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Branka Babic

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RE: Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel-prize winning Polish poet, dies at 88
2/14/2012 7:14:46 PM



The Three Oddest Words

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold.”

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Branka Babic

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RE: Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel-prize winning Polish poet, dies at 88
2/14/2012 8:41:45 PM


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Branka Babic

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RE: Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel-prize winning Polish poet, dies at 88
2/15/2012 7:38:37 AM

Głos w sprawie pornografii

Nie ma rozpusty gorszej niż myślenie.

Pleni się ta swawola jak wiatropylny chwast
Na grządce wytyczonej pod stokrotki.

Dla takich, którzy myślą, święte nie jest nic.

Zuchwałe nazywanie rzeczy po imieniu,
rozwiązłe analizy, wszeteczne syntezy,
pogoń za nagim faktem dzika i hulaszcza,
lubieżne obmacywanie drażliwych tematów,
tarło poglądów - w to im właśnie graj.

W dzień jasny albo pod osłoną nocy

łączą się w pary, trójkąty i koła.
Dowolna jest tu płeć i wiek partnerów.
Oczy im błyszczą, policzki pałają.
Przyjaciel wykoleja przyjaciela.
Wyrodne córki deprawują ojca.
Brat młodszą siostrę stręczy do nierządu.

Inne im w smak owoce

z zakazanego drzewa wiadomości
niż różowe pośladki z pism ilustrowanych,
cała ta prostoduszna w gruncie pornografia.
Książki, które ich bawią, nie mają obrazków.
Jedyna rozmaitość to specjalne zdania
paznokciem zakreślone albo kredką.

Zgroza, w jakich pozycjach,

z jaką wyuzdaną prostotą
umysłowi udaje się zapłodnić umysł !
Nie zna takich pozycji nawet Kamasutra.

W czasie tych schadzek parzy się ledwie herbata.

Ludzie siedzą na krzesłach, poruszają ustami.
Nogę na nogę każdy sam sobie zakłada.
Jedna stopa w ten sposób dotyka podłogi,
druga swobodnie kiwa się w powietrzu.
Czasem tylko ktoś wstanie,
zbliży się do okna
i przez szparę w firankach
podgląda ulicę.


On the Question of Pornography


No debauchery compares with thinking.

This licence breeds like some weed whose seed is carried by the wind
onto a bed laid out for daisies.

To all those who think nothing is ever sacred.

The shamelessly direct saying what they are driving at,
dissolute analyses, excessive syntheses,
rackish and hot pursuit of bare facts,
touching upon prickly subjects,
idea spawning, that is what they like best.

By daylight or under cover of the night,

they join in pairs, triangles and circles.
The partners' sex and age are immaterial.
Their eyes flash, their cheeks blush.
A friend leads a friend astray.
Degenerate daughters corrupt their father.
A brother procures his younger sister.

They delight in a fruit

Of the forbidden tree of knowledge
different from pink buttocks in illustrated magazines
which are, actually, a good-natured kind of pornography.
The books they enjoy have no pictures.
The only excitement comes from special sentences
marked with a fingernail or a pencil.

It is most shameful in what positions

and with what licentious ease
a mind manages to impregnate another mind.
Such positions have not been detailed even in Kamasutra.

All they do during these dates,

is making tea. Moving the lips,
people sit on chairs with their own legs crossed.
This way, one foot touches the floor while
the other one swings freely in the air.
Sometimes someone stands up,
approaches the window
and through the slit between the curtains
peeps at the street.

przełożył (translated by)Mikołaj Sekrecki


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Branka Babic

713
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RE: Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel-prize winning Polish poet, dies at 88
2/15/2012 7:39:50 AM

Ball point pen on today’s newspaper

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Branka Babic

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RE: Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel-prize winning Polish poet, dies at 88
2/15/2012 7:46:23 AM

On Death, Without Exaggeration

It can’t take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.

In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.

It can’t even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.

Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.

Oh, it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows,
and repeat attempts!

Sometimes it isn’t strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many are the caterpillars
that have outcrawled it.

All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.

Ill will won’t help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d’etat
is so far not enough.

Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies’ skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.

Whoever claims that it’s omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it’s not.

There’s no life
that couldn’t be immortal
if only for a moment.

Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.

By Wislawa Szymborska


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