Mar 29, 2017

So much needless fear and sorrow

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 offered only once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way
with exactly 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.

- Wisława Szymborska, "Nothing Twice"

1 comment:

  1. "The Letters of the Dead," Wislawa Szymborska
    We read the letters of the dead like helpless gods,
    but gods, nonetheless, since we know the dates that follow.
    We know which debts will never be repaid.
    Which widows will remarry with the corpse still warm.
    Poor dead, blindfolded dead,
    gullible, fallible, pathetically prudent.
    We see the faces people make behind their backs.
    We catch the sound of wills being ripped to shreds.
    The dead sit before us comically, as if on buttered bread,
    or frantically pursue the hats blown from their heads.
    Their bad taste, Napoleon, steam, electricity,
    their fatal remedies for curable diseases,
    their foolish apocalypse according to St. John,
    their counterfeit heaven on earth according to Jean-Jacques…
    We watch the pawns on their chessboards in silence,
    even though we see them three squares later.
    Everything the dead predicted has turned out completely different.
    Or a little bit different – which is to say, completely different.
    The most fervent of them gaze confidingly into our eyes:
    their calculations tell them that they’ll find perfection there.

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