Rest in peace Wislawa

Something really strange happened to me the other day. As I was writing my next blog post, the name of Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska popped up in my head, to find out a day later that she has passed away peacefully in her sleep three weeks ago!

The thought took me back to one of the many inspiring chats I used to have with my good friend and one of the most respected Palestinian poets Mourid Bargouti. I remember him clearly saying “if I were to die right after listening to Wislawa reciting her poetry, I’d die a happy man!” I was pleasantly surprised to hear Mourid talk like that about anything because he’s quite difficult to please.

I was intrigued and ran to the bookstore and bought two of Wislawa’s books, one for him and one for me.

I’m sharing two poems here; Mourid’s favorite poem “Clouds” and “A Few Words on the Soul”.

May her soul rest in peace

Clouds

I'd have to be really quick

to describe clouds -

a split second's enough

for them to start being something else.

Their trademark:

they don't repeat a single

shape, shade, pose, arrangement.

Unburdened by memory of any kind,

they float easily over the facts.

What on earth could they bear witness to?

They scatter whenever something happens.

Compared to clouds,

life rests on solid ground,

practically permanent, almost eternal.

Next to clouds

even a stone seems like a brother,

someone you can trust,

while they're just distant, flighty cousins.

Let people exist if they want,

and then die, one after another:

clouds simply don't care

what they're up to

down there.

And so their haughty fleet

cruises smoothly over your whole life

and mine, still incomplete.

They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone.

They don't have to be seen while sailing on.

A Few Words on the Soul

We have a soul at times.

No one's got it non-stop,

for keeps.

Day after day,

year after year

may pass without it.

Sometimes

it will settle for awhile

only in childhood's fears and raptures.

Sometimes only in astonishment

that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand

in uphill tasks,

like moving furniture,

or lifting luggage,

or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out

whenever meat needs chopping

or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations

it participates in one,

if even that,

since it prefers silence.

Just when our body goes from ache to pain,

it slips off-duty.

It's picky:

it doesn't like seeing us in crowds,

our hustling for a dubious advantage

and creaky machinations make it sick.

Joy and sorrow

aren't two different feelings for it.

It attends us

only when the two are joined.

We can count on it

when we're sure of nothing

and curious about everything.

Among the material objects

it favors clocks with pendulums

and mirrors, which keep on working

even when no one is looking.

It won't say where it comes from

or when it's taking off again,

though it's clearly expecting such questions.

We need it

but apparently

it needs us

for some reason too.