What do you think?
Rate this book
Monologue of a Dog
From a writer whom Charles Simic calls "one of the finest poets living" comes a collection of witty, compassionate, contemplative, and always surprising poems. Szymborska writes with verve about everything from love unremembered to keys mislaid in the grass. The poems will appear, for the first time, side by side with the Polish originals, in a book to delight new and old readers alike.
EVERYTHING
Everything-
a bumptious, stuck-up word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it's just
a shred of a gale.
EVERYTHING
Everything-
a bumptious, stuck-up word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it's just
a shred of a gale.
112 pages, Hardcover
First published November 7, 2005
About the author
Wisława Szymborska
200 books1,358 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
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 73 reviews
June 10, 2018
Taunt yet expansive in empathy - I have long wanted to read Wisława Szymborska's poems and was happy to come across this wonderful introduction to her work. She is now on my 'read more radar.'
June 30, 2018
There are lots of beautiful ones. I will share only one.
The courtesy of the Blind
The poet reads his lines to the blind.
He hadn’t guessed that it would be so hard.
His voice trembles.
His hands shake.
He senses that every sentence
is put to the test of darkness.
He must muddle through alone,
without colors or lights.
A treacherous endeavor
for his poems’ stars,
dawns, rainbows, clouds, their neon lights, their moon,
for the fish so silvery thus far beneath the water
and the hawk so high and quiet in the sky.
He reads—since it’s too late to stop now—
about the boy in a yellow jacket on a green field,
red roofs that can be counted in the valley,
the restless numbers on soccer players’ shirts,
and the naked stranger standing in a half-shut door.
He’d like to skip—although it can’t be done—
all the saints on that cathedral ceiling,
the parting wave from a train,
the microscope lens, the ring casting a glow,
the movie screens, the mirrors, the photo albums.
But great is the courtesy of the blind,
great is their forbearance, their largesse.
They listen, smile, and applaud.
One of them even comes up
with a book turned wrongside out
asking for an unseen autograph.
The courtesy of the Blind
The poet reads his lines to the blind.
He hadn’t guessed that it would be so hard.
His voice trembles.
His hands shake.
He senses that every sentence
is put to the test of darkness.
He must muddle through alone,
without colors or lights.
A treacherous endeavor
for his poems’ stars,
dawns, rainbows, clouds, their neon lights, their moon,
for the fish so silvery thus far beneath the water
and the hawk so high and quiet in the sky.
He reads—since it’s too late to stop now—
about the boy in a yellow jacket on a green field,
red roofs that can be counted in the valley,
the restless numbers on soccer players’ shirts,
and the naked stranger standing in a half-shut door.
He’d like to skip—although it can’t be done—
all the saints on that cathedral ceiling,
the parting wave from a train,
the microscope lens, the ring casting a glow,
the movie screens, the mirrors, the photo albums.
But great is the courtesy of the blind,
great is their forbearance, their largesse.
They listen, smile, and applaud.
One of them even comes up
with a book turned wrongside out
asking for an unseen autograph.
May 31, 2017
delicious beautiful Szymborska..
Negative
against a grayish sky
a grayer cloud
rimmed black by the sun.
on the left, that is, the right
a white cherry branch with black blossoms.
light shadows on your dark face.
you'de just taken a seat at the table
and put your hands, gone gray,
upon it.
you look like a ghost
who's trying to summn up the living.
(and since I still number among them,
I should appear to him and tap:
good night, that is good morning,
farewell, that is hello.
and not grudge questons to any of his answers concerning life,
that storm before the calm)
Negative
against a grayish sky
a grayer cloud
rimmed black by the sun.
on the left, that is, the right
a white cherry branch with black blossoms.
light shadows on your dark face.
you'de just taken a seat at the table
and put your hands, gone gray,
upon it.
you look like a ghost
who's trying to summn up the living.
(and since I still number among them,
I should appear to him and tap:
good night, that is good morning,
farewell, that is hello.
and not grudge questons to any of his answers concerning life,
that storm before the calm)
February 12, 2019
همیشه تکه هایی از شعرهای شیمبورسکا رو اینور اونور میخوندم و نمیدونم چرا هیچوقت به فکرم نرسیده بود برم سراغ کاراش. دیروز که دوباره به یه تیکه دیگه از شعرهاش برخوردم احساس کردم حقش نیست که با اون قیافه گوگولی و اون موهای قشنگش و اون لبخند شیرینش که باعث میشه دلت بخواد لپشو بکشی, کارهاش اینجوری تکه پاره خونده بشه.
و چقدر خوشحالم که بالاخره یکی از کارهاشو خوندم.
بعد از مدت ها کتابی منو مدام به خودش صدا میزد. مدام دلم میخواست زمان استراحتم برسه یا کارام تموم شه و توی راه برگشت بخونمش. خونه که رسیدم دلم نیومد به حال خودش رهاش کنم. داشت منو صدا میزد.
بارها و بارها برمیگشتم صفحه های قبل برای مرورشون و تکه های قلبم رو که جا مونده بود دوباره برمیداشتم و به خوندن ادامه میدادم.
اولین شعرش که همنام اسم کتاب هست رو سه دور پشت سر هم خوندم و هنوز هم دوست دارم بخونم.
آخه لعنتی چطور از دل یک سگ طوری مینویسی که اونقد آدم تاچ میشه؟!
میدونم که وقتی دوباره نیاز به فرار از زندگی روزمره بهم غلبه کنه باز هم بهش برخواهم گشت.
هرچند ترجمه میتونست بهتر از این باشه و فکر میکنم مترجم های فارسی بهتر از مترجم های زبان های دیگه از پسش بر اومدن. به هرحال کله شق درونم به چپ و راست نگاهی میندازه و وقتی مطمئن میشه کسی حواسش نیست, یواشکی لهستانی رو هم ته لیست لنگوعجز-توو-لرن اش اضافه میکنه و عمر کوتاه رو به روی خودش هم نمیاره.
کلام آخر هم اینکه
مرسی خانوم شیمبورسکا
شعرهات برای دو روز, غار و پناهگاه من بود
و چقدر خوشحالم که بالاخره یکی از کارهاشو خوندم.
بعد از مدت ها کتابی منو مدام به خودش صدا میزد. مدام دلم میخواست زمان استراحتم برسه یا کارام تموم شه و توی راه برگشت بخونمش. خونه که رسیدم دلم نیومد به حال خودش رهاش کنم. داشت منو صدا میزد.
بارها و بارها برمیگشتم صفحه های قبل برای مرورشون و تکه های قلبم رو که جا مونده بود دوباره برمیداشتم و به خوندن ادامه میدادم.
اولین شعرش که همنام اسم کتاب هست رو سه دور پشت سر هم خوندم و هنوز هم دوست دارم بخونم.
آخه لعنتی چطور از دل یک سگ طوری مینویسی که اونقد آدم تاچ میشه؟!
میدونم که وقتی دوباره نیاز به فرار از زندگی روزمره بهم غلبه کنه باز هم بهش برخواهم گشت.
هرچند ترجمه میتونست بهتر از این باشه و فکر میکنم مترجم های فارسی بهتر از مترجم های زبان های دیگه از پسش بر اومدن. به هرحال کله شق درونم به چپ و راست نگاهی میندازه و وقتی مطمئن میشه کسی حواسش نیست, یواشکی لهستانی رو هم ته لیست لنگوعجز-توو-لرن اش اضافه میکنه و عمر کوتاه رو به روی خودش هم نمیاره.
کلام آخر هم اینکه
مرسی خانوم شیمبورسکا
شعرهات برای دو روز, غار و پناهگاه من بود
January 7, 2016
Prose can hold anything including poetry
but in poetry there's only room for poetry
-from Stage Fright
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
-- fifty-two
doubting every step
-- nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn't take too long
-- as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can't be otherwise
-- four, well maybe five,
able to admire without envy
-- eighteen,
suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
-- sixty, give or take a few,
not to be taken lightly
-- forty and four,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
-- seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
-- twenty-something tops,
harmless singly, savage in crowds
-- half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
-- better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
-- just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
-- thirty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
-- eighty-three
sooner or later,
righteous
-- thirty-five, which is a lot,
righteous
and understanding
-- three,
worthy of compassion
-- ninety-nine,
mortal
-- a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.
but in poetry there's only room for poetry
-from Stage Fright
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
-- fifty-two
doubting every step
-- nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn't take too long
-- as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can't be otherwise
-- four, well maybe five,
able to admire without envy
-- eighteen,
suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
-- sixty, give or take a few,
not to be taken lightly
-- forty and four,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
-- seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
-- twenty-something tops,
harmless singly, savage in crowds
-- half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
-- better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
-- just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
-- thirty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
-- eighty-three
sooner or later,
righteous
-- thirty-five, which is a lot,
righteous
and understanding
-- three,
worthy of compassion
-- ninety-nine,
mortal
-- a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.
November 2, 2013
I think I just have a thing for Polish poets. To me, they just seem incomparable. If only I understood Polish. I know translations, even the best of them, have a level of dilution. Milosz, Zagajewski, Szymborska, they're poems are like seeing The Grand Canyon for the first time, you know it's there, you eyes don't lie, but yet, you can't believe it. "The Courtesy of the Blind", my favorite poem in this collection, is biblical in insight and humanity.
July 10, 2016
Изключително е усещането, когато виждаш, че приятелите ти те познават. И някак във всички дълги, кратки, ежедневни разговори разпознават какво може да ти донесе такова удоволствие като много обичан поет.
Получих книгата за подарък и няколко дни не смеех да я отворя. Пазех си я за такава нощ, в която не можеш да заспиш и имаш нужда от някаква неясна утеха, за да затвориш очи. Утеха, която поезията необяснимо успява да даде. Утехата, която поезията на Шимборска винаги ми е носила.
Много силно се надявам, да имаме възможност да четем още от нея на български, защото има прекрасни преводи и преводачи и защото имаме силна нужда от подобна поезия.
П. П. За първи път се срещнах с поезията на Шимборска по време на онези прекрасни пет месеца във Вроцлав, които ме влюбиха истински в полската култура. Тази вечер си припомних и защо толкова харесвам полския език и си четох на глас (неуверено и с грешки, по няколко пъти, а накрая за пореден път си казах, че трябва да почна отново да го уча).
Получих книгата за подарък и няколко дни не смеех да я отворя. Пазех си я за такава нощ, в която не можеш да заспиш и имаш нужда от някаква неясна утеха, за да затвориш очи. Утеха, която поезията необяснимо успява да даде. Утехата, която поезията на Шимборска винаги ми е носила.
Много силно се надявам, да имаме възможност да четем още от нея на български, защото има прекрасни преводи и преводачи и защото имаме силна нужда от подобна поезия.
П. П. За първи път се срещнах с поезията на Шимборска по време на онези прекрасни пет месеца във Вроцлав, които ме влюбиха истински в полската култура. Тази вечер си припомних и защо толкова харесвам полския език и си четох на глас (неуверено и с грешки, по няколко пъти, а накрая за пореден път си казах, че трябва да почна отново да го уча).
April 1, 2015
She is one of the greatest. All I can say is already said here. Do read!
http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/50-years...
http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/50-years...
March 29, 2019
A Note
Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;
to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain
from everything it’s not;
to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;
and if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up drenched in one downpour or
another,
mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your
eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.
Everything
Everything—
a smug and bumptious word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it’s just
a shred of gale.
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
—fifty-two,
doubting every step
—nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
—as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
—four, well, maybe five,
able to admire without envy
—eighteen,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
—seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
—twenty-something tops,
harmless singly,
savage in crowds
—half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
—better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
—just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
—forty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
—eighty-three
sooner or later,
worthy of compassion
—ninety-nine,
mortal
—a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains
unchanged.
Early Hour
I’m still asleep,
but meanwhile facts are taking place.
The window grows white,
darknesses turn gray,
the room works its way from hazy
space,
pale, shaky stripes seek its support.
By turns, unhurried,
since this is a ceremony,
the planes of walls and ceiling dawn,
shapes separate,
one from the other,
left to right.
The distances between objects
irradiate,
the first glints twitter
on the tumbler, the doorknob.
Whatever had been displaced
yesterday,
had fallen to the floor,
been contained in picture frames,
is no longer simply happening, but is.
Only the details
have not yet entered the field of vision.
But look out, look out, look out,
all indicators point to returning colors
and even the smallest thing regains its
own hue
along with a hint of shadow.
This rarely astounds me, but it should.
I usually wake up in the role of belated
witness,
with the miracle already achieved,
the day defined
and dawning masterfully recast as
morning.
Some People
Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all
they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and
bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they
grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s
dropping
from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread
is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child
back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of
them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now
nearer,
now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in
handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only
where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when
and who,
in how many shapes, with what
intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life.
Photograph from September 11
They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.
The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.
Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;
to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain
from everything it’s not;
to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;
and if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up drenched in one downpour or
another,
mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your
eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.
Everything
Everything—
a smug and bumptious word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it’s just
a shred of gale.
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
—fifty-two,
doubting every step
—nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
—as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
—four, well, maybe five,
able to admire without envy
—eighteen,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
—seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
—twenty-something tops,
harmless singly,
savage in crowds
—half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
—better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
—just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
—forty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
—eighty-three
sooner or later,
worthy of compassion
—ninety-nine,
mortal
—a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains
unchanged.
Early Hour
I’m still asleep,
but meanwhile facts are taking place.
The window grows white,
darknesses turn gray,
the room works its way from hazy
space,
pale, shaky stripes seek its support.
By turns, unhurried,
since this is a ceremony,
the planes of walls and ceiling dawn,
shapes separate,
one from the other,
left to right.
The distances between objects
irradiate,
the first glints twitter
on the tumbler, the doorknob.
Whatever had been displaced
yesterday,
had fallen to the floor,
been contained in picture frames,
is no longer simply happening, but is.
Only the details
have not yet entered the field of vision.
But look out, look out, look out,
all indicators point to returning colors
and even the smallest thing regains its
own hue
along with a hint of shadow.
This rarely astounds me, but it should.
I usually wake up in the role of belated
witness,
with the miracle already achieved,
the day defined
and dawning masterfully recast as
morning.
Some People
Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all
they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and
bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they
grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s
dropping
from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread
is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child
back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of
them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now
nearer,
now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in
handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only
where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when
and who,
in how many shapes, with what
intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life.
Photograph from September 11
They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.
The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.
July 23, 2016
Plato, or Why
For unclear reasons
under unknown circumstances
Ideal Being ceased to be satisfied.
It could have gone on forever,
hewn from darkness, forged from light,
in its sleepy gardens above the world.
Why on earth did it start seeking thrills
in the bad company of matter?
What use could it have for imitators,
inept, ill-starred,
lacking all prospects for eternity?
Wisdom limping
with a thorn stuck in its heel?
Harmony derailed
by roiling waters?
Beauty
holding unappealing entrails
and Good —
why the shadow
when it didn’t have one before?
There must have been some reason,
however slight,
but even the Naked Truth, busy ransacking
the earth’s wardrobe,
won’t betray it.
Not to mention, Plato, those appalling poets,
litter scattered by the breeze from under statues,
scraps from that great Silence up on high.
May 10, 2015
These poems are remarkable. The words are so light, yet they transmute into ineffable deep feeling. I read the book once and then re-read all the poems in it. My favorites are "The Silence of Plants," "Photograph from September 11," and The Courtesy of the Blind." I loved this book of poems.
May 3, 2020
Poesia que não é nem pergunta nem resposta, mas o próprio ponto de interrogação.
Dois poemas citados em https://icarosobe.home.blog/tag/wisla...
Dois poemas citados em https://icarosobe.home.blog/tag/wisla...
August 5, 2018
I loved how she maneuvered seemlessly between big existential questions and little details of ordinary life through one single poem. Most of the poems challenged my perception of what matters in different ways.
Especially when she talks about things like war, displacement, or a disaster like 9/11, she brings things, feelings, experiences, lives, etc into spotlight that are often ignored. And the simplicity of her language makes those experiences accessible in a way that I've rarely seen in other poems that approach such difficult subjects.
Especially when she talks about things like war, displacement, or a disaster like 9/11, she brings things, feelings, experiences, lives, etc into spotlight that are often ignored. And the simplicity of her language makes those experiences accessible in a way that I've rarely seen in other poems that approach such difficult subjects.
December 13, 2021
Oh yes, finally, Clare Cavanagh and Stanisław Barańczak have—unlike their previous endeavour with Szymborska's poetry—been able to produce a bilingual edition. The translations have also notably improved. Here's one of my favourite poems, in Polish and then in English:
CHWILAIdę stokiem pagórka zazielenionego.
Trawa, kwiatuszki w trawie
jak na obrazku dla dzieci.
Niebo zamglone, już błękitniejące.
Widok na inne wzgórza rozlega się w ciszy.
Jakby tutaj nie było żadnych kambrów, sylurów,
skał warczących na siebie,
wypiętrzonych otchłani,
żadnych nocy w płomieniach
i dni w kłębach ciemności.
Jakby nie przesuwały się tędy niziny
w gorączkowych malignach,
lodowatych dreszczach.
Jakby tylko gdzie indziej burzyły się morza
i rozrywały brzegi horyzontów.
Jest dziewiąta trzydzieści czasu lokalnego.
Wszystko na swoim miejscu i w układnej zgodzie.
W dolince potok mały jako potok mały.
Ścieżka w postaci ścieżki od zawsze do zawsze.
Las pod pozorem lasu na wieki wieków i amen,
a w górze ptaki w locie w roli ptaków w locie.
Jak okiem sięgnąć, panuje tu chwila.
Jedna z tych ziemskich chwil
proszonych, żeby trwały.
MOMENTI walk on the slope of a hill gone green.
Grass, little flowers in the grass,
as in a children’s illustration.
The misty sky’s already turning blue.
A view of other hills unfolds in silence.
As if there’d never been any Cambrians, Silurians,
rocks snarling at crags,
upturned abysses,
no nights in flames
and days in clouds of darkness.
As if plains hadn’t pushed their way here
in malignant fevers,
icy shivers.
As if seas had seethed only elsewhere,
shredding the shores of the horizons.
It’s nine thirty local time.
Everything’s in its place and in polite agreement.
In the valley a little brook cast as a little brook.
A path in the role of a path from always to ever.
Woods disguised as woods alive without end,
and above them birds in flight play birds in flight.
This moment reigns as far as the eye can reach.
One of those earthly moments
invited to linger.
October 19, 2008
i like her cosmic consciousness
October 19, 2009
Fabulous poems that strike a chord and open up new vistas of perception. They beg to be reread.
February 21, 2022
What I appreciate about these poems is how mundane they seem, yet how they tackle things that move us, at a spiritual level. I have selected below just a few verses that resonated with the at this stage of my life.
"Fate has been kind
to me thus far.
I might never have been given
the memory of happy moments.
My yen for compassion
might have been taken away.
I might have been myself minus amazement,
that is,
someone completely different." (Among the Multitudes)
"Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s dropping
from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now nearer,
now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when and who,
in how many shapes, with what intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life." (Some People)
"Fate has been kind
to me thus far.
I might never have been given
the memory of happy moments.
My yen for compassion
might have been taken away.
I might have been myself minus amazement,
that is,
someone completely different." (Among the Multitudes)
"Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s dropping
from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now nearer,
now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when and who,
in how many shapes, with what intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life." (Some People)
June 14, 2017
I enjoyed this collection well enough, but I only found about 3 AMAZING poems:
A Few Words on the Soul
A Contribution to Statistics
Photograph from September 11
It's kind of fun to see the original Polish poem, but it almost seems like a waste to include them. I don't read Polish. Who really benefits from that? At least the book was quicker to finish that way.
A Few Words on the Soul
A Contribution to Statistics
Photograph from September 11
It's kind of fun to see the original Polish poem, but it almost seems like a waste to include them. I don't read Polish. Who really benefits from that? At least the book was quicker to finish that way.
November 22, 2018
Polish Nobel prize winner delivers a fine poetry collection, including the most moving tribute to a dog that is guaranteed to make you weep. Masterful!
March 21, 2019
Jarang-jarang baca (dan merasa ngerti) puisi. Kali ini suka bgt.
Paling suka ini:
The Three Oddest Words
Paling suka ini:
The 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 nonbeing can hold.
May 12, 2022
really enjoyed first love and the courtesy of the blind and select moments in some others. but ultimately I don't think it was for me, but I'd be open to trying out another collection by szymborska.
May 17, 2012
I always felt like I was missing something when I read Szymborska. Recently, I was at a salon with a Polish poet, and she read Szymborska out loud for the group in the original Polish. The words were so musical in the original! The poet told us that she loved the translations done by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak because even though they couldn't recreate the music of the poems, they could capture exactly what Szymborska was trying to say. I made sure to get one of the collections translated by them when I was last at the library.
I wish I could have someone read me each of the poems in Polish (maybe I can find this online). I feel like the language is a little deflated, and it seems like everyone is "careful" to be exact when explaining the poems. I almost feel like the poem is being explained to me instead of me reading them.
That said, I still think the poems are good. The title poem and her poem about September 11 made me tear up, and I enjoyed reading through a lot of the poems. The last poem in the book is about the alphabet, and I was disappointed that Szymborska only explored the letters up to K and then said "and the rest of the alphabet."
Someone once compared my line breaks (which she didn't like) to Szymborska (who she also didn't like). Her line breaks are not even.
My favorites:
Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History
Photograph from September 11
Clouds
The Three Oddest Words
I wish I could have someone read me each of the poems in Polish (maybe I can find this online). I feel like the language is a little deflated, and it seems like everyone is "careful" to be exact when explaining the poems. I almost feel like the poem is being explained to me instead of me reading them.
That said, I still think the poems are good. The title poem and her poem about September 11 made me tear up, and I enjoyed reading through a lot of the poems. The last poem in the book is about the alphabet, and I was disappointed that Szymborska only explored the letters up to K and then said "and the rest of the alphabet."
Someone once compared my line breaks (which she didn't like) to Szymborska (who she also didn't like). Her line breaks are not even.
My favorites:
Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History
Photograph from September 11
Clouds
The Three Oddest Words
June 1, 2014
Terrific collection, and the essay by Billy Collins gives some insight into why she is so popular with English-speaking audiences. My favorite poem was this one:
A Little Girl Tugs at the Tablecloth
She’s been in this world for over a year,
and in this world not everything’s been examined
and taken in hand.
The subject of today’s investigation
is things that don’t move themselves.
They need to be helped along,
shoved, shifted,
taken from their pace and relocated.
They don’t all want to go, e,g., the bookshelf,
the cupboard, the unyielding walls, the table.
But the tablecloth on the stubborn table
- when well-seized by its hems –
manifests a willingness to travel.
And the glasses, plates,
creamer, spoons, bowl,
are fairly shaking with desire.
It’s fascinating,
what form of motion will they take,
once they’re trembling on the brink:
will they roam across the ceiling?
fly around the lamp?
hop onto the windowsill and from there to a tree?
Mr. Newton still has no say in this.
Let him look down from the heavens and wave his hands.
This experiment must be completed.
And it will.
A Little Girl Tugs at the Tablecloth
She’s been in this world for over a year,
and in this world not everything’s been examined
and taken in hand.
The subject of today’s investigation
is things that don’t move themselves.
They need to be helped along,
shoved, shifted,
taken from their pace and relocated.
They don’t all want to go, e,g., the bookshelf,
the cupboard, the unyielding walls, the table.
But the tablecloth on the stubborn table
- when well-seized by its hems –
manifests a willingness to travel.
And the glasses, plates,
creamer, spoons, bowl,
are fairly shaking with desire.
It’s fascinating,
what form of motion will they take,
once they’re trembling on the brink:
will they roam across the ceiling?
fly around the lamp?
hop onto the windowsill and from there to a tree?
Mr. Newton still has no say in this.
Let him look down from the heavens and wave his hands.
This experiment must be completed.
And it will.
May 7, 2012
I enjoyed this volume of poetry. Szymborska is a thoroughly cynical poet - living in Poland during the 20th century clearly influences her work. "Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History" is a great poem, easily understood, and one which rattles on. She uses great parallel repetition, "There are dogs and dogs..." and later "There's fate and fate." Poland as the dog of its master is clearly distinguishable, even in a personal poem.
Such distillation is also visible in the poem, "The 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 nonbeing can hold."
Her best, in my opinion, however, is "Some People." Read it for its chillingly vagueness. Some people are you in multiple instances. It is not good to be some people.
Such distillation is also visible in the poem, "The 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 nonbeing can hold."
Her best, in my opinion, however, is "Some People." Read it for its chillingly vagueness. Some people are you in multiple instances. It is not good to be some people.
January 26, 2008
Amazingly, Szymborska continues to improve. Now in her 80s, the Polish poet’s newest collection (poems originally copyrighted in Polish for 2002) is as strong and fresh as any she’s written, which given that she is who she is is no small feat. It’s a collection where each poem wants re-reading, for pleasure and deeper understanding, and the whole leaves you not at all because you begin re-reading it as soon as you finish it. Like Frost and Heaney and a handful of others, the poems speak to you immediately but bear new insights with each re-reading. Szymborska is an alchemist, who manages a paradox of execution: complex and simple poems in language both rich and spare, without losing the reader in the process.
December 19, 2021
I've come to Wislawa Szymborska, like I did Mary Oliver and Rabindranath Tagore, somewhat late in life. Ah, well. She too arrives like an unexpected gift from someone who knows my tastes and sensibility. These poems are crafty in how they sneak in deep meanings through simple language; brilliant in how they relate such depth while seemingly skimming the surface. Her ability to encompass such vast thoughts in one page reminds you how little so many other poets even try to achieve with so many, many more words.
April 18, 2009
Wislawa Szymborska is how old now? 85? But these poems, her most recent to have been translated into English, at least to my knowledge, are not the poems of an old lady. Hers is a poetry of perspective, of point of view, of describing objects and landscapes and emotions in one way but without forgetting that they can also be described in an endless number of other ways. Recommended.
August 27, 2010
Some of these poems are not among her strongest. Even slightly off, she gets 5 stars. The deceptive simplicity and transparency, how she makes difficult psychological and even metaphysical realizations, things that would have been right at the edge of your consciousness, at the top of your intellectual tongue, plain, even obvious.
easily read it on the bus trip home yesterday. hurrah!!
easily read it on the bus trip home yesterday. hurrah!!
January 3, 2014
This selection was published in 2006 though written in Polish in 2002. She won the
Nobel prize for literature in 1996 and it was well-deserved. These poems are full of
wit, contemplation, and unusual points of view. I was amazed at her strength of image
and content. Unfortunately, the author died last year, so no more poems.
Nobel prize for literature in 1996 and it was well-deserved. These poems are full of
wit, contemplation, and unusual points of view. I was amazed at her strength of image
and content. Unfortunately, the author died last year, so no more poems.
November 20, 2017
I really wish I spoke Polish because I feel like this would be much more moving in the original language. Things are always slightly lost in translation in regards to poetry.
However, Szymborska does provide beautiful poems with vivid imagery. The title poem (the one about the dog) made me tear up a little.
However, Szymborska does provide beautiful poems with vivid imagery. The title poem (the one about the dog) made me tear up a little.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 73 reviews