Ruby Fredericks-Grzyb

Gramatyka

(—a wrosnąć w słowa tak radośnie,

a pokochać słowa tak łatwo—

trzeba tylko wziąć je do ręki i obekrzeć jak burgund pod światło).

    Przymiotniki przeciągają się jak koty

    i jak koty są stworzone do pieszczot

    miękkie koty ciepłe i potulne mruczą tkliwość andante i maesto.

    Miękkie koty mają w oczach jeziora i ziel-topiel wodorostną na dnie.

    Patrzę sennie w źrenice kocie

      tajemnicje i szklane i zdradne.

Oto jest bryła i kształt, oto jest treść nieodzowna,

konkretność istoty rzeczy, materia wkuta w rzeczownik,

i nieruchomość świata i spokój martwot i stałość,

coś, co trwa wciąż i jest, słowo stężone w ciało.

Oto są proste stoły i twarde drewniane ławy,

oto są wątłe i mokre z tkanek roślinnych trawy,

oto jest rudy kościół, co w Bogu gotykiem sterczy,

i oto jest żylne tętnicze ludzkie najprostsze serce.

   Zaś przysłówek to nagły cud

   niespodzianka potartych krzesiw—

   było coś nie wiadomo jak

     a już teraz jest w skos i w poprzek

   i oburącz oplata myśl i jest pewnie rzewnie i dobrze.

A zaimki to malutkie pokoiczki,

gdzie na oknach rosną małe doniczki.

Każdy kącik – to pamiątka po dawniej

a są tylko dla Ciebie i dla mnie.

Tu tajemną abrakadabrą

kwitną prawa miłosnych algebr:

ja—to ty, ty—to ja (równanie) 

ja bez ciebie—ty beze mnie to zero.

My lubimy otuleni zmierzchami

w małych słowach jak w szufladkach szperać.

Ja to ty—ty to ja. Równanie.

A zaimki są tak tajne jak kwiaty,

jak malutkie, malutkie pokoiczki,

w których mieszkasz w tajemnicy przed światem.

   (—więc weź tylko słowo do ręki

   i obejrzyj jak burgund pod światło,

   a wrosnąć w słowa tak radośnie,

   a pokochać słowa tak łatwo.—).

– Zuzanna Ginczanka

On Grammar

(—and to grow into words so joyfully,

and to love words so easily

You only have to take them in hand and gaze as if  burgundy wine under light).

Like cats, adjectives stretch

and like cats are created for caress

soft cats, warm and docile purr in tender andante and maesto.

Soft cats, have eyes of the lake, like green-melt algae in the deep.

I look sleepily into cat pupils

Transparent secrets and betrayal.

Here is solidity and shape, here is indispensable content,

a concrete essence of things, matter carved into noun,

and the immobility of the world and the peace of deadness and constancy,

something, that lasts and is, word condensed into flesh.

Here are simple tables and hard wooden benches,

here are the fragile wet tissues of grass,

here is the red church, as it stands in Gothic for God,

and here it is, venous and arterial, the simplest of human hearts.

Yet the adverb is a sudden miracle

the surprise of flint rubbed together—

there was something and now, we don't know how, 

 it’s diagonal and crosswise

and with both hands it embraces thought and it’s certainly tender and good.

And pronouns are tiny little rooms,

Where in windows lie small flower pots.

Every corner is a memento of the past

and they are only for you and me.

Here, in a secret abracadabra

the laws of love algebras bloom:

I—am you, you—are me (equals)

Me without you—you without me means nothing.

 Wrapped in twilights we love

to rummage in small words as in drawers.

I am you—you are me. Equals.

And pronouns are as secret as flowers,

like tiny, tiny little rooms,

where you live in secret from the world.

(—so just take a word in your hand

and look at it like the burgundy wine against the light,

and grow into words so joyfully,

and fall in love with words so easily.—).

– Translated from Polish by Ruby Fredericks-Grzyb

On Grammar

(—and to grow into words so joyfully,

and to love words so easily

one has only to take them in hand and gaze as if at burgundy wine under light).

Like cats, adjectives stretch

and like cats are created for caress

soft cats, warm and docile purr in tender andante and maesto.

Soft cats, have eyes of lake, like green-melt algae in the deep.

I look sleepily into your pupils

Your secrets and betrayal transparent.

Here is solidity and shape, here is indispensable content,

a concrete essence of things, matter carved into noun,

and the immobility of the world and the peace of deadness and constancy,

something, that which lasts and is, word condensed into your body.

Here are simple tables and hard wooden benches,

here are the frail and wet tissues of grass,

here is the red church, as it stands in Gothic for God,

and here is your venous and arterial, the simplest of human hearts. 

And yet the adverb is a sudden miracle

the surprise of flint rubbed together—

there was something unknown

and now it is diagonal and crosswise

and with both hands embraces thought and it is certainly tender and good.

And pronouns are tiny little rooms,

where small flower pots grow on the windows.

Every corner is a memento of the past

and they are only for you and me.

Here, in a secret abracadabra

the laws of love algebras bloom:

I—am you, you—are me (equals)

Me without you—you without me is nothing.

We like, wrapped in twilights

to rummage in small words as in drawers.

I am you—you are me. Equals. 

And our love is as secret as flowers,

like tiny, tiny little rooms,

in which we live in secret from the world.

(—so just take a word in your hand

and look at it like burgundy against the light,

and grow into words so joyfully,

and fall in love with words so easily.—).

– Translated from Polish by Ruby Fredericks-Grzyb

I've told you this already

(An erasure of my interview with Edward Grzyb)

No.

N/A.

First two to three generations.

I don't know.

They spoke it at home 

They spoke it at church,

Polish Catholics. 

Not that I know of.

I don't know.

Not spoken anymore.

In our family,

Grandfather spoke Polish, 

I couldn't understand.

I've told you this already.

– Ruby Fredericks-Grzyb

Translator’s Statement

Zuzanna Ginczanka was a Polish-Jewish poet of the interwar period (“Zuzanna Ginczanka”). She was born in Kiev, Ukraine which was, in 1917, a part of the Russian Empire. She was left orphaned during the first world war and was raised by her grandmother, who was said to be responsible for her poetic upbringing. Zuzanna began writing poems at the age of four and went on to publish her and only first book of poetry, O centaurach. She became nationally recognised for O centaurach by the time she was sixteen. Her first language was Russian, but she spoke Polish with her friends and chose to write her poems in Polish (“Zuzanna Ginczanka”). Zuzanna moved to Kraków at 18 where she studied at Warsaw University, but ended her studies likely due to antisemitic incidents (“Zuzanna Ginczanka”). During the years 1939–1942 Ginczanka lived in the city of Lviv in occupied Poland where, at the age of 22, she married the Polish-Jewish art historian Michał Weinzieher. With the Nazi invasion of Poland, the situation of the Jewish population changed dramatically for the worse (“Zuzanna Ginczanka”). In September 1942 Ginczanka's husband decided to leave Lviv in hopes of escaping the internment. Together, they moved to Kraków where, after lots of hiding from and escaping from the Nazis, Ginczanka was arrested and killed just before the end of WWII (“Zuzanna Ginczanka”). Ginczanka’s poetry takes on a significant feminist lens, and her poetry is almost modern in the language that she’s using. 

The poem Gramatyka  is from a book of poetry called “O centaurach.” (Of/About/On Centaurs). O centaurach was Zuzanna Ginczankas first and only book of poetry. O centaurach was published in 1936, meaning that it was published in the interwar period, or, the time between WWI and WWII. Partly due to Ginczanka’s femininity lense, this poem, Gramatyka, has a very modern feel to it. In Gramatyka, the stanzas are mostly the same length, 5-8 lines, except for the last stanza, which is much longer. In terms of spacing, some stanzas are indented and generally there are smaller stanzas, as I said before. Also, the lines are both end stopped or enjambed. It is a mix. For the tone, Gramatyka definitely feels a bit more formal, but also is casual at some times, and has, like I said, a very modern feel. The language is very descriptive in terms of things and settings, and it’s extremely abstract. The beginning of the poem and the end of the poem are extremely similar and are counterparts of each other, as the same lines are repeated in different orders. The poem is full of beautiful imagery, and really showcases these beautiful abstract ideas about language. There is phrasing that feels almost personal, like the poet is speaking to the reader, and encouraging them to write and to love. There are some mystical and religious undertones throughout the poem too, especially in lines like “Something, that which lasts and is, word condensed into body/flesh” and “Here is the red church, as it stands in Gothic for God.”  This poem is basically saying: words are incredible. They allow you to express yourself and say all of the things you want to say. Words build up our language and our culture, which affects how we interact with each other and the world.

My relationship to my heritage language is almost nonexistent, and I represented that in my erasure poem. Most of my dads answers to the interview questions were “no” or “I don’t know.” I am Polish, and Polish culture has been a huge part of my identity and family for my whole life. But, Polish language hasn't been present. My great-great-grandparents immigrated here from Poland and spoke Polish. The language got passed down and was spoken through generations up until my father. My grandfather spoke Polish, and was a big part of the Polish community. The thing is, he didn't teach my dad Polish, meaning it never got passed down to me and I haven't had a connection to the language. My grandfather never spoke Polish around me, and I only found out that he spoke Polish after he passed away, meaning I never got to ask him about it, or ask him to teach me. While I still feel connected to my Polish culture with the foods we eat and my family, not knowing Polish makes it feel like there's a piece missing, and clearly it feels that way for my dad too.

 There were a lot of questions he just couldn't answer in the interview, and I think that made him frustrated, leading to the answer “I've told you this already” to the questions I did know the answers to. For my erasure poem, I mostly tried to represent the unknown, because that is the extent of knowledge that I have of Polish. I did learn a few things though. I learned that my grandfather and his parents attended mass in Polish, and I also learned that my grandfather ran bus tours around the northeast, bringing people to polka festivals. While I don’t have much of a connection to the language right now, besides a few words, I can make steps to learning it, and I can still feel connected through my family and culture.

Works Cited

Asymptote. “From about Centaurs .” Asymptotejournal.com, 2025, www.asymptotejournal.com/poetry/zuzanna-ginczanka-about-centaurs/. Accessed 2 June 2025.

del Valle Schorske, Carina. “Letter of Recommendation: Translation.” The New York Times, 26 Oct. 2017, www.nytimes.com/2017/10/26/magazine/letter-of-recommendation-translation.html

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o. The Language of Languages, 26 Aug. 2023.

Wikipedia Contributors. “Zuzanna Ginczanka.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 13 May 2025.