The Meeting Jan Twardowski

I translated few poems of one of the unique polish poet, and famous priest JAN TWARDOWSKI. He wrote short, simple poems. He joins observation of nature with philosophical reflexion.

I absolutely adore Jan Twardowski poetry. The magnificent, and at the same time simple languages, the emotional matureness and childish sensitiveness and deep, deep feelings. I hope you will share my opinion, but your comments more then welcome.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_Twardowski

This poem come from poetry volume called ,, Only love counts’’

I only translated the poems winch I found remarkable.

The Meeting

That one moment of strange inspiration

When someone suddenly look beautiful

So, close from the beginning like a house chestnut in a park

A tear in a kiss

The owned one everyday

Like you would wash with it in one camomile

That one moment what falls like a fire?

You don’t want to stop

The roads are parting

Loneliness joins bodies and souls suffering

That one moment

Nothing else is needed

That what once only - stays forever?

Jan Twardowski

Translation Joanna Sychta

Spotkanie

Ta jedna chwila dziwnego olśnienia
kiedy ktoś nagle wydaje się piękny
bliski od razu jak dom kasztan w parku
łza w pocałunku
taki swój na co dzień
jakbyś mył włosy z nim w jednym rumianku
ta jedna chwila co spada jak ogień

nie chciej zatrzymać
rozejdą się drogi -
samotność łączy ciała a dusze cierpienie

ta jedna chwila
nie potrzeba więcej

to co raz tylko - zostaje najdłużej

ks Jan Twardowski

If ... Rudyard Kipling

                                     

                                      Jeżeli zdołasz

Jeżeli zdołasz zachować spokój,
chociażby wszyscy już go stracili ciebie oskarżając…
Jeżeli nadal masz nadzieję,
chociażby wszyscy o tobie zwątpili,
licząc się jednak z ich zastrzeżeniem…
Jeżeli umiesz czekać bez zmęczenia,
jeżeli na obelgi nie reagujesz obelgami,
jeżeli nie odpłacasz za nienawiśćœć nienawiœścią,
nie udając jednakże mędrca i œświętego..
Jeżeli marząc – nie ulegasz marzeniom…
Jeżeli rozumując – rozumowania nie czynisz celem…
Jeżeli umiesz przyjść sukces i porażkę,
traktując jednakowo oba te złudzenia…
Jeżeli œcierpisz wypaczenie prawdy przez Ciebie głoszonej,
kiedy krętacze czynią z niej zasadzkę, by wydrwić naiwnych..
Albo zaakceptujesz ruinę tego, co było treœścią Twego życia,
kiedy pokornie zaczniesz odbudowę zużytymi już narzędziami…
Jeœli potrafisz na jednej szali położyć wszystkie twe sukcesy
i potrafisz zaryzykować, stawiając wszystko na jedną kartę,
jeœli potrafisz przegrać i zacząć wszystko od początku,
bez słowa, nie żaląc się, że przegrałeśœ..
Jeżeli umiesz zmusić serce, nerwy, siły,
by nie zawiodły,
choćbyœ od dawna czuł ich wyczerpanie,
byleby wytrwać, gdy poza wolą nic już nie mówi o wytrwaniu…
Jeżeli umiesz rozmawiać z nieuczciwymi nie tracąc uczciwoœści
lub spacerować z królem w sposób naturalny..
Jeżeli nie mogą zranić cię nieprzyjaciele ani serdeczni przyjaciele…
Jeżeli cenisz wszystkich ludzi, nikogo nie przeceniając…
Jeżeli potrafisz spożytkować każdą minutę, nadając wartoœć każdej
przemijającej chwili..
twoja jest ziemia i wszystko co na niej
i - co ważniejsze – synu mój -
będziesz CZŁOWIEKIEM.

 
List do syna - Rudyard Kipling

and the english version 

 
If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stood and build' em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Starting OVER again

Starting OVER again

I didn't write for a couple years and now my life is totally different that used to.
I am going to write this year. I am not sure how often, every day, once a week, once a month, but I promise I will write something. Maybe I will find out how I got here where I am now and what I can do to be happy.

Today I am watching this movie Starting over again and will do the same with my life.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYKGY2NrBYY

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like a disaster. 

                                           Elizabeth Bishop

 

 How will you interpret the poem? What do you think author is    

 telling us? Please could you comment?

 

Polish romantic comedy

 

Letters to St. Nicholas

Polish romantic comedy

Lots of snow, Christmas carols, love songs, Christmas trees standing, people who dream of love, true friendship and the family harmony. They are lost in themselves, but they deserve to be lucky, if not constant, at least on Christmas Eve. And then they are becoming close with themselves, their stories splice, and their problems disappear.

Some more polish poetry - Halina Poświatowska

Halina Poświatowska

1956 marked a significant political as well as cultural transition: after a period of social realism, Polish poetry spoke with a full voice and showed incredible richness. What began to matter was imagination, the courage to express oneself, irony, distance and personality. The debut of Halina Poświatowska Idol Worship in 1958 was one indicator of this transition. Her choice of the free verse, addressing directly the subject of love and the existential reflection placed Poświatowska within the mainstream of Polish poetry.

Poświatowska is primarily a poet of love.

For the first time in Polish literature a woman wrote so openly about erotic desires and admitted her own sensuality.

She could not forget though that her life was under threat. She perceived death with calm but even more so she wanted to live to the fullest.

Until today for many readers there remains an unresolved puzzle to Poświatowska's life: why did she not give up being active, why did she travel, and love, although doctors recommended that she avoid emotions and maintain peace and moderation? If one understands her poetry though, and especially discovers the relationship that exists between love and death, the puzzle will cease to intrigue. Intense feelings, joy, compassion and the torments of love are the opposites of the total calmness which death brings. There is no attempt in her poetry to reach out with hope beyond the end of life.

A great role is played by the metaphor, imagination and emotions. The poet perceived the whole world in a sensual way: even the sun, the breezes, flowers and animals, all bring about erotic associations. Sometimes we can see a particular cult of her own beauty. A poem becomes a mirror in which a delicate slim figure is reflected to indicate both gracefulness and the existential threat.

Despite the passing of time Poświatowska is not forgotten by the readers. It is as if Poświatowska's charm could be sensed through her poems and acquired a special appeal. Perhaps she enchants with her feminine charm but at the same time she impresses with her existential courage.

  

Whenever, when I want to live I scream

Whenever, when I want to live I scream

When live leaves me

I cling to him

Saying – life

Do not go yet

His warm hand inside my hand

My lips beside his ear

Whisper

Life

As if the life was a lover

Who wants to leave?

I cling to his neck

Scream

I die if you leave 

Halina Poświatowska 

Polish poetry

Translation JES

I’m Juliet

I'm Juliet

I am 23

I once touched love


it had the bitter taste


of black coffee


it quickened


my heartbeat


crazed


my living body


rocked my senses

it left

I'm Juliet


high up on a balcony


suspended


I cry come back


I call come back


biting my lips


I draw blood

it hasn't come back

I'm Juliet


a thousand years old


alive

I look for you

I look for you in the cat's soft fur

in raindrops

in a picket fence

and, leaning on the kind fencepost,

obscured by sunlight

— a fly in a spider's web —

I wait...

On a dust-covered road I search for your lips.

I bend over and look under each moss-wrapped stone.

coiled into spirals snails sleep in moist shade.

I wake them and ask where is he? they stretch out their drowsy

horns peek from their shells squint at the sun.

and vanish saying nothing. I ask the stone smooth

its rough surface with my warm hungry hand. it's silent.

I ask the sun. it bends its head to the west and I go

after the sun westward to find you.

I like longing

climbing up the railings of sound and color

catching into my open mouth

the frozen scent

I like my loneliness

suspended higher

than a bridge

embracing the sky with its arms

and my love

walking barefoot

over the snow

A splinter of my imagination

sometimes flares up from a word

and sometimes from the smell of salt

and I feel under me

the ship shift from foot to foot

and the ocean is immeasurable

without any shore

secure in a shell of wood

I am wonderfully free

I love no one

and nothing

He said — he loved he said

now I live

in his smile

and trace

the shape of hips

as narrow

as the trunk of the young spruce

whose grace

I praised last night

before he

sowed singing desire

in my dancing hands

in my feet standing on tiptoe

in my teeth

I long

in great pensiveness

resting my chin on my hand

I think — about the skin

whose tart and

golden taste

I recollect

Passion is

what the violin sang about

enclosed in its dark case

airless

like the night

within the shell of light

marked by the nails of stars

it lives

in your words of warm pomegranate

it smells of peach

and sunshine

caught in the green net of a tree

ripe

bent over faded grass

it leans

towards my open hands

while I — my mouth closed

in a foreign tongue teach

the word — confined like death

love

I can't say with a word

not with a word do I yearn

but with my arms

embracing space

but with blood

overflowing my arms

you are in my heartbeat

echoing itself

returning to itself

remembering forever

in me you rise

most deeply

and each breath

which freezes solid in the cold

reminds me that you are

that again you have left me

Stock taking

Kisses will go on sale

breathless kisses

embraces will be discounted

and the waiting day after day

and the waiting day after day

for night

for dawn

for bread

for pain

for hunger

for sun

for rain

for heaven

for... nothing

so many days

nights

forged into a chain of moments

on which

the remarkably subdued

tamed womanhood

will be led to the block...

You live but for a while

and time —

is a transparent pearl

filled with breath

and furniture is sharp-edged

and flesh — delicate

and the earth — flat all over

and heaven — inaccessible

love is a word

brain — a metal box

wound up everyday

with the silver key of illusion

of curiosity to learn

of thirst to know

of desire to shine

of stubbornness to exist

and pity is a frail flower

a delicate flower

which blossoms in dreams sometimes

I would like to see you once again

once again

at nightfall

I would like to live another life

or maybe even two

so I could see you

and that pain

which carried me out

onto the white-hot sand

and the rain of that stormy April and her, panting

faithfully following

in my every step

turning my head at the corners

I scream

that she dare not come without you