View allAll Photos Tagged wislawaszymborska
"Il mio non arrivo nella città di N.
è avvenuto puntualmente.
Eri stato avvertito
con una lettera non spedita.
Hai fatto in tempo a non venire
all'ora prevista.
Il treno è arrivato sul terzo binario.
E' scesa molta gente.
L'assenza della mia persona
si avviava verso l'uscita tra la folla
(...)"
Wislawa Szymborska
Lots of ways to say life only comes around once, that we should "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," that, in a line from Szymborska's poem, "Today is always gone tomorrow."
The verse I've quoted is part of that, since memory can also live in the present.
One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
—from "Nothing Twice," by Wislawa Szymborska
Szymborska's theme is common enough, to be sure, but I like the way she expresses it.
(for Poetography, Theme 237—Rose(s); Literary Reference in Pictures)
It is evening and the sky holds the remnants of the delicate pastel colours of sunset. Black kites fly inward from the coast as they do every night just as the light begins to go. They can look like huge bats in the sky. So many following a well-used path .... I wonder where they go? Soon the moon will be up - just a little more full than it is shown here.
The mornings break early - usually lemony and sharp and, in the cool of the air conditioning, it could almost be a European morning. Yesterday, though the morning seeped in with light full of honey gold - rich and warm .... summer has now officially started.
"Commonplace miracle:
that so many commonplace miracles happen.
An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.
One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.
Several miracles in one:
an alder tree reflected in the water,
and that it's backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.
An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.
First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.
Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.
A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.
A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.
A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.
An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
the unthinkable
is thinkable."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, ~
Translated by Joanna Trzeciak
"After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
through the sofa springs,
the shards of glass,
and the bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it's not,
and it takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We'll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens, nodding
his unshattered head.
But others are bound to be bustling nearby
who'll find all that
a little boring.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what this was all about
must make way for those
who know little.
And less than that.
And at last nothing less than nothing.
Someone has to lie there
in the grass that covers up
the causes and effects
with a blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
~ Wislawa Szymborska, ~
"The End and the Beginning"
Another of the beaches around, Chennai. Following the holiday the beaches were littered with rubbish - quite a task to bring things back to order.
Look here and scroll down and here and scroll down for other beach activities.
Quattro miliardi di persone su questa terra
e la mia immaginazione è uguale a prima.
Se la cava male con i grandi numeri
continua a commuoverla solo la singolarità
Wislawa Szymborska
Pochwała złego o sobie mniemania
Myszołów nie ma sobie nic do zarzucenia.
Skrupuły obce są czarnej panterze.
Nie wątpią o słuszności czynów swych piranie.
Grzechotnik aprobuje siebie bez zastrzeżeń.
Samokrytyczny szakal nie istnieje.
Szarańcza, aligator, trychina i giez
Żyją jak żyją i rade są z tego.
Sto kilogramów waży serce orki,
ale pod innym względem lekkie jest.
Nic bardziej zwierzęcego
niż czyste sumienie
na trzeciej planecie Słońca.
Lof van de geringe eigendunk
De buizerd heeft zichzelf niets te verwijten.
Scrupules zijn vreemd aan de zwarte panter.
Pirana's twijfelen niet aan de billijkheid van hun daden.
De ratelslang applaudiseert voor zichzelf zonder voorbehoud.
Bij jakhalzen vind je geen zelfkritiek.
Sprinkhaan, alligator, trichine en horzel
leven er op los en zijn zo best tevreden.
Honderd kilogram weegt het hart van een walvis,
maar in een ander opzicht is het vederlicht.
Er is niets, dat dierlijker is,
dan een zuiver geweten,
op de derde planeet van de zon.
In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself
The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.
A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
in every other way they're light.
On this third planet of the sun
among the signs of bestiality
a clear conscience is Number One.
[...]
Senza fondo e' lo stare del fondo del lago,
e senza sponde quello delle sponde.
Ne' bagnato ne' asciutto quello della sua acqua.
Ne' al singolare ne' al plurale quello delle onde,
che mormorano sorde al proprio mormorio
intorno a pietre non piccole, non grandi.
[...]
"An endless rain is just beginning.
Into the ark, for where else can you go:
you poems for a single voice,
private exultations,
unnecessary talents,
surplus curiosity,
short-range sorrows and fears,
eagerness to see things from all sides.
Rivers are swelling and bursting their banks.
Into the ark: all you chiaroscuros and halftones,
you details, ornaments, and whims,
silly exceptions,
forgotten signs,
countless shades of the color gray,
play for play's sake,
and tears of mirth.
As far as the eye can see, there's water
and a hazy horizon.
Into the ark: plans for the distant future,
joy in difference,
admiration for the better man,
choice not narrowed down to one of two,
outworn scruples,
time to think it over,
and the belief that all of this
will still come in handy some day.
For the sake of the children
that we still are,
fairy tales have happy endings.
That's the only finale that will do here, too.
The rain will stop,
the waves will subside,
the clouds will part
in the cleared-up sky,
and they'll be once more
what clouds overhead ought to be:
lofty and rather lighthearted
in their likeness to things
drying in the sun —
isles of bliss,
lambs,
cauliflowers,
diapers."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
"Into the Ark"
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
Tallin, Estonia
My apologies to the accidents for calling them necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.
Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
(...)
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Solemnity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
(...)
Wislawa Szymborska, Under a little star
...but not to you.
The last piece created with Picasa 3 the other day - a simple layering of 2 photos. I didn't think of this when I took them - in fact they were taken from a car. But somehow it captures a little of her sorry life, begging from her spot on the pavement. Her eyes have haunted me since. Next time I pass I will be prepared to help a little. This time she was on the other side of a wide road. There but for the grace .... somehow this poem captured the chance that gives us the life we have....
"It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
It happened, but not to you.
You were saved because you were the first.
You were saved because you were the last.
Alone. With others.
On the right. The left.
Because it was raining. Because of the shade.
Because the day was sunny.
You were in luck - there was a forest.
You were in luck - there were no trees.
You were in luck - a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,
a jamb, a turn, a quarter inch, an instant.
You were in luck - just then a straw went floating by.
As a result, because, although, despite.
What would have happened if a hand, a foot,
within an inch, a hairsbreadth from
an unfortunate coincidence.
So you're here? Still dizzy from another dodge,
close shave, reprieve?
One hole in the net and you slipped through?
I couldn't be more shocked or speechless.
Listen,
how your heart pounds inside me.
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
"Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is the way it's always been:
bad with large numbers.
It is still moved by particularity.
It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam,
disclosing only random faces,
while the rest go blindly by,
unthought of, unpitied.
Not even a Dante could have stopped that.
So what do you do when you're not,
even with all the muses on your side?
Non omnis moriar—a premature worry.
Yet am I fully alive, and is that enough?
It never has been, and even less so now.
I select by rejecting, for there's no other way,
but what I reject, is more numerous,
more dense, more intrusive than ever.
At the cost of untold losses—a poem, a sigh.
I reply with a whisper to a thunderous calling.
How much I am silent about I can't say.
A mouse at the foot of mother mountain.
Life lasts as long as a few lines of claws in the sand.
My dreams—even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet
valley seemingly no one's—an anachronism by now.
Where does all this space still in me come from—
that I don't know."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
Translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Changed the poem thanks to Dinesh (RaoDK).
"Cztery miliardy ludzi na tej ziemi,
a moja wyobraźnia jest, jak była.
le sobie radzi z wielkimi liczbami.
Ciągle ją jeszcze wzrusza poszczególność.
Fruwa w ciemnościach jak światło latarki,
wyjawia tylko pierwsze z brzegu twarze,
tymczasem reszta w prześlepienie idzie,
w niepomyślnie, w nieodżałowanie.
Ale tego sam Dante nie zatrzymałby.
A cóż dopiero, kiedy nie jest się.
I choćby nawet wszystkie muzy do mnie.
Non omnis moriar -przedwczesne strapienie.
Czy jednak cała żyję i czy to wystarcza.
Nie wystarczało nigdy, a tym bardziej teraz.
Wybieram odrzucając, bo nie ma innego sposobu,
ale to, co odrzucam, liczebniejsze jest,
gęstsze jest, natarczywsze jest niż kiedykolwiek.
Kosztem nieopisanych strat -wierszyk, westchnienie.
Na gromkie powołanie odzywam się szeptem.
Ile przemilczam, tego nie wypowiem.
Mysz u podnóża macierzystej góry.
Życie trwa kilka znaków pazurkiem na piasku.
Sny moje -nawet one nie są, jak należałoby. ludne.
Więcej w nich samotności niż tłumów i wrzawy.
Wpadnie czasem na chwilę ktoś dawno umarły.
Klamką porusza pojedyncza ręka.
Obrasta pusty dom przybudówkami echa.
Zbiegam z progu w dolinę
cichą, jakby niczyją, już anachroniczną.
Skąd się ta przestrzeń bierze we mnie –
ni wiem."
Krakow’s central Grand Square been the hub of the city ever since its Old Town historical district got the present grid of streets in the 13th century. The huge 10-acre square, the largest of all Europe’s medieval cities, is a curio in itself.
Krakow's chief landmarks at the Rynek Glowny central square are the 16th-century Renaissance Cloth Hall in the centre, the 13th-century Gothic Town Hall Tower, the magnificent 14th-century Gothic basilica of the Virgin Mary’s with its astonishing Great Altar and the tiny church of St. Adalbert's whose parts date back to the 11th century. Yet practically all the Grand Square’s 47 buildings boast a considerable historical and/or architectural value. And one cannot but regret that some edifices once standing amid it were pulled down during the 19th century, notably the 14th-century Gothic Town Hall.
From Krakow Info
"It was written in marble in golden letters:
here a great man lived and worked and died.
He laid the gravel for these paths personally.
This bench — do not touch — he chiseled by himself
out of stone.
And — careful, three steps — we're going inside.
He made it into the world at just the right time.
Everything that had to pass, passed in this house.
Not in a high rise,
not in square feet, furnished yet empty,
amidst unknown neighbors,
on some fifteenth floor,
where it's hard to drag school field trips.
In this room he pondered,
in this chamber he slept,
and over here he entertained guests.
Portraits, an armchair, a desk, a pipe, a globe, a flute,
a worn-out rug, a sun room.
From here he exchanged nods with his tailor and
shoemaker
who custom made for him.
This is not the same as photographs in boxes,
dried out pens in a plastic cup,
a store-bought wardrobe in a store-bought closet,
a window, from which you can see clouds better
than people.
Happy? Unhappy?
That's not relevant here.
He still confided in his letters,
without thinking they would be opened on their
way.
He still kept a detailed and honest diary,
without the fear that he would lose it during a
search.
The passing of a comet worried him most.
The destruction of the world was only in the hands
of God.
He still managed not to die in the hospital,
behind a white screen, who knows which one.
There was still someone with him who remembered
his muttered words.
He partook of life
as if it were reusable:
he sent his books to be bound;
he wouldn't cross out the last names of the dead from
his address book.
And the trees he had planted in the garden behind
the house
grew for him as Juglans regia
and Quercus rubra and Ulmus and Larix
and Fraxinus excelsior."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
Translated, from the Polish, by Joanna Trzeciak
With thanks to Dinesh (RaoDK) for reminding me about this wonderful poet.
We were told that the camel rides at the pyramids were illegal - camels have soft padded feet (perfect for walking on sand) and the sharp stoned and pathways by the pyramids are not suitable for these animals. If they hurt themselves they are likely to bite anyone nearby and throw anyone on thier backs.
"Don't tell a camel about need and want.
Look at the big lips
pursed
in perpetual kiss,
the dangerous lashes
of a born coquette.
The camel is an animal
grateful for less.
It keeps to itself
the hidden spring choked with grass,
the sharpest thorn
on the sweetest stalk.
When a voice was heard crying in the wilderness,
when God spoke
from the burning bush,
the camel was the only animal
to answer back.
Dune on stilts,
it leans into the long horizon,
bloodhounding
the secret caches of watermelon
brought forth like manna
from the sand.
It will bear no false gods
before it:
not the trader
who cinches its hump
with rope,
nor the tourist.
It has a clear sense of its place in the world:
after water and watermelon,
heat and light,
silence and science,
it is the last great hope."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
July 29 – still in Italy, Caorle, somewhere between Venice and Trieste – the day of Krümel's release...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From a neighbor's tree, late fall crab apples beginning to wither. Needless to say, they had a tough winter. One of the pleasures of photography, you can preserve such earthly moments.
"The water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.
They splash deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small.
And all this beneath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.
The wind ruffles it, its only reason being
that it blows."
~ Wislaw Szymborska, 1923- ~
"The joy of writing
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
from "The Joy of Writing"
"One summer evening
I returned to the streets
of my youth,
walking past the landmarks
of love, as the wind
remembered memories,
scrawling an erotic graffiti,
on the walls of my youth."
~ Anurag Mathur ~
From "A Life Lived Later"
(This is part of a poetic journey through memories of a love lost. I really recommend the book "A Life Lived Later" Penguin Books India 2005. )
I was saddened to see the graffiti etched into the living plant ...
i was a little bit obsessed with this exhibit. check out the live feed here:
"The commonplace miracle:
that so many common miracles take place.
The usual miracles:
invisible dogs barking
in the dead of night.
One of many miracles:
a small and airy cloud
is able to upstage the massive moon.
Several miracles in one:
an alder is reflected in the water
and is reversed from left to right
and grows from crown to root
and never hits bottom
though the water isn't deep.
A run-of-the-mill miracle:
winds mild to moderate
turning gusty in storms.
A miracle in the first place:
cows will be cows.
Next but not least:
just this cherry orchard
from just this cherry pit.
A miracle minus top hat and tails:
fluttering white doves.
A miracle (what else can you call it):
the sun rose today at three fourteen a.m.
and will set tonight at one past eight.
A miracle that's lost on us:
the hand actually has fewer than six fingers
but still it's go more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the inescapable earth.
An extra miracle, extra and ordinary:
the unthinkable
can be thought."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
"So you're still here? Still dizzy from another dodge,
close shave, reprieve?
One hole in the net and you slipped through?
I couldn't be more shocked or speechless.
Listen,
how your heart pounds inside me."
~ Wislaw Szymborska, 1923- ~
From "Could have"
If you would like to see the castle check here I just love these cheeky birds and it was so funny the way they suddenly appeared over the wall.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Federico García Lorca, fragmento de 'Romance sonámbulo'
Nothing Twice
by Wislawa Szymborska
Translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.
One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to say
Today is always gone tomorrow
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
Portret kobiecy
Musi być do wyboru,
Zmieniać się, żeby tylko nic się nie zmieniło.
To łatwe, niemożliwe, trudne, warte próby.
Oczy ma, jeśli trzeba, raz modre, raz szare,
czarne, wesołe, bez powodu pełne łez.
Śpi z nim jak pierwsza z brzegu, jedyna na świecie.
Urodzi mu czworo dzieci, żadnych dzieci, jedno.
Naiwna, ale najlepiej doradzi.
Słaba, ale udźwignie.
Nie ma głowy na karku, to będzie ją miała.
Czyta Jaspersa i pisma kobiece.
Nie wie po co ta śrubka i zbuduje most.
młoda, jak zwykle młoda, ciągle jeszcze młoda.
Trzyma w rękach wróbelka ze złamanym skrzydłem,
własne pieniądze na podróż daleką i długą,
tasak do mięsa, kompres i kieliszek czystej.
Dokąd tak biegnie, czy nie jest zmęczona.
Ależ nie, tylko trochę, bardzo, nic nie szkodzi.
Albo go kocha albo się uparła.
Na dobre, na niedobre i na litość boską.
(Wisława Szymborska)
"If we’d been allowed to choose,
we’d probably have gone on forever.
The bodies that were offered didn’t fit,
and wore out horribly.
The ways of sating hunger
made us sick.
We were repelled
by blind legacy
and the tyranny of the glands.
The world that was meant to embrace us
decayed without end
and the effects of causes raged over it.
Individual fates
were presented for our inspection:
appalled and grieved,
we rejected most of them.
Questions naturally arose, e.g.,
who needs the painful birth
of a dead child
and what’s in it for a sailor
who will never reach the shore.
We agreed to death,
but not every kind.
Love attracted us,
of course, but only love
that keeps its word."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
From: "One Version of Events"
La mattina si preannuncia fredda e nebbiosa.
In arrivo da ovest
nuvole cariche di pioggia.
Prevista scarsa visibilità.
Fondo stradale scivoloso.
Gradualmente, durante la giornata,
per effetto di un carico d'alta pressione da nord
sono possibili schiarite locali.
Tuttavia con vento forte e d'intensità variabile
potranno verificarsi temporali.
Nel corso della notte
rasserenamento su quasi tutto il paese,
solo a sud-est
non sono escluse precipitazioni.
Temperatura in notevole diminuizione,
pressione atmosferica in aumento.
La giornata seguente
si preannuncia soleggiata,
anche se a quelli che sono ancora vivi
continuerà ad essere utile l'ombrello.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
Poetry in Translation, (CCLXXIX) – POLAND, Wislawa SZYMBORSKA (1923-2012): “Possibilities”, “Posibilităţi”
Posibilităţi
Wladislava SZYMBORSKA (1923-2012)
Prefer filme.
Prefer pisici.
Prefer stejarii pe cheiul râului.
Îl prefer pe Dickens lui Dostoievsky.
Prefer oamenii
decât lumea.
Prefer să am ac şi aţă, gata pentru orice eventualitate.
Prefer verdele.
Prefer să nu susţin ideea
că raţiunea ar fi izvorul tuturor relelor.
Prefer excepţia.
Prefer să plec devreme.
Prefer să discut cu doctorii despre altceva.
Prefer schiţele clasice în peniţă.
Prefer absurdul de a scrie poezii,
mai degrabă decât absurdul de a nu le scrie.
Când este vorba de iubire, prefer aniversări oarecare,
ce pot fi sărbătorite în fiecare zi.
Prefer moraliştii
care nu-mi promit nimic.
Prefer amabilitatea interesată, decât cea plină de încredere.
Prefer universul în haine de toate zilele.
Prefer ţările cucerite decât cele cuceritoare.
Prefer să păstrez unele reticenţe.
Prefer infernul haosului decât cel al ordinii.
Prefer poveştile fraţilor Grimm, decât prima pagină a ziarelor.
Prefer frunzele fără flori, decat florile fără frunze.
Prefer câinii fără coadă tăiată.
Prefer ochii albaştri decât cei căprui.
Prefer biroul cu sertare.
Prefer lucrurile despre care nu am pomenit aici,
Celor care au rămas nespuse.
Prefer zerourile neînşirate,
Celor care sunt cifrate.
Prefer zodia insectelor decât cea a stelelor.
Prefer să bat în lemn.
Prefer să întreb cât timp şi când.
Prefer să consider că însăşi posibilitatea
existenţei îşi are raţiunea sa.
Rendered in Romanian by Constantin ROMAN
© 2014 Copyright Constantin ROMAN, London
August 9 – Samothraki, Greece
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Island where all becomes clear.
Solid ground beneath your feet.
The only roads are those that offer access.
Bushes bend beneath the weight of proofs.
The Tree of Valid Supposition grows here
with branches disentangled since time immermorial.
The Tree of Understanding, dazzling staight and simple.
sprouts by the spring called Now I Get It.
The thicker the woods, the vaster the vista:
the Valley of Obviously.
If any doubts arise, the wind dispels them instantly.
Echoes stir unsummoned
and eagerly explain all the secrets of the worlds.
On the right a cave where Meaning lies.
On the left the Lake of Deep Conviction.
Truth breaks from the bottom and bobs to the surface.
Unshakable Confidence towers over the valley.
Its peak offers an excellent view of the Essence of Things.
For all its charms, the island is uninhabited,
and the faint footprints scattered on its beaches
turn without exception to the sea.
As if all you can do here is leave
and plunge, never to return, into the depths.
Into unfathomable life.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Everything's mine but just on loan,
nothing for the memory to hold,
though mine as long as I look.
Inexhaustible, unembraceable,
but particularly to the smallest fibre,
grain of sand, drop of water-
landscapes.
I won't retain one blade of grass
as it is truly seen.
Salutation and farewell
in a single glance."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, 1923- ~
From "Travel Elegy"
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA
Poteva accadere.
Doveva accadere.
È accaduto prima. Dopo.
Più vicino. Più lontano.
È accaduto non a te.
Ti sei salvato perché eri il primo.
Ti sei salvato perché eri l’ultimo.
Perché da solo. Perché la gente.
Perché a sinistra. Perché a destra.
Perché la pioggia. Perché un’ombra.
Perché splendeva il sole.
Per fortuna là c’era un bosco.
Per fortuna non c’erano alberi.
Per fortuna una rotaia, un gancio, una trave,un freno,
un telaio, una curva, un millimetro, un secondo.
Per fortuna sull’acqua galleggiava un rasoio.
In seguito a, poiché, eppure, malgrado.
Che sarebbe accaduto se una mano, una gamba,
a un passo, a un pelo
da una coincidenza.
Dunque ci sei? Dritto dall’attimo ancora socchiuso?
La rete aveva solo un buco, e tu proprio da lì?
Non c’è fine al mio stupore, al mio tacerlo.
Ascolta
come mi batte forte il tuo cuore.
Tanti Auguri Wislawa, Altri 87 di questi giorni.
Da qui si doveva cominciare: il cielo.
Finestra senza davanzale, telaio, vetri.
Un'apertura e nulla più, ma spalancata.
Non devo attendere una notte serena, né alzare la testa, per osservare il cielo.
L'ho dietro a me, sottomano e sulle palpebre.
Il cielo mi avvolge ermeticamente e mi solleva dal basso.
La nuvola è schiacciata dal cielo inesorabilmente come la tomba.
Friabili, fluenti, rocciosi, infuocati e aerei, distese di cielo, briciole di cielo, folate e cumuli di cielo.
Il cielo è onnipresente perfino nel buio sotto la pelle.
Mangio cielo, evacuo cielo.
Sono una trappola in trappola, un abitante abitato, un abbraccio abbracciato, una domanda in risposta a una domanda.
La divisione in cielo e terra non è il modo appropriato di pensare a questa totalità.
Permette solo di sopravvivere a un indirizzo più esatto, più facile da trovare, se dovessero cercarmi.
Miei segni particolari: incanto e disperazione.
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sia_ky: A Few Words on the Soul
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.
sia_ky: Read more here: www.bu.edu/agni/poetry/print/2002/56-szymborska.html
Zelf de hoogste bergen
zijn niet dichter bij de hemel
dan de diepste dalen.
Op geen enkele plaats is meer hemel
dan op enige andere.
De hemel drukt even absoluut
op een wolk als op een graf.
De mol kan zich even hemels voelen
als de uil die zijn vleugels wiegt.
Een ding dat in de afgrond valt
valt van hemel in hemel.
Wislawa Szymborska
"Ad alcuni piace la poesia". Il mondo poetico di Wislawa Szymborska. A cura di Stefania La Via. 7/07/2008
"Ad alcuni piace la poesia". Il mondo poetico di Wislawa Szymborska. A cura di Stefania La Via. 7/07/2008
"Ad alcuni piace la poesia". Il mondo poetico di Wislawa Szymborska. A cura di Stefania La Via. 7/07/2008
An Election Day sentiment: "You're taking political steps on political ground."
"Protect Protect" by Jenny Holzer, projected onto the east facade of the Museum of Contemporary Art on 29 Oct 2008
"Ad alcuni piace la poesia". Il mondo poetico di Wislawa Szymborska. A cura di Stefania La Via. 7/07/2008
The commonplace miracle:
that so many common miracles take place.
The usual miracles:
invisible dogs barking
in the dead of night.
One of many miracles:
a small and airy cloud
is able to upstage the massive moon.
Several miracles in one:
an alder is reflected in the water
and is reversed from left to right
and grows from crown to root
and never hits bottom
though the water isn't deep.
A run-of-the-mill miracle:
winds mild to moderate
turning gusty in storms.
A miracle in the first place:
cows will be cows.
Next but not least:
just this cherry orchard
from just this cherry pit.
A miracle minus top hat and tails:
fluttering white doves.
A miracle (what else can you call it):
the sun rose today at three fourteen a.m.
and will set tonight at one past eight.
A miracle that's lost on us:
the hand actually has fewer than six fingers
but still it's got more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the inescapable earth.
An extra miracle, extra and ordinary:
the unthinkable
can be thought.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~