The World
God hid himself so that the world could be seen
if he'd made himself known there would only be him
and who in his presence would notice the ant
the handsome, peevish wasp worrying in circles
the green drake with his yellow legs
the peewit laying its four eggs
crosswise the dragonfly's round eyes beans in the pod
our mother at the table holding not so long ago
a mug by its big funny ear
the fir tree shedding husks instead of cones
pain and delight both ways to learn
equally mysteries but never the same
stones which show travelers the way
love that is invisible
hides nothing
Hungry
My God is hungry
he's just a bag of bones
he's got no money
no lofty silver domes
Candles can't help him
hymns give him no rest
doctors have no cure
for his thin hollow chest
Governments patrols police
are powerless
love is the only food
his lips will bless
The Jesus of Nonbelievers
The Jesus of nonbelievers
walks among us
known a little from kitsch
and a bit from word-of-mouth
responsibly passed over
in the morning paper
defenseless
partyless
endlessly debated
avoided like a graveyard
for the victims of the plague
necessarily gray
therefore perfectly safe
the Jesus of nonbelievers
walks among us
sometimes he stops
and stands like a hard cross
believers nonbelievers
we'll all be joined
by the unearned pain
that leads us toward truth
As It Must
You grasshopper with only one autumn to live
you unloved loving heart
you sadness just for the two
who'll get their apartment in twenty years
you happiness more or less
you wounding truth
you aunt on whose ID some kid has scrawled a beard
you dignitary soon to be booted downstairs
all will be as it must
Asking for Faith
I'm knocking at heaven
and asking for faith
but not the makeshift kind
that counts the stars but doesn't notice chickens
not the butterfly kind that lasts a day
I want the kind that's always fresh because it's boundless
that follows its mother like a lamb
that doesn't grasp but understands
that picks the smallest words
can't answer everything
and doesn't come undone
if someone croaks
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
Old people
They don't like medicine
they make faces at aspirin
they await love kindness
the return of father and mother
as in childhood
they wonder at anything
they're happy for Santa and the Christmas tree
they miss spring in winter
Old people are kids who grew up too fast
When you say
Don't cry in your letter
don't write me fate gave you a kick
there is always a way out
when God shuts a door He opens a window
take a breath take a look
clouds are raining
small great misfortunes necessary for happiness
learn peace of mind from ordinary things
and forget that you are when you say you love
* * *
They told Love:
'Write your name down.'
So she did.
They said:
'Read it out now.'
So she did.
They said:
'Count the letetrs.'
She said:
'I Never learned to count.'
Translated by Jan Rybicki
| 
