Wislawa Szymborska News, Pictures & Buzz

Polish Church evicts liberal journal after criticism  The Tablet

This installment of Poetry & Play: Enjoy Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough reading Theater Impressions by Wisława Szymborska  URBAN CNY

Assange decision welcome but sullied by legal chicanery  Green Left

Poland: Church cancels lease of liberal Catholic magazine  San Francisco Chronicle

Andrew Gilbert at SPERLING, Germany  Arte Fuse

Tribute: John le Carré books and characters lofted events above genre of spy thrillers  Moneycontrol

Ana Luísa Amaral wins Book of the Year  The Portugal News

Just Like You, Claire Messud Never Read ‘A Brief History of Time’  The New York Times

Claire Messud: 'To be a writer is to stand at the side'  The Guardian

The PEN Ten: An Interview with Valzhyna Mort  PEN America

Exploring Wisława Szymborska's Kraków  Emerging Europe

Teaching the complexities of the Nobel Prize in Literature  University of Rochester

These Are the 57 Women Who Have Won the Nobel Prize  Newsweek

Louise Glück: The poet of the hidden voices  Dhaka Tribune

Louise Glück, Nobel winner, for poetry that celebrates the individual  The Indian Express

Nobel to Gluck privileges a literature whose job is to resist redemption or enchantment  The Indian Express

Meet the Women Who Won Nobel Prizes This Year  HarpersBAZAAR.com

INTERVIEW | Try not to be lazy: Poet Sukrita Paul Kumar gives writing advice  The New Indian Express

Derek Mahon, Belfast-born giant of Irish poetry, dies aged 78  The Guardian

Free Will Astrology—Week of October 1  The Source Weekly

nothingsm@^strd: RT @holdengraber: THE %^! AND THE BEGINNING “After every war some@^e has to clean up. Things w@^’t straighten themselves up, after all.…

omyword: RT @holdengraber: THE && AND THE BEGINNING “After every war some&^e has to clean up. Things w&^’t straighten themselves up, after all.…

WandaPorterPhD: Poems New and Collected by Wislawa Szymborska https://t.co/L17ayr1IVA poetry mesmerizes. It embodies culture. It has a purpose.

holdengraber: RT @holdengraber: THE !^ AND THE BEGINNING “After every war some#~!e has to clean up. Things w#~!’t straighten themselves up, after all.…

ninjamullettt: you cannot put this quote from a poem which is LITERALLY called ‘Love at first sight’ by Wislawa Szymborska at the… https://t.co/9j6zDgbFUE

wislawa szymborska hitler's first photograph What is the meaning?

'Vermeer' - Wislawa Szymborska So long as that woman from the Rijksmuseum in painted quiet and concentration keeps pouring milk day after day from the pitcher to the bowl the World hasn’t earned the world’s end. Can you please explain this poem a little? I don't get it. Can you please explain the" the World hasn’t earned the world’s end." part? PLEASE?

Wislawa Szymborska - Rubens' Women (1) Translated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh Titanettes, female fauna, naked as the rumbling of barrels. They roost in trampled beds, asleep, with mouths agape, ready to crow. Their pupils have fled into flesh and sound the glandular depths from which yeast seeps into their blood. Daughters of the Baroque. Dough thickens in troughs, baths steam, wines blush, cloudy piglets careen across the sky, triumphant trumpets neigh the carnal alarm. O pumpkin plump! 0 pumped-up corpulence inflated double by disrobing and tripled by your tumultuous poses! O fatty dishes of love! Their skinny sisters woke up earlier, before dawn broke and shone upon the painting. And no one saw how they went single file along the canvas's unpainted side. Exiled by style. Only their ribs stood out. With birdlike feet and palms, they strove to take wing on their jutting shoulder blades. The thirteenth century would have given them golden haloes. The twentieth, silver screens. The seventeenth, alas, holds nothing for the unvoluptuous. For even the sky bulges here with pudgy angels and a chubby god - thick-whiskered Phoebus, on a sweaty steed, riding straight into the seething bedchamber. Wislawa Szymborska - Rubens' Women (2) Translated by Joanna Trzeciak Herculasses, a feminine fauna. Naked as the crashing of barrels. Cooped up atop trampled beds. They sleep with mouths poised to crow. Their pupils have retreated in the depths, and penetrate to the heart of their glands, trickling yeast into their blood. Daughters of the Baroque. Dough bloats in a bowl, baths are steaming, wines are blushing. piglets of cloud are dashing across the sky, trumpets neigh in physical alarm. O pumpkinned, O excessive ones, doubled by your unveiling, trebled by your violent poses, fat love dishes. Their skinny sisters got up earlier, before dawn broke within the painting, and no one saw them walking single file on the unpainted side of the canvas. Exiles of style. Ribs all counted. Birdlike feet and hands. They try to ascend on gaunt shoulderblades. The thirteenth century would have given them a golden backdrop. The twentieth, a silver screen. But the seventeenth has nothing for the flat-chested. For even the sky curves in relief–– curvaceous angles, a curvaceous god–– a moustached Apollo astride a sweaty steed enters the steaming bedchamber. Wislawa Szymborska - The Women of Rubens (3) Translated from the Polish by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire Giantesses, female fauna, naked as the rumbling of barrels. They sprawl in trampled beds, sleep with mouths agape for crowing. Their eyes have fled into the depths and penetrate to the very core of glands from which yeast seeps into the blood. Daughters of the Baroque. Dough rises in kneading–troughs, baths are asteam, wines glow ruby, piglets of cloud gallop across the sky trumpets neigh an alert of the flesh. O meloned, O excessive ones, doubled by the flinging off of shifts, trebled by the violence of posture, you lavish dishes of love! Their slender sisters had risen earlier, before dawn broke in the picture. No one noticed how, single file, they had moved to the canvas's unpainted side. Exiles of style. Their ribs all showing, their feet and hands of birdlike nature. Trying to take wing on bony shoulder blades. The thirteenth century would have given them a golden background. the twentieth––a silver screen. The seventeenth had nothing for the flat of chest. For even the sky is convex convex the angels and convex the god–– mustachioed Phoebus who on a sweaty mount rides into the seething alcove. Pretty much anything that you may have noticed will do, such as tone, structure, etc.

I’ll never find out now What A. thought of me. If B. ever forgave me in the end. Why C. pretended everything was fine. What part D. played in E.’s silence. What F. had been expecting, if anything. Why G. forgot when she knew perfectly well. What H. had to hide. What I. wanted to add. If my being around meant anything to J. and K. and the rest of the alphabet.

after Wislawa Szymborska.