reading Zagajewski after a long week

and writing my own poem in response

Hi, friends—

Tonight I am offering something I wrote in response to Adam Zagajewski’s “Try to Praise the Mutilated World,” a poem I have been reading / praying over all week. Zagajewski was a Polish poet whose work I only became familiar with at the end of his life: he died in 2021. What I love about his poetry is its unflinching look at the truths of the world—the horror, the beauty, the glory, the pain. Mostly, I think of his work as poetry of witnessing, which sometimes feels like the only thing I have to contribute to today’s collective pain and stumbling.

migrating monarch, August, 2025, Central Michigan University Biological Station

In Praise of the Mutilated World 
after Adam Zagajewski 

This is in praise of the mutilated world. The broken bits of glass that bleed your feet each time you are hopeful enough to walk barefoot through the alley. The tiny field mice decomposing on suburban sidewalks, the crusty cicadas silently iridescent in the burned grass. So much dignity in the body's continued assertion of self. Praise the panting of dogs, their muddy paws and fishy breath, the way they spill more water than they could ever drink. Praise their heat-induced vomiting, and praise the sun, no matter how fierce, and the earth, no matter how tortured. Praise alewives at the end of their lives, they who have been without a home for so long. Find amazement in each silvered skin. Curse not your weeping, but praise your tears for clearing smoke from the skies. Praise firefighters. Praise street sweepers and soup makers. Praise the dead you knew and the dead you never will.  Praise the walkers, the skate boarders, commuters on their bikes. Praise the protestors whose weary hands wave songs of redemption. Praise anger, for it reminds us of our humanity.  Praise the fallen cormorant, bloated with buckshot, praise biologists and botanists, the searchers and rescuers, the river guides. Praise pines and sassafras, basswoods and birch. Praise their leaves. Praise each woodpecker and jay, no matter how shrill. Praise the cool canopy of shade. Praise lichen and fungi, termites and wasps. Try to praise each spiny stinger you pluck from your skin, each slug tunneling through your last tomato. Praise the gardeners: learn to tend the earth as they were taught. Praise inoculators, the believers in medicine, praise the free clinics and the nurse who answers even when you call after hours. Praise the soft green moss that lives on the other side of the sand. Praise monarchs and milkweed, and praise the neighbors who cover their yards with pink, star-shaped blooms. Praise the stars themselves, praise meteors, praise galaxies and nebulas, spirals and fractals. Praise the shimmering green of each Milky Way you are lucky enough to stand beneath. Praise it all until you can praise no more, until you are as full of praise as the sky is full of night. 

As always, friends, thank you for reading. I am so grateful for your time and attention when time and attention are in such short supply these days. I wish you laughter, cool water, and renewed energy as we begin the back half of August. If I could, I would send you hugs as big as the sky.

Love, Francesca