tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91175671716954650522024-03-04T22:20:22.097-08:00My IrelandMagdalenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09065604498984557242noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117567171695465052.post-80926859292366548082014-09-23T03:39:00.004-07:002014-09-23T03:44:56.284-07:00Córka faraona<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill </span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> (ur.1952)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Irlandzka poetka. Urodzona w Lancashire w Anglii. Wychowana w Irlandii w Dingle (hrabstwo Kerry) oraz w Nenagh (hrabstwo Tipperary), w obszarze irlandzkojęzycznym (<i>Gaeltacht</i>). </span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tworzy wyłącznie w języku irlandzkim (gaelickim). Przekłady jej wierszy zawdzięczamy takim znanym poetom i poetkom irlandzkim jak Seamus Heaney, Paul Muldoon, Medbh McGuckian, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin czy Ciaran Carson.</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jej wiersze przebyły długą drogę. Tak długą jak nadzieja w jej wierszu "W kwestii języka":</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uFhTRyAbHINlp22ZQCvNpC6TA7HOq2G-BEaxtvYyYdW0xAwX3sZagHbGwUxDt03SDbQ7vuxNx41mkCdOE4VOzZuLHLFcfZQw9qtRdD8GNwJvIdUN9JQRXq5xVuDLtrnpxruP6TvFHg2v/s1600/Lomogram_2014-09-23_10-48-13-AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uFhTRyAbHINlp22ZQCvNpC6TA7HOq2G-BEaxtvYyYdW0xAwX3sZagHbGwUxDt03SDbQ7vuxNx41mkCdOE4VOzZuLHLFcfZQw9qtRdD8GNwJvIdUN9JQRXq5xVuDLtrnpxruP6TvFHg2v/s1600/Lomogram_2014-09-23_10-48-13-AM.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>W kwestii języka</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Kładę nadzieję na wodzie</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">na dnie łódeczki</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">języka, jakbym kładła</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">niemowlaka</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">w kobiałce splecionej</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">z kosaćcowych liści,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">której spód pokryto </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">smołą i bitumem,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">a potem puszczam ją z prądem</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">przez porastające brzeg</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">wielkiej rzeki</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">turzyce i papirusy,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">żeby ją wody poniosły,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">choć nie wiem, gdzie osiądzie,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">być może na kolanach</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">córki faraona</span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Przekład: Jerzy Jarniewicz (według przekładu Paula Muldoona)</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Źródło: "Sześć poetek irlandzkich", wyd. Biuro Literackie, Wrocław 2012.</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The Language Issue</b> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I place my hope on the water<br />
in this little boat<br />
of the language, the way a body might put<br />
an infant<br />
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in a basket of intertwined<br />
iris leaves,<br />
its underside proofed<br />
with bitumen and pitch,<br />
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then set the whole thing down amidst<br />
the sedge<br />
and bulrushes by the edge<br />
of a river<br />
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only to have it hither and thither, <br />
not knowing where it might end up;<br />
in the lap, perhaps,<br />
of some Pharaoh's daughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Przekład: Paul Muldoon</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Źródło: Pharaoh's Daughter, Gallery Press, 1990 </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7WQTxEYyuSI7U0tMizMQYhhq0mJobMAK2YmRZmLHFav7BmcVLefcsQ4NfUD5cTTswAJc6mvzfYYo6KgggrUyff-YjfGIiDAyDWMSsrqig_VToUG9nhEr8Yl2fA6pcYtKEsEBiEi_lkuZ/s1600/Lomogram_2014-09-23_10-34-17-AM-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7WQTxEYyuSI7U0tMizMQYhhq0mJobMAK2YmRZmLHFav7BmcVLefcsQ4NfUD5cTTswAJc6mvzfYYo6KgggrUyff-YjfGIiDAyDWMSsrqig_VToUG9nhEr8Yl2fA6pcYtKEsEBiEi_lkuZ/s1600/Lomogram_2014-09-23_10-34-17-AM-001.jpg" height="400" width="257" /></a></i></span><b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ceist na Teangan</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Cuirim mo dhóchas ar snámh<br />
i mbáidín teangan<br />
faoi mar a leagfá naíonán<br />
i gcliabhán<br />
a bheadh fite fuaite<br />
de dhuilleoga feileastraim<br />
is bitiúman agus pic<br />
bheith cuimilte lena thóin</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;">ansan é a leagadh síos<br />
i measc na ngiolcach<br />
is coigeal na mban sí<br />
le taobh na habhann,<br />
féachaint n’fheadaraís<br />
cá dtabharfaidh an sruth é,<br />
féachaint, dála Mhaoise,<br />
an bhfóirfidh iníon Fhorainn?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jeśli chcielibyście posłuchać "łódeczki języka", przyjdźcie w najbliższy czwartek, <b>25.09.2014 </b>do Muzeum Literatury na</span><b><span style="font-size: small;"> <a href="http://muzeumliteratury.pl/spotkania-z-nuala-ni-dhomhnaill/">spotkanie z Nualą Ni Dhomhnaill.</a></span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Poprowadzi je Jerzy Jarniewicz. </span><b> </b></span></span></div>
<span class="postbody"> </span>Magdalenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09065604498984557242noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117567171695465052.post-34703732196854884182014-08-31T10:38:00.003-07:002014-08-31T10:38:32.357-07:00Seamus Heaney<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Miałam szesnaście lat, kiedy spotkałam Seamusa Heaneya" - rozpoczyna jeden ze swoich najbardziej znanych wierszy Leontia Flynn, by potem zapytać "kim jednak był ten Heaney? / Podpisał się na mojej migawce, którą gdzieś posiałam".</div>
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Gdybym ja miała napisać podobny wiersz, pewnie zaczynałby się od zdania "Miałam dziewiętnaście lat, kiedy przeczytałam 'Digging'.." Piękny wiersz o trudach stawania się poetą w Irlandii lat 60-tych, wiersz otwierający pierwszy tomik poezji Seamusa Heaneya wydany w 1966 roku.</div>
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A zatem kim był ten Seamus Heaney? Irlandczyk, poeta, noblista z 1995 roku. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfp4Wy2UP37tUV_nj2ZPpJErPuLJv5mkyiHkecv5Xoj4vnWKIJWrGLgpdkkme8pfw91ypcvmQ1gWnkCSDhAzO_C0kQxB2vaNOaf7bkuEhd8UsennwevFxR8kxGkwwiSM_7t8xztD3jwdCX/s1600/Seamus-Heaney-p.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfp4Wy2UP37tUV_nj2ZPpJErPuLJv5mkyiHkecv5Xoj4vnWKIJWrGLgpdkkme8pfw91ypcvmQ1gWnkCSDhAzO_C0kQxB2vaNOaf7bkuEhd8UsennwevFxR8kxGkwwiSM_7t8xztD3jwdCX/s1600/Seamus-Heaney-p.jpg" height="320" width="294" /></a><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Źródło: Colin Davidson</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>http://www.colindavidson.com/index.php?do=betweenthewords/seamus-heaney</i></span></div>
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Jerzy Jarniewicz napisał o nim:</div>
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<i>Urodził się w</i> <i>Mossbawn, w Irlandii Północnej, w chłopskiej rodzinie. Był rok 1939, ten sam, w którym umarł W. B. Yeats, co niektórzy uznali za symboliczną sukcesję władzy. Miał to szczęście, że należał do "pięknej plejady", pokolenia wyjątkowo utalentowanych północnoirlandzkich poetów, jak Michale Longley czy Derek Mahon, Przyjaźnił się z nimi na studiach w Belfaście. Z tej grupy odniósł największy sukces, kiedy w 1996 r. ukazał się jego debiutancki tomik "Śmierć naturalisty" (Death of a Naturalist)</i>.</div>
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To właśnie ze "Śmierci naturalisty" pochodzi wiersz <b>"Kopanie"</b> ('Digging'):</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Między kciukiem a palcem, przysadziste pióro<br />Tkwi ściśle w garści, jakby dłoń była kaburą.<br />Pod moim oknem - czysty i zgrzytliwy<br />Dźwięk ostrza szpadla, wbijanego w żwiry.<br />To ojciec; kopie. Patrzę z góry,<br />Póki napięty pałąk, grzbiet, znów się nie zegnie<br />Między grządkami kwiatów i dźwignie dwadzieścia<br />Lat temu, kiedy niósł się w tym samym rytmie pochyleń<br />Poprzez poletko kartofli, kopiąc. [...]<br />Na Boga, stary umiał obracać łopatą.<br />Całkiem jak jego stary. [...]<br />Zimna woń ziemniaczanej pleśni, plask i chlupot<br />Płatów mokrego torfu, zwięzły chrzęst ostrza, kiedy<br />Przecięło żywy korzeń - wszystko to budzi się w mózgu.<br />Ale nie mam łopaty, nie mogę być taki jak oni.<br />Między kciukiem a palcem, przysadziste pióro<br />Tkwi w garści.<br />Nim będę kopał.</span></span></div>
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(całość w oryginale poniżej) <em></em></div>
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Krytycy zgodnie uznają, że przełomem w karierze Heaneya był tomik "Północ" wydany w 1975 roku, czyli w chwili nasilenia konfliktu północnoirlandzkiego. W zbiorze tym, zgodnie z deklaracją złożoną w "Kopaniu", Heaney kopie - zarówno "przysadzistym piórem", jak i w "bagnie historii". Metafora ludzi z bagien wykorzystana w "Północy" do opowiedzenia historii Irlandii, jest silna i przejmująca. Jednym z najbardziej znanych wierszy pochodzących z tego tomu jest<b> "Kara"</b>:</div>
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<pre><span style="font-size: small;">Czuję tamto szarpnięcie
postronka na jej
szyi, wiatr
na jej nagich piersiach
ściągający sutki
w krople bursztynu
kołyszący kruchym
rusztowaniem żeber.
Widzę jej ciało
zatopione w bagnie
ciężki kamień <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
unoszące się drągi </span>i gałęzie
Pod nimi była młodym
okoronowanym drzewem
wydobytym teraz
jak kość dębu, szkatułka mózgu -
jej ogolona głowa
jak ścierń czarnego zboża
oczy związane ziemistą opaską
pętla jak pierścień
do przechowywania
wspomnień miłości
Mała cudzołożnico
zanim cię ukarali
byłaś lnianowłosa
niedożywiona i twoja
czarna jak smoła twarz była piękna
Mój biedny ofiarny koźle,
kocham cię prawie,
lecz wiem, że rzucałbym
kamieniami ciszy.
Jestem podstępnym podglądaczem
odsłoniętych i pociemniałych
zwojów twojego mózgu,
siatki mięśni
i wszystkich porachowanych kości -
ja, kiedy stałem niemy
gdy twe zdradzieckie siostry
w czepku ze słomy
łkały pod płotem,
który tolerowałem
gwałt cywilizacji
rozumiem tę intymną
i dokładną, plemienną zemstę</span></pre>
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<pre> </pre>
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W ostatni czwartek, 28.08, dwa dni przed pierwszą rocznicą śmierci Seamusa Heaneya, poczta irlandzka (An Post) wypuściła znaczek upamiętniający Poetę.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yg3UYmlYudNTfeo4BnHp95lscuT2qxTejpChymnMqTGdiDiMDLXewOyN1kta1qzcXgvrZt9adOtagauMA6XGfYAiefGy2_KVWYgkhO46EFN7u6xmP_p8fUaKC0sSc7o7tmOBGlYb9S3t/s1600/SEAMUSHEANEYSTAMP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yg3UYmlYudNTfeo4BnHp95lscuT2qxTejpChymnMqTGdiDiMDLXewOyN1kta1qzcXgvrZt9adOtagauMA6XGfYAiefGy2_KVWYgkhO46EFN7u6xmP_p8fUaKC0sSc7o7tmOBGlYb9S3t/s1600/SEAMUSHEANEYSTAMP.jpg" /></a><em><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span></b></em></div>
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<em><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Źródło: An Post</i></span></b></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">http://www.anpost.ie/AnPost/MainContent/About+An+Post/Media+Centre/Press+Releases/2014/Celebrating+the+late+Seamus+Heaney.htm</span></em></div>
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Dziesięć dni przed śmiercią Heaney napisał swój ostatni wiersz, który poświęcił wnuczce:</div>
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In Time<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h3>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">For Síofra (August 18, 2013)</span></h3>
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Energy, balance, outbreak:<br /> Listening to Bach<br /> I saw you years from now<br /> (More years than I’ll be allowed)<br /> Your toddler wobbles gone,<br /> A sure and grown woman.<br /> Your bare foot on the floor<br /> Keeps me in step; the power<br /> I first felt come up through<br /> Our cement floor long ago<br /> Palps your sole and heel<br /> And earths you here for real.<br /> An oratorio<br /> Would be just the thing for you:<br /> Energy, balance, outbreak<br /> At play for their own sake<br /> But for now we foot it lightly<br /> In time, and silently.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Źródło: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2013/12/23/in-time-3</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Zarówno ten wiersz jak i najlepsze wiersze Heaneya z lat 1988-2013 ukażą się już 6.11.2014 jako "New Selected Poems 1988-2013". Będzie to kontynuacja wydanego w 2002 r. tomu "New Selected Poems 1966-1987". Rodzina Seamusa Heaneya stwierdziła, iż "po roku żałoby po stracie męża i ojca, publikacja zbioru, który będzie zawierał wybrane przez niego wiersze z późniejszego okresu kariery, będzie najlepszym hołdem, jaki mogą złożyć poecie i mężczyźnie, którego tak bardzo im brakuje".</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Moim hołdem jest powrót do jego twórczości. Zaczną, jak wtedy gdy miałam dziewiętnaście lat, od <b>'Digging'</b>:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Between my finger and my thumb</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Under my window, a clean rasping sound </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">When the spade sinks into the gravelly ground:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">My father, digging. I look down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Bends low, comes up twenty years away</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Strooping in rythm through potato drills</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Where he was digging.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Against the inside knee was levered firmly,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">To scatter new potatoes that we picked</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Loving their cool hardness in our hands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">By God, the old man could handle a spade.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Just like his old man.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">My grandfather cut more turf in a day<br />
Than any other man on Toner's bog.<br />
Once I carried him milk in a bottle<br />
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up<br />
To drink it, then fell to right away<br />
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Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods<br />
Over his shoulder, going down and down<br />
For the good turf. Digging.<br />
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The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap<br />
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge<br />
Through living roots awaken in my head.<br />
But I've no spade to follow men like them.<br />
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Between my finger and my thumb<br />
The squat pen rests.<br />
I'll dig with it.</span><br />
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Magdalenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09065604498984557242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117567171695465052.post-7662463359560751192014-08-13T06:06:00.005-07:002014-08-13T06:06:55.342-07:00The Butcher Boy<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>The buses were green as gooseberries and a stone pillar cut the sky. This is Dublin I says to a fellow yeah its Dublin where do you think it is for the love of Jaysus. I liked the way he said that and I tried to say it myself. Jay-zuss. Who's that over there I says to this woman and she looks at me with her mouth open. A big grey statue mouthing about something in the middle of the street and birds shiting all over his head. I thought it was the president but she told me it was Daniel O'Connell. I didn' know anything about him except he was something to do with the English and all that.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b>Patrick McCabe</b>, <i><b>The Butcher Boy</b></i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SirufcKXoMMMzR_j3Awu2Z0KXORTJIUEvd8xW5pHmEH2ukK-4iaypX9yfTVXpDBaWwI6mESeY8MPRyvK-l_XSmVeKeuLca89hHHonQ8upJj3Dnivgt3pLhqU99DZvJWs6R6LMosTDob9/s1600/DSC03921.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknavTb_0jFbjSZsDz6xBB00cItz2RPZoOAhTOeH_uEWXKF1I6u4va_gc1CcCxjYL8Dd-CAJNiSMUanUPfrpGrmgbDFQvgvyeqBaAp0JCVJdXEWsp9UExxK1GMRQaOJmB7l8XZg6_4DrTz/s1600/1-IMG_1905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknavTb_0jFbjSZsDz6xBB00cItz2RPZoOAhTOeH_uEWXKF1I6u4va_gc1CcCxjYL8Dd-CAJNiSMUanUPfrpGrmgbDFQvgvyeqBaAp0JCVJdXEWsp9UExxK1GMRQaOJmB7l8XZg6_4DrTz/s1600/1-IMG_1905.JPG" height="640" width="480" /> </a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SirufcKXoMMMzR_j3Awu2Z0KXORTJIUEvd8xW5pHmEH2ukK-4iaypX9yfTVXpDBaWwI6mESeY8MPRyvK-l_XSmVeKeuLca89hHHonQ8upJj3Dnivgt3pLhqU99DZvJWs6R6LMosTDob9/s1600/DSC03921.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SirufcKXoMMMzR_j3Awu2Z0KXORTJIUEvd8xW5pHmEH2ukK-4iaypX9yfTVXpDBaWwI6mESeY8MPRyvK-l_XSmVeKeuLca89hHHonQ8upJj3Dnivgt3pLhqU99DZvJWs6R6LMosTDob9/s1600/DSC03921.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Daniel O'Connell statue, Dublin</b></td></tr>
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<br />Magdalenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09065604498984557242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117567171695465052.post-11794179151276842002014-07-17T02:49:00.002-07:002014-07-17T02:49:42.344-07:00New Dubliners<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I first came to Dublin in the summer of 2004 the city struck me. It was unlike anything I had known before but at the same time it felt so oddly familiar... Like a place you were born to.. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It was June 2004 and the city was still celebrating the Bloomsday Centenary. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And here is a litle digression: as an English literature student I knew Joyce, I had read <i>A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i> (and was very proud of it back then) but I didn't know <i>Ulyssess</i> and hence had no idea who exactly Bloom was and why the city celebrated him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It took me a while (half a year to read <i>Ulysses</i> and two weeks to savour<i> Dublliners</i>) to understand that the 'prick with the stick' - as Dubliners affectionately nicknamed James Joyce (or more precisely his statue in Earl Street) - simply "presented Dublin to the world".</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yes, the year 1904 was a "defining literary moment" for Dublin. Not only because of this guy... </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU705MQjPydxxaqhPg_GnaJvl8OQKjT2c9AHDK0WRsjHSAOuUpwSLcxHJ2yy5h9ClNJd2V2vF0-ATgOwQIicCE_3KHpOowarrK_ArgXHocQpqkHSKkpo_05Janb7sH8rQ5pOYnUs6YIWf4/s1600/1-DSC05336-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU705MQjPydxxaqhPg_GnaJvl8OQKjT2c9AHDK0WRsjHSAOuUpwSLcxHJ2yy5h9ClNJd2V2vF0-ATgOwQIicCE_3KHpOowarrK_ArgXHocQpqkHSKkpo_05Janb7sH8rQ5pOYnUs6YIWf4/s1600/1-DSC05336-001.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">...who spent the whole day of 16 June 1904 wandering around the city (and this one day was enough to become a literary icon celebrated in the years to come!) but also beacuse of this volume...</span><br /><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUp37JYWRUH-UankoBXX87Ync2rSvgSuA9UFhoBmTem6rET4lmAIDf8UpsOAnxGxMG2U9E0QAa5QoSmd554d1ZCRWs4j9P-ADcqFpk2FybWBwVbaxl83q462Qg6iwFmDxfg1VrjiDeLYH/s1600/1-Lomogram_2014-07-15_06-07-08-PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUp37JYWRUH-UankoBXX87Ync2rSvgSuA9UFhoBmTem6rET4lmAIDf8UpsOAnxGxMG2U9E0QAa5QoSmd554d1ZCRWs4j9P-ADcqFpk2FybWBwVbaxl83q462Qg6iwFmDxfg1VrjiDeLYH/s1600/1-Lomogram_2014-07-15_06-07-08-PM.jpg" height="320" width="217" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> .."a chapter in the moral history of my country", as Joyce himself descibed the collection written in most part in 1904-1905.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> For these two reasons June 2004 was a perfect moment for Joyce fans to visit Dublin, for Dubliners to celebrate their city and for ignorants like myself to start to discover this "oddly familiar place" and its literary representations..</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A year or so later, when I was revisiting Dublin, I stumbled upon this book:</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMPbjAtUxwuXM0MdmRi64eLTI3_QM7Frey9Z494hNL2ouXIy_bEEAQBC5a_jxLWjTzVkwd24QOLSzCCKMJFRYl3sRNHPVvltYKrrk4fanJHG-5Q22AWjmFUyHpUs9DjiKBIFfJxDP-0qI/s1600/New+Dubliners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMPbjAtUxwuXM0MdmRi64eLTI3_QM7Frey9Z494hNL2ouXIy_bEEAQBC5a_jxLWjTzVkwd24QOLSzCCKMJFRYl3sRNHPVvltYKrrk4fanJHG-5Q22AWjmFUyHpUs9DjiKBIFfJxDP-0qI/s1600/New+Dubliners.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The back cover description (or blurb, if you will) says: "In celebration of the 100th anniversary of <i>Dubliner</i>s, eleven foremost Irish authors revisit Jams Joyce's 'dear dirty Dublin' in this inspired collection of luminous, new short stories."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sure I had to no choice but to buy the book and see how these authors "celebrate Joyce and the Dublin of our time" (as the editor Oona Frawley put it in her introduction). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Meave Binchy's<b> "All that Matters"</b> is probably the weakest story in the collection. It could be basically summarized like this: A teenage girl named Nessa lives in a shabby house in Dublin. She lives there with her hard-working Ma, lazy Da and two brothers. Every summer her aunt from America comes over. She is classy, cultured and she knows "all that matters". And more importantly, she is "able to reinvent Nessa". So Nessa becomes Vanessa because "all that matters is the image you create of yourself" and "if you are to ammount to anything, then you must have respect for the way you appear to others". Apart from the name, the reinvented image includes new clothes, new hair style, rearranged bedroom and a Saturday job. Oh, and some cultural outings that help Vanessa meet interesting people. Next summer the aunt is proud of her neice and the niece thinks her life without the aunt would be, oh so miserable. But then she gets pregnant. Dublin is not a place for a pregnant teenager but neither is New York. Having arrived in her aunt's apartment, Vanessa realizes that all this time her aunt has been "making up some fake existence over here in America." And it starts to dawn on her that "going home again, back to Dublin, back to Chestnut Street and to herself, that was all that mattered."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have never been Binchy's big fan. Well, to be honest, I don't like her writing at all. Maybe it reads well for some people, but for me her lines are just so..<i>not intriguing</i>. Maybe the idea behind the story is good (then why does it seem so repetitive?) but the plot alone doesn't make a good story. Maybe it works like that in a novel but definitely doesn't work in a short story... "All that Matters" lacks at least one dimension, which is particularly visible in the closing passage. "Aunt Elizabeth seemed to talk in capital letters a lot", says Nessa in the beginning of the story. Reading the final epiphany, however, gives me a strange feeling that it is Meave Binchy who overuses capital letters... And I don't seem to like it.</span></span></span></div>
<br />Magdalenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09065604498984557242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117567171695465052.post-59418392281132789202014-06-26T03:34:00.001-07:002014-06-26T03:34:07.219-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Magdalenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09065604498984557242noreply@blogger.com0