Sunday, July 18, 2010

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SOMEONE SENDS ME POETRY: exquisite little offerings of words arranged like the pattern on a butterfly's wings, or one made by eddies in a flood-swollen stream. Though she doesn't do the arranging, the sender often wraps the poems in a thin sheet of music --silky notes that say pause! --pay attention to this key moment--read slowly!
It's always a surprise when I find one in my box; they come without rhyme or reason (I say, but not in truth, because many times there are words that rhyme. And I know there are reasons; I'm hoping that one of them might be my simple delight at receiving these gifts). I rushed across the stage to thank her for this one:



Life While-You-Wait
Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.
I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it's mine. I can't exchange it.
I have to guess on the spot
just what this play's all about.
Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can't conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.
Words and impulses you can't take back,
stars you'll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run ?
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.
If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).
You'd be wrong to think that it's just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there's no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I've done.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997,
trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)




It's become forever what I've done, Dear Reader--
my passing this bouquet of words on to you.


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