The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will. — Czeslaw Milosz, from “Ars Poetica?,” The Collected Poems: 1931-1987 (The Ecco Press, 1988)
So how do you suddenly lose the habit of yourself? of day follows night? of the snows of yesteryear? of rosy apples? of the yearning for love, which is never enough? — Wislawa Szymborska, from “Moment of Silence”, Map: Collected and Last Poems. (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; 1st edition, April 7, 2015)
Tonight I am going to sleep alone on the bedclothes of purity. Aloneness is the first hygienic measure. Aloneness will enlarge the walls of the room, I will open the window and the large, frosty air will enter, healthy as tragedy. Human thoughts will enter and human concerns, misfortune of others, saintliness of others. They… Continue reading Anna Świrszczyńska
Under a Certain Little Star My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity in case I’m mistaken. May happiness not be angry if I take it for my own. May the dead forgive me that their memory’s but a flicker. My apologies to time for the multiplicity of the world overlooked… Continue reading Wislawa Szymborska
It appears that it was all a misunderstanding. What was only a trial run was taken seriously. The rivers will return to their beginnings. The wind will cease in its turning about. Trees instead of budding will tend to their roots. Old men will chase a ball, a glance in the mirror– They are children… Continue reading Czeslaw Milosz
I apologize to everything that I cannot be everywhere. I apologize to everyone that I cannot be every man and woman. I know that as long as I live nothing can justify me, because I myself am an obstacle to myself. Take it not amiss, O speech, that I borrow weighty words, and later try… Continue reading Wisława Szymborska
there’s always a little joy, and even beauty lies close at hand, beneath the bark of every hour, in the quiet heart of concentration, and another person hides in each of us — universal, strong, invincible. — Adam Zagajewski, from “Three Angels,” Pangolin House, Spring 2014. Translated by Clare Cavanagh
