Vista Con Granello Di Sabbia Poesia A MamaVista con granello di sabbia (Wislawa Szymborska) Lo chiamiamo granello di sabbia. Il tempo passò come un messo con una notizia urgente. Vista con granello di sabbia Lo chiamiamo granello di. Sinossi: Quando giunse la notizia che il Premio Nobel per il 1996 era stato conferito a Wislawa Szymborska, molti giornali scrissero che si trattava di una poetessa. Scopri Vista con granello di sabbia. 5.0 su 5 stelle POESIA "poetica" Di Cesare il 25 maggio 2016. Formato: Copertina flessibile Acquisto verificato. Vista con granello di sabbia. Poesie (1. 95. 7- 1. Wis. I must confess that I was totally unaware of the Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska poet till she won the Nobel Prize in 1. Szymborska received the Nobel Prize in Literature “for poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality,” according to Nobel prize citation. Having read almost all her collections of poetry and the lovely prose piece Nonrequired Reading, I can say without exaggeration that she deserves to be called . Wislawa is a miracle in the world of poetry- a serious poet who commanded amazing popularity in her native land as the most representative Polish poet of last century. She is also one of the most accessible of all poets I have read and therefore one of my all- time favorites. Her poems carry that rare fusion of gravity, charming inventiveness, prodigal imagination and stupendous technical dexterity. She is someone who finds extraordinary in the ordinary and possesses that rare ability to transform insignificant and inconsequential things into sublime. She writes of the diversity, plenitude, and richness of the world, taking delight in observing and naming its phenomena. Culture, history, foibles of humanity and the beauty and bounty of natural world are some of the commonly encountered themes in her poetry. She looks on everything with wonder, astonishment, and amusement, but almost never with despair. Her poems sparkle with generous dose of irony and self- effacing humor. May be noting her shy nature and subdued voice in poetry that Czeslaw Milosz, the Polish- born poet who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1. As a person and in her poetry, she is very attenuated. It is just a whisper. View with a grain of sand is her best collection of poems, astutely translated by the famous Polish translator pair Clare Cavanagh and the poet Stanislaw Baranczak (who unfortunately passed away in December 2. Their combined skills in language and imagination have a synergetic effect resulting in felicitous translation of Wislawa’s poetry. Let me begin illustrating the beauty and greatness of her poetry by citing my favorite poem in this collection. The poem is essentially about an offended cat when the owner dies and how this absence of the master affects the cat staying in the apartment. CAT IN AN EMPTY APARTMENTDie—you can't do that to a cat. Since what can a cat doin an empty apartment? Climb the walls? Rub up against the furniture? Nothing seems different here,but nothing is the same. Nothing has been moved,but there's more space. And at nighttime no lamps are lit. Footsteps on the staircase,but they're new ones. The hand that puts fish on the saucerhas changed, too. Something doesn't startat its usual time. Something doesn't happenas it should. Someone was always, always here,then suddenly disappearedand stubbornly stays disappeared. Every closet has been examined. Every shelf has been explored. Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing. A commandment was even broken,papers scattered everywhere. What remains to be done. Just sleep and wait. Just wait till he turns up,just let him show his face. Will he ever get a lessonon what not to do to a cat. Sidle toward himas if unwillingand ever so slowon visibly offended paws,and no leaps or squeals at least to start. How beautifully the increase in ! The lamentation reserved for humans has been permitted to a cat. But the cat cannot articulate its feelings, nor can it hold a dialogue with the dead, or even less, ask questions about them and that explains the absence of . Vista con granello di sabbia. Poesie 1957 - 1993. A cura di Pietro Marchesani. Windows 8 desktop, Windows 7, XP & Vista;. Ho letto Vista con granello di sabbia della polacca Wis?awa Szymborska e devo dirti che è un bel libro. So che tu non leggi libri di poesia – ebbene sì. Vista con granello di sabbia. Wislawa S., Vista con granello di sabbia. Nel 1996 è stata insignita con il premio Nobel per la letteratura «per una poesia che, con ironica precisione. The cat is not even aware of the death and its rituals. It is only aware of the sudden emptiness. This is a heartbreaking poem, to say the least. Moving away from such a somber poem, let us consider the brilliant poem Birthday which is virtually a rhapsody of all poetic pyrotechnics. Birthday laments humans' limited capacity to take in the abundance and beauty of nature, given the brevity of human existence when measured against the vastness of cosmic time. BIRTHDAYSo much world all at once – how it rustles and bustles! Moraines and morays and morasses and mussels,the flame, the flamingo, the flounder, the feather –how to line them all up, how to put them together? All the thickets and crickets and creepers and creeks! The beeches and leeches alone could take weeks. Chinchillas, gorillas, and sarsaparillas –Thanks do much, but all this excess of kindness could kill us. Where’s the jar for this burgeoning burdock, brooks’ babble,rooks’ squabble, snakes’ squiggle, abundance, and trouble? How to plug up the gold mines and pin down the fox,How to cope with the lynx, bobolinks, streptococs! Take dioxide: a lightweight, but mighty in deeds: what about octopodes, what about centipedes? I could look into prices, but don’t have the nerve: These are products I just can’t afford, don’t deserve. Isn’t sunset a little too much for two eyesthat, who knows, may not open to see the sun rise? I am just passing through, it’s a five- minute stop. I won’t catch what is distant: what’s too close, I’ll mix up. While trying to plumb what the void's inner sense is,I'm bound to pass by all these poppies and pansies. What a loss when you think how much effort was spentperfecting this petal, this pistil, this scentfor the one- time appearance, which is all they're allowed,so aloofly precise and so fragilely proud. More than half of the poem is sculpted as a fun poem with its very interesting comic meter and rhythm and you wonder what it is all about till the very end. And you are visibly moved when you finish it. Birthday is so full of exuberance, so full of the gifts of God's bounty, so full of happy gaiety, so full of marvel, that it is natural for the poem to be a hearty outburst in its lyrical note and the alliterative use of language. One picture after another comes gushing forth in a stream of unrestrained thoughts. The birthday is not of one individual but the series of collective births that take place on the earth - . The reader feels likes blurting out in exclamation- What a tremendously hectic schedule for this 5 minutes called life! Let us look at another one that shows her wit, keen observation and inventiveness. The whole poem is fully made up of a series of phrases snatched from the conversations that take place among the attendees of a funeral. The initial conversation will of course be about the death of the person and the speculations on the causative factors. FUNERAL . But in her work, irony becomes playful, almost whimsical. She thinks of the poet as an acrobat who moves, as she puts it, with . She doesn't rant; she calmly assesses. She's a poet of dry- eyed, athletic precision: an acrobat, as she says, not a powerlifter. Let me illustrate it with another lovely poem in this collection that is fun to read. UNDER ONE SMALL STARMy 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. 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. As the poem progresses the speaker keeps shifting from one category to another. She begs forgiveness from inanimate objects and even concepts, then from places and from group of people- everything is anthropomorphized. She herself feels unequal to the world’s sufferings and fears that by narrowing her focus on the world to make it manageable, she has trivialized it. But all viewpoints are incomplete, all efforts inadequate. We see the lyrical driving the logical in this poem. The loveliness of the words is staunchly supported by their meaning. Beauty alone is laudable but beauty combined with truth make it dazzling. Aspects such as natural utilitarian desire, guilt and despair and uncommon insight tinged with humor mesh so well in this verse. The poem’s conclusion itself is another poetic endorsement. I think the author is showing (among other things) that she feels no guilt in finding joy in a world of pain. Finally, the title . She is aware of what she is. She is a part of it. She is a witness. She feels her impact and simultaneously, her lack of impact. We know how she feels. Her radiant optimism , conversational and playful approach to poetry, effortless transformation of weighty into weightless, celebration of joy of existence, unpretentious meditations on life and death , alacrity to meld beings and non- beings into the cosmic fabric and above all the universal appeal of her poems are what makes her one of the most endearing poets of all ages.
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