#polish poetry

[lonelylittledot]

Paweł i Gaweł w jednym stali domu

they were roommates

oh my GOD THEY WERE ROOMMATES

[hiyutekivigil]

[eyesfullofmoon]

Trees die differently than people. Trees look as if they enjoyed their dying. It's true, spring will return and again they will burst into bloom. But as you well know, one can never be sure. And how can trees know that? Surely for them every fall is the last one.

Halina Poświatowska, Story for a Friend

[ineffablelvrs]

was this the xx-lecie miedzywojenne equivalent of one direction breaking up

[n-inna-n]

Mówię o niczym – Każdy mnie rozumie. Mówię o moim wszystkim – Nie rozumie mnie nikt.

@n-inna-n

[polskie-zdania]

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"Die? One does not do that to a cat. / Because what's a cat to do / in an empty apartment?"

Read in the original Polish here | Read the English Translation here

Reblog for a larger sample size!

[engineer-gunzelpunk]

The Locomotive by Julian Tuwin (translated by W. Wipple)

A big locomotive has pulled into town, Heavy, humungus, with sweat rolling down, A plump jumbo olive. Huffing and puffing and panting and smelly, Fire belches forth from her fat cast iron belly.

Poof, how she's burning, Oof, how she's boiling, Puff, how she's churning, Huff, how she's toiling. She's fully exhausted and all out of breath, Yet the coalman continues to stoke her to death.

Numerous wagons she tugs down the track: Iron and steel monsters hitched up to her back, All filled with people and other things too: The first carries cattle, then horses not few; The third car with corpulent people is filled, Eating fat frankfurters all freshly grilled. The fourth car is packed to the hilt with bananas, The fifth has a cargo of six grand pi-an-as. The sixth wagon carries a cannon of steel, With heavy iron girders beneath every wheel. The seventh has tables, oak cupboards with plates, While an elephant, bear, two giraffes fill the eighth. The ninth contains nothing but well-fattened swine, In the tenth: bags and boxes, now isn't that fine?

There must be at least forty cars in a row, And what they all carry — I simply don't know:

But if one thousand athletes, with muscles of steel, Each ate one thousand cutlets in one giant meal, And each one exerted as much as he could, They'd never quite manage to lift such a load.

First a toot! Then a hoot! Steam is churning, Wheels are turning!

More slowly - than turtles - with freight - on their - backs, The drowsy - steam engine - sets off - down the tracks. She chugs and she tugs at her wagons with strain, As wheel after wheel slowly turns on the train. She doubles her effort and quickens her pace, And rambles and scrambles to keep up the race. Oh whither, oh whither? go forward at will, And chug along over the bridge, up the hill, Through mountains and tunnels and meadows and woods, Now hurry, now hurry, deliver your goods. Keep up your tempo, now push along, push along, Chug along, tug along, tug along, chug along Lightly and sprightly she carries her freight Like a ping-pong ball bouncing without any weight, Not heavy equipment exhausted to death, But a little tin toy, just a light puff of breath. Oh whither, oh whither, you'll tell me, I trust, What is it, what is it that gives you your thrust? What gives you momentum to roll down the track? It's hot steam that gives me my clickety-clack. Hot steam from the boiler through tubes to the pistons, The pistons then push at the wheels from short distance, They drive and they push, and the train starts a-swooshin' 'Cuz steam on the pistons keeps pushin' and pushin'; The wheels start a rattlin', clatterin', chatterin' Chug along, tug along, chug along, tug along! . . . .

[gennsoup]

September, it doesn't matter, doesn't open hearts anymore, the earth just hardens slowly.

Adam Zagajewski, Schopenhauer's Crying

[arsanimarum]

Anna Świrszczyńska, samotność – loneliness

[I am alone. / I am alone and so I am nothing. / What a happiness. // I am nothing, so I can be everything. / Existence without essence, / Essence without existence, freedom.]

[sielankowy-nihilizm]

Narodziny wieszcza

[garlic-flower]

Czesław Miłosz, from A Song on the End of the World, trans. Anthony Milosz

[carnageandculture]

Halina Poświatowska, from ‘Indeed I love’, tr. Maya Peretz

[ineffablelvrs]

the tortured poets department

[polskie-zdania]

[victusinveritas]