Zuzanna Ginczanka
was born in 1917 in Kiev as Zuzanna Polina Gincburg. Soon after the Russian
Revolution her parents moved to Rowne, which was then in a newly created
Republic of Poland (it is in Ukraine now). Rowne was a town whose majority
of inhabitants spoke Yiddish, but Zuzanna's parents were emancipated Jews
and spoke Russian at home. Thus she had a choice of a language: either Yiddish
of the shtetl, Russian of her parents or Polish of her school friends. Fascinated
by Polish poetry, she chose Polish and wanted to become a Polish poet. She
started publishing her poems when still at school. During her studies in
Warsaw she entered literary circles; one of her friends was Witold Gombrowicz,
another Julian Tuwim. She published her works mostly in periodicals, only
one book of poems appeared before the war. As a pen-name she used half of
her Jewish surname with a Polish ending.
During the war she lived in Cracow. As a fluent Polish speaker she could
pass as a non-Jew; her friends found her a false identity. Her friends, however,
were involved in the resistance and when they were arrested, she was arrested,
too. She was executed in 1944, not long before Russian troops entered Cracow.
After the war she was forgotten, not because her poetry was bad (it certainly
was not), but because communist censors decided it was undesirable. During
the 45 years of communist rule in Poland only two small selections of her
poems appeared. In 1990 CZAS KULTURY published some little known poems of
Zuzanna Ginczanka. In 1994 OBSERWATOR published her collected poems with
a biography written by Izolda Kiec.
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Zuzanna Ginczanka FULLNESS OF AUGUST O pale-faced mothers of rosy-cheeked children; O fertile, proud, happy mothers You'll go to gather cherries' juiciness with hands smooth from children's caresses You'll go to celebrate the hot August weather of hearts as ripe as ears of rye You'll go to venerate with your bare feet the black and swollen fertile soil I've seen the lips, like fresh fruit's flesh, of lazy daydreaming peasant girls In clanging warmth of dreamy gardens nostalgia sleeps in spiders webs Boughs in the orchards are full of fresh juices that give sudden smell of ripeness You'll go to gather golden aroma of warm trees' resin into your nostrils In mellow, windy and sunny middays go and proclaim sacred birthgiving Look at the rye leaves shining in sunlight, our daily bread of joyful summers You may praise the passing blossom that turns into ripening fruits Everything passes, nothing ends here, in the transforming warmth of the sun At night you'll take the willow baskets so you can fill them with endless dreams Go to celebrate red apple pickings and go to harvest ripeness of dreams The moon is hanging in pear-tree branches like a golden boat on a Christmas tree Lips of raspberries won't whisper legends about the hearts that bled at night. |