Jacek Krankowski (X) English to Polish + ...
THE JOY OF WRITING
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle? Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips. Silence - this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that h... See more THE JOY OF WRITING
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle? Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips. Silence - this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that have sprouted from the word \"woods.\"
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page, are letters up to no good, clutches of clauses so subordinate they\'ll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights, prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment, surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what\'s here isn\'t life. Other laws, black on white, obtain. The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say, and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities, full of bullets stopped in mid-flight. Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so. Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall, not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof\'s full stop.
Is there then a world where I rule absolutely on fate? A time I bind with chains of signs? An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.
By Wislawa Szymborska (1996 Nobel Prize) Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh
More info about the author: http://www.nobel.se/literature/laureates/1996/poems-5-e.html
A review: http://www.rattle.com/rattle7/7reviews.htm
What do Poland and Argentina have in common? http://www.historyuniverse.com/bookstore1/0156005662AMUS126127.s html
More poems on poems http://www.uwinnipeg.ca/~morton/Telecourse/Poetry/poems_on_poems .htm
***
ON DEATH, WITHOUT EXAGGERATION
It can\'t take a joke, find a star, make a bridge. It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming, building ships, or baking cakes.
In our planning for tomorrow, it has the final word, which is always beside the point.
It can\'t even get the things done that are part of its trade: dig a grave, make a coffin, clean up after itself.
Preoccupied with killing, it does the job awkwardly, without system or skill. As though each of us were its first kill.
Oh, it has its triumphs, but look at its countless defeats, missed blows, and repeat attempts!
Sometimes it isn\'t strong enough to swat a fly from the air. Many are the caterpillars that have outcrawled it.
All those bulbs, pods, tentacles, fins, tracheae, nuptial plumage, and winter fur show that it has fallen behind with its halfhearted work.
Ill will won\'t help and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d\'etat is so far not enough.
Hearts beat inside eggs. Babies\' skeletons grow. Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves and sometimes even tall trees fall away.
Whoever claims that it\'s omnipotent is himself living proof that it\'s not.
There\'s no life that couldn\'t be immortal if only for a moment.
Death always arrives by that very moment too late.
In vain it tugs at the knob of the invisible door. As far as you\'ve come can\'t be undone.
By Wislawa Szymborska Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh
▲ Collapse | | |