Now that I am back on track I am also working on my PhD proposal and looking for new ideas to add, the lastest of which is "Comparative literatures". Easier said than done to tell you the truth because although I could easily chose French -which I studied at University - I am more inclided on Spanish...and am therefore desperately looking for Spanish-speaking women writers...any help? Please give me a shout!
Anyway, one of the amazing aspects of this research is the "popping into things" aspect. Basically, I start from point A, thinking I'll get to point B but end up in point Z and I just love it. So, as always, I want to share this with you. It's a poem by Nobel winner Wislawa Szymborska (apparently, the "y" has to be pronounced as an "o")
Some like poetry by Wislawa Szymborska
Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read,
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.
We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes."
