My week has begun listening to Nalyssa Green and reading about Wislawa Szymborska.

“Our world might be full of fear and hate”, Szymborska says, “but it is always provoking and surprising us and nature and poetry are always the best intermediates for our vision”.

“It seems that poets will be forever busy ” she said at her Nobel Award ceremony in 1996.

Love at First Sight

They’re both convinced

that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure
that there’d been nothing between them.
But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways –
perhaps they’ve passed each other by a million times?

I want to ask them

if they don’t remember –
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver? –
but I know the answer.
No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear

that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.

Not quite ready yet

to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals

even if they couldn’t read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood’s thickets?

There were doorknobs and doorbells

where one touch had covered another
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night perhaps some dream
grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning

is only a sequel, after all,

and the book of events
is always open halfway through.

(Translated in English by Stanisław Barańczak και Clare Cavanagh).

And one in Greek

Vislava Šimborska (Wislawa Szymborska) [Βισλάβα Σιμπόρσκα], Τέσσερις το πρωί

Τέσσερις το πρωί

Η ώρα της νύχτας μέσα στη μέρα.
Η ώρα του γυρίσματος από πλευρό σε πλευρό.
Η ώρα για τους μεσόκοπους.

Η καθαρή ώρα για το λάλημα των πετεινών.
Η ώρα που μας απαρνιέται η γη.
Η ώρα των σταγόνων από σβησμένα άστρα.
Η ώρα του «τι κι αν μετά από μας δεν υπάρχει τίποτα».

Μια άδεια ώρα.
Άχαρη, στείρα.
Απ’ όλες τις ώρες η χειρότερη.

Κανένας δεν είναι στα καλά του στις τέσσερις το πρωί.
Κι αν άσπρα μυρμήγκια νιώθουν ωραία στις τέσσερις το πρωί
— ας συγχαρούμε τα μυρμήγκια. Κι ας γίνει πέντε η ώρα
αν σκοπεύουμε να συνεχίζουμε να ζούμε.
Μετάφραση Βασίλη Καραβίτη