Here

By Wislawa Szymborska

A "delectable and profound" collection of poems from Nobel Prize–winner Szymborska (Booklist).

When Here was published in Poland, reviewers marveled, “How is it that she keeps getting better?”

These twenty-seven poems, as rendered by prize-winning translators Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak, are among her greatest ever. Whether writing about her teenage self, microscopic creatures, or the upsides to living on Earth, she remains a virtuoso of form, line, and thought.

From the title poem:

I can’t speak for elsewhere,
but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins, teacups, dams, and quips. . .

Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
you’re given your own torso here,
equipped with the accessories required
for adding your own children to the rest.
Not to mention arms, legs, and astonished head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Aug 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9780547504643

Wislawa Szymborska

WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA (1923–2012) was born in Poland and worked as a poetry editor, translator, and columnist. She was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1996. Her books include Monologue of a Dog, Map: Collected and Last Poems, and Poems New and Collected: 1957–1997.

Book preview

Here

I can’t speak for elsewhere,

but here on Earth we’ve got a fair supply of everything.

Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,

scissors, tenderness, transistors, violins,

teacups, dams, and quips.

There may be more of everything elsewhere,

but for reasons left unspecified they lack paintings,

picture tubes, pierogies, handkerchiefs for tears.

Here we have countless places with vicinities.

You may take a liking to some,

give them pet names,

protect them from harm.

There may be comparable places elsewhere,

but no one thinks they’re beautiful.

Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,

you’re given your own torso here,

equipped with the accessories required

for adding your own children to the rest.

Not to mention arms, legs, and astounded head.

Ignorance works overtime here,

something is always being counted, compared, measured,

from which roots and conclusions are then drawn.

I know, I know what you’re thinking.

Nothing here can last,

since from and to time immemorial the elements hold sway.

But see, even the elements grow weary

and sometimes take extended breaks

before starting up again.

And I know what you’re thinking next.

Wars, wars, wars.

But there are pauses in between them too.

Attention!—people are evil.

At ease—people are good.

At attention wastelands are created.

At ease houses are constructed in the sweat of brows,

and quickly inhabited.

Life on Earth is quite a bargain.

Dreams, for one, don’t charge admission.

Illusions are costly only when lost.

The body has its own installment plan.

And as an extra, added feature,

you spin on the planets’ carousel for free,

and with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard,

with times so dizzying

that nothing here on Earth can even tremble.

Just take a closer look:

the table stands exactly where it stood,

the piece of paper still lies where it was spread,

through the open window comes a breath of air,

the walls reveal no terrifying cracks

through which nowhere might extinguish you.

Tutaj

Nie wiem jak gdzie,

ale tutaj na Ziemi jest sporo wszystkiego.

Tutaj wytwarza się krzesła i smutki,

nożyczki, skrzypce, czułość, tranzystory,

zapory wodne, żarty, filiżanki.

Może gdzie indziej jest wszystkiego więcej,

tylko z pewnych powodów brak tam malowideł,

kineskopów, pierogów, chusteczek do łez.

Jest tutaj co niemiara miejsc z okolicami.

Niektóre możesz specjalnie polubić,

nazwać je po swojemu

i chronić od złego.

Może gdzie indziej są miejsca podobne,

jednak nikt nie uważa ich za piękne.

Może jak nigdzie, albo mało gdzie,

masz tu osobny tułów,

a z nim potrzebne przybory,

żeby do dzieci cudzych dodać własne.

Poza tym ręce, nogi i zdumioną głowę.

Niewiedza tutaj jest zapracowana,

ciągle coś liczy, porównuje, mierzy,

wyciąga z tego wnioski i pierwiastki.

Wiem, wiem, co myślisz.

Nic tutaj trwałego,

bo od zawsze na zawsze we władzy

Reviews for Here

[zoes_human · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A remarkable bilingual volume of poetry touching on the ordinary in an extraordinary way.

[aug3zimm-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Perhaps an objectively nice use of language but it did not move me.

[lethalmauve · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Here, the words spill their syllables and letters, arrange, as life continues to transform and evolve itself through entwined beauty and grime of experiences and emotions.** 'Life on Earth is quite a bargain.Dreams, for one, don't change admission.Illusions are costly only when lost.The body has its own installment plan.'— from HERE** 'Billions of faces on the earth's surface.My face, yours, whose —you'll never know.Maybe Nature has to shortchange us,and to keep up, meet demand,she fishes up what's been sunkin the mirror of oblivion.'— from THOUGHTS THAT VISIT ME ON BUSY STREETSHere, there is overt wonder and amazement of life's miracle and power, mundanity and imperceptibility; the anguish and denial of its end, of death; familiar in-betweens of past identities and selves, estrangements and engagements.** 'Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,but in her world nearly all are living,while in mine almost no one survivesfrom that shared circle.'— from TEENAGERHere is a portrait of being alive and being human. Human. A spiritual pilgrimage which coalesces itself with the colour and pallor of time and space. The constant change of the everyday, the cost of these changes, the fantasy of being another.** 'And as a bonus, despite our own freedom,the choices of our heart, our tastes,we're swept awayby amorous yearnings for —and the alarm clock rings.'— from DREAMS** 'We live longerbut less preciselyand in shorter sentences.'— from NONREADINGSzymborska's poems speak of the dole and toll of existence, of being, of presence and absence. Most particularly the profound and resonant HARD LIFE WITH MEMORY and the afflicting IDENTIFICATION. Here is an affecting and brilliant poetry collection. Read Here.** 'For the kids the first ending of the world.For the cat a new master.For the dog a new mistress.For the furniture stairs, thuds, my way or the highway.For the walls bright squares where pictures once hung.For the neighbors new subjects, a break in the boredom.For the car better if there were two.For the novels, the poems — fine, take what you want.Worse with encyclopedias and VCRs,not to mention the guide to proper usage,which doubtless holds pointers on two names —are the still linked with the conjunction "and"or does a period divide them.'— DIVORCE

[gbill_7 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Szymborska writes with such lightness and playfulness, imbuing everyday objects or events with a sense of intelligence and humanity, creatively bending time and space, and pointing out our transience here on this orb in a gentle, accepting way.I enjoyed each of the 27 poems in this collection, each of which tickled me in some way, but I’ll mention my favorites, and give a sense for what they’re about:Here – Szymborska points out that life is actually pretty good (“Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere, / you’re given your own torso here, / equipped with the accessories required / for adding your own children to the rest.” …. “And I know what you’re thinking next. Wars, wars, wars. But there are pauses in between them too. Attention! - people are evil. At ease – people are good.”)Thoughts That Visit Me On Busy Streets – perhaps Nature recycles faces over the billions of people who have been here throughout the ages, so that “Those passerby might be Archimedes in jeans, / Catherine the Great draped in resale, / some pharaoh with briefcase and glasses.”In a Mail Coach – She daydreams about journeying back in time to see Romantic Poet Juliusz Słowacki, but unable to talk to him, sees him leave a crowded coach he was sharing, and trundle off alone instead.Vermeer – “So long as that woman from the Rijksmuseum / in painted quiet and concentration / keeps pouring milk day after day / from the pitcher to the bowl / the World hasn’t earned / the world’s end” – indeed, Art and humanity’s highest achievements makes us feel this way, and Szymborksa puts her finger right on it.Absence – she describes ‘not being’, or not being the same girl, if one’s mother or father had married someone else instead. It’s a common enough thought, but in simple brushstrokes, she points out just how much a fragile chance our lives are.Great poet, so wise, and so accessible. Recommended.

[danlai-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

eh. not her best.

[jfballenger · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Another brilliant volume of poems from Szymborska. Quirky, witty, sly and ironic -- but often leading us to surprising, even shocking moments of intellectual and moral commitment and emotional vulnerability. When I read a book of poems, I turn down the page corners of those that I think I will want to go back to again. But that practice is pointless with Szymborska's work. Just about every one of these poems is a gem that I know I will be going back to again and again for the rest of my life.