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wastelandmoon's review
4.0
Memorable: Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History, Moment, Among the Multitudes, First Love, A Contribution to Statistics, Photograph From September 11, The Courtesy of the Blind
raluca_p's review against another edition
4.0
First Love
They say
the first love’s most important.
That’s very romantic,
but not my experience.
Something was and wasn’t there between us,
something went on and went away.
My hands never tremble
when I stumble on silly keepsakes
and a sheaf of letters tied with string
—not even ribbon.
Our only meeting after years:
two chairs chatting
at a chilly table.
Other loves
still breathe deep inside me.
This one’s too short of breath even to sigh.
Yet just exactly as it is,
it does what the others still can’t manage:
unremembered,
not even seen in dreams,
it introduces me to death.
They say
the first love’s most important.
That’s very romantic,
but not my experience.
Something was and wasn’t there between us,
something went on and went away.
My hands never tremble
when I stumble on silly keepsakes
and a sheaf of letters tied with string
—not even ribbon.
Our only meeting after years:
two chairs chatting
at a chilly table.
Other loves
still breathe deep inside me.
This one’s too short of breath even to sigh.
Yet just exactly as it is,
it does what the others still can’t manage:
unremembered,
not even seen in dreams,
it introduces me to death.
chadinguist's review against another edition
4.0
همیشه تکه هایی از شعرهای شیمبورسکا رو اینور اونور میخوندم و نمیدونم چرا هیچوقت به فکرم نرسیده بود برم سراغ کاراش. دیروز که دوباره به یه تیکه دیگه از شعرهاش برخوردم احساس کردم حقش نیست که با اون قیافه گوگولی و اون موهای قشنگش و اون لبخند شیرینش که باعث میشه دلت بخواد لپشو بکشی, کارهاش اینجوری تکه پاره خونده بشه.
و چقدر خوشحالم که بالاخره یکی از کارهاشو خوندم.
بعد از مدت ها کتابی منو مدام به خودش صدا میزد. مدام دلم میخواست زمان استراحتم برسه یا کارام تموم شه و توی راه برگشت بخونمش. خونه که رسیدم دلم نیومد به حال خودش رهاش کنم. داشت منو صدا میزد.
بارها و بارها برمیگشتم صفحه های قبل برای مرورشون و تکه های قلبم رو که جا مونده بود دوباره برمیداشتم و به خوندن ادامه میدادم.
اولین شعرش که همنام اسم کتاب هست رو سه دور پشت سر هم خوندم و هنوز هم دوست دارم بخونم.
آخه لعنتی چطور از دل یک سگ طوری مینویسی که اونقد آدم تاچ میشه؟!
میدونم که وقتی دوباره نیاز به فرار از زندگی روزمره بهم غلبه کنه باز هم بهش برخواهم گشت.
هرچند ترجمه میتونست بهتر از این باشه و فکر میکنم مترجم های فارسی بهتر از مترجم های زبان های دیگه از پسش بر اومدن. به هرحال کله شق درونم به چپ و راست نگاهی میندازه و وقتی مطمئن میشه کسی حواسش نیست, یواشکی لهستانی رو هم ته لیست لنگوعجز-توو-لرن اش اضافه میکنه و عمر کوتاه رو به روی خودش هم نمیاره.
کلام آخر هم اینکه
مرسی خانوم شیمبورسکا
شعرهات برای دو روز, غار و پناهگاه من بود
و چقدر خوشحالم که بالاخره یکی از کارهاشو خوندم.
بعد از مدت ها کتابی منو مدام به خودش صدا میزد. مدام دلم میخواست زمان استراحتم برسه یا کارام تموم شه و توی راه برگشت بخونمش. خونه که رسیدم دلم نیومد به حال خودش رهاش کنم. داشت منو صدا میزد.
بارها و بارها برمیگشتم صفحه های قبل برای مرورشون و تکه های قلبم رو که جا مونده بود دوباره برمیداشتم و به خوندن ادامه میدادم.
اولین شعرش که همنام اسم کتاب هست رو سه دور پشت سر هم خوندم و هنوز هم دوست دارم بخونم.
آخه لعنتی چطور از دل یک سگ طوری مینویسی که اونقد آدم تاچ میشه؟!
میدونم که وقتی دوباره نیاز به فرار از زندگی روزمره بهم غلبه کنه باز هم بهش برخواهم گشت.
هرچند ترجمه میتونست بهتر از این باشه و فکر میکنم مترجم های فارسی بهتر از مترجم های زبان های دیگه از پسش بر اومدن. به هرحال کله شق درونم به چپ و راست نگاهی میندازه و وقتی مطمئن میشه کسی حواسش نیست, یواشکی لهستانی رو هم ته لیست لنگوعجز-توو-لرن اش اضافه میکنه و عمر کوتاه رو به روی خودش هم نمیاره.
کلام آخر هم اینکه
مرسی خانوم شیمبورسکا
شعرهات برای دو روز, غار و پناهگاه من بود
supdankosmos's review against another edition
4.0
Not as good as her other book HERE, I enjoyed this one though. Gonna pick more of her books.
* * * * *
Why did I take bad things
for good ones
and what would it take
to keep from doing it again?
* * * * *
I am who I am.
a coincidence no less
unthinkable
than any other,
I could have had different
ancestors, after all.
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from another tree.
Nature's wardrobe
holds a fair supply of costumes:
spider, seagull, field mouse.
Each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully wor
into shreds.
I didn't get a choice either,
but I can't complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate
Someone from an anthill,
shoal,or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape tousled by
the wind
spacestationtrustfund's review against another edition
3.0
Oh yes, finally, Clare Cavanagh and Stanisław Barańczak have—unlike their previous endeavour with Szymborska's poetry—been able to produce a bilingual edition. The translations have also notably improved. Here's one of my favourite poems, in Polish and then in English:
CHWILAIdę stokiem pagórka zazielenionego.
Trawa, kwiatuszki w trawie
jak na obrazku dla dzieci.
Niebo zamglone, już błękitniejące.
Widok na inne wzgórza rozlega się w ciszy.
Jakby tutaj nie było żadnych kambrów, sylurów,
skał warczących na siebie,
wypiętrzonych otchłani,
żadnych nocy w płomieniach
i dni w kłębach ciemności.
Jakby nie przesuwały się tędy niziny
w gorączkowych malignach,
lodowatych dreszczach.
Jakby tylko gdzie indziej burzyły się morza
i rozrywały brzegi horyzontów.
Jest dziewiąta trzydzieści czasu lokalnego.
Wszystko na swoim miejscu i w układnej zgodzie.
W dolince potok mały jako potok mały.
Ścieżka w postaci ścieżki od zawsze do zawsze.
Las pod pozorem lasu na wieki wieków i amen,
a w górze ptaki w locie w roli ptaków w locie.
Jak okiem sięgnąć, panuje tu chwila.
Jedna z tych ziemskich chwil
proszonych, żeby trwały.
MOMENTI walk on the slope of a hill gone green.
Grass, little flowers in the grass,
as in a children’s illustration.
The misty sky’s already turning blue.
A view of other hills unfolds in silence.
As if there’d never been any Cambrians, Silurians,
rocks snarling at crags,
upturned abysses,
no nights in flames
and days in clouds of darkness.
As if plains hadn’t pushed their way here
in malignant fevers,
icy shivers.
As if seas had seethed only elsewhere,
shredding the shores of the horizons.
It’s nine thirty local time.
Everything’s in its place and in polite agreement.
In the valley a little brook cast as a little brook.
A path in the role of a path from always to ever.
Woods disguised as woods alive without end,
and above them birds in flight play birds in flight.
This moment reigns as far as the eye can reach.
One of those earthly moments
invited to linger.
deea_bks's review against another edition
4.0
A Note
Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;
to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain
from everything it’s not;
to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;
and if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up drenched in one downpour or
another,
mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your
eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.
Everything
Everything—
a smug and bumptious word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it’s just
a shred of gale.
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
—fifty-two,
doubting every step
—nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
—as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
—four, well, maybe five,
able to admire without envy
—eighteen,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
—seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
—twenty-something tops,
harmless singly,
savage in crowds
—half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
—better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
—just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
—forty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
—eighty-three
sooner or later,
worthy of compassion
—ninety-nine,
mortal
—a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains
unchanged.
Early Hour
I’m still asleep,
but meanwhile facts are taking place.
The window grows white,
darknesses turn gray,
the room works its way from hazy
space,
pale, shaky stripes seek its support.
By turns, unhurried,
since this is a ceremony,
the planes of walls and ceiling dawn,
shapes separate,
one from the other,
left to right.
The distances between objects
irradiate,
the first glints twitter
on the tumbler, the doorknob.
Whatever had been displaced
yesterday,
had fallen to the floor,
been contained in picture frames,
is no longer simply happening, but is.
Only the details
have not yet entered the field of vision.
But look out, look out, look out,
all indicators point to returning colors
and even the smallest thing regains its
own hue
along with a hint of shadow.
This rarely astounds me, but it should.
I usually wake up in the role of belated
witness,
with the miracle already achieved,
the day defined
and dawning masterfully recast as
morning.
Some People
Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all
they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and
bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they
grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s
dropping
from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread
is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child
back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of
them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now
nearer,
now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in
handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only
where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when
and who,
in how many shapes, with what
intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life.
Photograph from September 11
They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.
The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.
Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;
to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain
from everything it’s not;
to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;
and if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up drenched in one downpour or
another,
mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your
eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.
Everything
Everything—
a smug and bumptious word.
It should be written in quotes.
It pretends to miss nothing,
to gather, hold, contain, and have.
While all the while it’s just
a shred of gale.
A Contribution to Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
—fifty-two,
doubting every step
—nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
—as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
—four, well, maybe five,
able to admire without envy
—eighteen,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
—seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
—twenty-something tops,
harmless singly,
savage in crowds
—half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
—better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
—just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
—forty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
—eighty-three
sooner or later,
worthy of compassion
—ninety-nine,
mortal
—a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains
unchanged.
Early Hour
I’m still asleep,
but meanwhile facts are taking place.
The window grows white,
darknesses turn gray,
the room works its way from hazy
space,
pale, shaky stripes seek its support.
By turns, unhurried,
since this is a ceremony,
the planes of walls and ceiling dawn,
shapes separate,
one from the other,
left to right.
The distances between objects
irradiate,
the first glints twitter
on the tumbler, the doorknob.
Whatever had been displaced
yesterday,
had fallen to the floor,
been contained in picture frames,
is no longer simply happening, but is.
Only the details
have not yet entered the field of vision.
But look out, look out, look out,
all indicators point to returning colors
and even the smallest thing regains its
own hue
along with a hint of shadow.
This rarely astounds me, but it should.
I usually wake up in the role of belated
witness,
with the miracle already achieved,
the day defined
and dawning masterfully recast as
morning.
Some People
Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.
They abandon something close to all
they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.
Their shoulders bear pitchers and
bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they
grow.
What happens quietly: someone’s
dropping
from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread
is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child
back to life.
Always another wrong road ahead of
them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now
nearer,
now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.
Some invisibility would come in
handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.
Something else will happen, only
where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when
and who,
in how many shapes, with what
intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life.
Photograph from September 11
They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.
The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.