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Ken's Reviews > Map: Collected and Last Poems
Map: Collected and Last Poems
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Wislawa is a kindred soul in that she views the world askance and deeply understands its ironies. Where she veers from other poets is her gentle amusement with it all. Maybe she feels bitter, sarcastic, angry, etc., but she keeps it under wraps and instead couples irony with charm, an appealingly odd couple indeed. She has a knack for comparisons, too. What's metaphor? Quite a bit, in Wislawa's view.
The collection gets stronger over time, with very few works chosen from early collections. This is cheering news for new poets, for it shows that even poets good enough to get published are works in progress, getting stronger with each collection.
Two of my favorites are fairly well known works, "A Contribution to Statistics" and "The Joy of Writing":
A Contribution of Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
-fifty-two
doubting every step
-nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn't take too long
-as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can't be otherwise
-four, well maybe five,
able to admire without envy
-eighteen,
suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
-sixty, give or take a few,
not to be taken lightly
-forty and four,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
-seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
-twenty-something tops,
harmless singly, savage in crowds
-half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
-better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
-just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
-thirty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
-eighty-three
sooner or later,
righteous
-thirty-five, which is a lot,
righteous
and understanding
-three,
worthy of compassion
-ninety-nine,
mortal
-a hundred out of a hundred.
thus far this figure still remains unchanged.
The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word 'woods.'
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
Nice, no? Very nice. Among other favorite titles I wrote down:
"Miracle's Fair"
"Some People Like Poetry"
"Hatred"
"May 16, 1973"
"Among the Multitudes"
"The Three Oddest Words"
"A Little Girl Tugs at the Tablecloth"
"Early Hour"
"Photograph from September 11"
"An Idea"
"To My Own Poem"
The collection gets stronger over time, with very few works chosen from early collections. This is cheering news for new poets, for it shows that even poets good enough to get published are works in progress, getting stronger with each collection.
Two of my favorites are fairly well known works, "A Contribution to Statistics" and "The Joy of Writing":
A Contribution of Statistics
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
-fifty-two
doubting every step
-nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn't take too long
-as high as forty-nine,
always good
because they can't be otherwise
-four, well maybe five,
able to admire without envy
-eighteen,
suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
-sixty, give or take a few,
not to be taken lightly
-forty and four,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
-seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
-twenty-something tops,
harmless singly, savage in crowds
-half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
-better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
-just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
-thirty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
-eighty-three
sooner or later,
righteous
-thirty-five, which is a lot,
righteous
and understanding
-three,
worthy of compassion
-ninety-nine,
mortal
-a hundred out of a hundred.
thus far this figure still remains unchanged.
The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word 'woods.'
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
Nice, no? Very nice. Among other favorite titles I wrote down:
"Miracle's Fair"
"Some People Like Poetry"
"Hatred"
"May 16, 1973"
"Among the Multitudes"
"The Three Oddest Words"
"A Little Girl Tugs at the Tablecloth"
"Early Hour"
"Photograph from September 11"
"An Idea"
"To My Own Poem"
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Reading Progress
May 30, 2015
–
Started Reading
May 30, 2015
– Shelved
June 6, 2015
–
Finished Reading
June 7, 2015
– Shelved as:
finished-in-2015
June 7, 2015
– Shelved as:
picture-book-children-s
June 7, 2015
– Shelved as:
poetry
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Trish
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Jun 08, 2015 05:34AM
Oh, my. Thanks.
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Ha a friend IRL i am visiting just showed me The Joy of Writing and I was floored... Came immediately here to read your review (great job)... I will buy this for sure.
After reading these poems, in your great review, I think I should read the paper copy of this work. I just noticed it was a deal for my kindle yesterday but I’m not sorry I missed it. I think it would lose in that format.
I haven't read much poetry through the prism of Kindle and the like, but often read reviews where readers complain how it messed up the format. It's a big-bopper of a hardcover book, but one you might well return to on your shelf. This is what's good about poetry. It's the most returnable-to of all the genres, if I may coin an awkward phrase.
Thanks for the intro, Ken. I'm hunting this one down. I love her stats! That should be an exercise in both poetry and statistics classes -- always fun/curious to see how others see the world.
Julie wrote: "Thanks for the intro, Ken. I'm hunting this one down. I love her stats! That should be an exercise in both poetry and statistics classes -- always fun/curious to see how others see the world."It would be an interesting exercise to give your OWN %-ages for each category she creates.
% of people who suggest this but don't do it themselves -- 100.
Ken wrote: "It would be an interesting exercise to give your OWN %-ages for each category she creates.% of people who suggest this but don't do it themselves -- 100."
☺️ Yes.
Great review. I quote this article by her from Lapham’s Quarterly Winter 2019 - illustrates her diverse perspectives and experiences. �1993: Kraków
thieves in the night
Silent night...Peaceful night...Night that en- velops the whole world in sleep...The naturalist who stumbles upon such phrases smiles in pity. Ah, poets, poets. They glide across a landscape’s surface, a momentary mood, a fleeting impres- sion suits them fine...Since night isn’t really si- lent or peaceful anywhere—with the exception of the lands of eternal ice, where there is ab- solutely nothing to hunt and no one to do the hunting. It envelops only a fraction of all living things in sleep. Of the more than four thou- sand species of mammals, nearly 70 percent do their hunting at night. To say nothing of the many reptiles, amphibians, insects, and birds who emerge from their diurnal hiding places only after nightfall. Thus nocturnal silence is made up of rustling, growling, splashing, slurp- ing, whirring, rattling, fluttering, chattering, and squeaking, not to mention all the sounds that our ears don’t pick up. Various furtive as- sassinations are carried out to this soundtrack; their victims include birds and their eggs, frogs and their pollywogs, moths and their larvae, lizards, snails, fish, grasshoppers, crustaceans, all sorts of small mammals, and the offspring of large mammals. In warmer regions, where the predators include boa constrictors, jaguars, and alligators, even huge animals aren’t safe. Someone will remind me that herbivorous animals also go out scouting for meals at dusk, which slightly softens the image of nighttime as a wholesale slaughterhouse. I see their point, but in the first place, few species are satisfied with plants alone—the majority will snack on the occasional butterfly or grub while grazing. And second, the question arises whether veg- etarianism is so innocent after all. I may incur the wrath here of persons professing vegetarian principles, but after all, plants are also organ- isms endowed with the will to live. In other life- forms, this may be self-evident, but does that mean it isn’t present here? However we define this will, though, the fact remains that it meets
Sleeping Boy, by Philippe-Laurent Roland, c. 1774.
its end on the plate of the human herbivore... What I’m saying isn’t pretty, but investigating the nature of Nature generally leads to unpal- atable conclusions. We humans also take our nourishment at the cost of others� lives: I con- sider this a scandal. The scandal is the greater since we must, willy-nilly, participate, which we often do with great relish. But enough com- plaining; it’s time for a joke. Your Honor, cries the lawyer in his plea, my worthy opponent delights in tarring my defendants with all the worst possible failings. Yesterday he accused one citizen of having the unmitigated gall to commit his robbery in broad daylight.Today he accused another guy of shameless underhand- edness, since he pulled off his heist at night. So I ask you, Your Honor, just when are my clients supposed to do their stealing?�
I just bought this and am very happy with my first, obligatory perusal.
Shankar wrote: "Great review. I quote this article by her from Lapham’s Quarterly Winter 2019 - illustrates her diverse perspectives and experiences. �1993: Kraków
thieves in the night
Silent night...Peaceful ni..."
Hmn. "Interesting" quote, all right.
I see you're reading Bakewell's book on Montaigne. Loved it! Hope you're liking it as well.
Matt wrote: "I just bought this and am very happy with my first, obligatory perusal."Good to hear, Matt. Especially considering you invested in it! A book of collected poems like this is good to own, though. Good for "dipping" back in now and then years and years after you read it. In fact, you might even read it that way as you read other books.
