#Joanna Trzeciak

[whisperthatruns]

The End and the Beginning

After every war someone has to clean up. Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the road, so the corpse-filled wagons can pass.

Someone has to get mired in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass, and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder to prop up a wall. Someone has to glaze a window, rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not, and takes years. All the cameras have left for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back, and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand, still recalls the way it was. Someone else listens and nods with unsevered head. But already there are those nearby starting to mill about who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes sometimes someone still unearths rusted-out arguments and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew what was going on here must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds.

Wisława Szymborska, tr. from the Polish by Joanna Trzeciak, Miracle Fair: Selected Poems of Wisława Szymborska (W. W. Norton and Company, 2001)

[johnesimpson]

We've Walked a Long Way Together

Claire-Louise Bennett, Richard Feynman, et al.: 'We've Walked a Long Way Together'

[Image: “A Long Way Together,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river: Looking back at the worst times, it always seems that they were times in which there were people who believed with absolute faith and absolute dogmatism in something. And they were so serious in this matter that they insisted…

[paulvanderspiegel]

Unde Malum pt 3

Unde Malum pt 3

Yes, dear Tadeusz, Evil comes from people Always people Only people. But Earth will not regain its beauty and lustre before we destroy it. We differ in purpose – as Nietzsche said – the Ubermensch will to power, the pietists will to love. Alas, dear Czeslaw, good nature and wicked intent aggregate and form the context of humanity, that is our reality. You show us your despair by…

[havingapoemwithyou]

the end and the beginning - wisława szymborska tr. joanna trzeciak

[cordeliaflyte]

Trans. Joanna Trzeciak

A Word on Statistics

By Wisława Szymborska

Out of every hundred people

those who always know better:

fifty-two.

Unsure of every step:

almost all the rest.

Ready to help,

if it doesn't take long:

forty-nine.

Always good,

because they cannot be otherwise:

four—well, maybe five.

Able to admire without envy:

eighteen.

Led to error

by youth (which passes):

sixty, plus or minus.

Those not to be messed with:

forty and four.

Living in constant fear

of someone or something:

seventy-seven.

Capable of happiness:

twenty-some-odd at most.

Harmless alone,

turning savage in crowds:

more than half, for sure.

Cruel

when forced by circumstances:

it's better not to know,

not even approximately.

Wise in hindsight:

not many more

than wise in foresight.

Getting nothing out of life except things:

thirty

(though I would like to be wrong).

Doubled over in pain

and without a flashlight in the dark:

eighty-three, sooner or later.

Those who are just:

quite a few at thirty-five.

But if it takes effort to understand:

three.

Worthy of empathy:

ninety-nine.

Mortal:

one hundred out of one hundred—

a figure that has never varied yet.

[airasilver]

(Found this in a TWD fanfic notes.)

The End and the Beginning, written by Wisława Szymborska and translated by Joanna Trzeciak.

After every war

someone has to clean up.

Things won’t

straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble

to the side of the road,

so the corpse-filled wagons

can pass.

Someone has to get mired

in scum and ashes,

sofa springs,

splintered glass,

and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder

to prop up a wall.

Someone has to glaze a window,

rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,

and takes years.

All the cameras have left

for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back,

and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged

from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,

still recalls the way it was.

Someone else listens

and nods with unsevered head.

But already there are those nearby

starting to mill about

who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes

sometimes someone still unearths

rusted-out arguments

and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew

what was going on here

must make way for

those who know little.

And less than little.

And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown

causes and effects,

someone must be stretched out

blade of grass in his mouth

gazing at the clouds.

[couldbeanastronaut]

"A Word on Statistics" by Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Joanna Trzeciak

[harrypotterhousequotes]

RAVENCLAW:

"Out of every hundred people,

those who always know better: fifty-two.

Unsure of every step: almost all the rest."

–Wisława Szymborska (A Word on Statistics) [translated by Joanna Trzeciak]

[pers-books]

After every war someone has to clean up. Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all. Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the road, so the corpse-filled wagons can pass. Someone has to get mired in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass, and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a girder to prop up a wall. Someone has to glaze a window, rehang a door. Photogenic it’s not, and takes years. All the cameras have left for another war. We’ll need the bridges back, and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged from rolling them up. Someone, broom in hand, still recalls the way it was. Someone else listens and nods with unsevered head. But already there are those nearby starting to mill about who will find it dull. From out of the bushes sometimes someone still unearths rusted-out arguments and carries them to the garbage pile. Those who knew what was going on here must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as little as nothing. In the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds.

"The End and the Beginning" from Miracle Fair by Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak.

[hepatosaurus]

national poetry month, day 11

The End and the Beginning After every war someone has to clean up. Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all. Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the road, so the corpse-filled wagons can pass. Someone has to get mired in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass, and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a girder to prop up a wall. Someone has to glaze a window, rehang a door. Photogenic it’s not, and takes years. All the cameras have left for another war. We’ll need the bridges back, and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged from rolling them up. Someone, broom in hand, still recalls the way it was. Someone else listens and nods with unsevered head. But already there are those nearby starting to mill about who will find it dull. From out of the bushes sometimes someone still unearths rusted-out arguments and carries them to the garbage pile. Those who knew what was going on here must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as little as nothing. In the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds. —Wisława Szymborska (trans. from Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)

[johnesimpson]

You Know What Water Is; So Do I. Now: Let's Define Water...

John O'Donohue, Nick Cave, Wislawa Szymborska, and a Maxim for Nostalgists: 'You Know What Water Is; So Do I. Now: Let’s Define Water…'

[Image: “H2O (Tiffins Edition, Orlando, Florida),” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river: Humility amounts to an understanding that the world is not divided into good and bad people, but rather it is made up of all manner of individuals, each broken in their own way, each caught up in the common human struggle and each having the capacity to do both terrible and beautiful things…

[feral-ballad]

Wisława Szymborska, tr. by Joanna Trzeciak, from Miracle Fair: Selected Poems of Wisława Szymborska; “Water”

[taitavva]

ref by lui fo

[Wisława Szymborska, tr. by Joanna Trzeciak, from Miracle Fair: Selected Poems of Wisława Szymborska; “I am too close for him…”]

[missedstations]

“The End and the Beginning” - Wisława Szymborska

After every war someone has to clean up. Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all. Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the road, so the corpse-filled wagons can pass. Someone has to get mired in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass, and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a girder to prop up a wall. Someone has to glaze a window, rehang a door. Photogenic it’s not, and takes years. All the cameras have left for another war. We’ll need the bridges back, and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged from rolling them up. Someone, broom in hand, still recalls the way it was. Someone else listens and nods with unsevered head. But already there are those nearby starting to mill about who will find it dull. From out of the bushes sometimes someone still unearths rusted-out arguments and carries them to the garbage pile. Those who knew what was going on here must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as little as nothing. In the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds. Translated by Joanna Trzeciak                                                    

[sakurabreeze]

The End and the Beginning

BY WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA

TRANSLATED BY JOANNA TRZECIAK

After every war someone has to clean up. Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all. Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the road, so the corpse-filled wagons can pass. Someone has to get mired in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass, and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a girder to prop up a wall. Someone has to glaze a window, rehang a door. Photogenic it’s not, and takes years. All the cameras have left for another war. We’ll need the bridges back, and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged from rolling them up. Someone, broom in hand, still recalls the way it was. Someone else listens and nods with unsevered head. But already there are those nearby starting to mill about who will find it dull. From out of the bushes sometimes someone still unearths rusted-out arguments and carries them to the garbage pile. Those who knew what was going on here must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as little as nothing. In the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds.