We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.
Stichwörter: soul wislawa-szymborska
نکته
[ترجمهی محسن عمادی]
خواهرم شعر نمیگه
خيلی بعيده که یهو شروع کنه به شعر گفتن
به مادرش رفته، که شعر ننوشت
و به پدرش که اونم شعر ننوشت.
تو خونهی خواهرم احساس امنيت میکنم:
هيچی باعث نمیشه شوهرش شعر بگه.
چهبرسه عين يه شعر از آدام ماکدونسکی دربياد.
هيچکی از فاميلام دربند شعرگفتن نيس.
رو ميز خواهرم شعر کهنه پيدا نمیشه
شعر نو هم اصلا تو کيف دستیش نيس.
وقتی منو واسه شام دعوت میکنه
می دونم که خيال شعر خوندن نداره
سوپای ناب بار می ذاره و هيچوقت خدا کار نيمبند نمیکنه
قهوه هم رو دستنوشتههاش نمیريزه
تو خيلی از فاميلا هيچکی شعر نمیگه
اگه هم بگن گاس فقط يه نفره
يه وقتايی شعر راه می افته تو آبشار نسلا
که گرداب وحشتو تو روابط خونوادهها بپا می کنه
خواهرم مروج يه نثر گفتنی محجوبه
همهی ماحصل ادبيش رو کارتپستالای سفره
که هرسال قول همون يهچيزو می ده:
که وقتی برگشت
بهمون میگه: همهچيزو
همهچيزو
همهچيز.
هیچ چیز دوبار اتفاق نمی افتد
[ترجمهی مارک اسموژنسکی، شهرام شیدایی، چوکا چکاد]
هیچ چیز دوبار اتفاق نمی افتد
و اتفاق نخواهد افتاد. به همین دلیل
ناشی به دنیا آمده ایم
و خام خواهیم رفت.
حتا اگر کودن ترین شاگردِ مدرسه ی دنیا می بودیم
هیچ زمستانی یا تابستانی را تکرار نمی کردیم
هیچ روزی تکرار نمی شود
دوشب شبیه ِ هم نیست
دوبوسه یکی نیستند
نگاه قبلی مثل نگاه بعدی نیست
دیروز ، وقتی کسی در حضور من
اسم تو را بلند گفت
طوری شدم، که انگار گل رزی از پنجره ی باز
به اتاق افتاده باشد.
امروز که با همیم
رو به دیوار کردم
رز! رز چه شکلی است؟
آیا رز، گل است؟ شاید سنگ باشد
ای ساعت بد هنگام
چرا با ترس بی دلیل می آمیزی؟
هستی - پس باید سپری شوی
سپری می شوی- زیبایی در همین است
هر دو خندان ونیمه در آغوش هم
می کوشیم بتوانیم آشتی کنیم
هر چند باهم متفاوتیم
مثل دو قطره ی آب زلال.
I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
Wisława SzymborskaLoveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring--this is one of the harshest human miseries.
Wisława SzymborskaStichwörter: work achievement
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 by each other 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 thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
Stichwörter: poem
A che serve qui chiedersi
sotto quante stelle nasce l'uomo,
e sotto quante dopo un attimo muore.
there were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
suitcases checked and standing side by side.
one night, perhaps, the same dream
grown hazy by morning.
every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
...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 thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning
Is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
But they know about us, they know,
the four corners, and the chairs nearby us.
Discerning shadows also know,
and even the table keeps quiet.
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