From The New Yorker (Nov.26, 2007 issue)

Ordinary Life
by Adam Zagajewski

Our life is ordinary,
I read in a crumpled paper
abandoned on a bench.
Our life is ordinary,
the philosophers told me.

Ordinary life, ordinary days and cares,
a concert, a conversation,
strolls on the town’s outskirts,
good news, bad—

but objects and thoughts
were unfinished somehow,
rough drafts.

Houses and trees
desired something more
and in summer green meadows
covered the volcanic planet
like an overcoat tossed upon the ocean.

Black cinemas crave light.
Forests breathe feverishly,
clouds sing softly,
a golden oriole prays for rain.
Ordinary life desires.

(Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.)

I like Adam Zagajewski's poems.  Look at this one.
The first three lines sound ordinary at first.  Then, who was the person who crumpled the paper and left it as evidence of his disagreement? Not a  philosopher, certainly. Maybe a poet....

A poet can't let those 'ordinary days, conversations, and strolls' remain ordinary. The poet sees the extraordinary in life. And somehow in this poem with his amazing imagery A.Z. shows us that we can see as the poet sees, too.

IMHO:-)

Comments

[Paula]

Thanks for this poem, Carol, a poet I want to read more.

Merry Christmas, my friend, and a wonderful 2008