Wislawa
Szymborska (pron. Veeswavah
Shimborskah) (1923 - 2012) was born in a little town of Bnin near
Poznan, she grew up and spent most of her life in Cracow. Unique
among poets considered important today – during the era of
Stalinist terror she wrote socialist-realist poems praising the
socialist state and its communist leaders. She was also a member of
the communist party, although in 1966 she left. She made her début
in 1952 with a book of her socialist-realist poems, and thus she
cannot be considered a poet of the “Generation ‘56”. Later she
became disillusioned with communism and supported the dissident
movement. Her poetry was considered good, but not the world-class (as
was the case of Milosz, Herbert and Rozewicz), therefore her Nobel
Prize in 1996 was a big surprise to everybody. As it happens – the
Nobel Prize changed the popular opinion and now she is considered one
of the greatest Polish poets.
ABSENCE
If my
mother had married (as once almost happened)
Mr.
Zbigniew B. of Zdunska Wola
And if
they had a daughter, it wouldn't be me.
Perhaps
she would have a better memory for names and faces
And for
every tune heard even just once,
Telling
apart various species of birds without fail,
With
excellent marks in physics and chemistry,
But not so
good in Polish, though in secret she'd write poems
From the
very beginning more interesting than mine.
If my
father had married (as once almost happened,
Actually
it was at the same time)
Miss
Jadwiga R. of Zakopane,
And if
they had a daughter, it wouldn't be me.
Maybe
she'd be more stubborn, more often get her way
Less
hesitant in jumping into deeper waters,
More
likely to follow the mood of the crowd,
Ceaslessly
seen in several places at once,
Not often
with a book, though, more often outdoors
Kicking
around a football with a group of boys.
Perhaps
the two girls would even meet one day
In the
same school and in the same class,
But they
would not make a pair, no kinship between them.
They'd be
far from each other on a class group photo.
„Girls,
please stand here” the photographer would call them,
„The
smaller in front, the taller behind,
And smile
when I give you a sign.
Just count
if you are all present”.
„Yes,
sir, all present.”
EVENT
The
sky, the earth, the morning, the time is eight fifteen
All
is quiet in the yellow grass of savanna.
In
a distance an ebony tree, it's leaves evergreen,
it's
roots spreading wide.
Suddenly
something disturbs the blissful tranquility,
Two
beings jumped to run, both wanted to live:
An
antelope in a rapid escape
A
lioness behind her, hungly and tired.
The
chances of both are even for a while,
Actually
the antelope runs a fraction faster
And
if not for that root that sticks out from the ground
If
one of the forur hooves didn't trip on it,
If
not for that split-second of a broken rythm,
Of
which the lioness took advantage with one long leap...
To
the question ”who's guilty”, the answer is silence.
Not
guilty is the sky, Circulus
celestis
Not
guilty Terra
nutrix,
the Earth who feeds us all
Not
guilty Tempus
fugitivus,
time that runs away
Not
guilty the antelope, Gazella
dorca,
Not
guilty the lioness, Leo
masaicus,
Not
guilty the ebony tree, Diospyros
mespiliformis,
Not the observer, binocular in
hand
In
cases such as these – Homo
sapiens innocens
NOTHING IS GIVEN
Nothing is given, everything is
borrowed
I am in debt up to my ears
I will have to pay for myself
With myself,
Pay for my life with my life.
It has been so arranged:
My heart will have to be
repossessed
My liver will have to be
repossessed,
And every one of my fingers as
well.
Too late to tear up the contract;
My debts will be extracted from me
Together with my skin.
I am walking in this world
In a crowd of debtors
Some of whom will be forced
To pay off their wings,
Others, whether they like it or
not
Will pay for their lives.
Everything is on loan
Every tissue in us
Not a single eyelash or leaf-stem
Will be kept for ever.
The account is very accurate
And it looks like
We'll be left with nothing.
I cannot recall
When where and why
I allowed to open this account
In my name
Our protest against it
Is called „soul”
It is the only item
Not in the register.
THE FIRST PHOTO OF HITLER
Who is the little baby in a vest?
Why! This is little Adolf, the son
of Mr. and Mrs. Hitler!
Maybe, when he grows up, he'll be
a legal scholar,
Or perhaps he'll be a tenor in a
Viennese Opera?
Whose is this little hand? Whose
little ear, eye, nose?
Whose little belly full of milk?
We do not know it yet.
A printer, a doctor, a shopkeeper,
a poet?
Where these little feet will carry
him? Where?
To a little garden, a school, an
office, a wedding?
Maybe with a daughter of a mayor?
Baby, little angel, our treasured
clever clogs,
When last year he was being born
There was no shortage of signs in
heaven and earth:
The spring sun, flowers in the
window,
Music of a hurdy-gurdy in the
street
An auspicious omen wrapped in pink
tissue
Mother's prophetic dream, just
before the delivery
To see a dove in a dream is a
joyful omen
To catch the dove – a long
awaited guest will arrive.
Knock, knock, knock, it is the
sound of the little heart of baby Adolf.
A dummy, a nappy, a bib and a
rattle,
The little boy grows well, thank
God and touch wood.
Similar to the parents, to a cat
in the basket.
To the children of every other
photo album.
You mustn't cry now, be brave,
little boy
Mister photographer will now make
a snap.
Atelier Klinger, Grabenstrasse,
Barnau.
This Barnau is a small, but
respectable town.
With honest work people earn their
living.
You can smell freshly baked bread
there, freshly washed clothes.
You don't hear dogs howling of the
fate approaching.
A history teacher loosens up his
collar
And yawns over the books he has to
mark.
If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper,
You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"
