Hello
Gentle Reader
Poetry
has never been a first love—rather there has been very little love with regards
to poetry. Poetry was torture in a literary format. In high school the teachers
despised teaching it. Yet, they adhered to the curriculum and administered the
perception of education with loyalty and devotion. If they were nurses their
motto would have been: “cruel to be kind.” The anthologies of poetry were
quickly tossed on desks, and so the reciting torture of poetry would begin. The
poets on offer: John Keats, Lord Tennyson, and William Wordsworth. In dry
drones, came the monotone monologues of each poem slowly and terribly murdered,
line by line; syllable by syllable. The horrors never stopped after the final
stanza and line were recited. No it continued afterwards. Redundant and useless
questions were aimed and fired at each student: what did the author intend by [
blank ]; what did the poet mean in the following lines—et cetera, et cetera.
When I think of poetry, I think of that class room; and of those crusty old
poets who have since long been dead, and whose work has survived the test of
time only because it is taught in classrooms, to students who otherwise don’t
care. Reading and reciting the poetry of Wordsworth or Tennyson often felt like
one was trying to conduct a séance with them, or worst simply singing
disingenuous praise to the already dead and forlorn. But we did. We recited
every poem. We butchered it with apathy. We destroyed it with disinterest. Best
of all, we forgot the poets at the end of the day; their names meant little us,
other than pretentious pillocks. When the unit or lesson was finished, the
anthologies were packed up with great pleasure and tossed back into storage
where they belonged. Afterwards we never looked back on the subject. The only
real world application of poetry, has is placing a line or a quote in an e-mail
signature.
Despite
our poor introduction, the relationship between poetry and myself has thawed
over the years. The cause of this thaw comes from one specific poet: Wisława
Szymborska. When I first began to take an interest in the Nobel Prize for
Literature, many moons ago, I continually came across Wisława Szymborska. On
her Nobel profile the citation reads: “for poetry that with ironic precision
allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of
human reality.” The citation was ostentatious and was off putting. It reminded
me of the old forlorn dead poets of my former English classes of high school,
and worried this bird like woman was somehow equally connected to them. Much
like those ancient poets, I thought Szymborska was a poet locked in the ivory
tower and whose only correspondence with the world were here highly pretentious
pieces of poetry, which were more cryptographic then communicative. Thankfully
this was all false. The first poem I read by Wisława Szymborska was: “Cat in an
Empty Apartment.” The poem showed me what poetry could be—or rather should be:
simple and human, all the while grappling with grand and universal themes. The
poem “Cat in an Empty Apartment,” famously deals with the theme and concept of
death, via the perspective of a cat whose owner has died. The poem is both
humorous and serious, as it discusses the theme of death through the
self-absorbed eyes of a cat. From there, I sought out to see more of her poetry
and to learn more about the author, who finally awakened me to the beauty of
simplicity, and the enjoyment of asking naïve questions.
Through
the years, I’ve learned quite a bit about Wisława Szymborska, who is
affectionately called: “the Mozart of poetry,” as well as the “Greta Garbo of
poetry.” Throughout her life time she produced very few, but exquisite poems—a
total estimate of 350 poems. When asked about her limited output by a
journalist she responded: “I have a waste basket.” Yet, she has been one of the
most highly praised and well respected poets of her generation. Yet, she was
known as a humble person, who preferred her life to be calm and quiet. She
rejected ostentatious procedures and celebrations of prompt and grandeur. She
did not like to ask questions which invaded someone’s privacy and never felt it
appropriate to discuss herself. She rarely consented or gave interviews, and
was known for being quite mute on the topic of poetry. When she was awarded the
Nobel Prize for Literature in nineteen-ninety six, her friends called it: “The
Stockholm Tragedy,” as the media and press requested more interviews and comments,
and then she had ever consented to in her life prior the award. The peace and
calm she once enjoyed had been suddenly usurped by congratulatory messages, and
requests for appearances.
Despite
becoming a somewhat unintentional celebrity, Wisława Szymborska, continued on
with her usual daily life. She took her walks through nature, enjoyed coffee
with friends, and hosted ‘lotteries,’ or ‘lucky dips,’ where her dear friends
and associates would win kitschy prizes from her apartment—often called “the
drawer.” In one documentary film: “Life is Bearable at Times,” there is a scene
when the poet and her friends, search through her apartment to find her Nobel
medal, which had been misplaced amongst the collection of her collectables, all
neatly placed in her ‘drawers,’—which the poet thought was the greatest
invention mankind had thought up. These collected items, however, were not for
personal use. Wisława Szymborska would often bring back these unique items to
be shared with her friends, and according to her wishes, her friends gathered
one last time in her apartment to retrieve one memento at random, as a farewell
gift.
I’ve
continually returned and pick up one of my collections of Szymborska’s poetry
and will often read at random. I read her when I am sad or angry or happy. I
read her to inspire me to get up in the morning and trudge through the day. I
read her for comfort. There has been no writer, quite like Wisława Szymborska,
and always find amazement and hope. For the past two and a half years, I’ve
been casually reading her selected prose titled: “Non-required Reading.” It’s
taken me so long to get through these short thoughts and essays on books read,
simply because I desired to savor the journey with the book. On cold winter
nights, I’d pick it up and read one or two essays, and enjoy the irony, wit,
candor, and grace of the author; then place it back on the shelf and leave it
for a week or two to a month, before returning to it again, and once again be
filled with the same joy. After finishing the book, there was no sense of
relief or accomplishment, but just a wonderful sensation of sharing the
ethereal company of a truly wonderful person.
The
collected sketches (not reviews—and that is the authors own words) showcase Wisława
Szymborska truly enjoyment of reading. In her introduction to the book she
states:
“I’m
old fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that
humankind has yet devised.”
This
book certainly offers testimony to the above statement. The books overviewed
and pondered on are eclectic and eccentric. Each one offering a little bit of
information, something to gather, something to enjoy, as well as something to
ponder. As she provides her thoughts, Wisława Szymborska employs her wit with
great timing. In the sketch titled “Dream On,” she opens with the following:
“We
dream, but so carelessly, so imprecisely! “I want to be a bird,” this or that
person will say. But if an obliging fate changed him into a turkey, he’d feel
betrayed.”
I
don’t recall laughing out loud as much as I did while reading “Non-required
Reading.” I don’t recall enjoying the opinions of others as much either. But as
of late, I’ve become more interested in reading the essays, journals, and
thoughts of writers—in order to get a feel for them as individuals and their
work. It came to a surprise to Wisława Szymborska that Jules Verne was more
monster than man; yet he was adored by children everywhere, and upon his death
was mourned with sadness worldwide, but in his hometown and by his family, a
sigh of relief was exchanged, and perhaps even hands clapped ready to dig and
bury, and be done with him. Thankfully the fate of Jules Verne has not been
shared to our dear Wisława Szymborska, who remains beloved, missed, and
enjoyed.
I
finished this book on my birthday, a week and some ago—and cannot think of a
better way of spending my birthday (and spending my time at work), then
finishing this beautiful collection of prose, which will most certainly come
back to, much like I do her poetry.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
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