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I began reading Jozef Baran's poems the way poems should be read—gradually, slowly, savoring each one as my wife Ewa finished translating it. I was immediately struck by their straightforward beauty, by their ability to move and speak to the heart, and by their unfashionable accessibility. About a year after Ewa began working on these translations, Jozef came to visit us in Fresno, California, and to do a reading at the university where I teach. During the week that he stayed with us I discovered that I liked the poet as much as the poetry. An unpretentious man with a self-deprecating sense of humor, he won me over instantly, just as his work won over the large audience that gathered for his reading.
I found out that Jozef and I had a lot in common. I was born in the Mississippi Delta, where my father and grandfather toiled in the cotton fields. Baran was born in a village in southern Poland, the fact responsible for some critics' attempts to place him in the peasant poetry tradition. Such reductionist categories that assign poets and writers into the ghettoes of region, class or gender appeal to academics and critics because they give them the impression that the unruly beast of literature can be reined in and tamed. But like many other writers, Baran resists attempts at neat categorization. If there's anything of peasant provenance in his poetry, it's his tenderness toward the earth and the natural world and his stubborn, even defiant independence from literary fads and trends. Whatever label we use to describe Baran's poetry, we instantly have to come up with its opposite. There's amazement at the beauty of the world and anguish over its horrors; there's ecstasy and pain, elation and melancholy, faith and doubt.
If Baran has a poetic creed, it can be found in these lines:
I am foremost a poet
of shy people
those with the aspen leaf of a smile
While he often writes of those who either can't, or won't, speak on their own behalf, he is never shy himself—if by shy, we mean someone who is afraid to meet experience head-on, to risk an extended encounter with the other.
The willingness to embrace risk, to step beyond the borders, for instance, of class and gender, to write from a perspective other than his own—these are among Baran's defining traits as a poet. One of his most moving poems, to my way of thinking, is about a woman being consumed by cancer. Rather than hide, as so many others might, behind the veil of irony, Baran confronts emotion here with shocking directness:
She joins us at the table
And she burns from head to toe
But we sit next to her as if nothing had happened
With mouths full of unnecessary words
Someone pulls back a tiny bit
To stay clear of the fire
Someone else puts on an ice shell
Pretending not to know
She talks and talks and talks
As if she wanted to talk down her ill fortune
And we don't know if we should laugh with her
Or cry over her
As this poem so powerfully illustrates, Baran's poetry is a poetry of empathy. Each encounter—even the moment's observation of an ant "lugging uphill/a seed of faith"—is rife with possibility, if we can only move beyond our own narrow confines. This, in the end, is the task this poet of shy people has set for himself, and it is one at which he succeeds beautifully.