Polish

Zuzanna Ginczanka



Zuzanna Ginczamka 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.




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.








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