….Poetry arrived
In search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
It came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when….
— Pablo Neruda
ON Monday May 13th we will be considering the work of Wislawa Szymborska–and you do not need to pronounce her name to be able to access the beauty and careful craft of her work…listen:
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 Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak
Wislawa Szymborska
