Showing posts from September, 2020

Photograph from September 11

BY WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA 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

A Color of the Sky

BY  TONY HOAGLAND Windy today and I feel less than brilliant, driving over the hills from work. There are the dark parts on the road                      when you pass through clumps of wood    and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,    but that doesn’t make the road an allegory. I should call Marie and apologize for being so boring at dinner last night, but can I really promise not to be that way again?    And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing    in what certainly looks like sexual arousal. Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail; the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves are full of infant chlorophyll,    the very tint of inexperience. Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,    and on the highway overpass, the only metaphysical vandal in America has written    MEMORY LOVES TIME in big black spraypaint letters, which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back. Last night I dreamed of X again. She’s like a stain on my subconsc