Hi poets,

To make this blog a little more lively I've decided to post some poems I like. I start out with one of my favorite poets Wislawa Szymborska. She is a polish poet, essayist and translator and received the Nobel Price in Literature in 1996. (thanks Wikipedia)
I chose this poem because it reminds me of my own family, where no one, reads. My stepdad once interrupted me while I was reading a book and said, highly amused with himself and his own wittiness: "Imagine if you would read non fiction instead Elina. Think about how much you would know then."
I mean, how do you even respond to that? I just laugh at him and read this poem for some comfort.



In praise of my sister

My sister doesn't write poems,
and it's unlikely that she'll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who didn't write poems,
and also her father, who likewise didn't write poems.
I feel safe beneath my sister's roof:
my sister's husband would rather die than write poems.
And, even though this is starting to sound as
repetitive as Peter Piper,
the truth is, none of my relatives write poems.

My sister's desk drawers don't hold old poems,
and her handbag doesn't hold new ones.
When my sister asks me over for lunch,
I know she doesn't want to read me her poems.
Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives.
Her coffee doesn't spill on manuscripts.

There are many families in which nobody writes poems,
but once it starts up it's hard to quarantine.
Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations,
creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.

My sister has tackled oral prose with some success,
but her entire written opus consists of postcards from vacations
whose text is only the same promise every year:
when she gets back, she'll have
so much
much
much to tell.