What to Read When You Want to Celebrate Feminism
We here at The Rumpus matriarchy are celebrating all of our feminist “mothers” this Mother’s Day!
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Posts Tagged: Wislawa Szymborska
The Rumpus Poetry Book Club Chat with Shara Lessley
Shara Lessley discusses her new collection, The Explosive Expert’s Wife, the task of humanizing those we might dismiss as monsters, and writing toward hope.
...moreThe Rumpus Interview with Connie Wanek
Connie Wanek discusses her latest book, Rival Gardens: New and Selected Poems, the challenge of looking back at older poems, and what prioritizing writing looks like.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Brief Inner Happiness
Writing requires sustained attention to what figures, disfigures, and refigures our imaginations and includes a vision that takes every experience into account.
...moreDear Wislawa
We could all use a little guidance down the artist’s path now and then, and today’s helping hand comes from essential Polish poet and Nobel laureate Wisława Szymborska. The Poetry Foundation gathered some of her greatest hits from the poetry advice column she used to write for Polish litmag Życie Literackie (Literary Life). Here’s one to get you […]
...moreThe Rumpus Interview with Lawrence Weschler Regarding the Death of Wislawa Szymborska
Wislawa Szymborska died on Feb. 1 this year. Born in Poland 1923, Szymborska lived through the political tumults of the 20th century, but her poetry stubbornly presented the individual conscience in the face of history. A shy and retiring woman, Szymborska won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996.
...moreOde to an Era of Polish Poetry
At The New Republic, Ruth Franklin celebrates the work of the late Wislawa Szymborska, and explores the brilliance of Polish poetry throughout the last half-century. “Assuming that there weren’t any mind-altering chemicals in the run-off from Nowa Huta, the notoriously polluted steelworks outside Krakow (where Szymborska spent nearly her entire life), we can only conclude […]
...moreGrieving for Writers I’ve Never Known
Five years ago on a tiny island in the Aegean, I cried for Kurt Vonnegut as I sat in the tub, holding in one hand the long, low-pressure shower hose and in the other, a coffee mug full of red wine.
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