I found this poem in the current edition of the New Yorker (February 3, 2014 edition) and I liked it a lot on my first read. After a second read, I felt the urge to memorize it. I’m not one to try to memorize poetry; as I am very bad at it. I’m trying very hard to not say why I like the poems I share——no, I don’t share poems that I don’t care for. I’m not that sophisticated. I like for a good poem to speak for itself.

by Wistawa Szymborska 

There are catalogues of catalogues.

There are poems about poems.

There are plays about actors played by actors.

Letters due to letters.

Words used to clarify words.

Brains occupied with studying brains.

There are griefs as infectious as laughter.

Papers emerging from waste papers.

Seen glances.

Conditions conditioned by the conditional.

Large rivers with major contributions from small ones.

Forests grown over and above by forests.

Machines designed to make machines.

Dreams that wake us suddenly from dreams.

Health needed for regaining health.

Stairs leading as much up as down.

Glasses for finding glasses.

Inspiration born of expiration.

And even if only from time to time

hatred of hatred.

All in all,

ignorance of ignorance

and hands employed to wash hands.

—

Have a beautiful day
– – –
Jane
P.S. Subscribe to the New Yorker already!