Two beloved poets passed away this week: Nobel winner Wislawa Szymborska, who died yesterday at 88, and Surrealist painter turned poet Dorothea Tanning, who died on Tuesday at 101. Both women led extraordinary, and extraordinarily different lives. By way of remembrance, we wanted to simply quote a few lines from a poem by each…
from “Miracle Fair” by Wislawa Szymborska:
A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.
A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.
An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
from “Artist, Once” by Dorothea Tanning:
enfolded as in a pregnancy,
those not-yet-painted works
to be. They, hanging fire,
slow to come—to come
out—being deep inside her,
in her warm dark, took
their time and promised.
Fast forward. Trapped in now,
she’s not all that sure.
Compared to what entwined
her mind before the test,
before the raw achievement
pat, secure—oh, such bounty
to be lived, yet untasted,
undefined—all the rest…