Wislawa Szymborska

(2 July 1923 – 1 February 2012 / Prowent)

Wislawa Szymborska Poems

1. A Few Words On The Soul 2/3/2012
2. A Great Man's House 2/3/2012
3. A 'Thank You' Note 8/26/2015
4. Advertisement 2/3/2012
5. Birthday 2/3/2012
6. Children Of Our Age 2/3/2012
7. Clouds 2/3/2012
8. Consolation 2/3/2012
9. Could Have 2/3/2012
10. Dreams 2/3/2012
11. First Love 7/10/2015
12. Going Home 1/9/2015
13. Hatred 3/14/2015
14. Hunger Camp At Jaslo 1/13/2003
15. Identification 2/3/2012
16. Lot's Wife 1/20/2003
17. Miracle Fair 2/3/2012
18. Negative 2/3/2012
19. Nothing Twice 2/3/2012
20. On Death, Without Exaggeration 2/3/2012
21. Photograph From September 11 8/22/2014
22. Pi 12/4/2015
23. Poetry Reading 2/3/2012
24. Possibilities 2/3/2012
25. Some Like Poetry 1/13/2003
26. Some People 2/3/2012
27. Still 1/13/2003
28. The End And The Beginning 2/3/2012
29. The Joy Of Writing 2/3/2012
30. The Silence Of Plants 2/3/2012
31. Three Oddest Words 2/3/2012
32. Tortures 1/13/2003
33. True Love 2/3/2012
34. Two Monkeys by Brueghel 9/30/2015
35. Under One Small Star 1/20/2003
36. Utopia 2/2/2012
37. Vermeer 9/29/2015

Comments about Wislawa Szymborska

  • Amanda Funmilayo Adebakin (12/5/2017 1:37:00 PM)

    I actually think there is a lot of things to learn from this reading alone.
    At first it was hard to pronounce and spell WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA, but now i know how to.
    there is a lot of things to actually concenterate on in this poem, by the sides i love poem that cracks the brain open.
    the idea of this poem is the most incredible poetry writing i have ever read.
    this one is better than the other ones i have read all ready, this is in credible and brilliant.

    1 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Amanda funmilayo adebakin (12/5/2017 1:27:00 PM)

    This poem is a very great stuff to put all your mind and imagination into to understand, i love it.

  • Chris Long (9/21/2017 9:34:00 AM)

    I hat niggers

  • Chris Long (9/21/2017 9:34:00 AM)


  • Chris Long (9/21/2017 9:34:00 AM)

    I hate N I G G E R S

  • Chris Long (9/21/2017 9:34:00 AM)

    I hate niggers

  • Justaname Parer (5/14/2005 4:55:00 AM)


    I have also seen 'Any case' translated like this:

    'Could have'

    It could have happened.
    It had to happen.
    It happened earlier. Later.
    Nearer. Farther off.
    It happened, but not to you.

    You were saved because you were the first.
    You were saved because you were the last.
    Alone. With others.
    On the right. On the left.
    Because it was raining. Because of the shade.
    Because the day was sunny.

    You were in luck - there was a forest.
    You were in luck - there were no trees.
    You were in luck - a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,
    A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant...

    So you're here? Still dizzy from
    another dodge, close shave, reprieve?
    One hole in the net and you slipped through?
    I couldn't be more shocked or
    how your heart pounds inside me.

    Wislawa Szymborska, 'Could have', in View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems, trans. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh, Harcourt Brace & Company, New York,1996, pp.65-66.

Best Poem of Wislawa Szymborska

Under One Small Star

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.
Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway ...

Read the full of Under One Small Star

Hunger Camp At Jaslo

Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,

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