Portrait of woman
Wislawa Szymborska
Must present alternatives.
Change, but on condition that nothing changes.
That is easy, impossible, difficult, worth trying.
Her eyes are, as required, now deep blue, now grey,
black, sparkling, unaccountably filled with tears.
She sleeps with him as one of many, as the one and only.
She'll bear him four children, no children, one.
Naive, but gives best advice.
Weak, but she'll carry.
She has no head, so she'll have a head,
reads Jaspers and women's magazines.
Has no clue what that nut is for and will build a bridge.
Young, young as usual, always still young.
Holds in her hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
her own money for a long and distant journey,
a chopper, a poultice and a glass of vodka.
Where is she running, perhaps she's tired.
But no, only a little, very, it's no matter.
She either loves him or she's just stubborn.
For better, for worse and for love of God.
Big numbers
Wislawa Szymborska
Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is as it was.
It doesn't cope well with big numbers.
It's still moved by singularity.
It flies in the dark like a beam or a torch,
which reveals only the nearest faces,
while the rest are condemned to oversight,
un-regret, non-thought.
But even Dante couldn't have stemmed this rush.
And what if one even isn't him.
And even if all the Muses came.
Non omnis moriar--it's too early to fret.
But do I wholly live and is that enough.
It never was, and especially now.
Rejecting I choose, there's no other way,
but what I do reject more numerous is,
and denser and more than ever insistent.
At the price of indescribable losses--a few verses, a sigh.
To a rousing call I respond in whispers.
What I pass over in silence I will not express.
A mouse at the foot of the maternal mountain.
Life lasts a few signs clawed in sand.
My dreams--even they are not, as they ought to be,
Wislawa Szymborska
Must present alternatives.
Change, but on condition that nothing changes.
That is easy, impossible, difficult, worth trying.
Her eyes are, as required, now deep blue, now grey,
black, sparkling, unaccountably filled with tears.
She sleeps with him as one of many, as the one and only.
She'll bear him four children, no children, one.
Naive, but gives best advice.
Weak, but she'll carry.
She has no head, so she'll have a head,
reads Jaspers and women's magazines.
Has no clue what that nut is for and will build a bridge.
Young, young as usual, always still young.
Holds in her hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
her own money for a long and distant journey,
a chopper, a poultice and a glass of vodka.
Where is she running, perhaps she's tired.
But no, only a little, very, it's no matter.
She either loves him or she's just stubborn.
For better, for worse and for love of God.
Big numbers
Wislawa Szymborska
Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is as it was.
It doesn't cope well with big numbers.
It's still moved by singularity.
It flies in the dark like a beam or a torch,
which reveals only the nearest faces,
while the rest are condemned to oversight,
un-regret, non-thought.
But even Dante couldn't have stemmed this rush.
And what if one even isn't him.
And even if all the Muses came.
Non omnis moriar--it's too early to fret.
But do I wholly live and is that enough.
It never was, and especially now.
Rejecting I choose, there's no other way,
but what I do reject more numerous is,
and denser and more than ever insistent.
At the price of indescribable losses--a few verses, a sigh.
To a rousing call I respond in whispers.
What I pass over in silence I will not express.
A mouse at the foot of the maternal mountain.
Life lasts a few signs clawed in sand.
My dreams--even they are not, as they ought to be,
[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<align=right>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]
Portrait of woman
Wislawa Szymborska
Must present alternatives.
Change, but on condition that nothing changes.
That is easy, impossible, difficult, worth trying.
Her eyes are, as required, now deep blue, now grey,
black, sparkling, unaccountably filled with tears.
She sleeps with him as one of many, as the one and only.
She'll bear him four children, no children, one.
Naive, but gives best advice.
Weak, but she'll carry.
She has no head, so she'll have a head,
reads Jaspers and women's magazines.
Has no clue what that nut is for and will build a bridge.
Young, young as usual, always still young.
Holds in her hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
her own money for a long and distant journey,
a chopper, a poultice and a glass of vodka.
Where is she running, perhaps she's tired.
But no, only a little, very, it's no matter.
She either loves him or she's just stubborn.
For better, for worse and for love of God.
Big numbers
Wislawa Szymborska
Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is as it was.
It doesn't cope well with big numbers.
It's still moved by singularity.
It flies in the dark like a beam or a torch,
which reveals only the nearest faces,
while the rest are condemned to oversight,
un-regret, non-thought.
But even Dante couldn't have stemmed this rush.
And what if one even isn't him.
And even if all the Muses came.
<i>Non omnis moriar</i>--it's too early to fret.
But do I wholly live and is that enough.
It never was, and especially now.
Rejecting I choose, there's no other way,
but what I do reject more numerous is,
and denser and more than ever insistent.
At the price of indescribable losses--a few verses, a sigh.
To a rousing call I respond in whispers.
What I pass over in silence I will not express.
A mouse at the foot of the maternal mountain.
Life lasts a few signs clawed in sand.
My dreams--even they are not, as they ought to be,
<align=right>populous.</align>
They have more solitariness than tumults and crowds.
Occasionally someone long-dead drops in for a moment.
A single hand turns the door-knob.
The empty house is overgrown with echo's extensions.
From its steps I run down into a peaceful
valley, apparently unclaimed, already out-of-date.
But whence this space in me still--
I have no idea.
On the tower of Babel
Wislawa Szymborska
<i>What time is it?</i>--Yes, I'm happy
and all I need is a bell round my neck
to tinkle over you when you sleep.
--<i>Didn't you hear the storm, then? The wind shook the walls,
the tower like a lion yawned with its huge gate
on a groaning hinge.</i>--Don't you remember?
I wore a plain dark dress
clasped over the shoulder.--<i>And immediately
the sky splintered in manifold blasts.</i>--How could I have
<align=right>entered,</align>
you weren't alone. <i>Suddenly I saw
colours that predated sight.</i>--Pity
you can't promise.--<i>You're right,
must have been a dream.</i>--Why do you lie,
why do you call me by her name,
do you love her still?--<i>Oh yes, I'd like you
to stay with me.</i>--I'm not bitter,
I should have guessed.
--<i>You keep thinking of him?</i>--But I'm not crying.
--<i>And is that all?</i>--No one but you.
--<i>At least you're honest</i>--Don't worry,
I'll be leaving town.--<i>Don't worry,
I'll go away.</i>--Your hands so beautiful.
--<i>That's an old story, the blade cut through
but left the bones intact.</i>--No need to,
really, my dear, no need.--<i>I have no idea
of the time, and I don't wish to have.</i>
from "A contribution on pornography"
Wislawa Szymborska
During these trysts only tea is steaming.
People sit on chairs, move their lips.
Each crosses his own legs.
So one foot touches the floor,
the other swings free.
But occasionally someone gets up,
goes to the window
and through a chink in the curtains
watches the street.
Funeral
Wislawa Szymborska
--so suddenly, who could have guessed
--nerves, and cigarettes, I did warn him
--passably, thank you
--unwrap those flowers
--in his brother's case it was the heart, must be in the
<align=right>family</align>
--I would never recognise you with that beard
--only himself to blame, always mixed up in something
--that new one was the speak, can't see him
--Kazek's in Warsaw, Tadek's abroad
--only you were clever enough to take an umbrella
--he was the ablest--doesn't matter now
--it's a connecting room, Basia won't agree
--yes, he was right, but that's no excuse
--door varnishing included--guess how much
--two yolks, a spoonful of sugar
--not his business, shouldn't have meddled
--only in blue and only in small sizes
--five times and never any answer
--all right, I could have, and so could you
--at least she held down that little job
--no idea, probably relatives
--the priest's quite a Belmondo
--I've never been in this part of the cemetery
--I dreamt about him last week, had a premonition
--the daughter is quite pretty
--we're all in the same boat
--condolences to the widow, must rush
--but it used to sound more dignified in Latin
--it's all in the past now
--goodbye, Marta
--let's find a beer somewhere
--give me a ring, we'll talk
--catch a 4 or a 12
--I go this way
--we go over there
Miracle mart
Wislawa Szymborska
Common miracle:
the happening of many common miracles.
Ordinary miracle:
invisible dogs barking
in the silence of the night.
A miracle among many:
a tiny ethereal cloud
able to cover a large heavy moon.
Several miracles in one:
an alder reflected in water
moreover turned from left to right
moreover growing crown downwards
yet not reaching the bottom
though the waters are shallow.
An everyday miracle:
soft gentle breezes
gusting during storms.
Any old miracle:
cows are cows.
And another like it:
just this particular orchard
from just this pip.
Miracle without frock coat or top hat:
a scattering of white doves.
Miracle--what else would you call it:
today the sun rose at 3.14
and will set at 20.01.
Miracle which doesn't sufficiently amaze:
though the hand has fewer than six fingers
yet it has more than four.
Miracle--just look around:
the world ever-present.
An extra miracle, just as everything is extra:
what is unthinkable
is thinkable.
/
"wrong number" by wislawa szymborska
"experiment" by wislawa szymborska
"instant living" by wislawa szymborska
"railway station" by wislawa szymborska
other lines from wislawa szymborska's poems:
Happy love. Is that normal,
is that serious, is that useful--
what does the world get out of two people
who don't see the world?
.
With its moist nose it could distinguish
the smell of bacon from odourless non-being
and licked itself with obvious relish,
it salivated respect for physiology.
.
It's not dreams that are mad,
reality is mad,
if only because of the tenacity
with which it clings
to the course of events.
In dreams our recently dead
still survives,
he even enjoys good health
and recovered youth.
Reality displays
his dead body.
Reality retreats not an inch.
.
The division into sky and earth
is not a proper way
of considering this whole.
It only allows one
to survive under a more precise address,
quicker to find,
should any one seek me.
<b>My distinguishing marks
are wonder and despair.</b>
.
Seeing such sights I lose my certainty
that what is important
is more important than the unimportant.
.
If they did let us choose,
we probably pondered long.
.
/
...sorry for not responding--been away, didn't know, been frantic and busy here too.
(i will write you raoul,
and you too, rob--the fliers are up! and oh, it's julie. and they confirm it's all ages, not to mention inexpensive. mm. now, if only i knew how to get there.)
(i'd like to go with you! let's, if you like.)
now, back to incessant demands...
(i talk to myself. it's ok; you don't have to tell me. ;)
Wislawa Szymborska
Must present alternatives.
Change, but on condition that nothing changes.
That is easy, impossible, difficult, worth trying.
Her eyes are, as required, now deep blue, now grey,
black, sparkling, unaccountably filled with tears.
She sleeps with him as one of many, as the one and only.
She'll bear him four children, no children, one.
Naive, but gives best advice.
Weak, but she'll carry.
She has no head, so she'll have a head,
reads Jaspers and women's magazines.
Has no clue what that nut is for and will build a bridge.
Young, young as usual, always still young.
Holds in her hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
her own money for a long and distant journey,
a chopper, a poultice and a glass of vodka.
Where is she running, perhaps she's tired.
But no, only a little, very, it's no matter.
She either loves him or she's just stubborn.
For better, for worse and for love of God.
Big numbers
Wislawa Szymborska
Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is as it was.
It doesn't cope well with big numbers.
It's still moved by singularity.
It flies in the dark like a beam or a torch,
which reveals only the nearest faces,
while the rest are condemned to oversight,
un-regret, non-thought.
But even Dante couldn't have stemmed this rush.
And what if one even isn't him.
And even if all the Muses came.
<i>Non omnis moriar</i>--it's too early to fret.
But do I wholly live and is that enough.
It never was, and especially now.
Rejecting I choose, there's no other way,
but what I do reject more numerous is,
and denser and more than ever insistent.
At the price of indescribable losses--a few verses, a sigh.
To a rousing call I respond in whispers.
What I pass over in silence I will not express.
A mouse at the foot of the maternal mountain.
Life lasts a few signs clawed in sand.
My dreams--even they are not, as they ought to be,
<align=right>populous.</align>
They have more solitariness than tumults and crowds.
Occasionally someone long-dead drops in for a moment.
A single hand turns the door-knob.
The empty house is overgrown with echo's extensions.
From its steps I run down into a peaceful
valley, apparently unclaimed, already out-of-date.
But whence this space in me still--
I have no idea.
On the tower of Babel
Wislawa Szymborska
<i>What time is it?</i>--Yes, I'm happy
and all I need is a bell round my neck
to tinkle over you when you sleep.
--<i>Didn't you hear the storm, then? The wind shook the walls,
the tower like a lion yawned with its huge gate
on a groaning hinge.</i>--Don't you remember?
I wore a plain dark dress
clasped over the shoulder.--<i>And immediately
the sky splintered in manifold blasts.</i>--How could I have
<align=right>entered,</align>
you weren't alone. <i>Suddenly I saw
colours that predated sight.</i>--Pity
you can't promise.--<i>You're right,
must have been a dream.</i>--Why do you lie,
why do you call me by her name,
do you love her still?--<i>Oh yes, I'd like you
to stay with me.</i>--I'm not bitter,
I should have guessed.
--<i>You keep thinking of him?</i>--But I'm not crying.
--<i>And is that all?</i>--No one but you.
--<i>At least you're honest</i>--Don't worry,
I'll be leaving town.--<i>Don't worry,
I'll go away.</i>--Your hands so beautiful.
--<i>That's an old story, the blade cut through
but left the bones intact.</i>--No need to,
really, my dear, no need.--<i>I have no idea
of the time, and I don't wish to have.</i>
from "A contribution on pornography"
Wislawa Szymborska
During these trysts only tea is steaming.
People sit on chairs, move their lips.
Each crosses his own legs.
So one foot touches the floor,
the other swings free.
But occasionally someone gets up,
goes to the window
and through a chink in the curtains
watches the street.
Funeral
Wislawa Szymborska
--so suddenly, who could have guessed
--nerves, and cigarettes, I did warn him
--passably, thank you
--unwrap those flowers
--in his brother's case it was the heart, must be in the
<align=right>family</align>
--I would never recognise you with that beard
--only himself to blame, always mixed up in something
--that new one was the speak, can't see him
--Kazek's in Warsaw, Tadek's abroad
--only you were clever enough to take an umbrella
--he was the ablest--doesn't matter now
--it's a connecting room, Basia won't agree
--yes, he was right, but that's no excuse
--door varnishing included--guess how much
--two yolks, a spoonful of sugar
--not his business, shouldn't have meddled
--only in blue and only in small sizes
--five times and never any answer
--all right, I could have, and so could you
--at least she held down that little job
--no idea, probably relatives
--the priest's quite a Belmondo
--I've never been in this part of the cemetery
--I dreamt about him last week, had a premonition
--the daughter is quite pretty
--we're all in the same boat
--condolences to the widow, must rush
--but it used to sound more dignified in Latin
--it's all in the past now
--goodbye, Marta
--let's find a beer somewhere
--give me a ring, we'll talk
--catch a 4 or a 12
--I go this way
--we go over there
Miracle mart
Wislawa Szymborska
Common miracle:
the happening of many common miracles.
Ordinary miracle:
invisible dogs barking
in the silence of the night.
A miracle among many:
a tiny ethereal cloud
able to cover a large heavy moon.
Several miracles in one:
an alder reflected in water
moreover turned from left to right
moreover growing crown downwards
yet not reaching the bottom
though the waters are shallow.
An everyday miracle:
soft gentle breezes
gusting during storms.
Any old miracle:
cows are cows.
And another like it:
just this particular orchard
from just this pip.
Miracle without frock coat or top hat:
a scattering of white doves.
Miracle--what else would you call it:
today the sun rose at 3.14
and will set at 20.01.
Miracle which doesn't sufficiently amaze:
though the hand has fewer than six fingers
yet it has more than four.
Miracle--just look around:
the world ever-present.
An extra miracle, just as everything is extra:
what is unthinkable
is thinkable.
/
"wrong number" by wislawa szymborska
"experiment" by wislawa szymborska
"instant living" by wislawa szymborska
"railway station" by wislawa szymborska
other lines from wislawa szymborska's poems:
Happy love. Is that normal,
is that serious, is that useful--
what does the world get out of two people
who don't see the world?
.
With its moist nose it could distinguish
the smell of bacon from odourless non-being
and licked itself with obvious relish,
it salivated respect for physiology.
.
It's not dreams that are mad,
reality is mad,
if only because of the tenacity
with which it clings
to the course of events.
In dreams our recently dead
still survives,
he even enjoys good health
and recovered youth.
Reality displays
his dead body.
Reality retreats not an inch.
.
The division into sky and earth
is not a proper way
of considering this whole.
It only allows one
to survive under a more precise address,
quicker to find,
should any one seek me.
<b>My distinguishing marks
are wonder and despair.</b>
.
Seeing such sights I lose my certainty
that what is important
is more important than the unimportant.
.
If they did let us choose,
we probably pondered long.
.
/
...sorry for not responding--been away, didn't know, been frantic and busy here too.
(i will write you raoul,
and you too, rob--the fliers are up! and oh, it's julie. and they confirm it's all ages, not to mention inexpensive. mm. now, if only i knew how to get there.)
(i'd like to go with you! let's, if you like.)
now, back to incessant demands...
(i talk to myself. it's ok; you don't have to tell me. ;)