Without Lifting A Finger

Brueghel's Two Monkeys This is what I see in my dreams about final exams: two monkeys, chained to the floor, sit on the windowsill, the sky behind them flutters, the sea is taking a bath. The exam is History of Mankind.  I stammer and hedge. One monkey stares and listens with mocking disdain, the other seems to be dreaming away -- but when it's clear I don't know what to say he prompts me with a gentle clinking of his chain. ***       Two Monkeys by Brueghel [From Wikipedia]                        

I'm not a great fan of reading out loud, but I used to love reading this to some of my older students (and I'm a math teacher by trade!). Anyhow, am thinking about this poem today, and so far as I can tell, I've never  posted it until now. * The Terrorist, He’s Watching The bomb in the bar will explode at thirteen twenty. Now it’s just thirteen sixteen. There’s still time for some to go in, and some to come out. The terrorist has already crossed the street. The distance keeps him out of danger, and what a view – just like the movies: A woman in a yellow jacket, she’s going in. A man in dark glasses, he’s coming out. Teen-agers in jeans, they’re talking. Thirteen seventeen and four seconds. The short one, he’s lucky, he’s getting on a scooter, but the tall one, he’s going in. Thirteen seventeen and forty seconds. That girl, she’s walking along with a green ribbon in her hair. But then a bus suddenly pulls in front of her. Thirteen eighteen. The...

[Photo by Daniel Araya] Was looking for my own version of this sculpture (not sure of title). I know we were back (post-1994) and I shot this "bandaged head" several times. This photo has an eerie feel to it, with night and all. Like it. Mine, who knows where it is (can't place the album). Last time I was in Krakow I half-hoped to see Szymborska strolling around the town. Now it can only be her ghost.

Like her (love a lot of her) but I wasn't really crazy about "Some Like Poetry" when I first read it. Part of what nettled me was the ending (variously translated). Anyway, I found the original and a few "versions" (see below), and may (I have a Polka in my house) eventually include a version of my own. * Niektórzy lubią poezję Niektórzy - czyli nie wszyscy. Nawet nie większość wszystkich ale mniejszość. Nie licząc szkół, gdzie się musi, i samych poetów, będzie tych osób chyba dwie na tysiąc. Lubią - ale lubi się także rosół z makaronem, lubi się komplementy i kolor niebieski, lubi się stary szalik, lubi się stawiać na swoim, lubi się głaskać psa. Poezję - Tylko co to takiego poezja. Niejedna chwiejna odpowiedź na to pytanie już padła. A ja nie wiem i nie wiem i trzymam się tego Jak zbawiennej poręczy. * From Google Translate: Some like poetry Some - that is not all . Not even the majority of all but a small minority...

A fellow Szymborska admirer passed this one on to me. Perhaps not her best, but even mediocre Szymborska outshines most of the competition (though there is no competition). Some Like Poetry Some - thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority. Not counting schools, where one has to, and the poets themselves, there might be two people per thousand. Like - but one also likes chicken soup with noodles, one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf, one likes having the upper hand, one likes stroking a dog. Poetry - but what is poetry. Many shaky answers have been given to this question. But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it like to a sustaining railing. [ Translated by Regina Grol ]

Wislawa Szymborska dies at 88; Nobel-winning Polish poet *** I'm a little late on Wislawa (not sure why I haven't posted anything till now), but you know I love her.

Photograph from September 11 They jumped from the burning floors—                                       one, two, a few more, higher, lower. The photograph halted them in life, and now keeps them   above the earth toward the earth. Each is still complete, with a particular face and blood well hidden. There’s enough time for hair to come loose, for keys and coins to fall from pockets. They’re still within the air’s reach, within the compass of places that have just now opened. I can do only two things for them— describe this flight and not add a last line. Translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

Miracles (strictly defined as events whose occurrence defy natural laws) and Providence are our ways of explaining the inexplicable. Which brought to mind Szymborska's lovely and miraculous "Miracle Fair." Miracle Fair The commonplace miracle: that so many common miracles take place. The usual miracles: invisible dogs barking in the dead of night. One of many miracles: a small and airy cloud is able to upstage the massive moon.   Several miracles in one: an alder is reflected in the water and is reversed from left to right and grows from crown to root and never hits bottom though the water isn't deep. A run-of-the-mill miracle: winds mild to moderate turning gusty in storms. A miracle in the first place: cows will be cows. Next but not least: just this cherry orchard from just this cherry pit. A miracle minus top hat and tails: fluttering white doves. A miracle (what else can you call it): the sun rose today at three fourteen a.m. and will set to...

The Terrorist, He’s Watching By Wislawa Szymborska The bomb in the bar will explode at thirteen twenty. Now it’s just thirteen sixteen. There’s still time for some to go in, and some to come out. The terrorist has already crossed the street. The distance keeps him out of danger, and what a view—just like the movies: A woman in a yellow jacket, she’s going in. A man in dark glasses, he’s coming out. Teenagers in jeans, they’re talking. Thirteen seventeen and four seconds. The short one, he’s lucky, he’s getting on a scooter, but the tall one, he’s going in. Thirteen seventeen and forty seconds. That girl, she’s walking along with a green ribbon in her hair. But then a bus suddenly pulls in front of her. Thirteen eighteen. The girl’s gone. Was she that dumb, did she go in or not, we’ll see when they carry them out. Thirteen nineteen. Somehow no one’s going in. Another guy, fat, bald, is leaving, though. Wait a second, looks like he’s looking for something in hi...