Source of book: I own this.
I initially purchased Miracle Fair, a selection of Szymborska’s poems translated by Joanna Trzeciak, after running across one of her translations. Then, I saw a copy of Poems New and Collected, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh at a library sale for next to nothing, and figured I would grab it.
Because of this, I read about half the poems in two different (and often contrasting) translations. They are recognizably the same poems, but the different takes demonstrate that translation is an art, not a science, and artistic license and taste play a role in making a translation what it is. Both editions are excellent, but if I had to pick, I would say that Trzeciak has a bit more verve and a more idiomatic turn of phrase. That said, either is good, and Szymborska’s poetry shines through despite the change of language.
The poems tend to be fairly dark in tone, with a certain pessimism (or at least open-eyed realism) about human nature. Having lived through the Nazi occupation during World War Two, had an unhappy and brief marriage, and having become disillusioned with Communism after some initial optimism, she wrote about the real-life devastation of war and terrorism.
The End and the Beginning was published in 1993. Although Szymborska’s total output was fairly low - as she said, “I have a trash can in my home” - she wrote for over 60 years, writing up until her death at age 88. And also won the Nobel Prize for literature, which was well deserved.
This collection of poems was so good, I really struggled to determine which to feature. Each is a gem, and there are no truly weak poems to be found. Many of her most iconic and best known poems are found in this collection. After much consideration, here are the ones I decided on.
First up is this short one, which expresses my own feelings about poetry. I find that poetry has become unpopular - even with English teachers, sadly. Not coincidentally, I feel that our culture has largely lost its ability to think poetically and metaphorically, insisting all too often on literalism, empiricism, and dogmatism. Which in turn leads to difficulty in experiencing empathy, understanding nuance, or seeing things from multiple perspectives. When you are looking only for the One True Meaning™, whether in theology, politics, or interpersonal relationships, you miss the point entirely. Anyway, even the definition of poetry itself is ambiguous, and that is the truth.
Some Like Poetry
(Tr. Joanna Trzeciak)
Some -
not all, that is.
Not even the majority of all, but the minority.
Not counting school, where one must,
or the poets themselves,
there'd be maybe two such people in a thousand.
Like -
but one also likes chicken-noodle soup,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes to prove one's point,
one likes to pet a dog.
Poetry -
but what sort of thing is poetry?
Many a shaky answer
has been given to this question.
But I do not know and do not know and hold on to it,
as to a saving banister.
Next up, before we get into the heavier ones, I want to take a look at a real favorite, “Sky,” and how the translations compare. First, here is the Baranczak/Cavanagh version:
Sky (Baranczak/Cavanagh)
I should have begun with this: the sky.
A window minus sill, frame, and panes.
An aperture, nothing more,
but wide open.
I don’t have to wait for a starry night,
I don’t have to crane my neck
to get a look at it.
I’ve got the sky behind my back, at hand, and on my eyelids.
The sky binds me tight
and sweeps me off my feet.
Even the highest mountains
are no closer to the sky
than the deepest valleys.
There’s no more of it in one place
than another.
A mole is no less in seventh heaven
than the owl spreading her wings.
The object that falls in an abyss
falls from sky to sky.
Grainy, gritty, liquid,
inflamed, or volatile
patches of sky, specks of sky,
gusts and heaps of sky.
The sky is everywhere,
even beneath your skin.
I eat the sky, I excrete the sky.
I’m a trap within a trap,
an embrace embraced,
a question answering a question.
Division into sky and earth -
it’s not the proper way
to contemplate wholeness.
It simply lets me go on living
at a more exact address
where I can be reached promptly
if I’m sought.
My identifying features
are rapture and despair.
Compare that with the Trzeciak version:
Sky (Trzeciak)
The sky is where we should have started.
Window without a sill, without a frame, without a pane.
An opening wide open, with nothing
beyond it.
I don’t have to wait for a starry night,
nor crane my neck,
to look at the sky.
I have the sky at my back, close at hand and on my eyelids.
It is the sky that wraps me tight
and lifts me from beneath.
The highest mountains
are no closer than the deepest
valleys to the sky.
No place has any more of it
than any other place.
A cloud is as ruthlessly
crushed by the sky as a grave is.
A mole is as high, sky high
as an owl beating its wings.
Whatever falls into the abyss,
falls from sky into sky.
Friable, fluid, rocky,
flammable, volatile stretches
of sky, specks of sky,
gusts of sky, heaps of sky.
Sky is omnipresent,
even in darkness under the skin.
I eat the sky, I excrete the sky.
I’m a trap in a trap,
an inhabited inhabitant,
an embrace embraced,
a question that answers a question.
Dividing earth and sky
is not the right way
to think about this wholeness.
It only allows one to live
at a more precise address -
were I to be searched for
I’d be found much faster.
My distinguishing marks
are rapture and despair.
There are definitely differences, although the poem is the same. I am curious about why the Trzeciak version has two additional lines? Maybe the poet left two different manuscripts? In either form, this is a stunningly beautiful poem, and one that grabbed my attention at the first line.
The next one I want to feature is really dark, but so very perceptive. Right now, we are living through a time where hatred has had a resurgence. Although the specifics of the American version of hate are unique, at the core, hatred is a human value, a human trait, and as such, it is universal. Szymborska expresses the sameness to hatred and its key features so perfectly in this poem. I am going with the Trzeciak version here.
Hatred
Look how spry it still is,
how well it holds up:
hatred, in our century.
How lithely it takes high hurdles.
How easy for it to pounce, to seize.
It is not like other feelings.
Both older and younger than they are.
It alone gives birth to causes
which rouse it to life.
If it sleeps, it’s never for eternity.
Insomnia doesn’t sap its strength - it boosts it.
Religion or no religion -
as long as it kneels at the start
Motherland or fatherland -
as long as it’s in the race.
Even justice is good enough to start with.
Hatred. Hatred.
The grimace of love’s ecstasy
twists its face.
Oh, those other feelings,
so sickly and sluggish.
Since when could brotherhood
count on milling crowds?
Was compassion ever first across the finish line?
How many followers does doubt command?
Only hatred commands, for hatred’s got it down.
Smart, able, hardworking.
Need we say how many songs it has written?
How many pages of history it has numbered?
How many human carpets it has unrolled
over how may plazas and stadiums?
Let’s face it:
Hatred can create beauty.
Marvelous are its fire-glows, in deep night.
Clouds of smoke most beautiful, at rosy dawn.
It’s hard to deny ruins their pathos
and not to see bawdy humor
in the stout column poking out of them.
It is a master of contrast
between clatter and silence,
red blood and white snow.
Above all the image of a clean-shaven torturer
standing over his defiled victim
never bores it.
It is always ready for new tasks.
If it has to wait, it waits.
They say hatred is blind. Blind?
With eyes as sharp as a sniper’s,
it looks bravely into the future
alone.
That is devastating. Equally poignant is the title poem of the collection, which is the one I discovered first. It dovetails perfectly with “Hatred,” because it describes the aftermath of the logical result of all that hate - the devastation of war. Again, I am using the Trzeciak translation, because that was how I first read it.
The End and the Beginning
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
It is impossible to read this poem without thinking of Ukraine, and the incredible task of digging out they will have in the future, no matter what happens. It is also a reminder that while a just war is possible, it is only possible on one side, and often not even on one. All wars are unjust in some way, and all wars cause tremendous human suffering.
There are a few poems I won’t quote in their entirety, but wanted to mention some lines that were amazing.
The first one is from “The Real World,” a musing on the nature of reality and dreams. One stanza in particular blew my mind.
Without us dreams couldn’t exist.
The one on whom the real world depends
is still unknown,
and the products of his insomnia
are available to anyone
who wakes up.
Another one is from “One Version of Events,” which is a bit of an existential trip, and well worth reading. The line, though, really struck me.
Each of us wished to have a homeland
free of neighbors
and to live his entire life
in the intervals between wars.
The last two poems I want to feature here are powerful musings on existence and how we experience it. Both are found only in the Baranczak and Cavanagh version. I’d say more, but I think they speak for themselves.
Nothing’s a Gift
Nothing’s a gift, it’s all on loan.
I’m drowning in debts up to my ears.
I’ll have to pay for myself
with my self,
give up my life for my life.
Here’s how it’s arranged:
The heart can be repossessed,
the liver, too,
and each single finger and toe.
Too late to tear up the terms,
my debts will be repaid,
and I’ll be fleeced,
or, more precisely, flayed.
I move about the planet
in a crush of other debtors.
Some are saddled with the burden
of paying off their wings.
Others must, willy-nilly,
account for every leaf.
Every tissue in us lies
on the debit side.
Not a tentacle or tendril
is for keeps.
The inventory, infinitely detailed,
implies we’ll be left
not just empty-handed
but handless, too.
I can’t remember
where, when, and why
I let someone open
this account in my name.
We call the protest against this
the soul.
And it’s the only item
not included on the list.
That last stanza - is a better ending even possible? And finally:
We’re Extremely Fortunate
We’re extremely fortunate
not to know precisely
the kind of world we live in.
One would have
to live a long, long time,
unquestionably longer
than the world itself.
Get to know other worlds,
if only for comparison.
Rise above the flesh,
which only really knows
how to obstruct
and make trouble.
For the sake of research,
the big picture
and definitive conclusions,
one would have to transcend time,
in which everything scurries and whirls.
From that perspective,
one might as well bid farewell
to incidents and details.
The counting of weekdays
would inevitably seem to be a senseless activity;
dropping letters in the mailbox
a whim of foolish youth;
the sign “No Walking on the Grass”
a symptom of lunacy.
I can recommend either of these two versions, which appear to be the most readily available here in the US. I enjoyed comparing the different approaches to the poems by the translators. Read, enjoy, and contemplate the mysteries of existence.
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