Translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak
An idea came to me
for a rhyme? a poem?
Well, fine — I say — stay awhile, we’ll talk.
Tell me a little more about yourself.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Ah, so that’s the story — I say — intriguing.
These matters have long weighed upon my heart.
But a poem about them? I don’t think so.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
It may seem that way — I reply —
but you overestimate my gifts and powers.
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
You’re wrong — I say — a short, pithy poem
is much harder than a long one.
Don’t pester me, don’t nag, it won’t turn out.
So it whispered a few words in by ear.
All right then, I’ll try, since you insist.
But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I write, tear it up, and toss it out.
So it whispered a few words in by ear.
You’re right — I say — there are always other poets.
Some of them can do better.
I’ll give you names and addresses.
So it whispered a few words in by ear.
Of course I’ll envy them.
We envy even the weak poems.
But this one should . . . it ought to have . . .
So it whispered a few words in my ear.
Exactly, to have the qualities you’ve listed.
So let’s change the subject.
How about a cup of coffee?
It just sighed.
And started vanishing.
And vanished.
