The New Polish poetry: A bilingual collection = Z nowej polskiej poezji : zbiór w dwóch jezykach

by University of Pittsburgh Press (Contributor)

English, Polish

Hardcover

First published December 1, 1978

Reviews

[Dana Sweeney]

An outstanding, brief survey of Polish poetry from the third quarter of the 20th century. While I originally picked up a copy to read some selected poetry from Wisława Szymborska, I was thrilled to discover several poets whose work is new to me -- including introductions to Tadeusz Różewicz, Urszula Koziol, and Ernest Bryll.

The collection is often dark, despairing, and haunted. It is, in other words, the poetics of a generation and a people born of brutal histories. It is unflinching and impactful, and I recommend it for those who wish to take a hard look at the lasting impressions of conflict.

(Also -- for those who are able to read Polish, this edition helpfully includes poetry in the original Polish side-by-side with the English translations)

[Cheryl]

I have to admit that I am not a big fan of poetry, with the exception of some American and British poets of the Romantic period; reading this book of Polish poetry tested my stamina to the limits! The pieces made no sense to me or were extremely dark and pessimistic. Many demonstrate the effects of Communism on Poland as they laud atheism yet condemn many of the other beliefs of communism and Leninism. I hope that the poetry in Polish comes across better...and maybe that was my problem.

I did enjoy one of the poems. It talks of the power that comes to a writer in the art of writing. Here it is:

"The Joy of Writing" by Wislawa Szymborska

Where is this word "doe" running?
Does she want to drink from the written water,
that like carbon paper reflects her mouth?
Why is she lifting her head? Does she hear anything?
Poised on four delicate legs borrowed from the truth
she pricks up her ears under my fingers.
Silence--this word also rustles on paper
and parts the branches
evoked by the word "forest."

Above the blank paper letters coil to jump
they may arrange themselves wrong,
attacking sentences
from which there is no escape.

In a drop of ink there are many hunters
squinting their eyes,
ready to rush down the steep pen,
and surround the doe, in position to fire.

They forget that this is not life.
Separate, black on white, rules govern here.
The wink of an eye lasts as long as I wish,
it may be divided into small eternities.
Full of buckshot caught in flight.
If I insist, nothing will happen here forever.
Against my will no leaf will fall nor blade of grass
bend under the dot of a hoof.

So is there such a world
I rule with impunity?
Or time I bind with chains of letters?
Or an existence, if I command it, never ending?

The joy of writing.
The ability to converse.
The revenge of a mortal hand.

[Mills College Library]

891.8517 N53261 1978