A Large Number by Wislawa Szymborska

Four billion people on this earth, but my imagination is the way it's always been:

bad with large numbers. It is still moved by particularity.

It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam, disclosing only random faces, while the rest go blindly by,

unthought of, unpitied. Not even a Dante could have stopped that.

So what do you do when you're not, even with all the muses on your side?

Non omnis moriar—a premature worry. Yet am I fully alive, and is that enough? It never has been, and even less so now.

I select by rejecting, for there's no other way, but what I reject, is more numerous,

more dense, more intrusive than ever. At the cost of untold losses—a poem, a sigh.

I reply with a whisper to a thunderous calling. How much I am silent about I can't say. A mouse at the foot of mother mountain.

Life lasts as long as a few lines of claws in the sand.

My dreams—even they are not as populous as they should be. There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor. Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.

A single hand turns a knob. Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house. I run from the threshold down into the quiet

valley seemingly no one's—an anachronism by now.

Where does all this space still in me come from— that I don't know.

Pi by Wislawa Szymborska

The admirable number pi: three point one four one.

All the following digits are also just a start, five nine two because it never ends.

It can't be grasped, six five three five , at a glance, eight nine, by calculation,

seven nine, through imagination, or even three two three eight in jest, or by comparison

four six to anything two six four three in the world.

The longest snake on earth ends at thirty-odd feet. Same goes for fairy tale snakes, though they make it a little longer.

The caravan of digits that is pi does not stop at the edge of the page, but runs off the table and into the air,

over the wall, a leaf, a bird's nest, the clouds, straight into the sky, through all the bloatedness and bottomlessness.

Oh how short, all but mouse-like is the comet's tail! How frail is a ray of starlight, bending in any old space!

Meanwhile two three fifteen three hundred nineteen my phone number your shirt size

the year nineteen hundred and seventy-three sixth floor number of inhabitants sixty-five cents

hip measurement two fingers a charade and a code, in which we find how blithe the trostle sings!

and please remain calm, and heaven and earth shall pass away,

but not pi, that won't happen, it still has an okay five, and quite a fine eight, and all but final seven,

prodding and prodding a plodding eternity to last.

Still by Wislawa Szymborska

In sealed box cars travel names across the land,

and how far they will travel so, and will they ever get out,

don't ask, I won't say, I don't know.

The name Nathan strikes fist against wall, the name Isaac, demented, sings,

the name Sarah calls out for water for the name Aaron that's dying of thirst.

Don't jump while it's moving, name David.

You're a name that dooms to defeat, given to no one, and homeless, too heavy to bear in this land.

Let your son have a Slavic name,

for here they count hairs on the head, for here they tell good from evil by names and by eyelids' shape.

Don't jump while it's moving. Your son will be Lech.

Don't jump while it's moving. Not time yet. Don't jump. The night echoes like laughter

mocking clatter of wheels upon tracks.

A cloud made of people moved over the land, a big cloud gives a small rain, one tear,

a small rain—one tear, a dry season. Tracks lead off into black forest.

Cor-rect, cor-rect clicks the wheel. Gladeless forest.

Cor-rect, cor-rect. Through the forest a convoy of clamors. Cor-rect, cor-rect. Awakened in the night I hear

cor-rect, cor-rect, crash of silence on silence.