Cyprian Kamil Norwid (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Cyprian Kamil Norwid (pron. Tzipryan Kameel Norveed) (1821-1883)  was born in Warsaw. He wanted to be a painter and enrolled in an art school, which he never finished. He travelled to Italy, Germany, France, even New York, from where he returned to Paris. He never returned to Poland and died in Paris.

One of the forgotten poets, never popular during his lifetime, some of his works weren’t even published until well after his death. He died penniless and homeless in Paris. A 100 years after his death he is considered one of Poland’s greatest poets, even rock musicians write songs to his lyrics. For example the poem "Pilgrim" (translated below) was sang in the 1970s by Czeslaw Niemen, one of the biggest stars of the times. 

MY SONG

That country, where a crumb of bread

Is picked up from the floor because of respect

For gifts of Heaven -

I miss, O Lord

That country, where it is a big sin

To wreck a stork nest on a tree top,

Because they help us all -

I miss, O Lord

That country, where day's first greetings

Are like the centuries-old call of Christ:

“Blessed be the Name...”

I miss, O Lord

I miss also something else

Though I don't know any more where it is now

Something equally innocent -

I miss, O Lord

The not-missing and not-having-cares,

Those for whom yes means yes and no means no

Without the twilight

I miss, O Lord

I miss it all, but who'll miss me there?

It has to be so, it will not change.

All my friendship

I miss, O Lord.

IN VERONA

Over the house of Capuletti and Montague,

Washed by rain, moved by thunder,

Calm eye of deep blue

Looks at the ruins of hostile castles,

At the crumbling gates to gardens,

And throws a star from on high.

Cypresses say that it is for Juliet,

That it is for Romeo, this tear drop from heaven

That fall on the graves to water them,

But people say, and they say with wisdom

That these are stones rather than the tear drops

And nobody waits for them.

PILGRIM

There is a state over all states,

Like a tower over flat rooftops,

Piercing the clouds.

You think that I am not a lord,

Because my house is on the road,

Made of camel hide.

But I exist in a womb of heaven

As it pulls my soul towards itself,

Like a pyramid.

And I, too, possess as much land,

As is covered by my foot,

As long as I walk…

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"