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| POET'S CORNER Julian Tuwim (1894-1953) Julian Tuwim was born in 1894 in Łódź into a Polish-Jewish family, members of the city's thriving commercial class. Tuwim was an active poet from his early teens and was first published in 1913 in the Kurier Warszawski daily. From 1916-1918 he studied philosophy and law at Warsaw University while working diligently for the student literary journal Pro arte i studio. After university, Tuwim embarked on an lively and varied literary career as a translator, dramatist, academic, and most importantly, as a poet, for which he will be best remembered. He belonged to the Polish poetic movement known as Skamander, which also included other prominent poets such as Jan Lechoń and Antoni Słonimski. The Skamander movement was unusual in that it did not proclaim any specific poetic manifesto, seeming just to bask in the newly found Polish freedom. No longer, they felt, did a poet's muse have to be sucked dry from the necessity of composing patriotic verse, but instead the poet was free to reflect upon and write about whatever he chose. Often the subject matter of these poets was grounded in the ordinariness of everyday life, but they would also exalt the infinite possibility of youth. Tuwim escaped from Poland before the Nazi invasion and lived for a time in both England and America. He returned to Poland in 1947 and immersed himself in Polish literary and cultural life until his death in 1953. Among Tuwim's most famous poetry collections are Seventh Autumn (Siódma jesień) and Socrates Dancing (Sokrates tańczący). Tuwim is also a perennial favorite in the Polish nursery for his colorful children's poetry, often based on word play and tongue twisters. The subtlety and genius of Tuwim's poetry may be glimpsed in this week's poem. On the surface the hero is a merry rogue out for a bit of Saturday night drunkenness. But the violence of his drunken gestures bears heavily upon the fate of his malnourished and ailing children, referred to by him as the "ricketed brats," who are shivering up in the cold attic. Reading the poem one senses the monster behind the mirthful, drunken bravado and the enormous possibility for domestic violence and degradation behind the curtain of this drama of inebriation. THE SATURDAY NIGHT SONG Hooray, the echo will resound throughout the wide square, When a sincere drunkard's song emanates from my throat; Tonight I'll be lapping up a smoky pub's atmosphere, I'm bloody well going to get sloshed, buzzed and somewhere float. My spirit gorged, I'll bang the table with my strong fist, Searching for a little brightness from these gloomy days- Take no more you soft touch! Liberty! May the vile twists Of my ricketed brats in the garret rot away. I'll drink-smash everything in sight but never mind, I'll pay myself! Can I not afford to break a glass or two? I can, you bastards! With the rubles from my black grind I could even have two dozen mistresses to woo. I smash-because I feel like it! Hang it all! Freedom! I've power! Run, spirit, till dawn. Out of the way. Today we rule! And when I leave the pub with hands in the pocket of my trousers I'll stagger wide down the drunken street, nobody's fool! Introduction and translation by Barry Keane |
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