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Adam Zagajewski

Datum narození: 21. červen 1945

Adam Zagajewski je současný polský básník, prozaik, esejista a překladatel. Bývá považován za jednu z nejvýznamnějších literárních osobností Polska. Je synem Tadeusze Zagajewského. V rané tvorbě byl spojován s polským literárním směrem Nowa fala .

Jeho báseň Září ze sbírky Ohnivá země pojednává o básníkově návštěvě Prahy a hledání domu Vladimíra Holana. Je dedikována Petru Královi, s nímž se setkal ve Francii během emigrace.


„Nikdy nebudu někým, kdo píše výlučně o zpěvu ptáků, ačkoliv zpěv ptáků velmi obdivuji, ale ne natolik, abych se stáhl ze světa historie, protože historický svět je také přitažlivý. To co mne doopravdy zajímá, je sepětí historického světa s nehybným světem kosmickým, nebo lépe řečeno pohybujícím se, ale v úplně jiném rytmu. Nikdy nebudu vědět, jak ty dva světy spolu existují: bojují jeden s druhým a doplňují se navzájem - a to rozhodně stojí za úvahu.“

„Read for yourselves, read for the sake of your inspiration, for the sweet turmoil in your lovely head. But also read against yourselves, read for questioning and impotence, for despair and erudition, read the dry sardonic remarks of cynical philosophers like Cioran or even Carl Schmitt, read newspapers, read those who despise, dismiss or simply ignore poetry and try to understand why they do it. Read your enemies, read those who reinforce your sense of what's evolving in poetry, and also read those whose darkness or malice or madness or greatness you can't understand because only in this way will you grow, outlive yourself, and become what you are.“ A Defense of Ardor: Essays


„I drink from a small spring,
my thirst exceeds the ocean.“
Without End: New and Selected Poems

„In summer the empire of insects spreads.“

„Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
You’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feathers a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.“

„A little rain, a little blood. Black fingernails in August; and going berserk, going bananas. As if entrapped in a tropical heatwave, with dozens of whirlwinds swirling in one’s mind, one thinks of a way out, or a way in: out of the scorching bosom of a volcano, and in – into the centre of a raging hurricane. And tracing the labyrinthine ways of your mind, the haphazard vagaries of your thoughts at ease, the odds and ends of your mental surplus you carelessly throw at the world, one wants to be at a loss, in a maze; amazed, and amazingly unabashed.“

„But I was only a chaotic walker, nobody could stop me; even a totalitarian state was not able to control my daydreams, my poetic fascinations, the pattern of my walking.“

„Doubt is more intelligent than poetry, insofar as it tells malicious tales about the world, things we’ve long known but struggled to hide from ourselves. But poetry surpasses doubt, pointing to what we cannot know. Doubt is narcissistic; we look at everything critically, including ourselves, and perhaps that comforts us. Poetry, on the other hand, trusts the world, and rips us from the deep-sea diving suits of our “I”; it believes in the possibility of beauty and its tragedy. Poetry’s argument with doubt has nothing in common with the facile quarrel of optimism and pessimism. The twentieth century’s great drama means that we now deal with two kinds of intellect: the resigned and the seeking, the questing. Doubt is poetry for the resigned. Whereas poetry is searching, endless wandering. Doubt is a tunnel, poetry is a spiral. Doubt prefers to shut, while poetry opens. Poetry laughs and cries, doubt ironizes. Doubt is death’s plenipotentiary, its longest and wittiest shadow; poetry runs toward an unknown goal. Why does one choose poetry while another chooses doubt? We don’t know and we’ll never find out. We don’t know why one is Cioran and the other is Milosz.“ A Defense of Ardor: Essays


„IMPOSSIBLE FRIENDSHIPS For example, with someone who no longer is, who exists only in yellowed letters. Or long walks beside a stream, whose depths hold hidden porcelain cups—and the talks about philosophy with a timid student or the postman. A passerby with proud eyes whom you’ll never know. Friendship with this world, ever more perfect (if not for the salty smell of blood). The old man sipping coffee in St.-Lazare, who reminds you of someone. Faces flashing by in local trains— the happy faces of travelers headed perhaps for a splendid ball, or a beheading. And friendship with yourself —since after all you don’t know who you are.“ Eternal Enemies: Poems

„Everything's finished.
Riders gallop black horses, a tyrant composes
a sentence of death with grammatical errors.
Youth dissolves in a day; girls' faces freeze
into medallions, despair turns to rapture
and the hard fruits of stars in the sky
ripen like grapes, and beauty endures, shaken, unperturbed,
and God is and God dies; night returns to us
in the evening, and the dawn is hoary with dew.“
Without End: New and Selected Poems

„ZVONA

Sklonićemo se u zvona, u raznjihana
zvona, u huku, u vazduh, u srce zvonjave.
Sklonićemo se u zvona i zaploviti
iznad zemlje u teškim vagonima. Iznad zemlje,
iznad polja, tamo gde su livade koje nose
mladi jasenovi i seoske crkve, u zaklonu
jutarnjih magli i šuma koje trče kao stada
antilopa; tamo gde potoci tiho pokreću
vodenice. Iznad zemlje, iznad livada,
iznad bele rade, iznad klupe, na kojoj je
ljubav urezala nesavršen znak, iznad
vrbe poslušne hladnom vetru,
iznad škole u kojoj uveče latinske
reči razgovaraju jedne s drugim; iznad dubokog
ribnjaka, iznad Morskog Oka, iznad plača
i iznad žalosti, iznad lornjona koji se presavija
na suncu, iznad kalendara
ispunjenih vremenom koji leže na dnu fioke
spokojno kao grčke amfore u moru.
Iznad granice, iznad tvog budnog pogleda,
iznad nečije zenice, iznad zarđalog topa,
iznad baštenske kapije koje više nema,
iznad oblaka, iznad kiše koja pije rosu,
iznad puža koji ne zna uz kakvu se
statuu penje, iznad brzog voza,
koji ubrzano diše, iznad dečaka
koji vezuje kravatu uoči školske priredbe,
iznad gradskog parka, u kome još uvek leži
nekad izgubljeni švajcarski perorez.
Kad padne noć, sklonićemo se
u zvona, u lake kočije,
u bronzane balone.“
Canvas: Poems

„POSMATRAM FOTOGRAFIJU

Posmatram fotografiju grada u kome sam se rodio,
njegove bujne bašte i krivudave ulice, brda,
katoličke krovove i kupole pravoslavnih crkava
u kojima nedeljom pevaju snažni basovi,
od kojih se okolno drveće povija kao da divlja uragan;
dugo posmatram tu fotografiju i ne mogu da odvojim
pogled sa nje,
odjednom počinjem da zamišljam da svi oni i dalje tu žive,
kao da se ništa nije dogodilo, da neprestano trče na predavanja,
čekaju voz, voze se plavim tramvajem,
uznemireno gledaju u kalendar, staju na vagu,
slušaju Verdijeve arije i omiljene operete,
čitaju novine koje su još bele,
žive u žurbi, u strahu, neprekidno kasneći,
malčice su besmrtni, ali to ne znaju,
neko od njih neuredno plaća kiriju, neko se boji sušice,
neko ne može da završi raspravu o Kantovoj filozofiji,
ni da shvati šta su stvari same po sebi,
moja baka ponovo ide u Bžuhovice noseći
tortu na ravnim ramenima koja se ne opuštaju,
u apoteci stidljivi mladić traži lek protiv stidljivosti,
devojka posmatra svoje male grudi u ogledalu,
moj rođak izlazi u park odmah posle kupanja
ne sluteći da će uskoro dobiti zapaljenje pluća,
ponekad puca oduševljenje, zimi žute lampe
stvaraju krug bliskosti, u julu muve bučno svetkuju
veliku svetlost leta i pevuše mračne himne,
događaju se pogromi, ustanci, deportacije,
okrutni Vermaht u elegantnim uniformama,
nailazi podli NKVD, crvene petokrake
obećavaju prijateljstvo, mada su znak izdaje,
ali oni to ne vide, takoreći to ne vide,
imaju toliko stvari da obave, treba
nabaviti ugalj za zimu, naći dobrog lekara,
rastu gomile pisama bez odgovora, bledi mrko mastilo,
u sobi svira radio, najnovije parče nameštaja koje će
emitovati muziku i loše vesti, ali oni su
umorni od običnog života i običnog umiranja,
nemaju ni za šta vremena, izvinjavaju se zbog toga,
pišu dugačka pisma i lakonske razglednice,
stalno kasne, beznadno kasne,
kao i mi, baš kao i mi, kao i ja.“
Unseen Hand: Poems


„In my defense I have
only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale
among the branches. You forgive it,
its long tenure in the leaves of one aspen
after another, drops of eternity, grams
of amazement, and the sleepy complaints of the poor poets“
Without End: New and Selected Poems

„OLD MARX He can’t think. London is damp, in every room someone coughs. He never did like winter. He rewrites past manuscripts time and again, without passion. The yellow paper is fragile as consumption. Why does life race stubbornly toward destruction? But spring returns in dreams, with snow that doesn’t speak in any known tongue. And where does love fit within his system? Where you find blue flowers. He despises anarchists, idealists bore him. He receives reports from Russia, far too detailed. The French grow rich. Poland is common and quiet. America never stops growing. Blood is everywhere, perhaps the wallpaper needs changing. He begins to suspect that poor humankind will always trudge across the old earth like the local lunatic shaking her fists at an unseen God.“ Eternal Enemies: Poems

„USPAVANKA

Nećeš zaspati danas. Toliko svetlosti u prozoru.
Veštačke vatre rastu nad gradom.
Nećeš zaspati, previše toga se dogodilo.
Nad tobom bdiju knjige postrojene u redove.
Dugo ćeš razmišljati o onome što se zbilo
i nije se zbilo. Nećeš zaspati danas.
Pobuniće se tvoji crveni kapci, oči će ti biti crvene i natečene,
a srce naduveno od uspomena.
Nećeš zaspati. Otvoriće se enciklopedija
i iz nje izaći drevni pesnici, brižno obučeni,
zaštićeni od hladnoće. Kao padobran
Otvoriće se sećanje, iznenada zašištaće vazduh.
Sećanje će se otvoriti i uopšte nećeš zaspati,
ljuljaćeš se između oblaka,
pokretan i jasan cilj, u svetlosti vatrometa.
Više nikada nećeš zaspati, premnogo ti je
ispričano, previše se zbilo.
Svaka kap krvi mogla bi da
napiše svoju skerletnu Ilijadu.
Svako svitanje moglo bi da bude autor
mračnih uspomena. Nećeš zaspati
ispod debelog jorgana krovova, tavana i dimnjaka
koji bacaju uvis pregršt pepela. Bele noći tiho plove nebom
i šušte vesla, svilene čarape.
Izaći ćeš u park i granje će te
blagonaklono udarati po ramenima,
krizmajući te još jednom, kao da nisu sigurne
u tvoju vernost. Nećeš zaspati.
Trčaćeš kroz pusti park, postaćeš
senka i susretaćeš druge senke. Razmišljaćeš
o nekom koga više nema i o nekom
ko živi tako intenzivno da se život na obalama
pretvara u ljubav. Sve je više svetlosti
u sobi. Danas nećeš zaspati.“
Canvas: Poems

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