“In Praise of Dreams”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

In my dreams
I paint like Vermeer van Delft.

I speak fluent Greek
and not only with the living.

I drive a car
which obeys me.

I am talented,
I write long, great poems.

I hear voices
no less than the major saints.

You would be amazed
at my virtuosity on the piano.

I float through the air as is proper,
that is, all by myself.

Falling from the roof
I can softly land on green grass.

I don't find it hard
to breathe under water.

I can't complain:
I've succeeded in discovering Atlantis.

I'm delighted that just before dying
I always manage to wake.

Right after the outbreak of war
I turn over on my favorite side.

I am but I need not
be a child of my time.

A few years ago
I saw two suns.

And the day before yesterday a penguin.
With the utmost clarity.

“The Suicide’s Room”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

You certainly think that the room was empty.
Yet it had three chairs with sturdy backs.
And a lamp effective against the dark.
A desk, on the desk a wallet, some newspapers.
An unsorrowful Buddha, a sorrowful Jesus.
Seven good-luck elephants, and in a drawer a notebook.
You think that our addresses were not there?

You think there were no books, pictures, records?
But there was a consoling trumpet in black hands.
Saskia with a heartfelt flower of love.
Joy the fair spark of the gods.
Odysseus on the shelf in life-giving sleep
after the labors of Book Five.
Moralists,
their names imprinted in syllables of gold
on beautifully tanned spines.
Right next, statesmen standing straight.

And not without a way out, if only through the door,
not without prospects, if only through the window,
that is how the room looked.
Distance glasses lay on the windowsill.
A single fly buzzed, that is, was still alive.

You think at least the note made something clear.
Now what if I tell you that there was no note --
and so many of us, friends of his, yet all could fit
in the empty envelope propped against the glass.

“A Happy Love”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

A happy love. Is it normal,
is it serious, is it profitable --
what use to the world are two people
who have no eyes for the world?

Elevated each for each, for no apparent merit,
by sheer chance singled out of a million, yet convinced
it had to be so -- as reward for what? for nothing;
the light shines from nowhere --
why just on them, and not on others?
Is this an offense to justice? Yes.
Does it violate time-honored principles, does it cast
any moral down from the heights? It violates and casts down.

Look at the happy couple:
if they'd at least dissemble a bit,
feign depression and thereby cheer their friends!
Hear how they laugh -- offensively.
And the language they speak -- it only seems to make sense.
And all those ceremonials, ceremonies,
those elaborate obligations toward each other --
it all looks like a plot behind mankind's back!

It's even hard to foresee how far things might go
if their example could be followed.
What could religions and poetries rely on,
what would be remembered, what abandoned,
who would want to keep within the bounds.

A happy love. Is it necessary?
Tact and common sense advise us to say no more of it
than of a scandal in Life's upper ranks.
Little cherubs get born without its help.
Never, ever could it populate the earth,
for it happens so seldom.

Let people who know naught of happy love
assert that nowhere is there a happy love.

With such faith, they would find it easier to live and to die.

“Vietnam”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

Woman, what's your name? -- I don't know.
When were you born, where do you come from? -- I don't know.
Why did you dig a hole in the ground? -- I don't know.
How long have you been hiding here? -- I don't know.
Why did you bite the hand of friendship? -- I don't know.
Don't you know we will do you no harm? -- I don't know.
Whose side are you on? -- I don't know.
There's a war on, you must choose. -- I don't know.
Does your village still exist? -- I don't know.
Are these your children? -- Yes.

“Four in the Morning”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
— three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living.