Post by moira on Sept 12, 2008 17:57:07 GMT 2
Wislawa Szymborska
introduced by Christina Pacosz
Wislawa Szymborska was the receipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize for Literature. She was born in western Poland on July 2, 1923. She currently lives in Krakow, Poland.
This is a link to her Nobel Lecture:
tinyurl.com/48htvw
A poem from her official web site:
www.polishworld.com/wsz/
Tortures
Nothing has changed.
The body is susceptible to pain,
it must eat and breathe air and sleep,
it has thin skin and blood right underneath,
an adequate stock of teeth and nails,
its bones are breakable, its joints are stretchable.
In tortures all this is taken into account.
Nothing has changed.
The body shudders as it shuddered
before the founding of Rome and after,
in the twentieth century before and after Christ.
Tortures are as they were, it's just the earth that's grown smaller,
and whatever happens seems right on the other side of the wall.
Nothing has changed. It's just that there are more people,
besides the old offenses new ones have appeared,
real, imaginary, temporary, and none,
but the howl with which the body responds to them,
was, is and ever will be a howl of innocence
according to the time-honored scale and tonality.
Nothing has changed. Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
its legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,
it turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.
Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,
the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,
while the body is and is and is
and has no place of its own.
Copyright © 1996 PolishWorld Inc.
The Turn of the Century
It was supposed to be better than the others, our 20th century,
But it won't have time to prove it.
Its years are numbered,
its step unsteady,
its breath short.
Already too much has happened
that was not supposed to happen.
What was to come about
has not.
Spring was to be on its way,
and happiness, among other things.
Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.
The truth was supposed to finish before the lie.
Certain misfortunes
were never to happen again
such as war and hunger and so forth.
These were to be respected:
the defenselessness of the defenseless,
trust and the like.
Whoever wanted to enjoy the world
faces an impossible task.
Stupidity is not funny.
Wisdom isn't jolly.
Hope
Is no longer the same young girl
et cetera. Alas.
God was at last to believe in man:
good and strong,
but good and strong
are still two different people.
How to live--someone asked me this in a letter,
someone I had wanted
to ask that very thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones.
People on the Bridge
Strange planet and strange people on it.
They yield to time, but they don't want to recognize time.
They have their ways of expressing resistance.
They make pictures such as this:
Nothing in particular at first glance.
One can see water,
one river bank,
a narrow boat strenuously moving upstream.
One can see a bridge over the water
and people on the bridge.
People are clearly picking up the pace,
as rain starts whipping down from a dark cloud.
The point is, nothing happens further.
The cloud changes neither shape nor color.
The rain neither stops nor picks up.
The boat moves without moving.
The people on the bridge run
precisely where they ran before.
It is hard to get by without a commentary:
This is not an innocent picture.
Time was stopped here,
its laws no longer consulted.
It was denied impact on the developing events,
disregarded and dishonored.
Thanks to a rebel,
one Hiroshige Utagava
(a being who, by the way,
passed away, as is proper, long ago)
time stumbled and fell.
Perhaps it is only a prank without much meaning,
a whim on the scale of just a few galaxies,
but in any case
let's add what happens next:
Here it is considered in good taste
to hold this painting in high esteem,
to praise it and be greatly moved by it for generations.
For some, even this is not enough.
They hear the patter of rain,
feel the chill of raindrops on necks and shoulders,
they look at the bridge and people
as if they saw themselves there, in that never ending race
along the endless road, to be traveled for eternity
and they have the audacity to believe
that it is real.
Translated by:
Janna Maria Trzeciak