Gabriela Mistral and Wislawa Szymborska: War, Peace, and Politics

1. Gabriela Mistral and Wislawa Szymborska:War, Peace, and Politics Dolores Lehr La Salle University PCEA, April 9, 2005

2. Gabriela Mistral Born Lucila Godoy y Alcayaga April 7, 1889 in Vicuna, Chile Died January 10, 1957 Long Island, New York

3. Gabriela Mistral Educator Poet Diplomat Recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature 1945

4. Wislawa Szymborska Born July 2, 1923 in Kornik, Poland Lives in Krakow, Poland

5. Wislawa Szymborska Literary Editor Poet Recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature 1996

6. Mistral’s The Fall of Europe Come, brother, come tonight to pray with our sister who has no child or mother or people here. It’s bitter to pray and hear the echo sent back by wall and empty air.. . She burns, the Old Mother who sheltered us In her olive orchard and her vineyard. We are the children calling to their Mother Not knowing in this hour if she is the same and will answer to the name we call her,

7. Mistral’s “Fall of Europe” or if shot through with flames and metal her limbs called Sicily, Flanders, Normandy, Campagna, are all ablaze. A handful or two of grass and air is enough for prayer and compassion. Put away the loaf, the wine, the fruit, Until the day of rejoicing and dancing and arms wildly waving branches. On this night, no table Bright with Falernian wine and poppies; And no weeping; and no sleep..

8. Mistral’s “The Footprint” Of the fleeing man I have only the footprint, The weight of his body, And the wind that blows him. No signs, no name, no country or town, . . . Only the anguish that hurries his flight: hammering pulse, gasping breath, glistening sweat, teeth on edge, and the hard dry wind that hits his back. . . . . .

9. Mistral’s “The Footprint” I see, I count The two thousand footprints: I go running, running across old Earth, mixing up his poor tracks with mine, or I stop and erase them with my wild hair, or facedown I lick away the footprints.

10. Mistral’s “The Footprint” But the white Earth turns eternal, stretches endless as a chain, lengthens out into a snake, and the Lord God does not break its back. And the footprints go on To the end of the world.

11. Mistral’s “Jewish Refugee Woman” Farther than the west wind I go, farther than the stormy petrel. I stop, I ask the way, I walk, and walk, and get no sleep. They cut my Earth away from me, all they’re left me is the sea. Home, habits, household gods Are back there in the village. Linden trees go by and beds of reeds And the Rhine that taught me speech. I haven’t brought a sprig of mint, The scent would make me weep. All I’m bringing is my breath, My blood, my anxious heart.. . .

12. Mistral’s “Jewish Refugee Woman” At every turn of the road I leave some of my wealth behind, a wave of pine resin, a tower of grove of oaks. My hand loses its gestures of making cider and bread. Winnowed clean of memories, I will be naked when I reach the sea.

13. Szymborska’s “Still” In the sealed cars of freight trains across the country travels names, but where are they going to go, and will they ever get out, don’t ask, can’t say, don’t know. Nathan’s name bangs his fits on the wall. Isaac’s name sings in a maddened thrall. Sarah’s names cries that the water go first To Aaron’s name which is dying of thirst. . . . . .

14. Szymborska’s “Still” A cloud made of people passed over the land. From a large cloud a small rain, a sole tear was shed, a small rain, a sole tear, a season of lack. Into a forest of black veer the tracks. That’s so that’s so, go the wheels. These woods have no clearing. That’s so that’s so. A cargo of cries disappearing. That’s so that’s so. Awakened in deep night on hearing that’s so that’s so, the clatter of silence on silence.

15. Szymborska’s “Starvation Camp at Jasko” Write this down. Write it. In ordinary ink on ordinary paper: they were given on food, all died of hunger. All. How many? It’s a large meadow. How much grass was there per person.? Write it down: I don’t know. History rounds off skeletons to the nearest zero. . . . . . This is the meadow where it became flesh. But the meadow is silent as a bribed witness. In the sunlight. Green. Over there is a forest for chewing wood, for drinking form under the bark— a daily helping of landscape, until one goes blind. Up there a bird,

16. Szymborska’s “Starvation Camp at Jasko” that moves across lips as a shadow of its nutritious wings. Jaws opened, teeth would chomp . . . . . On a spit of barbed wire a man was swaying. They were singing with soil in their mouths. A lovely song about the way war hits you right in the heart. Write about the silence here. Yes.