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A review by richardwells
Here by Wisława Szymborska
3.0
I'm not sure I know what makes an author a Nobel Laureate. Unequal parts talent, promotion, and politics, I suppose. According to the Nobel Prize webpage Wislawa Szymborska was awarded "for poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality." That's sufficiently obscure and vague to be a blanket statement that could cover lots of poets. Vague statements seem to be the modus operandi of the Nobel committee. Here's what they say about Octavio Paz: "for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity." I think you could substitute one for the other and still fairly characterize either. I bring this up because now that Pani Szymborska has her prize, it will be used to promote her work "world without end, amen." Probably good for sales, but not necessarily for the poet. The Nobel is a pedestal, and once elevated the only way off is down...
"Here," is a collection of 27 poems that mirror the books title. Pani Szymborska is focused on what's here - and now. Things lit up with meaning, -some possessed of a "suchness" that grounds them like a red wheelbarrow; others that seem to arise out of the imagination like an antelope and a lioness in the poem, "An Occurrence." . The title poem, one of three of four really fine pieces, gives us, "...chairs and sorrows/scissors, transistors, tenderness, violins/teacups, dams, and quips." The poem "Divorce," gives us "the kids...the cat...the dog...the walls...the neighbors...the car..." etc. And, "Highway Accident," gives us "someone," doing any number of things. The lists aren't always of things one after the other, in some poems an item will get an entire stanza, and then we'll shift to another item, and another stanza. All of this "suchness" would drag if the poet weren't able to find some greater meaning in their array, and for the most part the poet comes through, although "Divorce," falls flat when it stretches for meaning and doesn't quite make it. Pani Szymborska's poems tend to start light, and though some may veer toward the mundane she provides many of them with insight that seems right, and unforced.
Wislawa Szymborska never comes across as cute, though on a few occasions she stumbles with end lines/thoughts that seem to be a little too neat. "Ella in Heaven" suffers from what I think are horrible closing lines that are also offensive as God calls Ella, who I imagine to be Ella Fitzgerald, "my black comfort, my well-sung stump." In or out of context I find that to be a bad line.
All in all, though, this is an entertaining collection, and worth reading. Are they exceptional and worthy of a Nobel Laureate - see paragraph 1.
Finally, the cover photo is a gorgeous black and white shot of the poet beatific; and to tell you the truth, I liked the poems, but I love the photo.
"Here," is a collection of 27 poems that mirror the books title. Pani Szymborska is focused on what's here - and now. Things lit up with meaning, -some possessed of a "suchness" that grounds them like a red wheelbarrow; others that seem to arise out of the imagination like an antelope and a lioness in the poem, "An Occurrence." . The title poem, one of three of four really fine pieces, gives us, "...chairs and sorrows/scissors, transistors, tenderness, violins/teacups, dams, and quips." The poem "Divorce," gives us "the kids...the cat...the dog...the walls...the neighbors...the car..." etc. And, "Highway Accident," gives us "someone," doing any number of things. The lists aren't always of things one after the other, in some poems an item will get an entire stanza, and then we'll shift to another item, and another stanza. All of this "suchness" would drag if the poet weren't able to find some greater meaning in their array, and for the most part the poet comes through, although "Divorce," falls flat when it stretches for meaning and doesn't quite make it. Pani Szymborska's poems tend to start light, and though some may veer toward the mundane she provides many of them with insight that seems right, and unforced.
Wislawa Szymborska never comes across as cute, though on a few occasions she stumbles with end lines/thoughts that seem to be a little too neat. "Ella in Heaven" suffers from what I think are horrible closing lines that are also offensive as God calls Ella, who I imagine to be Ella Fitzgerald, "my black comfort, my well-sung stump." In or out of context I find that to be a bad line.
All in all, though, this is an entertaining collection, and worth reading. Are they exceptional and worthy of a Nobel Laureate - see paragraph 1.
Finally, the cover photo is a gorgeous black and white shot of the poet beatific; and to tell you the truth, I liked the poems, but I love the photo.