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Source: Favim

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.

~ Wislawa Szymborska

(Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak)

Life While-You-Wait

Source: Favim

Life While-You-Wait.

Performance without rehearsal.

Body without alterations.

Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.

I only know it’s mine, I can’t exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot

just what this play’s all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,

I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.

I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.

I trip at every step over my own ignorance.

I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.

My instincts are for hammy histrionics.

Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.

Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can’t take back,

stars you’ll never get counted,

your character like a raincoat you button on the run –

the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,

or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!

But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.

Is it fair, I ask

(my voice a little hoarse,

since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).

You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz

taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.

I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.

The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.

The farthest galaxies have been turned on.

Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.

And whatever I do

will become forever what I’ve done.

~ Wislawa Szymborska

(Translated by S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)

Life While-You-Wait

Source: Favim

Life While-You-Wait.

Performance without rehearsal.

Body without alterations.

Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.

I only know it’s mine, I can’t exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot

just what this play’s all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,

I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.

I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.

I trip at every step over my own ignorance.

I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.

My instincts are for hammy histrionics.

Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.

Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can’t take back,

stars you’ll never get counted,

your character like a raincoat you button on the run –

the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,

or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!

But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.

Is it fair, I ask

(my voice a little hoarse,

since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).

You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz

taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.

I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.

The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.

The farthest galaxies have been turned on.

Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.

And whatever I do

will become forever what I’ve done.

~ Wislawa Szymborska

(Translated by S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)

Some People Like Poetry

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Some people—
that means not everyone.
Not even most of them, only a few.
Not counting school, where you have to,
and poets themselves,
you might end up with two per thousand.

Like—
but then, you can like chicken noodle soup,
or compliments, or the color blue,
your old scarf,
your own way,
petting the dog.

Poetry—
but what is poetry, anyway?
More than one rickety answer
has tumbled since that question first was raised.
But I just keep on not knowing, and I cling to that
like a redemptive handrail.

~ Wislawa Szymborska
(Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)

Some People Like Poetry

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Some people—
that means not everyone.
Not even most of them, only a few.
Not counting school, where you have to,
and poets themselves,
you might end up with two per thousand.

Like—
but then, you can like chicken noodle soup,
or compliments, or the color blue,
your old scarf,
your own way,
petting the dog.

Poetry—
but what is poetry, anyway?
More than one rickety answer
has tumbled since that question first was raised.
But I just keep on not knowing, and I cling to that
like a redemptive handrail.

~ Wislawa Szymborska
(Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)