Szymborska
J. Quinn Brisben
To say thank you in Polish remember
That dz is like j, and j is y, and an n
Not written sounds after the ie,
So dziekuje, jen COO ya, and also
All wubbleyous are vees and an l
With a slash through it is a wubbleyou
And sz is sh and even a single s
Sometimes has the hint of an aspirate,
With many other rules but nothing
Unpronounceable, for even small children
In Poland say everything perfectly,
Quoting reams of school-taught Mickiewicz
And twirling their hoped-for mustaches
As they re-enact Sienkiewicz at play.
Frost said that poetry is “what is
Left out in the translation”, but that
Is not always true, for a lot of
Szymborska comes through as clear as
A broken trumpet call in clear January
From the church tower in her Krakow,
Floating over the neighborhood still
Haunted by ghosts of Jews who did not
Escape and the memories of those who
Helped or were afraid to help or even
Were infected by the ancient poison,
And the universities and battlements
Of a city whose heart was always free
Despite the many occupations, the latest
Of which brings the mildly adventurous
Tourists gawking at women with net bags
Full of good bread and slender bottles,
One of whom might be the sly and witty
Szymborska, so clear-sighted that words
Jump borders like winged cavalry but
With no swords, just wisdom that heals
The cracks in our sphere. Dziekuje.
