World War II and Poland seemed to create a unique environment for poetry. That unfortunate Catholic country, smack between Russia and Germany, produced dozens of wise, chastened, articulate writers, many of whose poems I’ve posted in the past. One I hadn’t read before is Ryszard Krynicki. He mostly writes short, bitter, ironic poems, like salt on the rim of the glass:
Rights
–What rights?
do you mean?
The right to life?
You can’t extend it even by an instant,
though you’re dying of curiosity:
who won, who killed.
–The right to fight?
The right of the fittest comes first…
So you’re speaking not of human
rights, Continue reading “Those Polish Poets”