she nodded for me to bend over her
—here’s two hundred zlotys
add the remainder
and have them say a Gregorian mass
she didn’t want
grapes
she didn’t want
morphine
she didn’t want
to gladden the poor
she wanted a mass
so she got one
we kneel in the heat
in a numbered pew
my brother wipes his brow with a hankie
my sister fans herself with a prayer book
I repeat
as we forgive those
I forget how it goes
and start over again
the priest
walks the path
of seven lit lilies
the organ wails
seems it’ll open
and air will flow
but no
everything is shut
wax runs down
a candle’s stem
I am thinking
what do they do with the wax
do they use it for new candles
or throw it away
maybe
the priest
will do for us
what we cannot do
maybe he will rise up just a bit
a bell rings
and
with black torso
and silver wings
he climbs
up the first two rungs
and slides back down
like a fly
we kneel in the heat
in a numbered pew
bound to the earth
by a thread of sweat
it is over at last
we leave hastily
and right outside
follows a lofty act
of deep breathing
DRAWER
O my seven-stringed board
in you I dried and pressed my tears
my rebel’s frozen fist and paper
on which one cold night I wrote down
my youthful comic testament
and now it’s empty and cleaned out
I’ve sold the tears and the bunch of fists
in the market place they fetched a price
a little fame a penny or two
and now nothing scares off sleep
now not for me the lice and concrete
O drawer o lyre I have lost
and still so much that I could play
with fingers drumming your empty floor
and how good was a desperate heart
and how difficult to part
from nourishing pain which had no hope
I knock on you open forgive me
I could be silent no more I had
to sell the mark of my discontent
such is freedom one has afresh
to invent and to abolish gods
when Caesar wrestles with song at last
and now an empty seashell hums
about the seas which lapsed into sand
the storm congealed to a crystal of salt
before the drawer receives the body
such is my unwieldy prayer
to four boards of consciousness
OUR FEAR
Our fear
does not wear a night shirt
does not have owl’s eyes
does not lift a casket lid
does not extinguish a candle
does not have a dead man’s face either
our fear
is a scrap of paper
found in a pocket
“warn Wójcik
the place on Dluga Street is hot”
our fear
does not rise on the wings of the tempest
does not sit on a church tower
it is down-to-earth
it has the shape
of a bundle made in haste
with warm clothing
provisions
and arms
our fear
does not have the face of a dead man
the dead are gentle to us
we carry them on our shoulders
sleep under the same blanket
dose their eyes
adjust their lips
pick a dry spot
and bury them
not too deep
not too shallow
THE END OF A DYNASTY
The whole royal family was living in one room at that time. Outside the windows was a wall, and under the wall, a dump. There, rats used to bite cats to death. This was not seen. The windows had been painted over with lime.
When the executioners came, they found an everyday scene.
His Majesty was improving the regulations of the Holy Trinity regiment, the occultist Philippe was trying to soothe the Queen’s nerves by suggestion, the Crown Prince, rolled into a ball, was sleeping in an armchair, and the Grand (and skinny) Duchesses were singing pious songs and mending linen.
As for the valet, he stood against a partition and tried to imitate the tapestry.
THEY SIT IN TREES
They just go on sitting on the spreading branches of trees. They move listlessly like dying birds. Sometimes only the sun setting ignites the matchless colors of their feathers.
Despite security, peasants shoot at them. Not for game, but to see blood of a different color.
When all those trees have withered together with their inhabitants, they should be delicately broken off near the ground and inserted in the pages of the herbarium called an armorial.
FROM MYTHOLOGY
First there was a god of night and tempest, a black idol without eyes, before whom they leaped, naked and smeared with blood. Later on, in the times of the republic, there were many gods with wives, children, creaking beds, and harmlessly exploding thunderbolts. At the end only superstitious neurotics carried in their pockets little statues of salt, representing the god of irony. There was no greater god at that time.
Then came the barbarians. They too valued highly the little god of irony. They would crush it under their heels and add it to their dishes.
JUST AUTUMN
This autumn the trees have peace at last. They stand amid the solid, slightly contemptuous greenery, without a shade of yellow, without a grain of red in their leaves. The grass is thick, deeply rooted in the earth’s skin, and it in no way reminds one of the fur of aging animals. Uncut roses revolve their warm planets around unmoving insects thin as moons.
Only the monuments feel this autumn is the more tragic for being the last. Decaying pedestals display the transience of the builders of empire. Angels’ wings and admirals’ crests are falling. The philosopher’s cracked forehead reveals a terrifying void with burst blood vessels. Where the prophet’s pointer finger used to be there now floats a little spider hooked to the Indian summer.
Gray-maned lovers walk under the eternal trees, along a path strewn with the brittle fingers of gods and emperors.
JONAH
Now the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah
Jonah son of Amittai
running away from a dangerous mission
boarded a ship sailing
from Joppa to Tarshish
the well-known things happened
great wind tempest
the crew casts Jonah forth into the deep
the sea ceases from her raging
the foreseen fish comes swimming up
three days and three nights
Jonah prays in the fish’s belly
which vomits him out at last
on dry land
the modern Jonah
goes down like a stone
if he comes across a whale
he hasn’t time even to gasp
saved
he behaves more cleverly
than his biblical colleague
the second time he does not take on
a dangerous mission
and far from the sea
far from Nineveh
under an assumed name
deals in cattle and antiques
agents of Leviathan
can be bought
they have no sense of fate
they are the functionaries of chance
in a neat hospital
Jonah dies of cancer
himself not knowing very well
who he really was
the parable
applied to his head
expires
and the balm of the legend
does not take to his flesh
THE RETURN OF THE PROCONSUL
I’ve decided to return to the emperor’s court
once more I shall see if it’s possible to live there
I could stay here in this remote province
under the full sweet leaves of the sycamore
and the gentle rule of sickly nepotists
when I return I don’t intend to commend myself
I shall applaud in measured portions
smile in ounces frown discreetly
for that they will not give me a golden chain
this iron one will suffice
I’ve decided to return tomorrow or the day after
I cannot live among vineyards nothing here is mine
trees have no roots houses no foundations the rain is glassy flowers smell of wax
a dry cloud rattles against the empty sky
so I shall return tomorrow or the day after in any case I shall return
I must come to terms with my face again
with my lower lip so it knows how to curb its scorn
with my eyes so they remain ideally empty
and with that miserable chin the hare of my face
which trembles when the chief of guards walks in
of one thing I am sure I will not drink wine with him
when he brings his goblet nearer I will lower my eyes
and pretend I’m picking bits of food from between my teeth
besides the emperor likes courage of convictions
to a certain extent to a certain reasonable extent
he is after all a man like everyone else
and already tired by all those tricks with poison
he cannot drink his fill incessant chess
this left cup is for Drusus from the right one pretend to sip
then drink only water never lose sight of Tacitus
go out into the garden and come back when they’ve taken away the corpse
I’ve decided to return to the emperor’s court
yes I hope that things will work out somehow
ELEGY OF FORTINBRAS
To C.M.
Now that we’re alone we can talk prince man to man
though you lie on the stairs and see no more than a dead ant
nothing but black sun with broken rays
I could never think of your hands without smiling
and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests
they are as defenseless as before The end is exactly this
The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart
and the knight’s feet in soft slippers
You will have a soldier’s funeral without having been a soldier
the only ritual I am acquainted with a little
There will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts
crepe dragged on the pavement helmets boots artillery horses drums drums I know nothing exquisite
those will be my manoeuvres before I start to rule
one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit
Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life
you believed in crystal notions not in human clay
always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras
wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit
you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe
Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to
and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me
you chose the easier part an elegant thrust
but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching
with a cold apple in one’s hand on a narrow chair
with a view of the ant-hill and the clock’s dial
Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project
and a decree on prostitutes and beggars
I must also elaborate a better system of prisons
since as you justly said Denmark is a prison
I go to my affairs This night is born
a star named Hamlet We shall never meet
what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy
It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on archipelagos and that water these words what can they do what can they do prince
NAKED TOWN
On the plain that town flat like an iron sheet
with the mutilated hand of its cathedral a pointing claw
with pavements the color of intestines houses stripped of their skin
the town beneath a yellow wave of sun
a chalky wave of moon
o town what a town tell me what’s the name of that town
under what star on what road
about the people: they work at the slaughter-house in an immense building
of raw concrete blocks around them the odor of blood
and the penitential psalm of animals Are there poets there (silent poets)
there are troops a big rattle of barracks on the outskirts
on Sunday beyond the bridge in prickly bushes on cold sand
on rusty grass girls receive soldiers
there are as well some places dedicated to dreams The cinema
with a white wall on which splash the shadows of the absent
little halls where alcohol is poured into glass thin and thick
there are also dogs at last hungry dogs that howl
and in that fashion indicate the borders of the town Amen
so you still ask what’s the name of that town
which deserves biting anger where is that town
on the cords of what winds beneath what column of air
and who lives there people with the same skin as ours
or people with our faces or
REFLECTIONS ON THE PROBLEM OF THE NATION
From the fact we use the same curses
and our incantations of love are alike
they draw much too bold conclusions
nor should any shared school syllabus
become a premise sufficient
for killing
and the same is the case with the land
(willows sandy road wheat field sky plus feathery clouds)
I would like to know in the end
where the indoctrination stops
and the real connection begins
whether as a result of historical experience
we have not suffered psychic damage
and now react to events with shrill righteousness
whether we are still a barbarian tribe
amid artificial lakes and electric forests
to be honest I do not know
I’m only making the claim
that this connection exists
it manifests itself in pallor
and in a sudden reddening
roaring and arms flung up
and I know it may lead to
a hasty hole in the ground
so to end in the form of a will
that it be known:
I rebelled
but I think this bloody knot
should be the very last one
a man freeing himself
should tear loose
FIRST THE DOG
To Laika
So first the faithful dog will go
and after it a pig or ass
through the black grass will beat a track
along it will the first man steal
who with iron hand will smother
on his glass brow a drop of fear
so first the dog honest mongrel
which has never abandoned us
dreaming of earthly lamps and bones
will fall asleep in its whirling kennel
its warm blood boiling drying away
but we behind the dog the second
dog which guides us on a leash
we with the astronauts’ white cane
awkwardly we bump into stars
we see nothing we hear nothing
we beat with our fists on the dark ether
on all the wavelengths is a whining
everything we can carry on board
through the cinders of dark worlds
name of man scent of apple
acorn of sound quarter of color
should all be saved for our return
so we can find the route in an instant
when the blind dog leading us
barks at the earth as at the moon
THE FATHERS OF A STAR
Clocks were running as usual so they waited only
for the avalanche effect and whether it would follow
the curve traced on a sheet of ether
they were calm and certain on the tower of their calculations
amid gentle volcanoes under the guard of lead
they were covered by glass and silence and a sky without secrets
docks were running as usual so the explosion came
with their hats pulled tightly over their brows they walked away
smaller than their clothes the fathers of a star
they thought about a kite from childhood the tense string trembled in their hands
and now everything was separated from them
clocks worked for them they were left only
like an heirloom from father an old silver pulse
in the evening in a house near a forest without animals or ferns
with a concrete path and an electric owl
they will read the tale of Daedalus to their children
the Greek was right he didn’t want the moon or the stars
he was only a bird he remained in the order of nature
and the things he created followed him like animals
like a cloak be wore on his shoulders his wings and his fate
ATTEMPT AT A DESCRIPTION
The Collected Poems Page 11