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"
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