sunscreen

Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’99

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

Baz Luhrmann, Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)
The lyrics are taken from an essay written in 1997 by Mary Schmich, a columnist with the Chicago Tribune.

poetry

I wish I could write poems. If I did, they would be pretty much in the same tone as the ones here:

Halina Poświatowska - Indeed I Love...

nothing twice

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.

by Wislawa Szymborska

Uncertainty

While I don't see you, I don't shed a tear
I never lose my senses when you're near,
But, with our meetings few and far between
There's something missing, waiting to be seen.
Is there a name for what I'm thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?

As soon as we have said our last good-byes,
Your image never floats before my eyes;
But more than once, when you have been long gone,
I seemed to feel your presence linger on.
I wonder then what I've been thinking of.
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?

When I'm downcast, I never seek relief
By pouring out my heart in tales of grief;
Yet, as I wander aimlessly, once more
I somehow end up knocking at your door;
What brought me here? What am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?

I'd give my life to keep you sound and well,
To make you smile, I would descend to hell;
But though I'd climb the mountains, swim the seas
I do not look to be your health and peace:
Again I ask, what am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? or should I call this love?

And when you place your hand upon my palm,
I am enveloped in a blissful calm,
Prefiguring some final, gentle rest;
But still my heart beats loudly in my breast
As if to ask: what are you thinking of?
Are you two friends? or will you call this love?

Not bardic spirit seized my mortal tongue
When I thought of you and composed this song;
But still, I can't help wondering sometimes:
Where did these notions come from, and these rhymes?
In heaven's name, what I was dreaming of?
And what had inspired me? Friendship or love?


by Adam Mickiewicz (translator unknown)


by Anawa and Grechuta in 1969

I should...

I have not been writing here regularly since some time. Mainly because I needed time to figure out my feelings and what I want right now from life (in the sense of relationships, not work or career).

The process of figuring it out was painful and led nowhere. So I decided to stop thinking and feeling guilty for the things that I have not even done yet.

So here I am. Not thinking, not knowing what I want, but at the same time very happy and letting somebody special spoil me a bit ;-)

EDIT:

This song (poem) fits perfectly here and now:



Podaruj mi cos czego nie
Zdobede sama
A wtedy ja szepne Ci
Mozesz mnie dotknac

Moze pozwole ci bys ze mna budzil sie
Moze powiem Ci jakie lubie wino
Moze pozwole Ci zapalic swieczke
Gdy w pewna zimowa noc
Zgasnie swiatlo

remedium

Getting into a train, doesn't matter which
Not thinking about luggage
Not thinking about a ticket
Keeping the green stone in the hand
Looking at everything as it stays behind

(...)
That's a trip I want to take
But will I ever dare...



By Robert Gawlinski and Wilki

original Maryla Rodowicz version

Światem zaczęła rządzić jesień
Topi go w żółci i czerwieni
A ja tak pragnę czemu nie wiem
Uciec pociągiem od jesieni

Uciec pociągiem od przyjaciół
Wrogów, rachunków, telefonów
Nie trzeba długo się namyślać
Wystarczy tylko wybiec z domu

Ref.
Wsiąść do pociągu byle jakiego
Nie dbać o bagaż,
Nie dbać o bilet
Ściskając w ręku kamyk zielony
Patrzeć jak wszystko zostaje w tyle

W taką podróż chcę wyruszyć
Gdy podły nastrój i pogoda
Zostawić lóżko, Ciebie, szafę
Niczego mi nie będzie szkoda

Zegary staną niepotrzebne
Pogubię wszystkie kalendarze
W taką podróż chcę wyruszyć
Tylko czy kiedyś się odważę
Ref.

Wsiąść do pociągu ...

czwarta nad ranem

SDM Czarny blues o czwartej nad ranem

Czwarta nad ranem
Może sen przyjdzie
Może mnie odwiedzisz

Czwarta nad ranem
Może sen przyjdzie
Może mnie odwiedzisz

Czemu cię nie ma na odległość ręki?
Czemu mówimy do siebie listami?
Gdy ci to śpiewam - u mnie pełnia lata
Gdy to usłyszysz - będzie środek zimy

Czemu się budzę o czwartej nad ranem
I włosy twoje próbuję ugłaskać
Lecz nigdzie nie ma twoich włosów
Jest tylko blada nocna lampka
Łysa śpiewaczka

Śpiewamy bluesa, bo czwarta nad ranem
Tak cicho, by nie zbudzić sąsiadów
Czajnik z gwizdkiem świruje na gazie
Myślałby kto, że rodem z Manhattanu

Czwarta nad ranem...

Herbata czarna myśli rozjaśnia
A list twój sam się czyta
Że można go śpiewać za oknem mruczą bluesa
Topole z Krupniczej
I jeszcze strażak wszedł na solo
Ten z Mariackiej Wieży
Jego trąbka jak księżyc biegnie nad topolą
Nigdzie się jej nie spieszy

Już piąta
Może sen przyjdzie
Może mnie odwiedzisz


lyrics: Adam Ziemianin
music: Krzysztof Myszkowski

Mr. Cogito

Years after Carpenters' translation Zbigniew Herbert's poems make their way back to the American bookshops thanks to Valles translation: see a NYT review.
If translating poetry in general is challenging, then in particular translating Herbert must be a nightmare. So even though according to the NYT review the new translation is far from being perfect, I would still think that it should be a-must-read for any poetry lover.

Nothing Special by Zbigniew Herbert

nothing special
boards paint
nails paste
paper string

mr artist
builds a world
not from atoms
but from remnants

forest of arden
from umbrella
ionian sea
from parkers quink

just as long as
his look is wise
just as long as
his hand is sure -

and presto the world -

hooks of flowers
on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by the wind

are there happy poems?

untitled ("When Isolde was dying...")
--------------------------------------------------------------

When Isolde was dying, Tristan would stoop over the hospice
bed and touch her burning forehead with his soft, cool hand.
He would supply his own breath and Isolde drank life from
the breath of her lover. He kept up her falling head, the narrow,
slender back. Her emaciated collarbones lifted frantically
to keep up with her breathing. The heart beat fast, unevenly.
Isolde would tighten her fingers around Tristan's hand.
Talk to me -- she would plead -- I want to hear your voice,
I can still hear -- she would say.
Tristan remained silent and she died, the blind Isolde, mouth
pressed to the hands of her lover.
Which were soft and cool.


***("Kiedy Izolda umierala...")
------------------------------------------------------------------

Kiedy Izolda umierała, Tristan pochylał się nad szpitalnym
łóżkiem, ręką miękką i chłodną dotykał rozpalonego czoła.
Podawał oddech z własnych ust i piła Izolda życie z oddechu
kochanka. Podtrzymywał jej osuwającą się głowę, wąskie,
szczupłe plecy. Obojczyki wychudłe podnosiły się spiesznie,
aby nadążyć za oddechem. Serce biło prędko, nierówno. Izolda
zaciskała palce wokół ręki Tristana.
Przemów do mnie -- prosiła -- chcę słyszeć twój głos, jeszcze
mogę słyszeć -- mówiła.
Milczał Tristan i umarła ślepa Izolda przyciskając usta do
rąk kochanka.
Które miękkie były i chłodne.

Halina Poświatowska
translation by Marek Lugowski

I'm Juliet

untitled ("I am Juliet...")
---------------------------------------------------------

I am Juliet
I am 23 years old
I once touched love
it tasted bitter
like a cup of black coffee
it set my heart
racing
irritated
my alive organism
set my senses swaying

went away

I am Juliet
on a high balcony
dependent
shouting come back
calling come back
staining
bitten lips
with the hue of blood

did not come back

I am Juliet
I am thousand years old
I live --



("Jestem Julia...")
---------------------------------------------------------

Jestem Julią
mam lat 23
dotknęłam kiedyś miłości
miała smak gorzki
jak filiżanka ciemnej kawy
wzmogła
rytm serca
rozdrażniła
mój żywy organizm
rozkołysała zmysły

odeszła

Jestem Julią
na wysokim balkonie
zawisła
krzyczę wróć
wołam wróć
plamię
przygryzione wargi
barwą krwi

nie wróciła
Jestem Julią
mam lat tysiąc
żyję --

Halina Poświatowska
translation by Marek Lugowski

polish literature

perception of Polish literature abroad link

strange is this world

czeslaw niemen: dziwny jest ten swiat


marek grechuta: wazne sa tylko te dni, ktoych jeszcze nie znamy... (sung by Andrzej Lampert)

latwopalni

"Latwopalni" sung by Maryla Rodowicz, lyrics written by Jacek Cygan, music composed by Robert Janson, in memory of Agnieszka Osiecka:


Znam ludzi z kamienia,
Co będą wiecznie trwać
Znam ludzi z papieru,
Co rzucają się na wiatr

A my tak łatwopalni
Biegniemy w ogień,
By mocniej żyć
A my tak łatwopalni
Tak śmiesznie mali
Dosłowni zbyt

Wiem, że można inaczej żyć
Oszukać, odbić czas
Wiem jak zimno potrafi być
Gdy wszystko jest ze szkła

A my tak łatwopalni
Biegniemy w ogień,
By mocniej żyć
A my tak łatwopalni
Tak śmiesznie mali
Dosłowni zbyt

Świat między wierszami
Największy ukrył skarb
Wiesz - w to miejsce czasami
Odchodzi któryś z nas
Odchodzi któryś z nas
Odchodzi któryś z nas


"Nie zaluje" sung by Edyta Geppert, lyrics written by Agnieszka Osiecka, music composed by Seweryn Krajewski:


Że nie dałaś mi mamo zielonookich snów.
Nie, nie żałuję.
Że nie znałam klejnotów ni koronkowych słów.
Nie żałuję.
Że nie mówiłaś mi, jak szczęście kraść spod lady,
i nie uczyłaś mnie życiowej maskarady.
Pieszczoty szarej tych umęczonych dni, nie żal mi,
nie żal mi.
Nie, nie żałuję.
Przeciwnie, bardzo ci dziękuję, kochana,
żeś mi odejść pozwoliła, po to, bym żyła tak jak żyłam.

Że nie dałeś mi szczęścia, pierścionka ani psa.
Nie żałuję.
Że nie dzwonisz po nocach: kochanie, tak to ja.
Nie żałuję.
Że nie załatwisz mi posady sekretarki,
i że nie noszę twojej szarej marynarki.
Że patrzysz na mnie jak teatralny widz,
to nic, to nic.

Nie, nie żałuję.
Przeciwnie, bardzo ci dziękuję, kochanie,
za to, że jesteś królem karo,
że jesteś zbrodnią mą i karą.

Że w tym kraju przeżyłam tych parę trudnych lat.
Nie żałuję.
Że na koniec się dowiem: ot, tak się toczy świat.
Nie żałuję.
Że nie załatwią mi urlopu od pogardy,
i że nie zwrócą mi uśmiechu jak kokardy.
Pieszczoty szarej tych udręczonych dni,
nie żal mi, nie żal mi.

Nie, nie żałuję.
Przeciwnie, bardzo ci dziękuję, mój kraju,
za jakiś czwartek, jakiś piątek, jakiś wtorek,
i za nadziei cały worek.

Nie, nie żałuję.
Przeciwnie, bardzo ci dziękuję,
za to, że jesteś moim krajem,
że jesteś piekłem mym i rajem.
Nie żałuję.
Nie żałuję.
Nie żałuję.

halina poswiatowska

inside me
a tree grows
the branches cling
to my veins tightly
the roots
drink my blood
dry my lips
turn brown
inside me
hunger

Nothing twice

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.

by Wislawa Szymborska

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

by Robert Frost

falling

I, scream


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 stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.
I know I won't be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

by Wislawa Szymborska

Some People Like Poetry

Some people--
that is not everybody
Not even the majority but the minority.
Not counting the schools where one must,
and the poets themselves,
there will be perhaps two in a thousand.

Like--
but we also like chicken noodle soup,
we like compliments and the color blue,
we like our old scarves,
we like to have our own way,
we like to pet dogs.

Poetry--
but what is poetry.
More than one flimsy answer
has been given to that question.
And I don't know, and don't know, and I
cling to it as to a life line.

by Wislawa Szymborska

the auguries of innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

...

by william blake

a full version is here

Metamorphosis Edward Stachura

A mountain
clouds were bursting black
ever more black
like terrible herds of Phrigian horses
until thunder
pierced the still unfinished painting
and the model was falling
head down
into the canvas
and grew into
the still warm contours
of sudden dazzlement

It was morning already
and you were laughing to me from the portrait


Metamorfoza

Gora
chmury pekaly czarne
coraz czarniejsze
jakby koni frygijskich grozne tabuny
az grom
przeszyl obraz nie dokonczony jeszcze
a model spadal
glowa w dol
w plotno
i wrosl
w cieple jeszcze kontury
naglego olsnienia

To byl juz ranek
a ty sie smialas do mnie z portretu