ヴィスワヴァ・シンボルスカさん（1923-2012.2.1）が亡くなったことを知る
享年88
もう3年も前になる
クラクフを訪れた時に発見した方だ
その時の2カ国語詩集を取り出して味わい直す
クラクフ八日目、森へ行きましょう、そしてヴィスワヴァ・シンボルスカさん Wisława Szymborska （2009-04-20）
ニューヨークタイムズによると、寡作な詩人だったという
私的な生活を送っていた彼女に飛び込んできたノーベル賞は負担だったのではないかとも
アメリカではよく読まれた詩人に入るようだ
一体、どれだけの人が詩を読むのだろうか
教室で読む生徒や詩人を除いていくと、千人に二人くらいか
そんな思いを巡らせている詩がある（Some People Like Poetry）
ここでは3年前に感じた詩を再び読んでみたい
Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.
One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
(Calling out to Yeti, 1957)
享年88
もう3年も前になる
クラクフを訪れた時に発見した方だ
その時の2カ国語詩集を取り出して味わい直す
クラクフ八日目、森へ行きましょう、そしてヴィスワヴァ・シンボルスカさん Wisława Szymborska （2009-04-20）
ニューヨークタイムズによると、寡作な詩人だったという
私的な生活を送っていた彼女に飛び込んできたノーベル賞は負担だったのではないかとも
アメリカではよく読まれた詩人に入るようだ
一体、どれだけの人が詩を読むのだろうか
教室で読む生徒や詩人を除いていくと、千人に二人くらいか
そんな思いを巡らせている詩がある（Some People Like Poetry）
ここでは3年前に感じた詩を再び読んでみたい
Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.
One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
(Calling out to Yeti, 1957)
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