The subjects of these two poems seem to have little in common, but within each is this feeling about things we will never know; just a feeling...
In Praise of my Sister
by Wislawa Szymborska
My sister does not write poems
and it's unlikely she'll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who did not write poems,
and her father, who also did not write poems.
Under my sister's roof I feel safe:
nothing would move my sister's husband to write poems.
And though it sounds like a poem by Adam Macedoński,
none of my relatives is engaged in the writing of poems.
In my sister's desk there are no old poems
nor any new ones in her handbag.
And when my sister invites me to dinner,
I know she has no intention of reading me poems.
She makes superb soups without half trying,
and her coffee does not spill on manuscripts.
In many families no one writes poems,
but when they do, it's seldom just one person.
Sometimes poetry flows in cascades of generations,
which sets up fearsome eddies in family relations.
My sister cultivates a decent spoken prose,
her entire literary output is on vacation postcards
that promise the same thing every year:
that when she returns,
she'll tell us, everything,
everything,
everything.
Tape Message
by Fred Staal
There was a message
in the cassette tape I bought,
at the yard sale, in that dusty little town,
just a block off the river road.
The music is long forgotten,
but on a card inside the case, neatly printed:
Keith and Judy-
Have a great adventure!!
I look forward to hearing from you,
Arnaz
OK, at least now
I know your names,
hidden away in that anonymous little town,
then going away on great adventures,
or at least one, anyway.
Writing postcards,
and a couple brief, indifferent letters to Arnaz:
about the long hike to the ruins,
the two days of unimaginable intestinal distress,
and the last two days, balmy and languid;
Ah, symmetry.
And then again:
tedious hours in a stuffy airplane
and the tiresome drive...
back to the little town and
that little old house,
and the relief
of its simple walls,
dark and cool,
bearing tales of excitement,
and memories of other simple walls,
colorful and exotic,
of unfamiliar flora,
of disturbing fauna,
and so much sun...
How can this have happened
and I don't know a thing about it?
Or how much more I should explain!
Note: In Praise of My Sister is translated from the Polish by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire. I found it in "A Book of Luminous Things" - a lovely anthology of poetry edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
