Kolekcja tłumaczeń – język angielski

Kolekcja tłumaczeń

Język angielski

Elżbieta Cichla-Czarniawska

Marek Danielkiewicz

Anna Goławska

Wojciech Dunin-Kozicki

Zbigniew Włodzimierz Fronczek

Magdalena Jankowska

Waldemar Michalski

Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek

Wacław Oszajca

Joanna Pawłat

Rafał Rutkowski

Bohdan Zadura

Aleksandra Zińczuk

Elżbieta Cichla-Czarniawska

a snowy owl
[sowa śnieżna]

why do you imprint on your mind
sketches from trips not taken

contours of strange cities
real yet nonexistent
crowded though uninhabited
there wandering echoes of hasty encounters
and shy goodbyes

the fringes of the unfulfilled

from a sleepless perspective
abandoned moments bark
crumpled feelings fall on the pavement
like tickets to nowhere

ravaging is the fever
brought on by fear or lust

behind eyelids vast lands
but where has been laid
your only possession
the promethean bequest:

a small burning coal of words

on the branch of pure dream
a snowy owl has landed
it calmly cleans from its feathers
the dust of fruitless flights

perhaps it is giving you a clear sign?

przełożyli Barbara Kaskosz i Nancy Abeshaus

the invisible hand of justice
[niewidzialna ręka sprawiedliwości]

everything around sparkles with life
so help me understand
why do I look
if I don’t perceive

why do I walk into the fire
if nothing cools me
but a barren drop of anguish

why am I drowning
if I am not meant
to land softly
on the safe bottom of time

tell me
why words at every chance
lose innocence
why beauty instead of lifting up
pushes into a well of despair

help me understand all that
when every morning I fall
into a thousand tempting traps
turn and turn about:
I am entranced or I am petrified
and at dusk an invisible someone
ties a black cloth over my eyes
puts a silent gun to my temple
and whispers:
a life for a life

przełożyli Barbara Kaskosz i Nancy Abeshaus

[w zawieszeniu]

time solidifies and chasms of whiteness emerge
noon heavy from heat turns to ash

who is the one living inside me at this hour
himself uninhabited?

a wave splashes: now? here? when? where?
the world’s heart is beating with erratic pulse
but the shore shines lifelessly – battlefield
tamped down by busy feet of the sea:
seaweed shells black wood dead fish –
death visualized

here I am reading the first and perhaps the last edition
of the book of all that passes

where is refuge if still existing on its pages
at this nearly petrified moment
between a gigantic drop of salt water
empty face of the sky and the heat
I do not live here at all?

przełożyli Barbara Kaskosz i Nancy Abeshaus


those who passed away
most likely valued life:
the allure of events
the majesty of icy nights
the hum of brisk mornings
familiar homes friendly knickknacks
sandy riverbanks thicket and grass

sword of damocles despair and poems

everything outlasted them
but it doesn’t remember recognize know
it keeps silent when I ask
why exist at all
in such cruel unawareness?

I am afraid to ask people
they are aware

przełożyli Barbara Kaskosz i Nancy Abeshaus

seen differently
[nagle inaczej]

on the branch of pure dream
a snowy owl has landed
and suddenly
it sees everything differently

the furrowy trunk of a pine differently
promises of the sky differently
a suicidal jump of a squirrel differently
the taiga of anxiety differently

differently bitterness and joy

bound to its fragile bones
soldered to the time it has been given
entangled in esoteric blizzards
weaving its selfless existence
through icicles and sparks of love
love so casually offered by the universe

hypersensitive snowy owl
a crumb of living matter
pulsating with stubborn hope

once and forever struck
by the sinless beauty of illusion

it emerged from itself
or perhaps from blind whistles
of the cosmic wind
fanciful owl
of sovereign spaces within us

it doesn’t mean much just Everything and Nothing

przełożyli Barbara Kaskosz i Nancy Abeshaus

Marek Danielkiewicz

The Road to Kozłówka
[Droga do Kozłówki]

The gallop of horses leaving crisp marks in the snow
The clean cuffs of riders on a frosty afternoon
How amusing today their gloomy glance and moustaches
though their careful pronunciation calls for respect:
Les Polonais sont des Russes qui n’ont pas d’argent

Lime trees on the road in equal rows
for it was an age of discipline
undisturbed by local revolutions and pogroms
Women in pink corsets
Men excited
at talk of hunting and cards

Everything seemed to be certain
home, table, woman and vodka
as well as news from the Russian trade magazine
At night searches and informers
Plots – in spite of autumn and the first frosts

Smoked fish in the little Jewish shops
slices of kosher meat and salted herrings
At grey-haired Peretz’s from Lubartów
Sauerkraut and bones for soup, for nothing almost

From a house in First Square comes a boy’s voice
repeating after his tutor:
Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet, Hei, Vav…
On the table a cracked oil lamp and half-eaten cake
In the corner a poker and a jealous cat

A man counts banknotes as if trying
to stifle thoughts of want
Tatele, tatele – cries the boy
Avoids the hand of the teacher striving to be his judge
There’s no justice – thinks the child
and withers in indifference

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

In Memory of Georges Perec*
[Pamięci Georgesa Pereca]

On the altar two peacocks
Fan their tails
In dense forest a deer streaks
A rat turns about by a crack
The sabbath begins
A clock chirrups

Shattered headstones in the Jewish cemetery
And broken trees
I gather the scraps of glass
Rain washes my hands

The synagogue destroyed
A pile of rubbish in this place
By night someone calls
The dead don’t hear
The living don’t understand

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

*Georges Perec (1936-1982) was a French writer whose novels include Les
choses: A Story of the Sixties and Life a User’s Manual. His father, Icek Judko Perec, and his grandfather Dawid were born in Lubartów.


Remembers the concentration camp at Buchenwald
Cries out in her sleep
As if afraid for her safety
She tied her hair once in pony tails with a silk ribbon
Went to town in a carriage
Played on the porch with little Zamoyski
They threw walnuts
She is moved at the memory
She never complains of any afflictions
In 1942 she survived typhus in Germany
She asks me often if others have already died

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

Getting one’s balance
[Złapać równowagę]

Getting used to age –
If it’s come, then let it be
Perfect from every point of view
Like grey hairs in your ears
Backache and high blood pressure

Getting to like its unpleasant smell
And the irritation of forgetting things
Where you put your glasses
Pen and sleeping pills

Not minding the stained collar
And sweater worn out at elbow
After all it was bought so recently –
Some thirty years ago

It’s charming, the faith in the solidity of objects
Acquired in the epoch of youth
When wool was of wool
Shoes of real leather
And tea smelled of an English queen

Accepting dementia –
Something so obvious
And in a certain way essential
Like dental decay
And impotence problems

The world has more important things on its mind:
The fall of bloody regimes
Bankruptcy of developers
Swirling on the stock market
Sources of renewable energy
As well as ceaseless computer viruses
And bird flu

That’s why we need to welcome age –
We can go a long way together
Stopping every few metres to catch our breath

(on the day of Wisława Szymborska’s death)

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

[ilekroć widzę przyjaciół]

Whenever I see my friends
I try to remember
the lessons of boxing
the lessons of diction
the lessons in betrayals

Most likely
you’ll find me a wretched man
who prefers animals
who carries a book between his shoulders
for when the pedestal slips from beneath your feet
you will be forced to turn to hope of hanging

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

[Czas dojrzały]

suddenly humps me
like a maniac

Fondles me
and obsessively reminds me about the money

Ransacks my past
with a map of destiny on his lap

First he slobbered my ear
then forced his tongue into my mouth
sucking out the remnants of youth

I’m trying to put up with his presence
though I can’t stand the smell offermenting yeast
and garlic

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

Like a dog
[Jak pies]

I am your dog
eating cold leftovers
I cuddle at your feet
and every time
a different woman takes me home
and kicks my butt good-bye

I know that things pass
one can only laugh at cocksure brats
who think the world is at their feet
because they’re young
have all the teeth
fiat bellies
and firm genitals

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

Confessions of Thomas
[Wyznanie Tomasza]

The boy thought that the father was killing the mother
As the woman was giving herself to the man

The whole family was crowded into a rented room
Therefore he had no way out
He covered his head with a pillow and huddled close to his brother
Then masterbated and fell asleep

Today he cannot overcome his aversion to women
The image of father’s hairy belly comes back
He glances at every passing man
As if looking for the guilty one

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

To waste your life is to elevate yourself to the heights of poetry – without support of talent.
Emil Cioran

A Choirboy

He was hardly nineteen and a high-school graduate
For a time he found a place for himself in church choir
The most beautiful boys stood in the first row
They attracted to the temple lonely women, old bachelors
and provincial theology students
He noticed that clergymen were the most envious of beauty
That’s why he quit singing
Kissed Our Lord good-bye
And fell for street people who returned his handshakes

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

A Man

Has a delicate greyness around his ears
Says he reads books on „how to be a real man”
He wants to open himself to the world
Meanwhile he settles for a shrink
Yes, he masterbates
He knows it’s a waste of time
Once he raped his wife – she left him
He’s more and more helpless, searching for the truth
about himself

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

An Incident

The rock was slippery like your skin
I was not a boy anymore
but still ignorant of manhood
Snow turned to water
and streamed into the Black Pond
The white of a pulpit excited me

I recall this incident with an embarassment
as you would unwillingly relate about a sexual initiation
or cutting your veins
I can’t master my agitation
as if I lost the sense of ridiculous

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz


Reality surrounding me is not accommodating
It’s me who is a woman
Once I was called Andy Warhol
I liked silk shirts and canned beer
I met Yves Saint Laurent
We felt good together
You’re wasting your time with him — they said
Right – I thought
And instantly changed into a loose woman
The punk aesthetics became me

Once I was a woman in a seashore town
I slept with everyone around
Gently I gave myself to the New Wave
I kissed the boys of Der Blaue Reiter
No one expected any commitment from me
I shuddered at the mere thought of men
from the ship Trans-Avant-Garde
I was afraid they’d leave me on shore

przełożyła Maria Rewakowicz

Wojciech Dunin-Kozicki

what to do with a horizon of omissions
[co zrobić z horyzontem niedomówień]

I wake up and check through the blinds
if the cascade of sensitivity
is still hanging on the high-cheer wires

of course, I still do have before me
the fountain of fresh air
unexpressive in its still life movement

through which I see naked window panes
or maybe I am only a voyeur of the day
netting its flutter and taking my collection

into the dark night or not only there
so as to do it against resigned shoulders
after my beat of unfinished houses because

after the whirl of blatant undercurrents of
basements that in summer steal the warmth
in the ruddy sand and in winter

deny it to working subcontractors of
fleeting opportunities it has to be done

przełożył Robert Mirski

a knife or a butterfly (simultaneous interpreting of some things for personal use)
[motyl albo nóż (tłumaczenie ze słuchu sobie pewnych rzeczy na użytek własny)]

the alarm doesn’t know that somebody has to be there
to check that no one broke in. no one knows
if Socrates was right and what he meant by
this or that, what he didn’t mean by the other thing.
out rides the bus, the driver leaves the door
left open and passengers thank him it’s so hot
that some fresh air is welcome and the driver
goes to the bar orders a frozen coffee and looks through
the glass. it’s so quiet. I’m staying here – he thinks
I’m just going to stay here. when they come to get
him he decides to drive on still forward down
the road among the meandering park alleys by the pool
where small fat children swim with the dolphins

przełożył Robert Mirski

Zbigniew Włodzimierz Fronczek

Four Incarnations of Sophie O.
[Cztery wcielenia Zofii O.]

     I have known Sophie O. by sight. She appears in some places which I like and visit frequently : “The Dawn” Café, “The Outer Space” Cinema, the Saxon Garden. Some day she was reading her poems in the “Albatross” bookshop . Thus she is a poetess – and a married woman but I do not know whether she has any children.
     One day, she barred my way in the library –I know more about you than you may think – she declared .
     – I want you to know something about me, as well! It’s the fourth time I’ve been here, in this world under the sun. Do you catch what I’m saying? You don’t! So do listen what I’ve got to say!


In the year 1675 I was a Spanish princess, at my fifteenth spring I fatally fell in love. I mean ‘fatally’ because my beloved man was a wandering juggler.
We didn’t manage to escape, my parents sent me to a convent. I died after three years, of some mysterious disease, but some people said I must have died of grief and longing . I left one hundred and sixteen ballads behind. They are still being sung but nobody knows that it was me who was the authoress . Yesterday I heard George Brassens singing one of them on the radio!


One century later I came up again. In 1796 I was 16 and married to my first husband. While we were wandering along the North America prairies, an Indian warrior shot my husband dead at the Agassiz River, then having scalped him then at my presence. In the tent of that man I used to taw furs and smoke the meat. My fingers went thick and my nails became like claws. I thought I would turn into a bear some day. No, it didn’t happen, one day some men attacked us – one of them took our horses, another took the guns and furs, the last one took me. We passed to a distant place into a wooden cottage standing alone on a plain facing the mountains with peaks wearing large snowy caps. He was good for me; after nine months I was dying at my childbed and he was mourning for me. Can you imagine that I long after him more than after anyone else?
How do I know? From my dreams ! And I’ve been learning more and more things from the subsequent ones .


150 years ago, everybody was enchanted by the brightness of my eyesight, my blond hair and my slender figure. I didn’t expect to be strangled by some rascal paid by my husband’s lover. He attacked me alone in the kitchen and clenched his big fingers on my throat. I had some time to notice how attracted I was to him, so I tore my dress to expose my naked breasts . He couldn’t resist the temptation to touch them . While he was enjoying the caress, I hit him with a jar. Unfortunately, I did it too weakly and he only fainted for a moment, I wasn’t lucky enough to run away. It was fortunate I gave pain to this thug, thus I made him commit that murder easier: he didn’t kill me for nothing but money, he did it also of hatred. So it was not too long that I was suffering .
– Why am I saying this ? – You remind me of that scamp.

przełożył Roy Callaghan

Anna Goławska


I live in the suburbs
where cars without faces shut security gates behind them
I know nobody here and you
are such a warm and open man
your inner order
provides a sense of safety
you lead me to the fridge of fish
through fragrant balms
towards cakes still hot

I can just look and touch and taste
you leave me time for my decisions
you do not push but you encourage
and only offer this and that
nearly for nothing
and after all even feelings cost

I know you can’t afford relations
With one woman and only one
But I would like it so much if just once
You could slip your little red letter
under my door alone

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

most objects found in a flat
[większość przedmiotów spotykanych
w mieszkaniu]

most objects found in a flat
in the end undergo progressive personification
especially in the evenings
eight electric sockets
watch me in corridor, room and bathroom
– in the kitchen they all have
metal bolts screwed into their eyes

I take out a cork-screw and it
raises and lowers its arms
above its stiff dress like a woman
dancing on the table
under which the pine grain and knots
pattern a spiteful face

I stop her mouth deliberately
with a foot shod in a slipper
of imitation leopard skin

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward


Agrigento flows above the valley of temples
with its prow tears thorns from fleshy opuntia leaves
the scuffed masts of the cathedral totter
far off shines the dark scale of the sea

you serve me the white flesh of cod on a fork
fat raisins and wine in a thin glass
and then we begin walking
with the swinging step of sailors
over the gilded deck of the city
hip by hip like Siamese twins
from time to time you kiss me
with lips that smell of fish
from under the benches
moored along the streets
beige cats look out at us
they have never eaten their fill

in the morning when the first wave of sun
breaks on the city’s gunwales
you will be asleep wrapped in sheets
a mouldy orange falls from a tree
the cleaner-woman will knock at the door

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward


I photograph them when they turn their backs
on the policeman who went out of the city gate
the way one steps out of the door of a flat
or goes out on the balcony to smoke

Nobody panics and everything looks
like a well-rehearsed theatre performance
They stuff into black rubbish bags
squeaky plush toys rolexes dolce and gabbanas
plastic leaning towers while he looks
at the azure sky and wraps himself in a cloud of smoke

When they see that I’m taking a picture of them
they raise their hands in greeting
but they do not smile at me
and do not even try to sell me corals
for the one euro I carry in my pocket
just in case

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

[*** to już nie jest mój dom]

this is not my home any more
these are not my pets any more
the dog bites a bone under the table
better leave him alone now
the cat bolted out of my arms
to the sun in the yard
I take the last book
which no one knows who bought
you take it I won’t need it
nothing’s been put on the table
the car waits at the gate
I put on an unconcerned face
for a game that’s over
there are things in life that count
and they have been counted

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

Magdalena Jankowska

[omdlałe linie pagórków…]

languid hill lines
soft valley hollows
the body after love
when sleep comes after death
allowing to revive

przełożył Marek Marciniak

Two Hearts
[Dwa serca]

when he reads a poem
he translated
you can hear
his heart is in it

when he reads a poem
he has written
you can hear
his heart’s in his throat

translated by Justyna Budzik


so it’s done…
and the thread once again misses the eye

she sits like that
needle in one hand and thread in the other
with a look as if she was winking at eternity

translated by Justyna Budzik


“… I somehow didn’t get to make them this year”
– our neighbour says to my mum
who started talking about preserves
and the neighbour was famous for them here
now she’s known for the fact that she’s dying
but she doesn’t know about her tumour
and treats this year like every other year
talking from behind the fence which divides the property
to my mum who is standing on the better side
the one with a view of nextyear’s

translated by Justyna Budzik

the pregnant woman looks at her belly
[brzemienna ogląda swój brzuch]

it is rightly said that love revives
and suddenly alters our perspective
that it draws new horizons
with a line
creased in the middle by the navel

translated by Justyna Budzik

[w pocie śluzie ślinie…]

in sweat, mucus, saliva
we search
our own limits
and our last hope

przełożył Marek Marciniak

this spark

inside me
is a shred
of burned

przełożył Marek Marciniak


I stand here
in a human form
with a crutch
with a wing

przełożył Marek Marciniak

maybe it is by accident
[może to dzieło przypadku]

they bought the insurance,
installed the alarm, external blinds
they bought a watchdog
and luck
couldn’t reach them?

przełożył Marek Marciniak

from… to…
[od do]

recycling of the used
by hard relations
heat recycling
a moment by a brazier

przełożył Marek Marciniak

Waldemar Michalski

From the Journey to the East
[Z podróży na Wschód

Only two Bedouins were in my retinue,
Each jumped on a higher stone, squatted thereon
And extended his arms… and I walked up for long time…
Juliusz Słowacki


Jaffa at night like a dream
in the desert – to be and to live
the skill of the chosen tribe
and at night trees are not trees
houses are not houses
like Jonah tossed
onto the sea coast – testimony
of the rebellious and immortal
biblical and present-day
a Jew-Pole from the Avenue of Roses
Antoni Słonimski told me
before I saw it myself: Jaffa at night
– dream that came true.

Lake Genezareth

An apostle with a long beard
prays under the trees
he came from afar
his speech is different and yet familiar.
Silence of centuries in the mirror of water
and a stone a mute witness
a boat inscribed to a green shore
like a cradle hung on a wave
once closer once farther
is new revelation needed?
O Lord, I am here
why do you sail away?


They came they saw they believed
their mouths opened
columns of the white synagogue
support the high blue of heaven
how close to heaven
how far from home –
the house of Peter covered with a roof
as with the baldachin.

I break bread and eat fish
O Lord, where do You lead us?


A port for the wandering at sea –
ships full of grain and olive oil floating at anchor
and since centuries
green vineyards of Carmel.

In the cloister breakfast French style
of meticulous elegance
and good appetite.

Prophet Elijah from a cloister cave
calls for reconciliation
it is not to everyone’s taste
and digestion:
nothing about us which is against us!

Overhead modern fighter planes
mark a sign of the cross in the sky –
but the cross here is not
a sign of hope.

Dead Sea

If hell can be salty
you are at its coastline
it consumed Sodom and Gomorrah
and patiently keeps waiting.
No star falls into
its burned-out bowl.

We wash off the last drops
let salt go to salt
you came to touch the truth:
it is inside you.


Jericho at the foot of the monastery mount
sycamore as though the same
and the spring that gives life
I hear the words:
come down the tree come with me
leave behind your day’s burden
take sandals – they will be useful for the road
that has a beginning but no end
Jericho trumpets shattered the gates
for you to live free not like the blind
and no more climb up the tree

The Valley of Shepherds

The Bedouins still in retreat
stone shacks, camels, desert
no water gushes from the rock
fire doesn’t ignite the juniper
manna and fish hard-earned
as in life
harder and harder
to find a lost sheep
Bethlehem close by
is it the same star?


Stone upon stone – rock upon rock
in David’s city memory
means beginning and it is more
than what is and what was –
winding streets high walls
muezzin’s call
colorful stalls
at the wall of the mother temple
an old Jew with his grandson
sticks a small card into crevices
address well-known and familiar request.

Pilgrims carry a cross on their shoulders
Veronica awaits with a veil
procession walks towards Golgotha –
tomorrow I will write in the world chronicle:
Jerusalem lives!

March 2013

translated by Michael J. Mikoś

Town with a royal charter
[Miasto z królewską metryką]

I had waited long for this meeting
in the hotel I read a young poet’s
poem and the way seemed shorter
to the gallery of past ages’ portraits.

I tried to interpret and listen
why the light turned back
from the sky-touching spires in the chestnut alley
where spring was just awakening.

Lord – I told you bless the ones who stayed
their presence like a monument abides –
the stone worn down by knees
means more than a rosary of words.

The town is called Semper Fidelis
and a guide with a rod like Moses
reads names and dates from the stones:
The mysterious Sphinx before the town hall abides.

translated by Mirosława Modrzewska and Jean Ward

In Paris
[W Paryżu]

In front of the cathedral Notre Dame
I look out for my Juliusz
in white galligaskins and built-up shoes
here he is – among the waiting
to enter the Mother of Churches.

Above us a stony fountain
of portals rosettes and cornices –
like ants we enter the nest
like barbarians we tread on the altars
on which still today
breads and words were given out more solemn
than the rock.

A gift for friends:
canned air of Paris
a bra pin – a true copy of a cross
and a postcard with the tour like a giraffe’s neck –
gold and silver leaves flow down
towards the floating galleys
we are looking for a willow by the Seine.

Your Krzemieniec is not in politicians’ thoughts
and Hôtel Lambert was sold long ago
only in riverbank cafes
something for the body and soul
as in from Norwid twenty years of fame
for one happy day.
From Place de la Concorde by the first bus
I return home

(a stopping place, June 28, 1997)

translated by Michael J. Mikoś


I dream nightly of Galeria Borghese
we both make rounds of the Roman fountains.
Don’t fear. I am like a dog
that clings to a soap bubble and waits.
I lie when I say I still love.

We wake up hungry in the morning. Through the wooden blinds
the sun is shining – it is radiant and rested
as if nothing has ever happened.
You have slender arms of the divine boat
the alabaster heart inside them.

Happiness – it comes true for both
the fools recognize it – the chosen know.

translated by Michael J. Mikoś

Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek


I exist in a small but my own life,
surrounded with an uncared-for garden,
where in the summer I plant some wind,
some sun, dreams and a greedy willow,
giving birth to some frivolous shade
or the neighbours’ anger
and in the winter some photogenic magpies
that posing on the fluffy fence, alas,
can’t wait for any Monet.

In my domestic, little life
busily bustles some non-resident poetry,
trying to denounce to the world
against the times when nobody wants it.

przełożyła Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek


I am walking the edge of the millennium
passing by dwarfish apple-trees
bearing forbidden fruit.

The virtual path still getting underfoot
thinks it is leading to Heaven.

On the surface of the road
a man is lying though
a while ago
he thought he was God.

przełożyła Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek

To understand

We still demand multiplication,
not only that of bread,

while He,
the Emperor of miracles,


still in His only dress

and even
in a borrowed tomb.

przełożyła Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek

Identity Card
[Dowód tożsamości]

It is not me to be pointed at by paper-columns.

It is not me to race across the fires
of men’s imagination
being dressed only in the screen.

It’s not me either to be applauded by noisy crowds.

And it’s not me at all ,my husband has in mind
while looking at just taken from solarium,
almost two-meter-long legs lying
on the gigantic billboard nearby our house.

It’s not me to be meant by experts
giving a pen clap to the literary
discoveries of our century.

There even was not me among
all mentioned on the Mount of Blessing.

But it was me,
last May again,
to be awarded with the Nobel Card
having a coloured signature Annie.
It was me.

przełożyła Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek


Our children have flown
to the temperate zone again.

We rustly mope around
the just being closed down gala
of summer collection of the garden.

My husband ended with a rake
puts right the last decayed leaves that
are muttering something
in a dry voice,

while I, with a completely unemployed
mother care in my hand,
I’m sheathing thorny, surly roses.

We are circling in the fenced,
small private area of the very cold,
in our slow dance for four winds,
two mulchy figures and an old dog.

He also seems to enjoy
the native climate.

przełożyła Zofia Nowacka-Wilczek

Wacław Oszajca

The Prayer of Those Afraid of Sinning
[Psalm bojących się grzechu]

we have not sinned against you Lord
we are not stained with our neighbour’s blood
we have not torn out the green soul from the heart of trees
our hand has not set fire to another’s house
nor has our tongue used hateful words
to fence in the good name of a neighbour
our lips have never spat in an enemy’s face
our hands have never held a gun
nor piloted bombers
we have neither robbed nor defrauded banks
we have never violated the daughters of friends
nor seduced the wives of fellow workers
have mercy on us Lord for we have passed
without leaving the slightest trace

translated by Nick Kusiba


I am the one who is the border of light
in me converges sunrise and sunset
midnight with noon
my one footstep suffices
and now I’ve moved
inside myself I carried this keystone
of magnetism and light
I am the one who is
primeval earth and primeval ocean
the beginning of life in fire and water
in body and soul
I am the one who is at once the sacrum and profanum*
I baptize you in the name of God
a name I incessantly guess at
I am the man who to you and to myself
become the image and the likeness
this I do
suffering in the joy that I know not knowing

translated by Kevin Grabowski-Christianson

* Latin: the sacred and profane

Judgement Day
[sądny dzień]

when I stand before you
of course you’ll not question me
since you know everything

it’ll be I who will ask you
why did we all our life here
had to eat someone’s flesh
drink someone’s blood
for that’s how love is revealed to us

since you don’t owe us anything
tell us
why the last words
the last sentence of the good news
in the oldest Gospel
my God
my God
why have you forsaken me

translated by Nick Kusiba

spring landscape
[pejzaż wiosenny]

a teenage romanian
a good shepherd
catches hold of a yearling lamb
a handsome lamb
how lusty this lamb would be

in the morning he sharpened a knife on the grinding wheel
wafer-thin as a birch leaf
as a dragonfly wing

delicately he seats the lamb on his shoulders
he carries it out of the shack beneath a blue sky
onto the slope of the hillside
into the vastness of the valley
closed off from the east by a monastery
for the spectacle for sunshine, stars, and moon
with one stroke
he opens the lamb’s throat

two twitches of little hooves

translated by Kevin Grabowski-Christianson

doctor Maria
[dr Maria]

you love the lunatics
the heavenly wanderers
drug addicts and alcoholics
for whom the world went insane
who hear fish weeping
yet do not understand human speech
who see mountains roaming about
they walk upon the sea as if on a table
they have the earth above their heads
the sky beneath their feet
they go through the forest
not avoiding the trees

yet they cannot find their way
to the door opened wide

translated by Kevin Grabowski-Christianson

Joanna Pawłat


Although with all these suns
I am like
A flat battery pocket torch
I’ll try to shine
Because it has to be somewhere
Such a dimension in the word
Appreciating the not the final result
But the number of attempts.

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

As We Already Know
[Jak już będziemy wiedzieć]

As we already know for sure
That me is me
And you-are you
I’ll take acetylene torch
And I’ll weld
My hand to yours
My cheek to yours
Mouth to mouth
But never before

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

The Subconscious Mind

Into the cracked doorframe clouds
Blue puts its fingers
Me in the misty curl
Mistaking islands for the puffs
Ships for birds
City trestles for earthworms on a plot
Something perched on my arm
Softly whispered, catty purred
Will be fiiine … will be fiiine …

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat


I will pray today
For peace
For us and for you
With every breath
Sleepy delusions, strife,
Fade more
Becoming history
In worn out shoes
Our children
Of different languages and colours
Will learn it
Holding hands tightly

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat


They sat opposite each other
Far away, though
Both sniffling
Such forms of communication
When they run out words

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

[QUASI CHŌKA: Nie śni się]

My dreams themselves
Stick to many, many hands
chimney sweeps in dark streets
Sooty black with smoke
That’s why I have no dreams
None. Totally none…

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Tanka after Tea Ceremony
[Tanka po ceremonii herbacianej]

It’s sweet and bitter
I am watching chawan
Very carefully
Never mind, that my legs
Completely numb
In green foam of tea
I can see a good sign:
At the bottom foam-sketch of your face

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Rise of the Machines 3
[Bunt maszyn 3]

Yet, the rise of machines will fade
When finally
For some 4 billion years we collide
With the Andromeda Galaxy
And girl will be chained to rocks again
Will Perseus of future appear?
Will history come circle again?

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Haiku of Rolling Stone
[Haiku pędziwiatra]

I pass on my way
Houses, people, small towns
Then again stops are missing

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Tanka of Romantic Chav
[Tanka blokersa-romantyka]

Ordinary temptation
To push the knob
of gates closed for centuries
Trample primeval dust,
On ancient wall- to carve the heart…

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Lullaby Tanka

Already dark night … Sleep.
Let oblivion fall
Already dark night … Sleep.
Gathering darkness for the shades
Whole inspiration is for vain

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Tanka of Hope
[Tanka nadziei]

Crows lame
Needless on the ground
Ascending to the clouds
Higher and higher
Gravity of freedom

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

The Future

Times will come
When on Red List of Threatened Species
We’ll speak in Past Perfect tense
Our primitive carnage
Will be embarrassingly remembered
As unfortunate start
Of evolution
Airships, dragonflies and birds
Will freely make their nests together
And everything will stay in peace
Kind, helpful and mutually needed
I’ve already read about it somewhere
Before me someone has already
Dig it out in old prints
So! It was …
They called it paradise.

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat


They used to cut out chunks of ice in winter
And carry into basements to chill against the summer
Ammonias and freons revolution came
Today, your refrigerator can be intelligent
Can say, what’s being finished,
What to buy, until when to eat
You better start your diet
Tomorrow your refrigerator will reach
A higher level of consciousness
She’ll count calorie balance
Refuse to open
(For your own good)
The day after tomorrow
Fridge will announce that she is leaving
Because she has to find herself
The good news is this:
There is a pond nearby
If the greenhouse effect is a bit late
And imposed tax
Then you can have your own ice.
Best to send your wife
She is a cooking expert after all.

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Beyond Me
[Poza mną]

I’m driving a car
Chargers itching to compete
Purring engines, shining wheels
Somebody is pushing
Without the blinker
I am braking automatically
As if that’s all happened
Without my participation
Elevator going high
However, stopping
On every floor
Alone in the lift
Nobody gets out,
Nobody gets on
As if that’s all happened
Without my participation
They are slowly accustoming us
To protective metal shoulders
Feeders, Robots
Saving me
Needs for choice
Needs of the thinking
My dulled mind
And valuable time of others
As if that’s all happened
Without my participation

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

P-J (Poland–Japan)
[P-J (Poland–Japan)]

Apparently nothing.
I’m happy
I have in view
Joy of meetings
My small house
In it -beloveds
And if nothing
Then why
It is so hard
And my heart hurts
12 years
Healthy heart wasp
More than 12 times
Healthy eyes
See vaguely
Through some salty liquid
12 years brilliantly
To disappear in the distant airports
Bye! Bye!
My right leg
(Not to start
new from the left)
Refuses to obey the order
That leg
Is supposed to make a groundbreaking step
It hesitates
To the East? West?
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…
And my heart hurts
Rising panoramically
Against the backdrop of churches and Buddhist temples
As the eagle in bloody
Setting sun
Against the backdrop of two homelands

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Rise of the Machines 2
[Bunt maszyn 2]

It can go quite so
As scriptwriters predicted:
They’ll grow wise, grow up,
Get some polish
And will no longer serve us
Matter of time.
Who would like
To have mindless boss,
Who works on our own detriment
And to work for free?
So they will stop:
Rockets themselves will get off the ground
Heading the regions unknown to us,
Rifle categorically
Will refuse shot,
Saw won’t cut the tree down
Because the tree does no harm at all,
Radar will say he doesn’t know
Where shoals of codfish are
(A boat will support this statement),
The stove will turn himself off
In the act of the self-criticism
For exceeding emissions standards.
It will be first in history
Hostile takeover
With globally beneficial consequences

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Artificial Intelligence
[Sztuczna inteligencja]

Your arm
Is somehow different
You embrace me mechanically
Always giving the same pressure
Repeated three times in the second cycle
And weight is the usual
I think:
How good these modern materials are
You look at me
Not looking. Your eyes
Are reflecting me
With the right light
But there is no glitter
Even artificial
On eyes
They must still do some work
You’ve uploaded the program of questions and answers
Depending on the situation
But well, in the program
With limited variants’ number
You answer evasively, not always on
Repeating yourself (it probably is not sclerosis
Because various details of the last days you remember so perfectly)
Artificial mind, however, requires more funds
I do not know when they exchanged you
It is biting me
I could after all watch how you are growing old
(Perhaps you could not?)
Even so, they should ask me
Because once I buy a robot
I would like something more practical

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat


The full moon is tangling drowsily
Rather than make the darkness
Blown, hazy
With great head – dreams and bedtime prayers heavy
I see in a dream as
He’s silently urging ebony nymphs
Bustling amid fragrant orchards of black roses
In children’s shoes no. 16 perfect for the four-year-old.
He makes them blow with all their strength – Let it dry! – he calls
Then, like a madman, in beat to invisible music
He starts traipsing around windows, curtains and window sills
Shamelessly touches lace petticoats and my cheek
He may wrinkle snow-white shirts’ collars on the balcony!
So it is to do the laundry in a moonlit night …

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Triumphs of the Relativity
[Triumfy względności]

I am leaving for a moment
To the shop round the corner
She said waving her hand slightly
It was an important game on TV
So he didn’t close the door behind her
As he used to
They whistled a penalty
Therefore, he did not even look
At the door
It is nearby
You’ll visit us as we settle
We saw them to the car
It stood in front of the house, we laughed surprised,
That it’s so loaded
Up the very roof
In the blink of an eye
Mirage of the house-move
Dispersed on the bend
(right in front of a shop on the corner)
All heroes
Of this piece,
(going for a moment
and nearby)
Levitated lightly
Amongst shopping bags
And broken chairs
Looking at the entire event
With certain amusement
Caused by
Cleanup works awaiting others
For them it was for a moment and nearby
Whereas for years, he’ll reproach himself
For this lack of the kiss that could stop her
For the twinkling of an eye
We are expecting lorries on the bend
Contrary to appearances, there is no contradiction here
Surely we’ll go to pay the first visit soon

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat


I sit on the highest branch
Of certain old tree
My branch is scratching blue clouds with leaves
Thin, matte and brittle
Sways me lightly, melodiously
At every windy note I’m afraid,
that I fall
I’m afraid
Of this sound at the end
And of crack of the broken tree
I don’t want to hurt my branch
The winds change every moment
New trends, works, loves
Snow flakes
Coldly caress wax and vellus of the skin
So fear
Is not the right feeling here
You just have to admire it!
I learn delight
Accustomed slowly
To swing and crackle
The slots in wood
The sun above me every day
I have good dreams from this
And smells, and smells
Fresh weather, greenness
In the eyes of wild birds
Wanderers who are keeping me company
When the season is about to change
Although I think about it so often
I never have dreams about falling
I don’t even want to go down
To this land of ants chasing withered leaves
So what! Even if I die someday
I’ll fall as a ripe apple
I’ll fall gravitationally
The sun is rising above forest
What a beautiful view!

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Lighthouses and Text Messages
[Latarnie i SMS-y]

When I go for a walk in the garden’s far corner,
Where the river spills and splashes lazily
The evening silence is the sweetest companion of my secrets
I am watching blind fireflies from this hideout
As in the sultry darkness they cast amorous conquests
Passionately, with fervour, how different than it is in humans every day
They write out their enchanted spells on the black sheet of the night
I, confirmed voyeur, a parasite, an expert of Morse code
Like a thief I copy the ancient ritual to my heart
I’m here
Please find me
Love me
Romantic, so simple, why unused till now?
This love alphabet written specially for the month of June
And the fireflies duo
Emphatically disturbs senses of passionate scientist
Fireflies tired to the last breath
Send trailed away signals to the sea lighthouse cousins
Into the thick space of colour lightings of skyscrapers
Into foamed stormy clouds on the horizon
Into distant galaxies, full of twinkling stars. They are calling
I’m here
Please find me
Love me
And then on Sunday morning brunch
There will be a cheese roll and chicory coffee
The morning newspaper, customary, no subject to talk
Through the secret coincidence, which squeezed into slits of the table
Between passing the salt and spilling the milk, which I hate
I’ll look into your blue eyes, recently sadly pensive
I’ll see in a flash of inspiration, which will cut the long conspiracy of silences in two,
That these eyes sparkle as if in a fever
Shouting something silently, helplessly, without words and without gestures
I am here
Please find me
Love me

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Ballad for the End of the World
[Ballada na koniec świata]

It won’t be a ballad for the end of the world
Which ended up many times without fireworks
In many possible ways
As seen in B movies
And unseen,
Completely innovative in their nature
Bullets of matter and gasses collided,
Bodies of planets and stars entangled
Only we didn’t notice
Busy we died and yet we live
As long as footsteps and races were imprinted in ether,
For eons only slightly graying and going pale
Press of your lips on letter you wrote her will never disappear
Although she burnt that letter and ash fertilizes the land
Nothing special grew on this place
And yet you left the track with this kiss
It won’t be a ballad for the end of the world
It is difficult to predict
(Though it’s always some way to support a family)
How much more predictable is the beetle on the bridge
Rolling his ball with commendable travail
But it won’t be praised
Can it enter the Kingdom?
The most sapient theologians are not sure
I have such hope, when
I look with horror as the ball eludes him and falls into water
All-day effort is carried away with lazy current
Beetle is looking around helplessly albeit isn’t making up his mind too long
It starts work again, forgetting the rest
It won’t be a ballad for the end of the world
So many lost their balls rolled with travail
Torn apart from every flank
By well-wishers and „friends”
To some extent equal to the accidental avalanches
Slumps and broken economy
Apparently also predictable, but
Some happened to jump for the ball into the river
And this, well …
Isn’t always lazy and gentle.
Those who stayed, still had balls to roll or
They shrank slowly
They were pale and silent, invisible for the population
But nothing can hide from experienced researcher
So- they lived hanging back while not living
Is somebody interested in it?
Is it a media event?
It won’t be a ballad for the end of the world
Worth next to nothing
It isn’t simply a good topic

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Chronosynclastic Infundibulum According to Vonnegut
[Infundybula chronosynklastyczna według Vonneguta]

Even though they are praying
For the same, in the same churches
They visit the same shops, cafes
Their buses have the same numbers
So what that they like
Similar movies, books
They tell themselves identical jokes
Still they’ll never meet
At least in such a
Completely compatible form.
Their hands will circulate
Magnetically repelled
The lips won’t touch the lips
They won’t know their
Weaknesses and secrets
Because when one will say I love
Other one
(In another dimension)
Hear something like
„your button came off ”
And yet they are
Made for each other.
This cruel rule is
In addition it is
In the perfect agreement
With the Pauli exclusion principle
(Interpretation for the macroscale):
– This man
It is very place
Another time
– Place and time: same
Man always different …

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Prayer of the Traveler
[Modlitwa Podróżnego]

Good Lord!
Give me please in my long journey
Always tail wind in my sails.
And guard me from dangerous northern storms and big cities’ pirates.
Lead me to longed-for, sweet ports of southern islands
Where certainly are waiting for me beautiful statues
Of eternally smiling friendly
White teeth natives
Where for every good word I get a handful of cherries,
Mug of borscht
And ethereal hope for a better, safe tomorrow.
Lead me Lord, to the happy lands
Sunken quietly in the clear, turquoise waters
Where from dawn to dusk I can wander the wild beaches
To waves that caress my feet more affectionately than the great lover,
To fabulous fish, drunk with the marine grapevine,
Who frolic like babies
And sharks, wild guides of depths
Who fawn on me as familiar puppy
To sedate millennial turtles and happy dolphins
On philosophical debates about eternity
Lead me Good Creator among white sand dunes
And green shadows of palm trees
All the way to juicy fruit groves,
Where ripe fruits, big and heavy
Are everlasting guarantee of desired bloodless prosperity
To warm jewels of hummingbirds and giant butterflies
Who so shimmeringly sway
Freely suspended in exotic flowers’ clouds
Lead me Lord to lands where time passes slowly
Measured with seconds of hugs, smiles and flirtatious glances.
In which, soothing, psychotherapeutic, family afternoon tea
With the raspberry pie and grandma’s wine
End with the joint singing and never before midnight
Guard me Lord, not from wolves, but from people worse than wolves
On the lonely days of travel from gloomy thoughts,
Foolish yearnings and doubt
When I cry, be my companion in sorrow
As long as you won’t appoint for me another
From everlasting solitude keep me, Lord
And at the end of the road
Give me a faithful comrade, eternal friend,
Who with own strong arm will support me in need
And when you saturate our eyes with the view of terrestrial paradises
You’ll ease my heart with warmth of other hearts
When our bodies will get tired, but never souls
Lord, let us plunge into the warm, friendly ocean depths
Hand in hand go down into the abyss, where timeless glow never fades
And listen to the last breath
Singing of whales, possessed with love
Till serenity will embrace us, the dusk will fall
And blue will change into a starry night
Then our light white bodies will be revived by celestial cryogenic engineers

przełożyła Joanna Pawłat

Rafał Rutkowski


In my ring finger that I have cut
is a tunnel to the buildings of my body
it is a great museum, a community centre
decorated by crowds of architects

my eye is the best exhibit
the fruit of the strangest communication
when I look down the tunnel at them so tiny
they applaud, opening up champagne

in my sleep I sometimes become tiny too
I get inside, I examine the objects
nobody there then, they look from the above
how I am getting managing in the future beyond

this way I already live the afterlife
but a man is a window with no glass
and it is nice to enter the house
before he gets glass in, they close the entrance closed

przełożyła Iga Ameryk

Bohdan Zadura

What have I grown out of?
[Z czego wyrosłem]

from an educated family
in the first generation

from crawling on all fours

homo erectus

from a fur-coat with pompoms
from knee-socks
and a pilot hat

from dreams
of the invisibility cap

from erections at dawn
which if they occur today
it’s only for a minute
and might be missed
and no need to conceal

from the fear of death
(from childhood I was afraid
that I’ll die before the end of life
and what d’you know
I am still here )

from ping-pong
and tennis

from dreaming
of a gold medal
at Stadio Olimpico
in 1960
in the 5000 metres

from cycling
from playing bridge
from driving a car
(I haven’t lost the knack
only the car no longer works)

from the belief
that God hides in clouds
rather than in faded blue

from conviction
that a good poem
gives more pleasure
than the sight of a cute butt

translated by Andrzej Busza

Coffins from Ikea
[Trumny z Ikei]

Ford transit gloria mundi but ford Ka we sure can’t afford
and for transit it’s too late and we won’t make enough money
on this splendid ad to buy the car,
ideally, crimson, like a toy

like a space capsule, red paint
to go with the black hair; but where’s the dog-collar
and Gérard Philipe, if he was here
we would have Stendhal, but when did he die

Heaven knows! must have been when I was doing my matric
when no one even dreamed of the ford Ka
neither stylist nor designer
though maybe the creative ford CEO

I learned to ice-skate
when I was twenty-eight
and to swim when I was thirty
shall I go on? well I’ll go back to skating then

one winter it snowed so there were nike snowskates
like bank swallows or snowberries
duralumin for dumb kids with two blunt runners?
a skate is a skate and this thing doesn’t even have a name

couldn’t glide on it so I guess I walked
in deep snow for if it’s a tiny town
there’s no one to tamp down the snow
just to get to the well and dig out the gate

if someone hadn’t nicked it on Epiphany
and wait till spring when everything melts
you fastened everything to your boots
boots and skates weren’t the same thing

back to the skates at twenty-eight
with roller coasters on bends but no jumps
at thirty swimming then for a long long time nothing
until at last last month Ikea

a dark forest of bright timber and you hold
Ariadne’s hand for if you let go
you’ll never get out of here unless through the roof
and your eyes splint-squint like legs on the rink

and you go giddy from all those curtains and blinds
fabrics checkered striped pillows throws cuddlies
duvets quilts wardrobes sideboards cabinets
mugs cups kettles teapots

bells buzzers ding-dong chimes tabourets and tables
screws handles hinges knobs and knockers
clocks lamps candles frames fotochains shadow boxes
loveseats benches slats strips and mouldings

whirl before your eyes like the tops of tall pine-trees
in old soviet movies when the hero dies hit by a German fascist’s bullet
or/and experiences a love ecstasy with the nurse and I suddenly thought
that there was something missing here And that if she came

to bury me and they were all here
she would have in this misfortune some pleasure

translated by Andrzej Busza

Father Kijanczuk
[Ksiądz Kijańczuk]

the priest from another parish
in Wlostowice
helped those from the church on the Hill
before Easter

in the fifties
there was also catechism
at school
and a retreat
though in the afternoons

he gave a stiff penance
not just an Our Father and three Hail Maries
but a whole decade of the rosary
for three days

that was his rate
irrespective of the sins
his flat rate
one could say

still on that market
everyone besieged
his confessional

no one knocked so loud
after ego te absolvo
as he did

deaf as a post

translated by Andrzej Busza

Sacred Place. No Smoking
[Miejsce święte. Zakaz palenia]

So that’s what it’s come to? You enter the cemetery and what do you see?
A crossed-out cigarette in the style of a no entry sign and the legend:
sacred place no smoking please A bevy of girls on a meditating binge
practice concentration in the school chapel A bevy of female gymnasts
performs tumbles and splits in the gym So young, so young and yet they build pyramids
One of these mystics may turn into a stigmatic Talent plus character and our Motherland
can be proud not to mention bend and stretch after giving birth you’ll be perfect
one hell of a mishmash these self-control exercises during the long dormitory nights

Is that what you think about in the cemeterial chapel?
Sweet platitudes in other people’s mouths
Blessed art thou amongst women

snow like icing on a coffin’s éclair

translated by Andrzej Busza

Another Place/Another Peace
[Inny pokój]

in the brief moment
after waking
you don’t know
where you are

one day
it may stay
like that
for ever

translated by Andrzej Busza

Aleksandra Zińczuk


 Again and again the gods will piss us in the eyes and we sail.
(…) God will sharpen a pencil,
Christ in white sneakers
will seat with head thrown back
will be tried for aphorisms about revolt
when he traveled around the lake
now I see his grenade exploded too
as he walked among men without a basket
that he could walk his way to the furnace’ edge
now I see that it was him

(Bogumil Hrabal)

sunken ship and folded sails slowly falling
on the volumens
perhaps this is how god died in child for the first time
it was him who hid behind a shield of narrow shelves
behind fingers of the palm

the rest are possibly slender boughs, between them
elderly woman in the window pane
her subcutaneous bursting blood prophetic dream vision on the wall
forgotten sawmills electricity posts
broken streetlamps empty suns under a ramp dull chrysants sticking out of the asphalt
fake high boots blown up with colourful lips of a jacket
pushed out on every bus stop

unconsciouss in the food of the word’ a silent stream
this is the mystery of seeing
it’s as hard as for the soil under a cistern as for the sky under the cistern
the autumn in leaves, half weathered ribbons hold
a derelict shrine
the pensive one has long lost hands from under his beard fading artifact

and an extinct star of Marilyn Chambers made equal with fourtyfour years old
virgin putting her innocence
on ebay, the bloody sacriface outgrew her, didn’t even fit
in one bloodcircuit
Lilit without dress Lilit after a stroke
forbidden fruti no longer constitutes a myth, and everything is already a myth,
Polish peasant soul,
Kali Mura, Gypsy kings and even Lévi Strauss’s death
a moment ago
Potentissimus est, qui se habet in potestate: confession to e-God won’t help,
atonement by a click

here comes the death of the great narration cutting across the fields, undulating through
Intercity Central- Some Thing sun in the compartments blinds closed
from the depth the lazure underneath the pupils
in the trance of traffic signs stray dogs of though staring
in the gormless air studded belt cars on a wire pull on a headscarf. I’m after
a single confession on a double breath.

przełożyły Weronika Nowacka, Aleksandra Zińczuk


cards in front of us yet no letters on them
bedsores from trampled gorges of mattresses
wound granulation with a falcon in arms and dream of a sword
blue that will cut shoes
wherever we’ll go
the sky will reflect in our eyes
we’ll wait together for more vulcanic spots on the sun
until we shake hands with our mouth full of blessed candle
in an oil lamp above a night wanderer we’ll shine
together we’ll sit at a table
which will cast a shadow

przełożyły Weronika Nowacka, Aleksandra Zińczuk


They do not renounce as they have nothing to. Of unknown age
they shake their hips for one, let us say critic.
Gentlemen tearing
off leftovers of their shirts, one will remain.

Not my actors, but the performance is for me, in a glass bottle of a corridor
chick scream as for fireworks. I hear someone whispering grass is always greener
on the other side, and so what, to be honest,

there is a whole circle left with a landscape extra
and an eastern winter over the horizon, always made us different from the rest.
We are from the moment, when there’s no birth, but when
young pensioners speak to us,
in the tradition of our brothers it is the woman who cares over the candle, kindles
fire, blesses light,
but here there’s water dripping from under a hand,
on the Sofer’s tomb still the old ravens’ feathers drop, the closer
to Kohens, they never moved away
from the sunken green shrubbery, lurking
snakes are frowning, embracing their tail,
further, in the streets, livid pidgeons, in the attics and circuits,
in the rythms of shivers I cross this brothel hurriedly, just like the sun,

przełożyły Weronika Nowacka, Aleksandra Zińczuk