People on the Bridge

by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by: Joanna Maria Trzeciak

Strange planet and strange people on it.
They yield to time, but they don’t want to recognize time.
They have their ways of expressing resistance.
They make pictures such as this:

Nothing in particular at first glance.
One can see water,
one river bank,
a narrow boat strenuously moving upstream.
One can see a bridge over the water
and people on the bridge.
People are clearly picking up the pace,
as rain starts whipping down from a dark cloud.

The point is, nothing happens further.
The cloud changes neither shape nor color.
The rain neither stops nor picks up.
The boat moves without moving.
The people on the bridge run
precisely where they ran before.

It is hard to get by without a commentary:
This is not an innocent picture.
Time was stopped here,
its laws no longer consulted.
It was denied impact on the developing events,
disregarded and dishonored.

Thanks to a rebel,
one Hiroshige Utagava
(a being who, by the way,
passed away, as is proper, long ago)
time stumbled and fell.

Perhaps it is only a prank without much meaning,
a whim on the scale of just a few galaxies,
but in any case
let’s add what happens next:

Here it is considered in good taste
to hold this painting in high esteem,
to praise it and be greatly moved by it for generations.

For some, even this is not enough.
They hear the patter of rain,
feel the chill of raindrops on necks and shoulders,
they look at the bridge and people
as if they saw themselves there, in that never ending race
along the endless road, to be traveled for eternity
and they have the audacity to believe
that it is real.

Nothing to Save

by D.H.Lawrence

There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
but a tiny core of stillness in the heart
like the eye of a violet.

In a Boat

by D.H.Lawrence

See the stars, love,
In the water much clearer and brighter
Than those above us, and whiter,
Like nenuphars.

Star-shadows shine, love,
How many stars in your bowl?
How many shadows in your soul,
Only mine, love, mine?

When I move the oars, love,
See how the stars are tossed,
Distorted, the brightest lost.
So that bright one of yours, love.

The poor waters spill
The stars, waters broken, forsaken.
The heavens are not shaken, you say, love,
Its stars stand still.

There, did you see
That spark fly up at us; even
Stars are not safe in heaven.
What of yours, then, love, yours?

What then, love, if soon
Your light be tossed over a wave?
Will you count the darkness a grave,
And swoon, love, swoon?