Jan Kochanowski (1530-1584)
Jan Kochanowski, the greatest poet of the Polish Renaissance, is on every school syllabus and is perhaps the most widely quoted Polish poet. He was born into a family of Polish gentry; his father died when he was still a child, and he and his five brothers were raised by their mother. In 1544, Kochanowski entered the Catholic University of Cracow.
Piotr Myszkowski, bishop of Cracow and chancellor to King Zygmunt August, secured the post of secretary and courtier to the king for Kochanowski, who spent the following years performing missions for Zygmunt at home and abroad. He thrived in Zygmunt's court, and it was during this period of his life that he began to write lyrical poetry in the Polish vernacular.
Following the death of Zygmunt August in 1572, Kochanowski retired from public activity. He settled down happily to a rural existence on his country estate, Czarnolas (Blackwood). Kochanowski married a noblewoman, Dorota Padladowska, in 1565, who was to bear him seven children: six girls and one boy. Kochanowski's idyllic existence on Czarnolas was thrown into turmoil, however, when his second eldest daughter, Ursula, died toward the close of 1579, at the age of 30 months. In the wake of her death, Kochanowski wrote his greatest work, The Threnodies, a poetic cycle expressing his grief at the loss of his beloved child. One of The Threnodies is this week's choice.
To compound the poet's grief, Ursula was joined soon after by her younger sister Hannah. Kochanowski did not long outlive his daughters. He died suddenly on Aug. 22, 1584, in Lublin.
As when an olive sapling under an orchard tall takes flight,
In the tracks of maternal love from the soil to an elder's height.
As yet, with neither leaf nor budding twig, Just a sprouting slender sprig.
Then as the fruit grower weeds the nettle and thorn,
His haste causes the little sapling's shoot to be shorn.
In no time it fades, drained of its natural sap,
Collapsing dead at her sweet mother's lap.
To this fate befell Ursula, so dear,
Burgeoning before her parents' eyes, providing warm cheer.
Short time of the earth, Death's cruel enveloping bane,
Before her pensive parent tree, caused her life to wane.
Oh, evil Persephone! How could you consent
For so many tears to be so spent?
* Barry Keane is a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. He is writing his doctoral dissertation on the poetry of Jan Kochanowski at Warsaw University and has already translated two of the poet's major works: The Threnodies and The Dismissal of the Greek Envoys. He is also translating selected poems by Cyprian Norwid. Recently he translated for Wierszalin Theater Piotr Tomaszuk's Doctor Felix, which was performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival where it won a coveted Fringe First award.
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