Your Favorite Poems

adorable · 02-04-2012, 05:00 AM

THE SUICIDE’S ROOM
By Wisława Szymborska

I'll bet you think the room was empty.
Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs.
A lamp, good for fighting the dark.
A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers.
A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ.
Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer.
You think our addresses weren't in it?

No books, no pictures, no records, you guess?
Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands.
Saskia and her cordial little flower.
Joy the spark of gods.
Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep
after the labors of Book Five.
The moralists
with the golden syllables of their names
inscribed on finely tanned spines.
Next to them, the politicians braced their backs.

No way out? But what about the door?
No prospects? The window had other views.
His glasses
lay on the windowsill.
And one fly buzzed---that is, was still alive.

You think at least the note tell us something.
But what if I say there was no note---
and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly
inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.

02-04-2012, 05:00 AM	#11
adorable Member How Do You Identify?: Sarcastically Preferred Pronoun?: She Relationship Status: Unavailable Join Date: Feb 2010 Location: Home of the Yankee's Posts: 752 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 1,708 Thanked 2,644 Times in 590 Posts Rep Power: 12725119	As always provoking thought and conversation... THE SUICIDE’S ROOM By Wisława Szymborska I'll bet you think the room was empty. Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs. A lamp, good for fighting the dark. A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers. A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ. Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer. You think our addresses weren't in it? No books, no pictures, no records, you guess? Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands. Saskia and her cordial little flower. Joy the spark of gods. Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep after the labors of Book Five. The moralists with the golden syllables of their names inscribed on finely tanned spines. Next to them, the politicians braced their backs. No way out? But what about the door? No prospects? The window had other views. His glasses lay on the windowsill. And one fly buzzed---that is, was still alive. You think at least the note tell us something. But what if I say there was no note--- and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.