Wislawa Szymborska: Nothing's a Gift

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A highly corroded lead sinker found at the beach: photo by Chemicalinterest, 24 November 2010

Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan.

I'm drowning in debts up to my ears.

I'll have to pay for myself

with my self,

give up my life for my life.

 

Here's how it's arranged:

The heart can be repossessed,

the liver, too,

and each single finger and toe.

 

Too late to tear up the terms,

my debts will be repaid,

and I'll be fleeced,

or, more precisely, flayed.

 

I move about the planet

in a crush of other debtors.

Some are saddled with the burden

of paying off their wings.

Others must, willy-nilly,

account for every leaf.

 

Every tissue in us lies

on the debit side.

Not a tentacle or tendril

is for keeps.

 

The inventory, infinitely detailed,

implies we'll be left

not just empty-handed

but handless too.

 

I can't remember

where, when, and why

I let someone open

this account in my name.

 

We call the protest against this

the soul.

And it's the only item

not included on the list.

Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012): Nothing's a Gift (Nic darowane), 1999, from Poems New and Collected 1957-1997, translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

Slip below the surface (lead fishing sinkers): photo by Kurt Faler, 8 January 2009

Nic darowane
 
Nic darowane, wszystko pożyczone.
Tonę w długach po uszy.
Będę zmuszona sobą
zapłacić za siebie,
za życie oddać życie.

Tak to już urządzone,
że serce do zwrotu
i wątroba do zwrotu
i każdy palec z osobna.

Za późno na zerwanie warunków umowy.
Długi będą ściągnięte ze mnie
wraz ze skórą.

Chodzę po świecie
w tłumie innych dłużników.
Na jednych ciąży przymus
spłaty skrzydeł.
Drudzy chcąc nie chcąc
rozliczą się z liści.

Po stronie Winien
wszelka tkanka w nas.
żadnej rzęski, szypułki
do zachowania na zawsze.

Spis jest dokładny
i na to wygląda,
że mamy zostać z niczym.

Nie mogę sobie przypomnieć
gdzie, kiedy i po co
pozwoliłam otworzyć sobie
ten rachunek.

Protest przeciwko niemu
nazywamy duszą.
I to jest to jedyne,
czego nie ma w spisie.

Three types of small lead sinker: photo by Raboe001, 10 December 2005

In more fortunate countries, where human dignity isn't assaulted so readily, poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind. And yet it wasn't so long ago, in this century's first decades, that poets strove to shock us with their extravagant dress and eccentric behavior. But all this was merely for the sake of public display. The moment always came when poets had to close the doors behind them, strip off their mantles, fripperies, and other poetic paraphernalia, and confront -- silently, patiently awaiting their own selves -- the still white sheet of paper. For this is finally what really counts.

It's not accidental that film biographies of great scientists and artists are produced in droves. The more ambitious directors seek to reproduce convincingly the creative process that led to important scientific discoveries or the emergence of a masterpiece. And one can depict certain kinds of scientific labor with some success. Laboratories, sundry instruments, elaborate machinery brought to life: such scenes may hold the audience's interest for a while. And those moments of uncertainty -- will the experiment, conducted for the thousandth time with some tiny modification, finally yield the desired result? -- can be quite dramatic. Films about painters can be spectacular, as they go about recreating every stage of a famous painting's evolution, from the first penciled line to the final brushstroke. Music swells in films about composers: the first bars of the melody that rings in the musician's ears finally emerge as a mature work in symphonic form. Of course this is all quite naive and doesn't explain the strange mental state popularly known as inspiration, but at least there's something to look at and listen to.

But poets are the worst. Their work is hopelessly unphotogenic. Someone sits at a table or lies on a sofa while staring motionless at a wall or ceiling. Once in a while this person writes down seven lines only to cross out one of them fifteen minutes later, and then another hour passes, during which nothing happens ... Who could stand to watch this kind of thing?

Wislawa Szymborska: from Nobel Lecture: The Poet and the World, 10 December 1996 at the Stockholm Concert Hall, Stockholm, Sweden;  translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh