The Lazy Poor Poet (Limerick)
by David K. Z

There once was a lazy poor poet,
But indignant she didn't quiet know it.
Just one bad review,
And her blood turned all blue,
But she carried on much prouder for it.

One star: it is plenty enough.
For the tripe, for the drivel, and cruft.
When it doesn't keep time,
Paints no image, nor rhyme -
Well no thank you; you've written enough.

You may say that this limerick's a bore -
Because you don't get metaphore,
So you'll no longer see
Any critique from me.
Cry and moan - you'll get five stars for sure!

If you think that this poem's about you:
So sorry - it's probably true.
But just 'cause you write it
Let's not get excited.
The world doesn't centre on you.
Uncertainty
by Adam Mickiewicz

While I don't see you, I don't shed a tear
I never lose my senses when you're near,
But, with our meetings few and far between
There's something missing, waiting to be seen.
Is there a name for what I'm thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?

As soon as we have said our last good-byes,
Your image never floats before my eyes;
But more than once, when you have been long gone,
I seemed to feel your presence linger on.
I wonder then what I've been thinking of.
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?

When I'm downcast, I never seek relief
By pouring out my heart in tales of grief;
Yet, as I wander aimlessly, once more
I somehow end up knocking at your door;
What brought me here? What am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?

I'd give my life to keep you sound and well,
To make you smile, I would descend to hell;
But though I'd climb the mountains, swim the seas
I do not look to be your health and peace:
Again I ask, what am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? or should I call this love?

And when you place your hand upon my palm,
I am enveloped in a blissful calm,
Prefiguring some final, gentle rest;
But still my heart beats loudly in my breast
As if to ask: what are you thinking of?
Are you two friends? or will you call this love?

Not bardic spirit seized my mortal tongue
When I thought of you and composed this song;
But still, I can't help wondering sometimes:
Where did these notions come from, and these rhymes?
In heaven's name, what I was dreaming of?
And what had inspired me? Friendship or love?

translator not known
Do not skylark
by Marek Grechuta

There was once in a city a big flutter
An extremely beautiful performance was held
To everyone’s amusement
Everyone’s but her

A young lady in the first row had everything for none
Even though the singer sang only for this lady alone!
And though he was losing his senses for her,
She laughed, clapped hands…

In the second act the singer sang much more prudently,
Yet the young lady still behaved not earnestly.
Till the moment, when suddenly, suddenly among the show,
Words were voiced:

Do not skylark, dear, do not skylark!
After all you’re not such a marvel!
Not at once, dear, not at once,
You can melt the ice of my heart!

There was also another moment, which I shall not forget,
It was a languid evening and unveiling hopes,
Because of a girl from the end of the room, similar to a rose...
Whose dance ruined holy peace in my heart.

Just then an unusual, uncanny incident has occurred,
Even I don’t know anymore how it was,
Difficult to tell...
There is only one thing I remember till today
How I sang to her:

“Lips are silent, my soul sings,
Lips are silent, the world resounds,”

But the girl didn’t hear,
Already occupied in a dance,
In this dance she sang to someone that,
What I remember so well till today:

Do not skylark dear, do not skylark!
After all you’re not such a marvel!
Not at once, dear, not at once,
You can melt the ice of my heart!

translated by Scotch and Sirens
Poems used within the story

The poems used within "Scotch and Sirens" were often modified in order to meet the needs of the plot.
Here you can find them, and many others, in their original form.
Within Their Silent, Perfect Glass. . .
by Adam Mickiewicz

Within their silent perfect glass
The mirror waters, vast and clear,
Reflect the silhouette of rocks,
Dark faces brooding on the shore.

Within their silent, perfect glass
The mirror waters show the sky;
Clouds skim across the mirror's face,
And dim its surface as they die.

Within their silent, perfect glass
The mirror waters image storm;
They glow with lightning, but the blast
Of thunder do not mar their calm.

Those mirror waters, as before,
Still lie in silence, vast and clear.

The mirror me, I mirror them,
As true a glass as they I am:
And as I turn away I leave
The images that gave them form.

Dark rocks must menace from the shore,
And thunderheads grow large with rain;
Lightning must flash above the lake,
And I must mirror and pass on,
Onward and onward without end.

Translated by Cecil Hemley
Read more poems from Poland

Middle Ages

Renaissance
Jan Kochanowski

Baroque
Jan Andrzej Morsztyn
Waclaw Potocki
Maciej Kazimierz Sarbiewski

Enlightenment
Ignacy Krasicki
Aleksander Fredro

Romanticism
Adam Mickiewicz
Juliusz Slowacki
Zygmund Krasinski
Cyprian Kamil Norwid

Positivism
Adam Asnyk
Maria Konopnicka

Young Poland
Boleslaw Lesmian
Stanislaw Wyspianski
Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer
Jan Kasprowicz
Leopold Staff

Interwar period
Julian Tuwim
Jaroslaw Iwaszkiewicz
Antoni Slonimski
Kazimierz Wierzynski
Tadeusz Boy-Zelenski
Jan Lechon
Kornel Makuszynski
Julian Przybos
Jozef Czechowicz
Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska
Bruno Schulz
Kazimiera Illakowiczowna
Konstanty Ildefons Galczynski

20th century
Adam Wazyk
Wladyslaw Broniewski
Andrzej Bursa
Zbigniew Herbert
Wislawa Szymborska
Czeslaw Milosz
Jan Brzechwa
Halina Poswiatowska
Stanislaw Grochowiak
Zbigniew Herbert
Tadeusz Rozewicz
Edward Stachura
Rafal Wojaczek
Agnieszka Osiecka
Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski
I would like to be a poet
by Andrzej Bursa

I would like to be a poet
because a poet's life is fine
because a poet has a new sweater,
the fine boots and a dog setter
and it is easy to live

I would like to be a poet
because it's right
because a poet has four wives
and he’s divorced with each of them
and I like women

I would like to be a poet
because they may take to me
because Zakopane is for poets
because there is no need
to wake up early in the morning
good, because it is so cold then

because it’s fine to be a poet
he does not need to work
and all rules disappear
and only the girl, the music
and counting the golden stars

and to mistake and to count
and always again from the very beginning
of the earth, in a tree and in the blue sky
and to look for the hard word

and to anger and to sadden
because it's still not that
and to always have regard and look
I don't want to be a poet

translated by Scotch and Sirens
Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
by Thomas Moore

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Live fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose!
Your Laughter
by Pablo Neruda

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
L'Ecole des femmes (fragment)
by Moliere

Pour se parer du coup en vain on se fatigue:
Une femme d'esprit est un diable en intrigue;
Et d?s que son caprice a prononcé tout bas
L'arr?t de notre honneur, il faut passer le pas:
Beaucoup d'honn?tes gens en pourroient bien que dire.
Enfin, mon étourdi n'aura pas lieu d'en rire.
Conflict of Wit and Beauty
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Sir Wit, who is so much esteem'd,
And who is worthy of all honour,
Saw Beauty his superior deem'd
By folks who loved to gaze upon her;
At this he was most sorely vex'd.

Then came Sir Breath (long known as fit
To represent the cause of wit),
Beginning, rudely, I admit,
To treat the lady with a text.

To this she hearken'd not at all,
But hasten'd to his principal:
"None are so wise, they say, as you,--
Is not the world enough for two?

If you are obstinate, good-bye!
If wise, to love me you will try,
For be assured the world can ne'er
Give birth to a more handsome pair."
Sonnet
by William Shakespeare

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
‘Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!’
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
    For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
    My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Here's A Bottle
by Robert Burns

There's nane that's blest of human kind
But the cheerful and the gay, man.

Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man!
Believe me, Happiness is shy,
And comes not ay when sought, man!
Upon the Bee
by John Bunyan

The bee goes out, and honey home doth bring,
And some who seek that honey find a sting.
Now would'st thou have the honey, and be free
From stinging, in the first place kill the bee.

Comparison.

This bee an emblem truly is of sin,
Whose sweet, unto a many, death hath been.
Now would'st have sweet from sin and yet not die,
Do thou it, in the first place, mortify.
...
by Alexander Pope

"Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it,
Every fool is not a poet."