Winter 1998 • Vol. XX No. 1 Poetry |

To the Heart on Sunday

Thank you, my heart, for not dawdling, for keeping a move onwithout flatteries, without reward from innate diligence. You've got seventy merits per minute. Every contraction is like pushing a boat far out to sea on a journey around the world. Thank you, my heart, for taking me out of my entirety every now and then separate even in my dreams. You make sure that I don't fly through dreaming to the flight where no wings are needed. Thank you, my heart, for letting me wake up again and although it's Sunday, the day of rest, under my ribs continues the ordinary weekday bustle.   Translated from the Polish by Joanna Trzeciak

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Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012) was a Polish poet, essayist, translator and recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. Her poetry is full of wisdom, wit, and a haunting, surreal quality. One of her major themes is differentness, or otherness: the lack of mutual comprehension between different conditions, species, kinds of matter.

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