Reviews

Monologue of a Dog by Stanisław Barańczak, Wisława Szymborska, Clare Cavanagh, Billy Collins

sidharthvardhan's review

5.0

There are lots of beautiful ones. I will share only one.

The courtesy of the Blind

The poet reads his lines to the blind.
He hadn’t guessed that it would be so hard.
His voice trembles.
His hands shake.
He senses that every sentence
is put to the test of darkness.
He must muddle through alone,
without colors or lights.
A treacherous endeavor
for his poems’ stars,
dawns, rainbows, clouds, their neon lights, their moon,
for the fish so silvery thus far beneath the water
and the hawk so high and quiet in the sky.
He reads—since it’s too late to stop now—
about the boy in a yellow jacket on a green field,
red roofs that can be counted in the valley,
the restless numbers on soccer players’ shirts,
and the naked stranger standing in a half-shut door.
He’d like to skip—although it can’t be done—
all the saints on that cathedral ceiling,
the parting wave from a train,
the microscope lens, the ring casting a glow,
the movie screens, the mirrors, the photo albums.
But great is the courtesy of the blind,
great is their forbearance, their largesse.
They listen, smile, and applaud.
One of them even comes up
with a book turned wrongside out
asking for an unseen autograph.

wastelandmoon's review against another edition

4.0

Memorable: Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History, Moment, Among the Multitudes, First Love, A Contribution to Statistics, Photograph From September 11, The Courtesy of the Blind

raluca_p's review

4.0

First Love

They say
the first love’s most important.
That’s very romantic,
but not my experience.
 
Something was and wasn’t there between us,
something went on and went away.
 
My hands never tremble
when I stumble on silly keepsakes
and a sheaf of letters tied with string
—not even ribbon.
 
Our only meeting after years:
two chairs chatting
at a chilly table.
 
Other loves
still breathe deep inside me.
This one’s too short of breath even to sigh.
 
Yet just exactly as it is,
it does what the others still can’t manage:
unremembered,
not even seen in dreams,
it introduces me to death.

chadinguist's review

4.0

همیشه تکه هایی از شعرهای شیمبورسکا رو اینور اونور میخوندم و نمیدونم چرا هیچوقت به فکرم نرسیده بود برم سراغ کاراش. دیروز که دوباره به یه تیکه دیگه از شعرهاش برخوردم احساس کردم حقش نیست که با اون قیافه گوگولی و اون موهای قشنگش و اون لبخند شیرینش که باعث میشه دلت بخواد لپشو بکشی, کارهاش اینجوری تکه پاره خونده بشه.
و چقدر خوشحالم که بالاخره یکی از کارهاشو خوندم.
بعد از مدت ها کتابی منو مدام به خودش صدا میزد. مدام دلم میخواست زمان استراحتم برسه یا کارام تموم شه و توی راه برگشت بخونمش. خونه که رسیدم دلم نیومد به حال خودش رهاش کنم. داشت منو صدا میزد.
بارها و بارها برمیگشتم صفحه های قبل برای مرورشون و تکه های قلبم رو که جا مونده بود دوباره برمیداشتم و به خوندن ادامه میدادم.
اولین شعرش که همنام اسم کتاب هست رو سه دور پشت سر هم خوندم و هنوز هم دوست دارم بخونم.
آخه لعنتی چطور از دل یک سگ طوری مینویسی که اونقد آدم تاچ میشه؟!
میدونم که وقتی دوباره نیاز به فرار از زندگی روزمره بهم غلبه کنه باز هم بهش برخواهم گشت.
هرچند ترجمه میتونست بهتر از این باشه و فکر میکنم مترجم های فارسی بهتر از مترجم های زبان های دیگه از پسش بر اومدن. به هرحال کله شق درونم به چپ و راست نگاهی میندازه و وقتی مطمئن میشه کسی حواسش نیست, یواشکی لهستانی رو هم ته لیست لنگوعجز-توو-لرن اش اضافه میکنه و عمر کوتاه رو به روی خودش هم نمیاره.
کلام آخر هم اینکه
مرسی خانوم شیمبورسکا
شعرهات برای دو روز, غار و پناهگاه من بود

gellhorn13's review against another edition

funny hopeful inspiring reflective sad medium-paced

4.0

the_booker's review against another edition

challenging emotional hopeful mysterious reflective sad fast-paced

5.0

supdankosmos's review

4.0

Not as good as her other book HERE, I enjoyed this one though. Gonna pick more of her books.

Why did I take bad things
for good ones
and what would it take
to keep from doing it again?

* * * * *

I am who I am.
a coincidence no less
unthinkable
than any other,

I could have had different
ancestors, after all.
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from another tree.

Nature's wardrobe
holds a fair supply of costumes:
spider, seagull, field mouse.
Each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully wor
into shreds.

I didn't get a choice either,
but I can't complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate
Someone from an anthill,
shoal,or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape tousled by
the wind

spacestationtrustfund's review

3.0

Oh yes, finally, Clare Cavanagh and Stanisław Barańczak have—unlike their previous endeavour with Szymborska's poetry—been able to produce a bilingual edition. The translations have also notably improved. Here's one of my favourite poems, in Polish and then in English:

CHWILA

Idę sto­kiem pa­gór­ka za­zie­le­nio­ne­go.
Tra­wa, kwia­tusz­ki w tra­wie
jak na ob­raz­ku dla dzie­ci.
Nie­bo za­mglo­ne, już błę­kit­nie­ją­ce.
Wi­dok na inne wzgó­rza roz­le­ga się w ci­szy.

Jak­by tu­taj nie było żad­nych kam­brów, sy­lu­rów,
skał war­czą­cych na sie­bie,
wy­pię­trzo­nych ot­chła­ni,
żad­nych nocy w pło­mie­niach
i dni w kłę­bach ciem­no­ści.

Jak­by nie prze­su­wa­ły się tędy ni­zi­ny
w go­rącz­ko­wych ma­li­gnach,
lo­do­wa­tych dresz­czach.

Jak­by tyl­ko gdzie in­dziej bu­rzy­ły się mo­rza
i roz­ry­wa­ły brze­gi ho­ry­zon­tów.

Jest dzie­wią­ta trzy­dzie­ści cza­su lo­kal­ne­go.
Wszyst­ko na swo­im miej­scu i w układ­nej zgo­dzie.
W do­lin­ce po­tok mały jako po­tok mały.
Ścież­ka w po­sta­ci ścież­ki od za­wsze do za­wsze.
Las pod po­zo­rem lasu na wie­ki wie­ków i amen,
a w gó­rze pta­ki w lo­cie w roli pta­ków w lo­cie.

Jak okiem się­gnąć, pa­nu­je tu chwi­la.
Jed­na z tych ziem­skich chwil
pro­szo­nych, żeby trwa­ły.

MOMENT

I walk on the slope of a hill gone green.
Grass, little flowers in the grass,
as in a children’s illustration.
The misty sky’s already turning blue.
A view of other hills unfolds in silence.

As if there’d never been any Cambrians, Silurians,
rocks snarling at crags,
upturned abysses,
no nights in flames
and days in clouds of darkness.

As if plains hadn’t pushed their way here
in malignant fevers,
icy shivers.

As if seas had seethed only elsewhere,
shredding the shores of the horizons.

It’s nine thirty local time.
Everything’s in its place and in polite agreement.
In the valley a little brook cast as a little brook.
A path in the role of a path from always to ever.

Woods disguised as woods alive without end,
and above them birds in flight play birds in flight.

This moment reigns as far as the eye can reach.
One of those earthly moments
invited to linger.

sabinaleybold's review against another edition

challenging fast-paced

4.0

ejoppenheimer's review against another edition

reflective fast-paced

4.0