wislawa-szymborska

Advertisement – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
I’m a tranquilizer.

I’m effective at home.

I work in the office.

I can take exams

on the witness stand.

I mend broken cups with care.

All you have to do is take me,

let me melt beneath your tongue,

just gulp me

with a glass of water.

I know how to handle misfortune,

how to take bad news.

I can minimize injustice,

lighten up God’s absence,

or pick the widow’s veil that suits your face.

What are you waiting for—

have faith in my chemical compassion.

You’re still a young man/woman.

It’s not too late to learn how to unwind.

Who said

you have to take it on the chin?

Let me have your abyss.

I’ll cushion it with sleep.

You’ll thank me for giving you

four paws to fall on.

Sell me your soul.

There are no other takers.

There is no other devil anymore.

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Birthday – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Birthday

So much world all at once – how it rustles and bustles!

Moraines and morays and morasses and mussels,

The flame, the flamingo, the flounder, the feather –

How to line them all up, how to put them together?

All the tickets and crickets and creepers and creeks!

The beeches and leeches alone could take weeks.

Chinchillas, gorillas, and sarsaparillas –

Thanks do much, but all this excess of kindness could kill us.

Where’s the jar for this burgeoning burdock, brooks’ babble,

Rooks’ squabble, snakes’ quiggle, abundance, and trouble?

How to plug up the gold mines and pin down the fox,

How to cope with the linx, bobolinks, strptococs!

Tale dioxide: a lightweight, but mighty in deeds:

What about octopodes, what about centipedes?

I could look into prices, but don’t have the nerve:

These are products I just can’t afford, don’t deserve.

Isn’t sunset a little too much for two eyes

That, who knows, may not open to see the sun rise?

I am just passing through, it’s a five-minute stop.

I won’t catch what is distant: what’s too close, I’ll mix up.

While trying to plumb what the void’s inner sense is,

I’m bound to pass by all these poppies and pansies.

What a loss when you think how much effort was spent

perfecting this petal, this pistil, this scent

for the one-time appearance, which is all they’re allowed,

so aloofly precise and so fragilely proud.

translated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak

and Clare Cavanagh

Urodziny

Tyle naraz ?wiata ze wszystkich stron swiata:

moreny, mureny i morza, i zorze,

i ogie?, i ogon, i orze?, i orzech –

jak ja to ustawi?, gdzie ja to po?o???

Te chaszcze i paszcze, i leszcze, i deszcze,

bodziszki, modliszki – gdzie ja to pomieszcz??

Motyle, goryle, beryle i trele –

dzi?kuj?, to chyba o wiele za wiele,

Do dzbanka jakiego tam ?opian i ?opot,

i ?ubin, i pop?och, i przepych, i k?opot?

Gdzie zabra? kolibra, gdzie ukry? to srebro,

co zrobi? na serio z tym ?ubrem i zebr??

Ju? taki dwutlenek rzecz wa?na i droga,

a tu o?miornica i jeszcze stonoga!

Domy?lam si? ceny, cho? cena z gwiazd zdarta –

dziekuj?, doprawdy nie czuj? si? warta.

Nie szkoda to dla mnie zachodu i s?o?ca?

Jak ma si? w to bawi? osoba ?yj?ca?

Na chwil? tu jestem i tylko na chwil?:

co dalsze, przeocz?, a reszt? pomyl?.

Nie zd??? wszystkiego odró?ni? od pró?ni.

Pogubi? te bratki w po?piechu podró?nym.

Ju?c ho?by najmniejszy – szalony wydatek:

fatyga ?odygi i listek, i p?atek

raz jeden w przestrzeni, od nigdy, na o?lep,

wzgardliwie dok?adny i kruchy wynio?le.

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Some Like Poetry – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Some –

thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.

Not counting schools, where one has to,

and the poets themselves,

there might be two people per thousand.

Like –

but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,

one likes compliments and the color blue,

one likes an old scarf,

one likes having the upper hand,

one likes stroking a dog.

Poetry –

but what is poetry.

Many shaky answers

have been given to this question.

But I don’t know and don’t know and hold on to it

like to a sustaining railing.

Translated by Regina Grol

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First Love – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
They say

the first love is the most important.

That’s very romantic

but it’s not the case with me.

There was something between us yet there wasn’t.

It transpired and expired.

My hands don’t tremble,

when I stumble upon small mementos

or a stack of letters wrapped in twine

—not even a ribbon.

Our only meeting after all these years

is a conversation between two chairs

at a cold table.

Other loves

still breathe deeply within me.

This one lacks the breath to sigh.

But still, just the way it is,

it can do what the rest are not yet able to do:

unremembered

not even dreamt of

it accustoms me to death.

Translated by Joanna Trzeciak

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Miracle Fair – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Commonplace miracle:

that so many commonplace miracles happen.

An ordinary miracle:

in the dead of night

the barking of invisible dogs.

One miracle out of many:

a small, airy cloud

yet it can block a large and heavy moon.

Several miracles in one:

an alder tree reflected in the water,

and that it’s backwards left to right

and that it grows there, crown down

and never reaches the bottom,

even though the water is shallow.

An everyday miracle:

winds weak to moderate

turning gusty in storms.

First among equal miracles:

cows are cows.

Second to none:

just this orchard

from just that seed.

A miracle without a cape and top hat:

scattering white doves.

A miracle, for what else could you call it:

today the sun rose at three-fourteen

and will set at eight-o-one.

A miracle, less surprising than it should be:

even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,

it still has more than four.

A miracle, just take a look around:

the world is everywhere.

An additional miracle, as everything is additional:

the unthinkable

is thinkable.

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Poems by Wislawa Szymborska
Poetry Wislawa Symborska
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