Gorey.pl Polish Cultural Association ma przyjemność zaprosić Państwa do wzięcia udziału w naszych konkursach z okazji Polskiego Dnia Niepodległości
9 Listopada 2017 o godz 19:00
Szczegóły znajdziecie Panstwo na plakatach
Wiersze na konkurs recytatorski
Under One Small Star - Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.
I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
Incantation - Poem by Czeslaw Milosz
Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
No sentence of banishment can prevail against it.
It establishes the universal ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
It puts what should be above things as they are,
Is an enemy of despair and a friend of hope.
It does not know Jew from Greek or slave from master,
Giving us the estate of the world to manage.
It saves austere and transparent phrases
From the filthy discord of tortured words.
It says that everything is new under the sun,
Opens the congealed fist of the past.
Beautiful and very young are Philo-Sophia
And poetry, her ally in the service of the good.
As late as yesterday Nature celebrated their birth,
The news was brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
Their friendship will be glorious, their time has no limit.
Their enemies have delivered themselves to destruction.
My Country - Poem by Cyprian Kamil Norwid
Those who say my country means
Meadows, flowers and fields of wheat,
Hamlets and trenches, must confess
These are her feet.
The child is not forced from his mother’s arms,
The youth at her side will grow
While she leans on her eldest son,
These are my laws.
My country’s brow has not risen here;
My flesh’s beyond Euphrates and the Flood,
My spirit soars above Chaos,
I pay rent to the world.
No nation fashioned or saved me,
I recall eternity’s span:
David’s key unlocked my lips,
Rome called me man.
I fall on the sand to wipe with my hair
My country’s blood-stained feet,
But I know her face and crown
Radiant like the sun of suns.
My ancestors have known no other;
Her feet with my hand I used to feel;
I often kissed the clumsy sandal strap
Round her heel.
They needn’t teach me where my country lies;
Hamlets, trenches and fields of wheat,
Flesh and blood and this her scar
Are her print, her feet.
Let us hurry - Poem by Jan Twardowski
Let us hurry to love people they depart so quickly
Leaving only their shoes and silence on the phone
Only what is unimportant tends to drag like a cow
The most important is so fast that happens in split-second
Silence that follows – normal and unbearable
Is like a clarity born straight from despair
When we think about someone who is no longer with us
Please do not be so certain that there is still time left
For certainty happens to be most uncertain
It takes away our sensitivity along with happiness
And comes concurrently like pathos and humour
Just like two different passions yet not as strong as one
Tend to die down so quickly, like thrush song in July
Like a sound somewhat clumsy or a vacuous bow
They have to close their eyes in order to truly see
And even though to be born is a greater risk than to die
We love still to little and always to late
Do not write about it too often but write once and for all
And you will become like a dolphin both gentle and strong
Let us hurry to love people, they depart so quickly
And those who are not, will not always return
And you never know while speaking of love
Is the first one last, or the last one first.
I Would Like to Describe - Poem by Zbigniew Herbert
I would like to describe the simplest emotion
joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun
I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain
I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water
to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin
but apparently this is not possible
and just to say—I love
I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face
different from fire
borrows from it
a loquacious tongue
so is blurred
so is blurred
what white-haired gentlemen
separated once and for all
this is the subject
and this is the object
we fall asleep
with one hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets
our feet abandon us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morning
we tear out painfully