I rarely devote much time to the poetry in the New Yorker. Sad to say, if I don’t recognize the poet’s name or the subject matter doesn’t immediately draw me in, I move on. But this poem from last week’s issue grabbed my attention, and I thought it worth sharing. It was written by Nobel Prize-winning poet Czeslaw Milosz, who passed away three weeks ago.
If there is no God,
Not everything is permitted to man.
He is still his brother’s keeper
And is not permitted to sadden his brother,
By saying that there is no God.
–Czeslaw Milosz (Translated, from the Polish, by the author and Robert Hass)