SZYMBORSKA, Wislawa
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someone has to clean up. Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
to the sides of the road, so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.
in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
to prop up a wall. Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.
and takes years. All the cameras have left
for another war.
and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
still recalls how it was. Someone listens and nods with unsevered head. Yet others milling about
already find it dull.
sometimes someone still unearths rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
what was going on here must give way to those who know little. And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
causes and effects, someone must be stretched out, blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.
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moet iemand opruimen. Min of meer netjes
wordt het tenslotte niet vanzelf.
aan de kant schuiven zodat de vrachtwagens met lijken
over de weg kunnen rijden.
door het slijk en de as, de veren van canapés, de splinters van glas
en de bloederige vodden.
om die muur te stutten, iemand het glas in het raam zetten,
de deur in de hengels tillen.
en het kost jaren. Alle camera's zijn al
naar een andere oorlog.
en de stations opnieuw. Van het opstropen
gaan mouwen aan flarden.
vertelt iemand nog hoe het was. Iemand luistert en knikt met een hoofd dat nog niet is afgekletst. Maar bij hen in de buurt duiken al gauw lieden op
die het begint te vervelen.
onder een struik doorgeroeste argumenten opgraven
en ze naar de vuilnishoop brengen.
waarom het hier ging, moeten wijken voor hen die weinig weten. En minder dan weinig.
En ten slotte zo goed als niets.
door oorzaak en gevolg, moet iemand liggen die met een aar tussen zijn tanden
naar de wolken staart.
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Some Like Poetry
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
Vermeer
As long as the woman from Rijksmuseum
in painted silence and concentration
day after day pours milk
from the jug to the bowl,
the World does not deserve
the end of the
…..
world.
Translation: A. DUSENKO
Going Home
He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
…..
Soliloquy for Cassandra
I remember it so clearly —
how people, seeing me, would break off in midword.
Laughter died.
Lovers’ hands unclasped.
Children ran to their mothers.
I didn’t even know their short-lived names.
And that song about a little green leaf —
no one ever finished it near me.
Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.
One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh