My nonarrival in the city of N. took place on the dot. You’d been alerted in my unmailed letter. You were able not to be there at the agreed-upon time. The train pulled up at Platform 3. A lot of people got out. My absence joined the throng as it made its way toward the … More The Railroad Station by Wisława Szymborska

Four a.m. By Wisława Szymborska The hour between night and day. The hour between toss and turn. The hour of thirty-year-olds. The hour swept clean for rooster’s crowing. The hour when the earth takes back its warm embrace. The hour of cool drafts from extinguished stars. The hour of do-we-vanish-too-without-a-trace. Empty hour. Hollow.  Vain. Rock … More Four a.m.

  Possibilities By Wisława Szymborska I prefer the cinema. I prefer cats. I prefer oak-trees by the Warta. I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky. I prefer myself liking humans to myself loving humanity. I prefer having a thread with a needle close at hand. I prefer green. I prefer not claiming that the intellect should be … More Possibilities by Wisława Szymborska

AMERICAN DREAM (from Edmonton , Canada) (by Robin Hunter) A vision came to me last night, While standing by the fridge. I dreamed I saw old Uncle Sam, Involved in a game of bridge. Sam scanned his hand and gave a grin; What he said really made me jump. He started out the bidding With … More American Dream

In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself Wislawa Szymborska The buzzard never says it is to blame. The panther wouldn’t know what scruples mean. When the piranha strikes it feels no shame. If snakes had  hands, they’s claim their hands were clean. A jackal doesn’t understand remorse. Lions and lice don’t waver in their course. … More In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself

There are dogs and dogs. I was among the chosen. I had good papers and wolf’s blood in my veins. I lived upon the heights inhaling the odors of views: meadows in sunlight, spruces after rain, and clumps of earth beneath the snow. I had a decent home and people on call, I was fed, … More Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History by Wisława Szymborska

On Death, without Exaggeration It can’t take a joke, find a star, make a bridge. It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming, building ships, or baking cakes. In our planning for tomorrow, it has the final word, which is always beside the point. It can’t even get the things done that are part of its … More Wisława Szymborska on Death

  Wisława Szymborska The Joy of Writing Why does this written doe bound through these written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle? Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up … More The Joy of Writing

Dear Theo, We promise to remember you in the snow, black on white, where you were striking and strong. We’ll think of your dignified bow, how you lowered your snout and performed a little dance as we approached. How you crossed your paws on the kitchen floor, and sighed in your sleep, and how you … More Sara Rutkowski’s Tribute to Theo, a Belgian Sheep Dog