#tr. clare cavanagh and stanislaw baranczak

[apoemaday]

A Note

by Wislawa Szymborksa tr. Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on sand, rise on wings;

to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain from everything it’s not;

to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes;

An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off;

and if only once to stumble on a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;

and to keep on not knowing something important.

[firstfullmoon]

Poetry— but what is poetry. More than one flimsy answer has been given to that question. And I don’t know, and don’t know, and I cling to it as to a life line.

— Wisława Szymborska, from “Some People Like Poetry,” tr. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

[anincantationofstories]

Out of a hundred people those who always know better — fifty-two doubting every step — nearly all the rest, glad to lend a hand if it doesn’t take too long — as high as forty-nine, always good because they can’t be otherwise — four, well maybe five, able to admire without envy — eighteen, suffering illusions induced by fleeting youth — sixty, give or take a few, not to be taken lightly — forty and four, living in constant fear of someone or something — seventy-seven, capable of happiness — twenty-something tops, harmless singly, savage in crowds — half at least, cruel when forced by circumstances — better not to know even ballpark figures, wise after the fact — just a couple more than wise before it, taking only things from life — thirty (I wish I were wrong), hunched in pain, no flashlight in the dark — eighty-three sooner or later, righteous — thirty-five, which is a lot, righteous and understanding — three, worthy of compassion — ninety-nine, mortal — a hundred out of a hundred. Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

Wislawa Szymborska, “A Contribution to Statistics” (tr. Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)

[smallkindgoodthings]

A Prayer That Will Be Answered (Anna Kamienska)

Lord let me suffer much and then die

Let me walk through silence and leave nothing behind not even fear

Make the world continue let the ocean kiss the sand just as before

Let the grass stay green so that the frogs can hide in it

so that someone can bury his face in it and sob out his love

Make the day rise brightly as if there were no more pain

And let my poem stand clear as a windowpane bumped by a bumblebee’s head

—tr. by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

[apoemaday]

A Contribution to Statistics

by Wislawa Szymborska

Out of a hundred people

those who always know better –fifty-two

doubting every step –nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand if it doesn’t take too long –as high as forty-nine,

always good because they can’t be otherwise –four, well maybe five,

able to admire without envy –eighteen,

suffering illusions induced by fleeting youth –sixty, give or take a few,

not to be taken lightly –forty and four,

living in constant fear of someone or something –seventy-seven,

capable of happiness –twenty-something tops,

harmless singly, savage in crowds –half at least,

cruel when forced by circumstances –better not to know even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact –just a couple more than wise before it,

taking only things from life –thirty (I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain, no flashlight in the dark –eighty-three sooner or later,

righteous –thirty-five, which is a lot,

righteous and understanding –three,

worthy of compassion –ninety-nine,

mortal –a hundred out of a hundred.

[apoemaday]

Children of the Age

by Wislawa Szymborska tr. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

We are children of our age, it’s a political age.

All day long, all through the night, all affairs — yours, ours, theirs — are political affairs.

Whether you like it or not, your genes have a political past, your skin, a political cast, your eyes, a political slant.

Whatever you say reverberates, whatever you don’t say speaks for itself. So either way you’re talking politics.

Even when you take to the woods, you’re taking political steps on political grounds.

Apolitical poems are also political, and above us shines a moon no longer purely lunar. To be or not to be, that is the question. and though it troubles the digestion it’s a question, as always, of politics.

To acquire a political meaning you don’t even have to be human. Raw material will do, or protein feed, or crude oil,

or a conference table whose shape was quarreled over for months: Should we arbitrate life and death at a round table or a square one.

Meanwhile, people perished, animals died, houses burned, and the fields ran wild just as in times immemorial and less political.

[apoemaday]

Love at First Sight

by Wislawa Szymborska

They’re both convinced that a sudden passion joined them. Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure that there’d been nothing between them. But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways— perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them if they don’t remember— a moment face to face in some revolving door? perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd? a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?— but I know the answer. No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear that Chance has been toying with them now for years.

Not quite ready yet to become their Destiny, it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path, stifling a laugh, and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals, even if they couldn’t read them yet. Perhaps three years ago or just last Tuesday a certain leaf fluttered from one shoulder to another? Something was dropped and then picked up. Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand. Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream, grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.