March 15, 2015

POSTED BY

Rafael Esquer

CATEGORY

To My Heart, On Sunday

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Collage illustration by Alfalfa Studio Sunday is a day of rest in most Western countries, part of ‘the weekend.’ On “the seventh day of the week,” the day “the great God rested after working the first six days in creating the earth” (Genesis 2:1.3.), I’d like to share a poem …

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Collage illustration by Alfalfa Studio

Sunday is a day of rest in most Western countries, part of ‘the weekend.’ On “the seventh day of the week,” the day “the great God rested after working the first six days in creating the earth” (Genesis 2:1.3.), I’d like to share a poem by Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996.

Most readers of Szymborska’s poetry, including myself, love the wit, irony, and deceptive simplicity of her poems. It is the examination of those domestic details and occasions, played against large backdrops such as history and mortality one of the qualities that I find irresistible in her lines.

To My Heart, On Sunday is a simple yet profound poem that honors the organ that doesn’t rest not even in the seventh day of the week. Enjoy!

To my heart, on Sunday

Thank you, my heart:
you don’t dawdle, you keep going
with no flattery or reward,
just from inborn diligence.

You get seventy credits a minute.
Each of your systoles
shoves a little boat
to open sea
to sail around the world.

Thank you, my heart:
Time after time
you pluck me, separate even in sleep,
out of the whole.

You make sure I don’t dream my dreams
up to the final flight,
no wings required.

Thank you, my heart:
I woke up again
and even though it’s Sunday,
the day of rest,
the usual preholiday rush
continues underneath my ribs.

—Wistawa Szymborska

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