(True Love, Szymborska) - True love. Is it normal is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own?
Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason, drawn randomly from millions but convinced it had to happen this way – in reward for what? For nothing.
The light descends from nowhere. Why on these two and not on others? Doesn’t this outrage justice? Yes it does. Doesn’t it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.Look at the happy couple. Couldn’t they at least try to hide it, fake a little depression for their friends’ sake? Listen to them laughing
it’s an insult. The language they use – deceptively clear. And their little celebrations, rituals, the elaborate mutual routines – it’s obviously a plot behind the human race’s back!
It’s hard even to guess how far things might go if people start to follow their example.What could religion and poetry count on?What would be remembered?What renounced?
Who’d want to stay within bounds? True love. Is it really necessary? Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence, like a scandal in Life’s highest circles.
Perfectly good children are born without its help. It couldn’t populate the planet in a million years, it comes along so rarely.
Permanent cringe. I have seen it all.
Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there’s no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
"Openess", Szymborska - Here we are, naked lovers, beautiful to each other—and that's enough. The leaves of our eyelids our only covers, we're lying amidst deep night.
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.
Our teacups know full well why the tea is getting cold. And old Swift can surely tell that his book's been put on hold.
Even the birds are in the know: I saw them writing in the sky brazenly and openly the very name I call you by.
The trees? Could you explain to me their unrelenting whispering? The wind may know, you say to me, but how is just a mystery.
A moth surprised us through the blinds, its wings in fuzzy flutter. Its silent path—see how it winds in a stubborn holding pattern.
Maybe it sees where our eyes fail with an insect's inborn sharpness. I never sensed, nor could you tell that our hearts were aglow in the darkness.
"The Tyger", William Blake - Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
"Tuesday, just an ordinary day, nothing Unusual about it at all, but today Every person that I passed Seemed miserable, lost Doleful and downhearted...."
"... As I watched them go by I wanted to say, 'You should be glad of every day given you.' "
