szymborska "everything everything everything - Google Search

Baza piosenek
How could it be that you ruined my everything, everything, everything? .

Violent Fems - Kiss Off
10 10 10 10 for everything everything everything everything ..

Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts: Seventy Poems - Google Books Result
by Wisława Szymborska, Magnus J. Krynski, Robert ... - 1981 - Poetry - 215 pages
p173: ... Szymborska ... tell us, everything, everything, everything. ...


Vocabulary Completion Exercise: Nobel Prize Poet
that Mislava Szymborska lives and writes here in the spiritual capital of ... everything, everything, everything. And then too everybody looks at you as ...

"There you are living a quiet life, and suddenly in one minute, everything is turned ____ down. The whole daily ___, everything, everything, everything. And then too everybody looks at you as though you were someone else, different than before."


Wislawa Szymborska - 1996 Nobel Lecture: "everything"
I would bow very deeply before him, because he is, after all, one of the greatest poets, for me at least. That done, I would grab his hand. "'There's nothing new under the sun': that's what you wrote, Ecclesiastes. But you yourself were born new under the sun. And the poem you created is also new under the sun, since no one wrote it down before you. And all your readers are also new under the sun, since those who lived before you couldn't read your poem. And that cypress that you're sitting under hasn't been growing since the dawn of time. It came into being by way of another cypress similar to yours, but not exactly the same.
So maybe your new-under-the-sun poem will be about joy? Have you taken notes yet, do you have drafts? I doubt you'll say, 'I've written everything down, I've got nothing left to add.'


_______________________________________________________________
In Praise of My Sister
Wislawa Szymborska

My sister does not write poems
and it’s unlikely she’ll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who did not write poems,
and after her father, who also did not write poems.
Under my sister’s roof I feel safe:
nothing would move my sister’s husband to write poems.
And though it sounds like a poem by Adam Macedonski,
none of my relatives is engaged in the writing of poems.

In my sister’s desk there are no old poems
nor any new ones in her handbag.
And when my sister invites me to dinner,
I know she has no intention of reading me poems.
She makes superb soups without half trying,
and her coffee does not spill on manuscripts.

In many families no one writes poems,
but when they do, it’s seldom just one person.
Sometimes poetry flows in cascades of generations,
which sets up fearsome eddies in family relations.

My sister cultivates a decent spoken prose,
her entire literary output is on vacation postcards
that promise the same thing every year:
that when she returns,
she’ll tell us, everything,
everything,
everything.

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