Cyprian Norwid: Poems by Danuta Borchardt, Cyprian Norwid

By Danuta Borchardt, Cyprian Norwid

Thought of a "Christian Socrates" by way of one critic and a "hieroglyph stylist" via one other, Cyprian Norwid was once extra unanimously well-known, even if, as essentially the most important figures in Polish letters whose verse is as idiosyncratic because it is profound. touring opposed to the currents of the philosophy of his day, Norwid used to be a historicist with deep perception into the codes and ripples within the society round him. This attractive assortment, chosen and translated by means of Danuta Borchardt, comprises a lot of Norwid¢s respected poems, together with Vademecum. precise to its Latin summons, "go with me," the epic poem invitations the reader to accompany Norwid on a trip although many lands and undying query, looking fact. We witness Norwid decrying the tight-fisted urban people of London, befriending Frédéric Chopin – whom he meets in the course of his travels, and lamenting the dying of a chum. Lyrical, relocating and infrequently biting, this assortment provides an evocative glimpse into the area of a unprecedented poet.

Cyprian Norwid (1821-1883), poet, playwright, novelist, philosopher, and visible artist, used to be nearly unknown in the course of his lifetime. His poetry, jam-packed with aphorisms and multi-layered metaphor, is basically freed from the melodic tone common of Romantic poetry. while the occupying powers censored all writing within the Polish language, Norwid went into exile, relocating via Europe and the US. He died in a hostel in Ivry.

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Lord, smite us in our chains. I escape. And I’m escaping into a whitewashed wall of morning. Myself a dark stain in that screen, an instinct for river and stream. A lost scent Sunglasses can’t hold me in flashing eyes. Call it: illumination is to be bad by prayer. Call it: veritable ark upon the shoulders. A dinghy will do, a dinghy or a bed, a bed of a thousand lies will do. I’d lie like a prince. I’d search neglect — a mountainous rush of blood — a moonshine in the rocks and no distillery. This is called: the life of a galaxy.

Sea of black shoulder. Black eyes undressing. O, I say and turn to what’s left unsaid. My eyes with the swallows construct biographies in the eaves, daylight distilling in amber, honeyed essence of . . I want to say the moment’s soul, time-being liquefied & oozing between boards. Flies stumble, clear of conscience. Light, my pilgrim, you’re not the one I’m looking for. Shadow, my pilgrim, I follow you till you follow me around. [ 34 ] The House Changing Hands Our street no longer stumbles into trees.

Shadow, my pilgrim, I follow you till you follow me around. [ 34 ] The House Changing Hands Our street no longer stumbles into trees. The sign is gone along with the dead end. British-green BMWs lead each other by invisible threads past houses in colors of nouveau New England’s mauve and robin-egg blue. A professional couple in a swath of Kentucky-blue-green grass ply their beautiful, shiny-faced daughter on her first bicycle where my brothers scraped the bottoms of their rowboats and spread their nets to dry.

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