Szymborska has died. I am trying to pick out a poem to post, failing; there are many that I think are good, more than I remembered. After college she became one of the poets I liked for sentimental rather than literary reasons: for her Polishness, my own, the nascent and childish longing for a homeland (see also: Conrad, Milosz, Chopin); for, in her old age, the striking resemblance she bore towards my grandmother, my Busia. The poetry itself I’ve not read for some time even after the recent review in the NYBR reminded me of it—I remember liking it, finding some of it very fine indeed, but also recall a philosophical heavy-handedness that put me off. Too simple, I remember thinking of her volumes as I hunted my shelves for something to read in the dark over smoke and cooled tea. But this morning I am reminded what I found & prized in her at first, years ago: a discomfort edging towards alienation between the humanity and nature, between the idea of the self and the world of objects. This, I discover, is still there, and is still resonant.
Notes
-
joshuarobertlong liked this
-
mythologyofblue liked this
-
aliceunderskies posted this
