View With A Grain Of Sand: Selected Poems
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About this ebook
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.
Read more from Wislawa Szymborska
Here Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Nonrequired Reading: Prose Pieces Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Monologue Of A Dog Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
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Reviews for View With A Grain Of Sand
177 ratings7 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5As difficult as I find it to read and appreciate books of poetry, I would have thought that a work in translation would be even more alienating. This selection of Nobel Prize winner Szymborska's work from 1957-93 is rendered beautifully into English. The poems wrestle with life and love and death and they do so with wit and grace. A charming collection.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Since they'd never met before, they're sure
that there'd been nothing between them.
But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways--
perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?
My recent bouts with verse have been belabored, not in terms of complexity or allusion but because, so often, the stanzas were heavy. The weight of history and personal affectation gave each phrase a heft. Imagine how disoriented I was when encountering Szymborska. This collection nearly bursts with a wild-eyed wonder. There is a freshness to almost every observation. There is a youthful lightness which appears to almost float from one stanza to the next.
It shouldn't be assumed then that this collection is childish, not without first accepting a subtle weary edge. My favorite line is "My faith is strong, blind and without foundation." That disconnect creates an opening, a fissure of sighs where wonder goes to molt. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Krakow-born Wislawa Symborska won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996. She survived WWII in Poland, and the long Russian occupation after that. Yet her calm, probing voice is not filled with anger, or self-pity. Sometimes taking on a different persona, she eloquently invites us to see the surface we often take for granted and look beneath it for greater meaning. This can take the form of revealing moments in our daily lives, some as seemingly mundane as stripping for the doctor, some as elusive as the significance of love. But what she has gone through provides the propulsion.Here's the ending of one I liked a lot, titled "Landscape":I don't know the games of the heart.I've never seen my children's father.I don't see the crabbed and blotted draftthat hides behind the Song of Songs.What I want to say comes in ready-made phrases.I never use despair, since it really isn't mine,only given to me for safekeeping.Even if you bar my way,even if you stare me in the face,I'll pass you by on the chasm's edge, finer than a hair.On the right is my house. I know it from all sides,along with its steps and its entryway,behind which life goes unpainted.The cat hops on the bench,the sun gleams on a pewter jug,a bony man sits at the tablefixing a clock.She sarcastically attacks "True Love" as an affront to our humanity (an excerpt):True love. Is it normal,is it serious, is it practical?What does the world get from two peoplewho exist in a world of their own?* * *Look at the happy couple.Couldn't they at least try to hide it,fake a little depression for their friends' sake!Listen to them laughing - it's an insult.* * *It's hard even to guess how far things might goif people started to follow their example.* * *Perfectly good children are born without its help.It couldn't populate the planet in a million years,it comes along so rarely.Let the people who never find true lovekeep saying there's no such thing.Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.Conversely, she writes a humorous "Thank-you note" to those she doesn't love: "I owe so much/ to those I don't love." They're so much easier to live with.The title poem, "View with a Grain of Sand", is about how meaningless we are to the non-human world around us, despite our belief in our importance, and how our naming means nothing to the named.We call it a grain of sand,but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.It does just fine without a name,whether general, particular,permanent, passing,incorrect, or apt.That's a refreshing observation in a book filled with naming, all of it apt. The poem ends:Time has passed like a courier with urgent news.But that's just our simile.The character is invented, his haste is make-believe,his news inhuman.She is often very funny and self-deprecating, like when she compares a small turnout at one of her readings ("Half come inside because it started to rain./The rest are relatives. O Muse.") to the packed attendance at a boxing match.The translators deserve a big tip of the hat. There is a lot of wordplay and many complex concepts, and the translators, Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh, make it seem as if we are reading this in its original language. Many thanks to Paul Cranswick for suggesting I read her poetry. Her often-surprising topics (e.g. Hitler when he was still an innocent child), and novel perspectives, combined with her strong voice and fluid eloquence, make this one a standout.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Szymborska writes beautiful, accessible poetry. This collection includes 100 poems sampled from seven works, from Calling Out To Yeti (1957) through The End and The Beginning (1993), a time period spanning the Cold War in Poland as a Soviet satellite, the Solidarity movement, and the fall of communism. Szymborska was 34 when the first set was published and 70 at the end of the collection; she continued writing until her death in 2012, picking up a well-deserved Nobel Prize in Literature along the way. Constant throughout her life and work was her sense of wonder, her playful use of words, and her simple way of touching on the deepest truths about love, life, and the world. She often took everyday events or observations, and through them communicated timeless profundity. She is truly a joy to read.My favorites:MuseumA Moment in TroyVocabularyAn Unexpected MeetingThe AcrobatThe Letters of the DeadTrue LoveWarningUtopiaOn Death, Without ExaggerationThe End and the BeginningHatredCat in an Empty ApartmentParting with a View
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Any fault I find with these poems I ascribe to the vagaries of translation. I wish I could read these in the original Polish. Whatever pale echoes these might be, they are yet powerful and true. "This terrifying world is not devoid of charms..."
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This volume is filled with gems. She addresses a very broad range of themes in these poems --– the folly of reductionism, randomness and contingency in human experience, the propensity to cruelty and injustice and virtually every modern irony you can think of. She uses simple, sure rhythms, and deliciously quirky, smart, playful and ironic imagery. The tone of these poems is consistent, but hard to describe -- passionately detached? Exuberantly ambivalent? Naively sophisticated? The power of these poems is not so much the novelty of the ideas she expresses, but her ability to make us see and appreciate the wonderful ironies of common experience anew. Perhaps that’s the definition of the poet’s calling. That these poems are translated from the Polish seems incredible to me. I have no way to judge the faithfulness of the translation to the original Polish, but these poems are absolutely brilliant in English.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Szymborska won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and with good reason. These are beautiful poems, sometimes cold and epic-feeling, but more often small, warm, and true.
Book preview
View With A Grain Of Sand - Wislawa Szymborska
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
CALLING OUT TO YETI
Brueghel’s Two Monkeys
Notes from a Nonexistent Himalayan Expedition
Nothing Twice
SALT
Museum
A Moment in Troy
Clochard
Vocabulary
Travel Elegy
An Unexpected Meeting
Rubens’ Women
Coloratura
Bodybuilders’ Contest
Poetry Reading
The Tower of Babel
Water
Conversation with a Stone
NO END OF FUN
The Joy of Writing
Landscape
Family Album
The Railroad Station
Born
Soliloquy for Cassandra
A Byzantine Mosaic
Beheading
Pietà
Returning Birds
Thomas Mann
Tarsier
The Acrobat
A Palaeolithic Fertility Fetish
No End Of Fun
COULD HAVE
Could Have
Theatre Impressions
Voices
The Letters of the Dead
Advertisement
Going Home
Discovery
Dinosaur Skeleton
Birthday
Allegro ma non troppo
Autotomy
Frozen Motion
The Classic
In Praise of Dreams
True Love
Under One Small Star
A LARGE NUMBER
A Large Number
Thank-You Note
Psalm
Lot’s Wife
Seen from Above
Experiment
Smiles
The Terrorist, He’s Watching
A Medieval Miniature
In Praise of My Sister
Hermitage
Evaluation of an Unwritten Poem
Warning
The Onion
The Suicide’s Room
In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself
On the Banks of the Styx
Utopia
Pi
THE PEOPLE ON THE BRIDGE
Archeology
View with a Grain of Sand
Clothes
On Death, without Exaggeration
In Broad Daylight
Our Ancestors’ Short Lives
Hitler’s First Photograph
The Century’s Decline
Children of Our Age
Tortures
Plotting with the Dead
Writing a Résumé
Funeral
An Opinion on the Question of Pornography
A Tale Begun
Into the Ark
Miracle Fair
The People on the Bridge
THE END AND THE BEGINNING
Sky
No Title Required
The End and the Beginning
Hatred
Reality Demands
Elegiac Calculation
Cat in an Empty Apartment
Parting with a View
Séance
Love at First Sight
May 16, 1973
Maybe All This
Slapstick
Nothing’s a Gift
One Version of Events
We’re Extremely Fortunate
About the Author
Footnotes
© Copyright Wisława Szymborska 1993
© Copyright by Wisława Szymborska, Warszawa 1985
Czytelnik, Warszawa 1976
Czytelnik, Warszawa 1975
Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, Warszawa 1967, 1962
Copyright © 1995 by Harcourt, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
This is a translation of selected poems from WOŁANIE DO YETI; SÓL; STO POCIECH; WSZELKI WYPADEK; WIELKA LICZBA; LUDZIE NA MOŚCIE; and KONIEC I POCZĄTEK.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Szymborska, Wisława.
[Poems, English. Selections]
View with a grain of sand; selected poems/Wisława Szymborska; translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh.
—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-15-100153-8
ISBN-10: 0-15-100153-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-15-600216-5 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-15-600216-7 (pbk.)
1. Szymborska, Wisława—Translations into English. I. Barańczak, Stanisław, 1946. II. Cavanagh, Clare. III.Title.
PG7178.Z9A222 1995
891 8'517—dc20 94-36112
eISBN 978-0-547-54629-2
v1.0315
from
CALLING OUT TO YETI
1957
Brueghel’s Two Monkeys
This is what I see in my dreams about final exams:
two monkeys, chained to the floor, sit on the windowsill,
the sky behind them flutters,
the sea is taking its bath.
The exam is History of Mankind.
I stammer and hedge.
One monkey stares and listens with mocking disdain,
the other seems to be dreaming away—
but when it’s clear I don’t know what to say
he prompts me with a gentle
clinking of his chain.
Notes from a Nonexistent Himalayan Expedition
So these are the Himalayas.
Mountains racing to the moon.
The moment of their start recorded
on the startling, ripped canvas of the sky.
Holes punched in a desert of clouds.
Thrust into nothing.
Echo—a white mute.
Quiet.
Yeti, down there we’ve got Wednesday,
bread and alphabets.
Two times two is four.
Roses are red there,
and violets are blue.
Yeti, crime is not all
we’re up to down there.
Yeti, not every sentence there
means death.
We’ve inherited hope—
the gift of forgetting.
You’ll see how we give
birth among the ruins.
Yeti, we’ve got Shakespeare there.
Yeti, we play solitaire
and violin. At nightfall,
we turn lights on, Yeti.
Up here it’s neither moon nor earth.
Tears freeze.
Oh Yeti, semi-moonman,
turn back, think again!
I called this to the Yeti
inside four walls of avalanche,
stomping my feet for warmth
on the everlasting
snow.
Nothing Twice
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 exactly 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 stay:
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.
from
SALT
1962
Museum
Here are plates but no appetite.
And wedding rings, but the requited love
has been gone now for some three hundred years.
Here’s a fan—where is the maiden’s blush?
Here are swords—where is the ire?
Nor will the lute sound at the twilight hour.
Since eternity was out of stock,
ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead.
The moss-grown guard in golden slumber
props his mustache on Exhibit Number . . .
Eight. Metals, clay and feathers celebrate
their silent triumphs over dates.
Only some Egyptian flapper’s silly hairpin giggles.
The crown has outlasted the head.
The hand has lost out to the glove.
The right shoe has defeated the foot.
As for me, I am still alive, you see.
The battle with my dress still rages on.
It struggles, foolish thing, so stubbornly!
Determined to keep living when I’m gone!
A Moment in Troy
Little girls—
skinny, resigned
to