Two days ago I saw in New Yorker the translation of the poem of one of the greatest Polish poets – Wisława Szymborska, recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature. She died in 2012 at the age of 88. The last poem she was working on just before she passed away is called ‘Map’ and I believe it perfectly summarizes why you and me love maps.
Flat as the table
it’s placed on.
Nothing moves beneath it
and it seeks no outlet.
Above—my human breath
creates no stirring air
and leaves its total surface
Its plains, valleys are always green,
uplands, mountains are yellow and brown,
while seas, oceans remain a kindly blue
beside the tattered shores.
Everything here is small, near, accessible.
I can press volcanoes with my ﬁngertip,
stroke the poles without thick mittens,
I can with a single glance
encompass every desert
with the river lying just beside it.
A few trees stand for ancient forests,
you couldn’t lose your way among them.
In the east and west,
above and below the equator—
quiet like pins dropping,
and in every black pinprick
people keep on living.
Mass graves and sudden ruins
are out of the picture.
Nations’ borders are barely visible
as if they wavered—to be or not.
I like maps, because they lie.
Because they give no access to the vicious truth.
Because great-heartedly, good-naturedly
they spread before me a world
not of this world.
Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh
NewYorker April, 14th, 2014