What is Poetry by Andrzej Sosnowski
It’s certainly no survival strategy
or a way of life. Ridiculous to insist
on enchanted lakes, forests, hollow caves
where a voice echoes and may never die.
Sibyl’s grottoes? Leaves
are important, and the rhyme between “voice”
and “fate.” Voices fly out to the world,
where leaves go fate determines.
But just try to catch them — try to graze the earth
and skim away like a flat pebble
over water. How many times? Five
or twelve? A series of verses and reflections,
a series of leaves, and yet all pebbles and leaves
lie adjacent in eternal order, unfathomable
constellations. So there is a cave,
or tiny room. But that’s draught! That gust
when you open the door and the wind
scatters the leaves, the world runs amok,
and words are sent flying like confetti.
Just don’t give me that look. Don’t leave me
with that curl on your lips. And spare no
delay — one day you may hear it sing
of wars and people, travels, troubles,
the ways of this world. For those who know
nothing, image is consolation.
(Translation by Wieslaw Powaga & Charles Boyle)
Andrzej Sosnowski
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