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boyish's review against another edition
screen reader does not pause for line breaks in poetry.
mark_lm's review against another edition
4.0
There are some nice reviews on the cover. Of these, I prefer the one from the New Yorker, "...ironic elegance miraculously free of bitterness..."
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Note: Poems are read and re-read, but I cannot remember their titles, so I put a mark next to poems in the table of contents if I especially like them. The ratio of marked to unmarked poems is the Mitchell index, and as of this writing, it is 17% for this 1957 - 1993 collection.
Second Note: Of course I don't put a mark by every poem if I like most or all of them, so I realize now that the index is probably worthless.
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Note: Poems are read and re-read, but I cannot remember their titles, so I put a mark next to poems in the table of contents if I especially like them. The ratio of marked to unmarked poems is the Mitchell index, and as of this writing, it is 17% for this 1957 - 1993 collection.
Second Note: Of course I don't put a mark by every poem if I like most or all of them, so I realize now that the index is probably worthless.
royaz92's review against another edition
آیا این خیلی خودخواهی، خیلی خودشیفتگی است که با خواندن هر کدام از شعرهای ویسواوا شیمبورسکا (با ترجمه ی ایونا نوویسکا و علیرضا دولتشاهی) با خودم می گویم: عه؟ ترجمه ی من قشنگ تر بود که؟
نمی دانم خودخواهی است یا خودشیفتگی ولی من دوست دارم این جوری فکر کنم حتی اگر درست نباشد - نباشد هم، در جهان من، که ذهن من است، درست است، نیست؟
به هر حال ویسواوا شیمبورسکا معجزه ای است که هیچ وقت تمام نمی شود
نه حتی با ترجمه های کج و کوله
نمی دانم خودخواهی است یا خودشیفتگی ولی من دوست دارم این جوری فکر کنم حتی اگر درست نباشد - نباشد هم، در جهان من، که ذهن من است، درست است، نیست؟
به هر حال ویسواوا شیمبورسکا معجزه ای است که هیچ وقت تمام نمی شود
نه حتی با ترجمه های کج و کوله
sydneyzahradka's review
They say I looked back out of curiosity.
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn’t have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot’s neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn’t so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.
Our two daughters were already vanishing over the hilltop.
I felt age within me. Distance.
The futility of wandering. Torpor.
I looked back setting my bundle down.
I looked back not knowing where to set my foot.
Serpents appeared on my path,
spiders, field mice, baby vultures.
They were neither good nor evil now—every living thing
was simply creeping or hopping along in the mass panic.
I looked back in desolation.
In shame because we had stolen away.
Wanting to cry out, to go home.
Or only when a sudden gust of wind
unbound my hair and lifted up my robe.
It seemed to me that they were watching from the walls of Sodom
and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again.
I looked back in anger.
To savor their terrible fate.
I looked back for all the reasons given above.
I looked back involuntarily.
It was only a rock that turned underfoot, growling at me.
It was a sudden crack that stopped me in my tracks.
A hamster on its hind paws tottered on the edge.
It was then we both glanced back.
No, no. I ran on,
I crept, I flew upward
until darkness fell from the heavens
and with it scorching gravel and dead birds.
I couldn’t breathe and spun around and around.
Anyone who saw me must have thought I was dancing.
It’s not inconceivable that my eyes were open.
It’s possible I fell facing the city.
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn’t have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot’s neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn’t so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.
Our two daughters were already vanishing over the hilltop.
I felt age within me. Distance.
The futility of wandering. Torpor.
I looked back setting my bundle down.
I looked back not knowing where to set my foot.
Serpents appeared on my path,
spiders, field mice, baby vultures.
They were neither good nor evil now—every living thing
was simply creeping or hopping along in the mass panic.
I looked back in desolation.
In shame because we had stolen away.
Wanting to cry out, to go home.
Or only when a sudden gust of wind
unbound my hair and lifted up my robe.
It seemed to me that they were watching from the walls of Sodom
and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again.
I looked back in anger.
To savor their terrible fate.
I looked back for all the reasons given above.
I looked back involuntarily.
It was only a rock that turned underfoot, growling at me.
It was a sudden crack that stopped me in my tracks.
A hamster on its hind paws tottered on the edge.
It was then we both glanced back.
No, no. I ran on,
I crept, I flew upward
until darkness fell from the heavens
and with it scorching gravel and dead birds.
I couldn’t breathe and spun around and around.
Anyone who saw me must have thought I was dancing.
It’s not inconceivable that my eyes were open.
It’s possible I fell facing the city.
dbjorlin's review against another edition
4.0
Szymborska is a bit ironic for my taste, but her work, especially her later work, is also brimming with beauty. Some of my favorites:
“Granted, in daily speech, where we don’t stop to consider every word, we all use phrases such as ‘the ordinary world,’ ‘ordinary life,’ ‘the ordinary course of events.’ But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone’s existence in this world.”
“Funny little thing.
How could she know
that even despair can work for you
if you’re lucky enough to outlive it.”
“The commonplace miracle:
that so many common miracles take place.”
“God was still going to believe
in a man both good and strong
but good and strong
are still two different men.”
“Well-versed in the expanses
that stretch from earth to stars,
we get lost in the space
from earth up to our skull.”
“On the third planet of the sun
among the signs of beastiality
a clear conscience in Number One.”
“Granted, in daily speech, where we don’t stop to consider every word, we all use phrases such as ‘the ordinary world,’ ‘ordinary life,’ ‘the ordinary course of events.’ But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone’s existence in this world.”
“Funny little thing.
How could she know
that even despair can work for you
if you’re lucky enough to outlive it.”
“The commonplace miracle:
that so many common miracles take place.”
“God was still going to believe
in a man both good and strong
but good and strong
are still two different men.”
“Well-versed in the expanses
that stretch from earth to stars,
we get lost in the space
from earth up to our skull.”
“On the third planet of the sun
among the signs of beastiality
a clear conscience in Number One.”
dzengota's review against another edition
2.0
Poems, I think, are a form which can be more substantially marred by its medium than many other artistic forms. There are so many poems in this book that are truly incredible, but the act of collecting so many poems (both the incredible and the stilted ones) draws the whole perspective down.
stryfe's review against another edition
5.0
My favorite poetry collection to-date. I can only recommend Wisława Szymborska's work; I would also recommend anyone who loves to write or create anything listen to or watch her Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,
Minerva from Jupiter's head—
all three were more real than me.
When he isn't looking at me,
I try to catch my reflection
on the wall. And see the nail
where a picture used to be.
Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,
Minerva from Jupiter's head—
all three were more real than me.
When he isn't looking at me,
I try to catch my reflection
on the wall. And see the nail
where a picture used to be.