new poems Read online

  between sheets of paper

  between Alina Szapocznikow

  Brzozowski (“Tadzio,” “Tazio”)

  and Nowosielski between

  lectures and index cards

  “strange knife” I thought

  I took it in hand

  laid it down again

  Mieczysław went into the kitchen

  to make tea (he makes strong

  dark tea that I have to

  dilute with hot water)

  another twenty years went by

  “strange knife” I thought

  it lay between a book on cubism

  and the end of criticism

  he probably uses it to open envelopes

  and in prison

  he peeled potatoes

  or shaved with it

  that’s right–said the Professor–

  potato peelings could save you

  from dying of hunger

  order ruled on the scholar’s desk

  just as in his mind

  you know Mieczysław I’m going to write a poem

  about this knife

  years passed

  our children went to school

  grew up graduated

  it was 1968 . . . 1969

  a human set foot on the moon

  the exact date I don’t remember

  in Poland there was the memorable “March”

  the March of “let writers stick to writing!”

  someone caused me to stop writing . . .

  I was sleeping at Mieczysław’s

  he lived in the building

  of the academy of fine arts

  on Krakowskie Przedmieście

  a foul evening police zomo

  patrol wagons white batons

  long white batons in the fog

  helmets shields

  the next day I met

  Przyboś at Zachęta

  what is it these students want he asked

  he seemed surprised taken aback

  then he began to explain to me

  Strzemiński’s theory of the afterimage

  “students”

  he said as if to himself

  I went back home Mieczysław’s daughter

  Asia asked me over dinner

  “what’s to be done? . . .” but I had the sense

  she knew better than her father than Master Przyboś

  and than me . . . what was to be done . . .

  I answered “we need to stay calm”

  Asia smiled . . . left

  Mietek was in the hospital on Szaserów Street

  he’d come round from the anesthesia

  I was alone in his studio

  on the walls familiar paintings

  Strumiłło Nowosielski Brzozowski

  a self-portrait by Mietek from the occupation

  the knife lay on some newspapers

  at the airport I read the slogans

  writers stick to writing zionists go home

  (or was it the other way round?) after I came

  back to my native region

  those slogans . . . smacked . . .

  (smacked? of what?)

  Aleksander Małachowski

  asked me to do a TV interview

  I spoke about how that step

  the human footprint on the moon

  would change the world and its people . . . I was naive.

  V

  THE TRAINS KEEP LEAVING

  from memory now

  to Oświęcim Auschwitz

  Terezín Gross-Rosen Dachau

  to Majdanek Treblinka

  Sobibor

  into history

  The sidings

  trains leave

  from small stops

  from central stations

  turned into Art museums

  Hamburg Paris Berlin

  here artists

  create their installations

  trains

  locomotives rusting on

  closed railroad lines

  Robigus spreads rust

  on rails signal boxes switches

  soccer fans and draftees

  vandalize cars

  celebrating the happiest day

  of their lives

  the end of their service

  others are taking the oath

  they kiss the flag

  parents wives fiancées in tears

  the band strikes up a march

  but the train

  that I see

  (with the eyes of my soul)

  has rebelled

  and left the railroad tracks

  the rails the lights

  the switches

  it’s crossing green meadows

  country lanes grasses

  mosses

  water

  sky

  clouds

  a rainbow

  is this Treblinka already

  I’m asked by a young

  Girl

  in the flower of youth

  I recognize

  her lips

  and her eyes like a posy of violets

  it’s Róża from Radomsko . . .

  “I named her Róża

  since a name was needed

  and so she is named”

  what she was really called

  I don’t remember

  The train crosses

  pads

  of silver and green

  moss

  through woodland cuttings and clearings

  forests

  of the righteous and the unrighteous

  surely it’s Alina I think to myself

  Alina the sculptress

  student of Xawery Dunikowski

  in a cattle car

  opens a window

  leans out kisses the wind

  closes the little window that is disfigured

  with barb wire

  I’m sitting so close

  that our shoulders are touching

  “I’ve got something in my eye”

  I lean forward

  I have a clean handkerchief I say

  pull back your eyelid please

  we conduct a small operation

  without anesthesia

  she smiles at me through her tears

  please don’t be afraid

  I say

  it’s only a speck of dust

  I’ve performed such operations

  many times

  you’re my guinea pig miss

  (she doesn’t know that she’ll remain

  a guinea pig)

  all done I say

  the tears will wash it clean

  I wipe her eyes

  here’s the culprit

  I show her a sharp black

  speck of coal

  allow me to introduce myself

  my name is Tadeusz

  I’m Róża . . . Mama and I

  are on our way from Terezín to Treblinka

  Mama’s in the dining car

  they separated us

  her car is at the other end of the train

  we’re getting out at Treblinka

  you know sir I’m dying of hunger

  I’m really dying

  I’m so hungry

  I could eat a horse

  or a carrot

  a turnip

  a cabbage stump

  . . . and where are you going sir? if I may ask

  me? nowhere special! to the woods

  to collect mushrooms blueberries

  get some fresh air

  I’m a Satyr

  the girl laughs

  I can tell you the secret now

  I’m getting out at the next stop

  my unit is stationed at a place called

  “high trees”

  VI

  The Last Age

  I looked at the knife

  it could have been for cutting bread

  a knife from the iron age

  –I thought–from a death ca
mp

  The iron age was last

  truth shame and honor vanished

  in their place were

  fraud deceit trickery violence

  and pernicious desires

  the land once common to all

  as the light of the sun is and the air

  was marked out to its furthest boundaries

  by cunning man . . .

  Now harmful iron appeared

  and gold more harmful than iron . . .

  the knife

  made from a piece of hoop

  from a beer barrel or some other barrel

  has a handle

  ingeniously

  curved

  Hania the Professor’s wife has passed away

  when the Professor sits with eyes closed

  when he is silent thinking writing

  preparing a lecture

  moving away from criticism

  toward mathematics and philosophy

  or perhaps logic and mysticism

  he recalls what he did

  with the knife in the camp

  cutting bread dividing it up

  saving every crumb

  he did not peel potatoes

  (but did not throw away peelings

  as they could save someone

  from starvation)

  years passed

  we count up

  together we are

  a hundred and sixty years old

  the 20th century is over . . .

  the Professor lives alone works does not sleep

  listens to music

  I came to Ustroń

  from Radomsko

  from memory from the past

  I came to Ustroń

  in July 2000 from Wrocław

  and Kraków via Wadowice

  I wanted to see the hometown of the poet Jawień

  I was moved to see his hills his clouds

  his family home the school the modest church

  Dawn Day and Night with a Red Rose

  you gave me a rose

  red

  almost black inside

  autumnal

  it stands out sharply

  in the empty white

  room

  as if carved

  with a lancet

  by Doctor

  Gottfried Benn

  at night the rose

  describes its shape and weight

  in fragrance

  it rouses me

  with its thorns

  cast

  from sleep to a waking

  that is still tremulous fluid

  I see it

  basking in the sun

  unfolding

  predatory

  in its vicinity

  it tolerates

  neither nightingales

  nor poetry

  Hafis umdichtend hat Goethe gedichtet

  “unmöglich scheint immer die Rose

  unbegreiflich die Nachtigall”

  with my eyes I touched

  the compact

  places

  between the petals

  the next day

  at dawn

  I took the rose

  into the other room

  at last I could get down

  to my poem

  in the presence of the rose

  it had been fading away

  before my eyes

  secure now it took on

  color

  perked up

  I’d realized that poetry

  is jealous of the rose

  the rose jealous of poetry

  after a few hours

  with the muse

  I opened the door

  I saw a black rose

  gazing at itself in the mirror

  it had lost none of its dignity

  or significance

  I took from the rose

  its reflection in the mirror

  and turned it into words

  and in this way

  I completed

  the deed

  [2001]

  gateway

  Lasciate ogni speranza

  Voi ch’entrate

  all hope abandon

  ye who enter here

  the inscription at the entrance to hell

  in Dante’s Divine Comedy

  take heart!

  beyond that gateway

  there is no hell

  hell has been dismantled

  by theologists

  and psychoanalysts

  has been turned into an allegory

  for reasons humanitarian

  and educational

  take heart!

  beyond the gateway

  there is more of the same

  two drunken gravediggers

  sit by a hole

  they’re drinking non-alcoholic beer

  snacking on sausage

  winking at us

  playing soccer

  with Adam’s skull

  beneath the cross

  the hole waits

  for tomorrow’s deceased

  the stiff is on its way

  take heart!

  here we will wait for the final

  judgment

  the pit fills with water

  cigarette butts float there

  take heart!

  beyond the gateway

  there will be no history

  no goodness no poetry

  and what will there be

  stranger?

  there will be stones

  stone

  upon stone

  upon stone a stone

  and on that stone

  another

  stone

  [2000]

  Ghost Ship

  the days are shorter

  the sundial stands

  hourless in the rain

  the sanatorium emerges

  from clouds

  like a vast passenger liner

  columns of black trees

  drip with water and moonlight

  the sanatorium sails away

  in the November mists

  it rocks

  its windows darkening one after another

  plunges into shadow

  into sleep

  while below

  underground

  the devil has lit the old stove

  in “Little Hell”

  don’t be afraid

  it’s only a late-night spot

  a café

  the saved and the condemned

  cheeks flushed

  lap up what’s left of life

  the temperature rises

  and everything whirls

  in a dance of death

  um die dunklen Stellen der Frau

  the ghost ship

  runs aground

  the mystery of the poem

  once somewhere

  long ago

  I read a poem

  by Eminowicz

  whose first name

  I subsequently forgot

  this was before the war

  then

  for half a century

  I never encountered

  his poetry

  he would come to mind

  every few years

  then return to oblivion

  Chess?

  yes I read the poem

  in “Pion” magazine

  chess? not chess

  chess

  I think it was chess the poem

  rattled about in my head

  like a death-watch beetle

  (that was all I needed!)

  two years ago

  I found myself in Kraków

  with Czesław Miłosz

  in Ludwik Solski’s Dressing Room

  Mrs. Renata (this was her idea)

  was asking us questions

  about poetry youth the occupation

  and women (laughter)

  the topic was our love poetry

  all at once
I digressed and asked

  do you remember the poet Eminowicz

  Miłosz did

  “Eminowicz? his first name was Ludwik”

  later we talked about Staff and Fik

  Czechowicz Przyboś Ważyk

  a year passed

  I was looking through Extracts from Useful Books

  and on page 207 I found a poem

  by Ludwik Eminowicz “At Noon”

  strange poet

  strange poem neither good nor bad

  the vanishing poet