this collection have become my friends. Many of them slid straight away. To write a legitimate review, I would have to speak a different language.
I found some of Zagajewski’s poems powerful and immediate such as, Try To Praise The Mutilated World, with its wonderful images and its wonderful juxtapositions. I think this is where Zagajewski’s strength lies, his startling and at othe ...more
A beautiful, touching collection by a fine poet. Zagajewski is witty, humorous, accessible and, unlike so many contemporary American poets, he is not afraid of sentimentality. An example to learn from.
Zagajewski’s work at its best is sublimely insightful. However, his frequent use of naming European artists and politicos feels clunky at times, and, lacking reference points for many of them, I found my attention wandering.
A stunning survey of the work of one of the 'New Wave' of Polish writers.
Zagajewski once wrote:
"I won't tell you everything. Since nothing's really happening. I represent, moreover, the Eastern European school of discretion: we don't discuss divorces, we don't admit depressions. Life proceeds peacefully on all fronts; beyond the window, a gray, exceptionally warm December. A few concerts. A marvelous young singer performed recently in the l ...more
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 resides in Kraków.
His poem "Try To Praise The Mutilated World", printed in The New Yorker, became famou ...more
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my thirst exceeds the ocean.”
only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale
among the branches. You forgive it,
its long tenure in the leaves of one aspen
after another, drops of eternity, grams
of amazement, and the sleepy complaints of the poor poets”