Zymborska's Devotion to Separation

                                                           Taking Part in Taking Apart

“Conversation With a Stone” and “The Onion” are two poems by Wislawa Szymborska that on the surface appear to have more differences than similarities.  They deal with subjects that differ in a variety of ways; an onion is alive where a stone is not, the onion in the poem does not talk as the stone does, and so on.  But when an intensive analysis is applied to the form and content of the two, a connection can be made, even if it is tenuous.  This thematic connection deals with a central problem of the human condition, that of being isolated and cut off from other entities.  But to better understand the relationship between these two distinct poems, it would be beneficial to first analyze each poem individually. 

            The meaning of “Conversation With a Stone” is difficult to discern, appropriate for a poem in which one of its major characters, the stone, continually stresses its mysterious, impregnable nature.  The narrator of the poem, an unnamed person, repeatedly tries to foster a relationship with the stone by knocking at its “front door,” but is rebuffed each time.  In various ways, the stone conveys that a relationship between the two characters is essentially impossible.  In the second stanza the stone commands the narrator to leave it be, warning him “Even if you break me to pieces,/ we’ll all still be closed.  You can grind us to sand,/ we still won’t let you in.”  Even deconstruction of the stone will yield to the narrator no greater understanding.  Another example of the stone asserting its separation from the narrator occurs in the sixth stanza, in which the stone replies to the narrator’s expression of desire to see its beautiful halls inside by saying that same beauty is unable to be understood by his mortal senses: “Beautiful, perhaps, but not to the taste/ of your poor senses.  You may get to know me, but you’ll never know me/ through.”  In essence, the stone points out that the narrator’s senses, such as those mentioned in the first stanza, like sight, touch, and smell, are inadequate to lead to him to unravel the mystery of such an alien being as the stone.  The sense needed, the stone says, is the “sense of taking part./  No other sense can make up for your missing sense of/ taking part.  Even sight heightened to become all-seeing/ will do you no good without a sense of taking part.”    And to finally bring down the immutable nature of their separation, the stone denies that it even has a door, though the narrator claims to have been knocking at it all along. 

            Even the form of the poem lends itself to this idea of separation and isolation.  It has no discernible form, rhyme scheme, rhythm, or meter, which serves to distinguish and set it apart  from most other forms of poetry.  Just as the stone is an alien being to the narrator, so the form of the poem is almost alien to the reader.  Perhaps this is a natural result, however, from the poem being presented to us in translation.  But although there is no central form, there is some repetition, such as the narrator’s statement, “I knock at the stone’s front door,” repeatedly used at the beginning of several stanzas.  Also, the pattern of action in the poem is repetitive: the narrator knocks and implores to be let in, and the stone rebuffs him, claiming that it is impossible.  In all, the form serves to further the theme of separation and estrangement so prevalent in the poem, as it is just as alien to traditional readers of poetry as the stone is to the narrator.  The same themes are touched upon in “The Onion,” but first it would be prudent to analyze the poem on its own before comparisons are made. 

            “The Onion” focuses on playfully describing the hidden qualities of this common food item, but in doing so, it also touches on the theme of isolation.  From the beginning, this separation is established in the lines “It follows its own daimonion/ without our human tears.”  It is an autonomous agent whose nature is not determined by human beings, much like the stone.  The second stanza further emphasizes the distinctions between humans and onions by describing the different natures of our skins.  Where human is skin “is just a coverup/ for the land where none dare go,” in “an onion there’s only onion/from its top to its toe.”  And the last stanza hammers in the message when it speaks of the onion draping itself in its “own aureoles of glory.”  The word “own” carries with it connotations of possession, and possession necessarily implies exclusion and separation.  This is why Szymborska writes in the last two lines, “Not for us such idiotic onionoid perfections.” 

            The form of this poem differs greatly from that of “Conversation With a Stone.”  Unlike it, “The Onion” has a discernible, bouncy rhythm and rhyme scheme, and it is solely composed of octets.  The lively rhythm can be traced to the object being described: the onion is a rich, juicy ingredient that adds spice and taste to our food.  Szymborska similarly spices up her descriptive language, frequently using alliterations and invented words (“onionymous monomania, unanimous omninudity,” “secretions’ secret sections”) to contribute to a sense of vibrancy.  And her use of the word “polyphony” is notable as well, as the word, in a musical context, signifies the fusion of many distinct melodies, just as an onion is comprised of distinct layers.  Interestingly, however, this seems contradictory to her previous point that “onionhood” is “pure,” stated in the first stanza.  But as she emphasizes in the third stanza, even a smaller piece cut out from the onion is of “undiminished worth,” which is another assertion of the homogeneity of the onion, as similar substances should logically have similar values.

            As I have stated before, the theme that seems to tie these two poems is that of human isolation, and as an outgrowth of this condition, the search for companionship.  Szymborska, through her portrayal of the onion and the stone as being mysteries unsolvable by use of the human senses, is constructing allegories for the hopelessness of the human condition.  No matter how much we may wish to be in communion with something, our innate lack of a “sense of taking part” will continue to keep us barred off from others.  Even if our senses were trained to perfection, if our sight was “heightened to become all-seeing,” it would still do us no good in overcoming our lack of the most important sense.  Perfection, even “idiotic onionoid perfection,” is not to be attained by us, and so our lot in life is to be lonely.  Szymborska emphasizes this when she speaks of our skin in “The Onion,” describing it as “the land where none dare go” and an “internal inferno.”  She takes this idea of human isolation to the extreme with these statements; most of us would agree, at least to some degree, that loneliness may be assuaged by physical connection, whether it take the form of a sexual union or even something as innocuous as a hug, but to Szymborska even these most basic of connections would not seem to help us. 

            The poems, however, deal with this most depressing of assertions in different ways.  Where “A Conversation With a Stone” takes a bleak tone and describes the isolation starkly, “The Onion” playfully, and more subtly, delivers the message.  The imagery and descriptive words of the two poems convey this difference in tone.  For instance, in “Conversation With a Stone,” the stone describes its halls as “great,” but also “empty” and not suited to the tastes of the narrator’s “poor senses.”  And even though the stone claims it does not have the “muscles to laugh,” at the end of the poem it claims that it is “bursting with laughter” at the narrator’s foolish attempts to convince it to open itself.  Clearly, the situation in which the narrator is placed is far more hostile than that encountered in “The Onion.”  In this poem, at least, Szymborska seems to take a more whimsical view of the nature of our separation.  She accomplishes this by playing with language, inventing nonsensical words such as “onionymous” and “monomania,” as well as employing a bouncy rhythm.  Its whole effect is to describe a food item that is pulsing with life, as evidenced by the lines where Szymborska calls the onion “Nature’s rotundest tummy,/ its greatest success story,/ the onion drapes itself in its/ own aureoles of glory.”  But again, she contrasts this image of perfection with our own incomplete human state, and so the stark underlying message of our destiny of being incomplete and fractured is made even clearer.  Pure personhood, unlike “pure onionhood,” simply cannot exist.

            Szymborska certainly comes across as a cynic in these poems; most people would disagree that we are destined to be forever cut off from others.  Perhaps they are right.  Whatever the poet may have thought, I would agree that physical connection, at least, is possible, as well as necessary.  But I think that there is at least some truth to her claim; selfishness is a powerful motivating factor in many decisions that we make, and as separate individuals, our empathy, if not our sympathy, can only extend so far.  However, it seems to me too extreme to say that all of our searches for companionship are doomed to failure, as she implies in “Conversation With a Stone.”  People’s hearts may harden, but they still possess doors, even if they are locked and unaccustomed to being opened.  Their key may be this sense of “taking part,” a sense that at least some people have, even if Szymborska did not feel so.