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fix typo
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Thomas Morris committed Jul 22, 2024
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Showing 1 changed file with 47 additions and 11 deletions.
58 changes: 47 additions & 11 deletions poems/data/poems.json
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"gender": "female",
"college": null,
"movement": null,
"religion": null,
"religion": "catholic",
"nationality": "polish",
"language": "polish",
"link": "https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wisława_Szymborska",
Expand All @@ -84183,6 +84183,12 @@
"body": "I’m a tranquilizer.\nI’m effective at home.\nI work in the office.\nI can take exams\non the witness stand.\nI mend broken cups with care.\nAll you have to do is take me,\nlet me melt beneath your tongue,\njust gulp me\nwith a glass of water.\n\nI know how to handle misfortune,\nhow to take bad news.\nI can minimize injustice,\nlighten up God’s absence,\nor pick the widow’s veil that suits your face.\nWhat are you waiting for--\nhave faith in my chemical compassion.\n\nYou’re still a young man/woman.\nIt’s not too late to learn how to unwind.\nWho said\nyou have to take it on the chin?\n\nLet me have your abyss.\nI’ll cushion it with sleep.\nYou’ll thank me for giving you\nfour paws to fall on.\n\nSell me your soul.\nThere are no other takers.\n\nThere is no other devil anymore.",
"metadata": {
"translator": "Stanisław Barańczak",
"source": {
"title": "Could Have",
"published": {
"year": 1972
}
},
"language": "polish"
}
},
Expand All @@ -84198,6 +84204,13 @@
"title": "“Children of Our Age”",
"body": "We are children of our age,\nit’s a political age.\n\nAll day long, all through the night,\nall affairs--yours, ours, theirs--\nare political affairs.\n\nWhether you like it or not,\nyour genes have a political past,\nyour skin, a political cast,\nyour eyes, a political slant.\n\nWhatever you say reverberates,\nwhatever you don’t say speaks for itself.\nSo either way you’re talking politics.\n\nEven when you take to the woods,\nyou’re taking political steps\non political grounds.\n\nApolitical poems are also political,\nand above us shines a moon\nno longer purely lunar.\nTo be or not to be, that is the question.\nAnd though it troubles the digestion\nit’s a question, as always, of politics.\n\nTo acquire a political meaning\nyou don’t even have to be human.\nRaw material will do,\nor protein feed, or crude oil,\n\nor a conference table whose shape\nwas quarreled over for months;\nShould we arbitrate life and death\nat a round table or a square one?\n\nMeanwhile, people perished,\nanimals died,\nhouses burned,\nand the fields ran wild\njust as in times immemorial\nand less political.",
"metadata": {
"translator": "Stanisław Baranczak & Clare Cavanagh",
"source": {
"title": "People on the Bridge",
"published": {
"year": 1986
}
},
"language": "polish"
}
},
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"body": "Despite the geologists’ knowledge and craft,\nmocking magnets, graphs, and maps--\nin a split second the dream\npiles before us mountains as stony\nas real life.\n\nAnd since mountains, then valleys, plains\nwith perfect infrastructures.\nWithout engineers, contractors, workers,\nbulldozers, diggers, or supplies--\nraging highways, instant bridges,\nthickly populated pop-up cities.\n\nWithout directors, megaphones, and cameramen--\ncrowds knowing exactly when to frighten us\nand when to vanish.\n\nWithout architects deft in their craft,\nwithout carpenters, bricklayers, concrete pourers--\non the path a sudden house just like a toy,\nand in it vast halls that echo with our steps\nand walls constructed out of solid air.\n\nNot just the scale, it’s also the precision--\na specific watch, an entire fly,\non the table a cloth with cross-stitched flowers,\na bitten apple with teeth marks.\n\nAnd we--unlike circus acrobats,\nconjurers, wizards, and hypnotists--\ncan fly unfledged,\nwe light dark tunnels with our eyes,\nwe wax eloquent in unknown tongues,\ntalking not with just anyone, but with the dead.\n\nAnd as a bonus, despite our own freedom,\nthe choices of our heart, our tastes,\nwe’re swept away\nby amorous yearnings for--\nand the alarm clock rings.\n\nSo what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,\nthe scholars of oneiric signs and omens,\nthe doctors with couches for analyses--\nif anything fits,\nit’s accidental,\nand for one reason only,\nthat in our dreamings,\nin their shadowings and gleamings,\nin their multiplings, inconceivablings,\nin their haphazardings and widescatterings\nat times even a clear-cut meaning\nmay slip through.",
"metadata": {
"translator": "Clare Cavanagh & Stanislaw Baranczak",
"source": {
"title": "Poetry",
"published": {
"year": 2010,
"month": "september"
}
},
"language": "polish"
}
},
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},
"a-great-mans-house": {
"title": "“A Great Man’s House”",
"body": "It was written in marble in golden letters:\nhere a great man lived and worked and died.\nHe laid the gravel for these paths personally.\nThis bench--do not touch--he chiseled by himself out of stone.\nAnd--careful, three steps--we’re going inside.\n\nHe made it into the world at just the right time.\nEverything that had to pass, passed in this house.\nNot in a high rise,\nnot in square feet, furnished yet empty,\namidst unknown neighbors,\non some fifteenth floor,\nwhere it’s hard to drag school field trips.\n\nIn this room he pondered,\nin this chamber he slept,\nand over here he entertained guests.\nPortraits, an armchair, a desk, a pipe, a globe, a flute,\na worn-out rug, a sun room.\nFrom here he exchanged nods with his tailor and shoemaker\nwho custom made for him.\n\nThis is not the same as photographs in boxes,\ndried out pens in a plastic cup,\na store-bought wardrobe in a store-bought closet,\na window, from which you can see clouds better than people.\n\nHappy? Unhappy?\nThat’s not relevant here.\nHe still confided in his letters,\nwithout thinking they would be opened on their way.",
"body": "It was written in marble in golden letters:\nhere a great man lived and worked and died.\nHe laid the gravel for these paths personally.\nThis bench--do not touch--he chiseled by himself out of stone.\nAnd--careful, three steps--we’re going inside.\n\nHe made it into the world at just the right time.\nEverything that had to pass, passed in this house.\nNot in a high rise,\nnot in square feet, furnished yet empty,\namidst unknown neighbors,\non some fifteenth floor,\nwhere it’s hard to drag school field trips.\n\nIn this room he pondered,\nin this chamber he slept,\nand over here he entertained guests.\nPortraits, an armchair, a desk, a pipe, a globe, a flute,\na worn-out rug, a sun room.\nFrom here he exchanged nods with his tailor and shoemaker\nwho custom made for him.\n\nThis is not the same as photographs in boxes,\ndried out pens in a plastic cup,\na store-bought wardrobe in a store-bought closet,\na window, from which you can see clouds better than people.\n\nHappy? Unhappy?\nThat’s not relevant here.\nHe still confided in his letters,\nwithout thinking they would be opened on their way.\n\nHe still kept a detailed and honest diary,\nwithout the fear that he would lose it during a search.\nThe passing of a comet worried him most.\nThe destruction of the world was only in the hands of God. \n\nHe still managed not to die in the hospital,\nbehind a white screen, who knows which one. \nThere was still someone with him who remembered\nhis muttered words. \n\nHe partook of life\nas if it were reusable:\nhe sent his books to be bound;\nhe wouldn’t cross out the last names of the dead from\nhis address book. And the trees he had planted in the garden behind the house\ngrew for him as _Juglans regia_ \nand _Quercus rubra_ and _Ulmus_ and _Larix_\nand _Fraxinus excelsior_.",
"metadata": {
"translator": "Joanna Trzeciak",
"source": {
"title": "Poetry",
"published": {
"year": 1997,
"month": "october"
}
},
"language": "polish"
}
},
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"title": "“Plato, or Why”",
"body": "For unclear reasons\nunder unknown circumstances\nIdeal Being ceased to be satisfied.\n\nIt could have gone on forever,\nhewn from darkness, forged from light,\nin its sleepy gardens above the world.\n\nWhy on earth did it start seeking thrills\nin the bad company of matter?\n\nWhat use could it have for imitators,\ninept, ill-starred,\nlacking all prospects for eternity?\n\nWisdom limping\nwith a thorn stuck in its heel?\nHarmony derailed\nby roiling waters?\nBeauty\nholding unappealing entrails\nand Good--\nwhy the shadow\nwhen it didn’t have one before?\n\nThere must have been some reason,\nhowever slight,\nbut even the Naked Truth, busy ransacking\nthe earth’s wardrobe,\nwon’t betray it.\n\nNot to mention, Plato, those appalling poets,\nlitter scattered by the breeze from under statues,\nscraps from that great Silence up on high …",
"metadata": {
"translator": "Justyna Kostkowska",
"source": {
"title": "Monologue of a Dog",
"published": {
"year": 2006
}
},
"language": "polish"
}
},
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"title": "“Under One Small Star”",
"body": "My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.\nMy apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.\nPlease, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.\nMay my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.\nMy apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.\nMy apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.\nForgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.\nForgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.\nI apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.\nI apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.\nPardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.\nPardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.\nAnd you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,\nyour gaze always fixed on the same point in space,\nforgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.\nMy apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.\nMy apologies to great questions for small answers.\nTruth, please don’t pay me much attention.\nDignity, please be magnanimous.\nBear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.\nSoul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.\nMy apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.\nMy apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.\nI know I won’t be justified as long as I live,\nsince I myself stand in my own way.\nDon’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,\nthen labor heavily so that they may seem light.",
"metadata": {
"translator": "Stanisław Baranczak & Clare Cavanagh",
"language": "polish"
}
},
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"language": "english"
}
},
"sing-all-ye-joyful": {
"title": "“Sing all ye joyful …”",
"body": "Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!\nThe wind’s in the tree-top, the wind’s in the heather;\nThe stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower,\nAnd bright are the windows of night in her tower.\nDance all ye joyful, now dance all together!\nSoft is the grass, and let foot be like feather!\nThe river is silver, the shadows are fleeting;\nMerry is May-time, and merry our meeting.\nSigh no more pine, till the wind of the morn!\nFall Moon! Dark be the land!\nHush! Hush! Oak, ash and thorn!\nHushed by all water, till dawn is at hand!",
"roads-go-ever-ever-on": {
"title": "“Roads go ever ever on …”",
"body": "Roads go ever ever on,\nOver rock and under tree,\nBy caves where never sun has shone,\nBy streams that never find the sea;\nOver snow by winter sown,\nAnd through the merry flowers of June,\nOver grass and over stone,\nAnd under mountains in the moon.\n\nRoads go ever ever on\nUnder cloud and under star,\nYet feet that wandering have gone\nTurn at last to home afar.\nEyes that fire and sword have seen\nAnd horror in the halls of stone\nLook at last on meadows green\nAnd trees and hills they long have known.",
"metadata": {
"source": {
"title": "The Hobbit",
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"day": 21
}
},
"context": {
"month": "may"
},
"language": "english"
}
},
"the-roads-goes-ever-on": {
"title": "“The roads goes ever on …”",
"body": "The roads goes ever on,\nOver rock and under tree,\nBy caves where never sun has shone,\nBy streams that never find the sea;\nOver snow by winter sown,\nAnd through the merry flowers of June,\nOver grass and over stone,\nAnd under mountains in the moon.\n\nThe road goes ever on\nUnder cloud and under star,\nYet feet that wandering have gone\nTurn at last to home afar.\nEyes that fire and sword have seen\nAnd horror in the halls of stone\nLook at last on meadows green\nAnd trees and hills they long have known.",
"sing-all-ye-joyful": {
"title": "“Sing all ye joyful …”",
"body": "Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!\nThe wind’s in the tree-top, the wind’s in the heather;\nThe stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower,\nAnd bright are the windows of night in her tower.\nDance all ye joyful, now dance all together!\nSoft is the grass, and let foot be like feather!\nThe river is silver, the shadows are fleeting;\nMerry is May-time, and merry our meeting.\nSigh no more pine, till the wind of the morn!\nFall Moon! Dark be the land!\nHush! Hush! Oak, ash and thorn!\nHushed by all water, till dawn is at hand!",
"metadata": {
"source": {
"title": "The Hobbit",
Expand All @@ -88444,6 +88477,9 @@
"day": 21
}
},
"context": {
"month": "may"
},
"language": "english"
}
}
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