Question

Compare the poems by Szymborska and Milosz read over the course of this unit. All are important twentieth century writers addressing a similar theme: death. Which poet addresses it in terms of the times he lived in (and its threat of fascism), and which addresses it in a more personal way? Characterize each poet’s treatment of this theme, citing evidence from the poems.

Answer 1

poem?

Answer 2

"A Contribution to Statistics"
by Wislawa Szymborska

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.

Answer 3

"And Yet the Books"
by Czeslaw Milosz.

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.