Category: Poetry

Poetry

March 2 – My vocabulary by Rafał Wojaczek

My vocabulary so small! Hope’s term Tomorrow
Is only conjugated in Your person
While Love’s word evades my tongue and fails
To compose itself from Hunger’s letters

By despair emboldened, I’m leaving Your dream
Gripping my own with teeth in desperate hope.
Tell me: is there anything else to do
When even Death can’t verbalize its works?

Translation by Tomasz Gil and used with permission of the translator.

dictionary

Mój słownik jest ubogi! Słowo nadziei: “jutro”
Odmienia się jedynie przez Twoją osobę.
A już słowo miłości omija język: złożyć
Z głosek głodu się nie chce lub składa za późno,

Gdy już, rozpaczą harda, Twój sen opuszczam: z moim
Snem w zębach, jak nadzieja rozpaczliwa każe.
Powiedz: czy coś innego czynić mi pozostaje,
Gdy śmierć też nie potrafi jeszcze się wysłowić?

Poetry

March 1 – Camomile by Jurgis BaltruŁ¡aitis

Camomile, you mite of whiteness,
To refresh the road I’ve taken,
Rising from the dust, you stand there,
With your glowing head uplifted…

For a poor man trekking stubbles,
Such a blossom’s full of riches —“
Now I’m not alone, that’s certain —“
In earth’s void, I’m not forsaken…

Cured the ills of nagging hardship,
Quiet now the pain of longing,
Vanished from my breast the exile’s
Terror of earth crucifixion…

Since you’ve brimmed the sun’s own chalice,
Darkling, I stride on more surely,
While my heart in silence reckons
What you’re singing to my spirit…

Translated by Demie Jonaitis

matricaria_february_2008-1

RamunÄ—le tu baltoji,
Kad iŁ¡puoŁ¡tum mano kelią,
Tu i١ dulkiٳ atsistoji,
Skaisčią pakeli galvelę…

Vargui – takui pro rugienas
Tavo پiedas – dپiaugsmo kraitis.
٠tai pasauly a١ ne vienas,
Jo bedugnÄ—j ne naŁ¡laitis…

Skurdo skausmas lyg pagijo,
Skausmo ilgesys nurimo,
Ir kr٫tinė jau nebijo
Kryپiaus پemÄ—s iŁ¡trÄ—mimo…

SaulÄ—s taurę tu pripylei,
Ir, tamsus, پygiuoju drąsiai,
Ir ١irdis tik klauso tyliai,
Ką tu giedi mano dvasiai…

Poetry

February 28 – When the Morning Lights Arise by Franciszek Karpiński

When the morning stars are rising,
Earth and sea thy glories praising,
Join all nature’s voice in singing,
Praise to thee, Oh God, we’re bringing!

Man on whom thou’st poured rich treasure,
Endless bounties without measure,
By Thy power redeemed, life given,
Why not praise Thee, God of heaven!

When at morn I first awaken,
On my lips Thy name is taken,
And I call on God profoundly,
Then I seek Him all around me!

Yesternight were many taken,
To the sleep that ne’er shall waken,
While our ling’ring breath is given —
For Thy praise, great God in heaven!

From —Poets and Poetry of Poland A Collection of Polish Verse, Including a Short Account of the History of Polish Poetry, with Sixty Biographical Sketches of Poland’s Poets and Specimens of Their Composition— by Paul Soboleski.

[audio:https://www.konicki.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/kiedy-ranne-wstaja-z.mp3]

kiedy_ranne

Kiedy ranne wstają zorze,
Tobie ziemia, Tobie morze.
Tobie śpiewa żywioł wszelki,
Bądź pochwalon, Boże wielki!

A człowiek, który bez miary,
Obsypany Twymi dary,
Coś go stworzył i ocalił,
A czemuż by Cię nie chwalił?

Ledwie oczy przetrzeć zdołam,
Wnet do mego Pana wołam,
Do mego Boga na niebie,
I szukam Go koło siebie.

Wielu snem śmierci upadli,
Co się wczora spać pokładli
My się jeszcze obudzili,
Byśmy Cię, Boże, chwalili.

Poetry

February 27 – Fragment from The Art of Poetry, An Epistle to the Pisos by Horace

Select, all ye who write, a subject fit,
A subject, not too mighty for your wit!
And ere you lay your shoulders to the wheel,
Weigh well their strength, and all their weakness feel!
He, who his subject happily can choose,
Wins to his favour the benignant Muse;
The aid of eloquence he ne’er shall lack,
And order shall dispose and clear his track.

Order, I trust, may boast, nor boast in vain,
These Virtues and these Graces in her train.
What on the instant should be said, to say;
Things, best reserv’d at present, to delay;
Guiding the bard, thro’ his continu’d verse,
What to reject, and when; and what rehearse.

On the old stock of words our fathers knew,
Frugal and cautious of engrafting new,
Happy your art, if by a cunning phrase
To a new meaning a known word you raise:
If ’tis your lot to tell, at some chance time,
“Things unattempted yet in prose or rhime,”
Where you are driv’n perforce to many a word
Which the strait-lac’d Cethegi never heard,
Take, but with coyness take, the licence wanted,
And such a licence shall be freely granted:
New, or but recent, words shall have their course,
If drawn discreetly from the Graecian source.
Shall Rome, Caecilius, Plautus, fix your claim,
And not to Virgil, Varius, grant the same?
Or if myself should some new words attain,
Shall I be grudg’d the little wealth I gain?

Translation by George Coleman from The Art Of Poetry, An Epistle To The Pisos, by Horace used under a Project Gutenberg license.

Collier's Horace and Lydia

Sumite materiam vostris, qui scribitis, aequam
Viribus: et versate diu, quid ferre recusent
Quid valeant humeri. Cui lecta potenter erit res,
Nec facundia deferet hunc, nec lucidus ordo.

Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor,
Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici
Pleraque differat, et praesens in tempus omittat.
Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis auctor.

In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque ferendis,
Dixeris egregié, notum si callida verbum
Reddiderit junctura novum: si forté necesse est
Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum;
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis
Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.
Et nova factaque nuper habebunt verba fidem, si
Graeco fonte cadant, parcé detorta. Quid autem?
Caecilio, Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum
Virgilio, Varioque? ego cur acquirere pauca

Poetry

February 26 – V (from simple verse) by José Martí­

If you see a hill of foam
It is my poetry that you see:
My poetry is a mountain
And is also a feather fan.

My poems are like a dagger
Sprouting flowers from the hilt;
My poetry is like a fountain
Sprinkling streams of coral water.

My poems are light green
And flaming red;
My poetry is a wounded deer
Looking for the forest’s sanctuary.

My poems please the brave:
My poems, short and sincere,
Have the force of steel
Which forges swords.

Translation is unattributed

Si ves un monte de espumas,
Es mi verso lo que ves:
Mi verso es un monte, y es
Un abanico de plumas.
Mi verso es como un puñal
Que por el puño echa flor:
Mi verso es un surtidor
Que da un agua de coral.
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmí­n encendido:
Mi verso es un ciervo herido
Que busca en el monte amparo.
Mi verso al valiente agrada:
Mi verso, breve y sincero,
Es del vigor del acero
Con que se funde la espada.

Poetry,

February 25 – People, My people – Traditional Lenten hymn

People, my people
How have I betrayed Thee?
For I have saved Thee from the might of Pharoah.
But now you lead me to the cross to suffer.

People, my people
How have I betrayed Thee?
For I have raised Thee over ev’ry nation,
Now you would have me bear shame and Crucifixion

People, my people
How have I betrayed Thee?
For I have given Thee the choicest wine,
Now You give your Lord vinegar to drink.

From the Scola of the Dominican monastery and church in Rzeszów, Poland.

Ludu mój ludu, cóżem ci uczynił?
W czymem zasmucił, albo w czym zawinił?
Jam cię wyzwolił z mocy Faraona,
A tyś przyrządził krzyż na Me ramiona

Ludu, mój ludu…
Jam cię wprowadził kraj miodem płynący,
Tyś Mi zgotował śmierci znak hańbiący.

Ludu, mój ludu…
Jam ciebie szczepił, winnico wybrana,
A tyś Mnie octem poił, swego Pana.

Poetry

February 24 – Farewell to Mexico by Manuel Acuña

Written for Mrs. Cayron, and read by her
at her farewell party.

I must say to thee farewell,
For in the face of my duty,
Which ordains the pursuit of my art.
Against its obligations I am weak.

Before uttering a work
To give expression to that thought,
The voice of my sentiment
Would say a word to thee.

It may well be
That when departing
And bidding thee farewell, I leave
To behold thee nevermore.

And thus between the ill with which I struggle.
And which in sadness plunges me,
I long, for my own sake.
That thou shalt kriow I love thee much;

That enamored of thee
Since before I knew thee
I only came to see thee.
And seeing, took thee to my heart;

That my greatful soul
Adores thee with a mad ardor,
For thy love was the most beautiful
Dream of my life;

That from the book of my history
I leave thee the most beautiful leaf,
For on that leaf shines
Thy glory more than mine;

That I dreamed not of leaving thee
Until at the very last moment,
Dividing my thoughts
Between my love and that of my art ;

And that to-day, before that illusion
Which diminishes and disappears,
I feel, alas! that
My heart will break.

It may be that in my eagerness
I will never soothe my sadness
By seeing o’er my head
The splendor of thy sky.

Perhaps nevermore in my ear
Will resound in the morning
The voice of the early bird
That sings from its nest.

And perhaps, in that love
With which I adore and admire thee,
These flowers that to-day I exhale
Will be thy last flowers.

But if destiny wishes
Me to leave such tender feelings,
And that I separate and leave,
Never again to meet thee,

Under the beams of this day
Of unspeakable and pure charm,
I vow to thee, when bidding thee farewell,
O, my sweet Mexico,

That if He, with his power shall rend
All human ties.
He may tear thee from mine arms,
But never from my heart.

Translation by Ernest S. Green and Miss H. Von Lowenfels

Escrita para la Sra. Cayrón y leí­da por ella
en una función de despedida.

Pues que del destino en pos
débil contra su cadena,
frente al deber que lo ordena
tengo que decirte adiós;

Antes que mi boca se abra
para dar paso a este acento,
la voz de mi sentimiento
quiere hablarte una palabra.

Que muy bien pudiera ser
que cuando de aquí­ me aleje,
al decirte adiós, te deje
para no volverte a ver.

Y asi entre el mal con que lucho
y y que en el dolor me abisma,
quiero decirte yo misma,
sepas que te quiero mucho.

Que enamorada de tí­
desde antes de conocerte,
yo vine sólo por verte,
y al verte te puse aquí­.

Que mi alma reconocida
te adora con loco empeño,
porque tu amor era el sueño
más hermoso de mi vida.

Que del libro de mi historia
te dejo la hoja mas bella,
porque en esa hoja destella
tu gloria más que mi gloria.

Que soñaba en no dejarte
sino hasta el poster momento,
partiendo mi pensamiento
entre tu amor y el del arte.

Y que hoy ante esa ilusión
que se borra y se deshace,
siento ¡ay de mí­! que se hace
pedazos mi corazón…

Tal vez ya nunca en mi anhelo
podré endulzar mi tristeza
con ver sobre mi cabeza
el esplendor de tu cielo.

Tal vez ya nunca a mi oí­do
resonará en la mañana,
la voz del ave temprana
que canta desde su nido.

Y tal vez en los amores
con que te adoro y admiro
estas flores que hoy aspiro
serán las íºltimas flores…

Pero si afectos tan tiernos
quiere el destino que deje,
y que me aparte y me aleje
para no volver a vernos;

Bajo la luz de este dí­a
de encanto inefable y puro
al darte mi adiós te juro,
¡oh dulce México mí­o!

Que si él con sus fuerzas trunca
todos los humanos lazos,
te arrancará de mis brazos
pero de mi pecho, nunca!

Poetry

February 23 – Human Life (Part IV) by Ludwig Kropiński

At last the winter reigns,
Nature is held in frosty chains,
And the white grass-plots
Glisten with diamond dots,
As if to amuse children.
But then, we can’t so easily be beguiled,
Since unlike in the spring summer and autumn,
By growth of green forgotten,
Life to death seems reconciled.

We begin to complain of the present,
And only the Past we call pleasant —
We prate,
And ruminate;
Our senses we can scarce employ,
Like hours the moments slowly ebb;
And like a spider from its web,
From stuff of flimsy make,
Which any little wind may break,
We draw our joy!

We exist only by a fear
Lest something should break —
We know not which course to steer,
Uncertain which road to take.

Where are we to live? what does await?
Thus by the eternal decree,
Man’s stay on earth does terminate;
In life’s fourth goes he.
And in his journey woe betide
Who to the realms of endless bliss
Has not pure conscience
For a guide!

From “Poets and Poetry of Poland A Collection of Polish Verse, Including a Short Account of the History of Polish Poetry, with Sixty Biographical Sketches of Poland’s Poets and Specimens of Their Composition” by Paul Soboleski.

the-four-seasons

Nakoniec nadchodzi zima
Co naturę w więzach trzyma,
Co przeszłości kwiaty niszczy,
Kiedy po śnieżnej murawie
Jakby dzieciom ku zabawie
Diamentami zabłyszczy.
Wtedy już nas nic nie mami.
Bo z wiosny, z lata, z jesieni
Nic się nam już nic zieleni;
A śmierć przed nami.
Już się na obecność żalim,
Zbiegłe tylko czasy chwalim,
Tylko gwarzym,
Tylko marzym.
Zaledwie wiemy że czujem,
Chwile liczym na godziny
I jak pająk z pajęczyny,
Z nader wiotkiego przędziwa
Które lada wietrzyk zrywa,
Pociechy snujem.
Już tylko istniem przez trwogę:
Że nie wiemy, że nie znamy
W jaka się drogę
Puszczamy.
Gdzie żyć będziem?… co nas czeka?…
Tak z przedwiecznego wyroku
Kończy sie pobyt człowieka
W czwartej porze jego roku.
Ach biada komu w podróży
W kraje szczęścia wiekuiste,
Za przewodnika nie służy
Sumienie czyste!

Poetry

February 22 – Human Life (Part III) by Ludwig Kropiński

In autumn,
Less bright the fields of green become —
Leaves grow sere, and fall here and thither,
And with them our hopes begin to wither.
No longer gaily do we sing;
And tears at times bedim the eye.
Still later — ‘though the sun shines high,
And upon its rays at times
Sends a breath of balmy climes;
That breath reminds us of the spring,
But ah, it is no more the same thing!
The memory of those vanished days
Whispers: “We ne’er will come again!”
This thought a poignant torture has:
No longer we do soar and sweep,
But oft, alas! in silence weep.
But even that season chimes
With pleasantness at times.
It is a sort of “talking matters over,”
The Past, and what future time does cover;
Chatting with friends, prospects and aims,
This or that, the heart most dearly claims.

From “Poets and Poetry of Poland A Collection of Polish Verse, Including a Short Account of the History of Polish Poetry, with Sixty Biographical Sketches of Poland’s Poets and Specimens of Their Composition” by Paul Soboleski.

W jesieni
Coraz się mniej nam zieleni.
Liść żółknie, pada, więdnieje;
Więdną i nasze nadzieje.
Już mniej bujamy i skaczem;
Niekiedy nawet zapłaczem.
Po niej, chociaż słońce błyska,
I czasem przez swe promienie
Wypuści łagodne tchnienie
Przypominające wiosnę;
Nie sąto już dni radosne;
Bo ta pamięć nas uciska,
Że do niej nigdy nie wrócim.
Więc nie latamy nie skaczem
Tylko sie dręczym lub smucim
I co raz częściej zapłaczem.
Ale nawet i ta pora
Częstokroć przyjemną bywa.
Jestto pogadanka tkliwa,
Wpośród szarego wieczora
Z doświadczonym przyjacielem,
O tem co serc naszych celem.

Perspective, Poetry, Poland - Polish - Polonia, , ,

The great poets?

A great post from John Guzlowski at Everything’s Jake: Can American Poetry Be Great Again?

My friend Elizabeth Oakes, author of The Farmgirl Poems, sent me a New York Times article that she saw posted on the Women’s Poetry List about whether or not American poetry will ever be great again. It’s a good article that raises a number of important questions about poetry and reading and the audience for the written word.

He then points to the NY Times article from its On Poetry column: The Great(ness) Game

The problem is that over the course of the 20th century, greatness has turned out to be an increasingly blurry business. In part, that’s a reflection of the standard narrative of postmodernism, according to which all uppercase ideals —” Truth, Beauty, Justice —” must come in for questioning. But the difficulty with poetic greatness has to do with more than the talking points of the contemporary culture wars. Greatness is —” and indeed, has always been —” a tangle of occasionally incompatible concepts, most of which depend upon placing the burden of —greatness— on different parts of the artistic process…

What does greatness mean? What should it mean? How has poetry evolved within American culture? The article is an interesting exploration of those topics.

The author also takes a shot at the intrigue and exoticism of foreign poets living in the United States, particularly Czesław Miłosz. For all of their “greatness” a lot of their “not-so-great” gets glossed over. Using Miłosz as an example is particularly funny because Miłosz’ “greatness” occasionally exhibited itself in pseudo-class warfare, pitting him, and his ring of Polish intellectuals, against his base of support, the people who were forced to call him great, because he was one of us. For an investigation into that issue read Stanislaus A. Blejwas’ letter: Polish studies in America from the January 1995 issue of The Sarmatian Review.