new poems
Page 7
or maybe there’s still time
to fill the hole with the kama sutra
Adolf Hitler and the brahmaputra
Stalin and bill clinton’s finger
all the stops
must be pulled out!
so she knuckles down and buckles down
writing like no other no other
throws it all into the sack
cloning and genes and infestations
wives’ and mothers’ obligations
and the intern’s vestmentations
a great big bang
tummy upset
porno on the internet
c-section and a quadruplet
she writes like no other
writes like no other
all asweat . . .
Mutter fleht: Sandra
bitte stell Dich! . . . and my
mama fukuyama . . . doesn’t
get a Thing . . .
exit
. . .
white isn’t sad
or happy
just white
I keep
telling it
it’s white
but white doesn’t listen
it’s blind
deaf
it’s perfect
and oh so slowly
it becomes
whiter
philosopher’s stone
this poem
should be put to sleep
before it starts
to philosophize
before it starts
to cast about
for compliments
summoned to life
in a forgetful moment
attuned to words
to glances
it seeks deliverance
from the philosopher’s
stone
passerby walk on
don’t lift the stone
under it a tiny white poem
naked
is turning
to ash
[2002–2003]
words
words have been used up
chewed up like gum
by lovely young mouths
have been turned into white
balloons bubbles
diminished by politicians
they’re used for whitening
teeth
and for the rinsing out
of mouths
in my childhood
words could be
applied to a wound
could be given
to the one you loved
now
diminished
wrapped in newspaper
they still contaminate still reek
they still hurt
hidden in heads
hidden in hearts
hidden under the gowns
of young women
hidden in holy books
they burst out
they kill
[2004]
landslide
we’ve been struck by a landslide
of rocks stones pebbles
you could say that the poets
have stoned poetry to death
with words
only the stuttering
Demosthenes made good
use of pebbles
turning them
in his mouth
till he bled
he became one of the greatest
orators
in the world
PS
I too stumbled on a stone
at the very start of my journey
my old Guardian Angel
the avalanche of angels
brought about
by inspired poets
artists priests
and American
movie directors
is infinitely more foolish
than the one brought about
by Romantic poets
the products
of the dream factory
–the “holy wood”–
are sugary white
like the cotton candy
young children
adore
my Guardian Angel who
is 83 years old
and remembers all
my misdeeds
flew to me in consternation
and told me he was
being pestered
by salesmen
pedophiles sodomites
from commercial public
and religious TV
to endorse “angel’s milk” custard
with little wings
dance hip-hop with seniors
and sell
sanitary napkins with wings
and without
they gave him
a gold watch with no time
a depilator a vibrator
a cell phone a garden gnome a paid
trip to Babylon
another empty vessel
offered him
the post of Angel of Europe
and guardian angel of the euro
my good old Guardian Angel
hid his face in his wing
and wept
“don’t cry” I said–
O heavenly angel guardian mine
Stand beside me all the
time! Morning noon and in the night
always keep me in your sight
from all evil keep me far
at this point my Guardian Devil
flew up on the
black wings
sprouting from his heels
my Guardian Angel and my Guardian Devil
began to fight
for my little soul
golden thoughts against a black background
since awakening
I’ve been having black thoughts
black thoughts?
try perhaps to describe
their form their substance
how do you know they’re black
maybe they’re square
or red
or golden
that’s it!
golden thoughts
golden flakes in a dead sea
of tired language
those from Gogol for instance
“nothing reassures
like history”
or
“humor is no laughing matter”
and one other thought
that should be contemplated
by young people
and those “in the prime of life”
“it would be a poor world
without old people”
PS
there’d be no one to give your
seat to in the streetcar
and what use is life
without good deeds
à la Wyspiański
in dreams I see a crowd
moving toward me
in dreams
I see ever more people
talking shouting
while in life nothing
rouses me any more
in dreams they speak to me
the dead the living
word after word
falls apart
flowers push in
through empty eyes
earth pushes in
through sockets
I brush off stars with my eyelids
I hear the heart of the bell
crack
I hear Wawel rocking to and fro
putting the nation to sleep
such is the master
he wakes
looks about
something should remain
of the things of this world
but what?
the angels have departed
Tipsy
on sleep on wine
sated with gall
and vinegar
the old poet
strives to remember
which of the things of this world
were suppo
sed to remain
poetry and love
or maybe poetry and goodness
he chews the words toothlessly
goodness I think it was goodness
and beauty?
or perhaps compassion?
he steps back
to better see Warsaw
The other one was beautiful and evil
her “sister” ugly and good
such is the master
playing while he spurns
obscuring so as to explain
he closes his eyes sees two
nailed feet
they fly from the planet
fairy tale
my legs were numb
I woke
from a long
uncomfortable
sleep
into a pure world
into a light
newly born
into Bethlehem or perhaps
another “lowly” town
where no one murdered
children
or cats
or Jews or Palestinians
or water or trees
or air
there was no past
and no future
I held hands
with mommy and daddy
in other words God
and I felt so good
it was as if
I didn’t exist
[Christmas 2002]
. . .
Dostoevsky said
if he had to choose
between Jesus and the truth
he would choose Jesus
I’m beginning to understand
Dostoevsky
the birth life death
resurrection of Jesus
are a huge scandal
in the universe
without Jesus
our little planet
is devoid of consequence
this Man
son of God
if he died
rises again
each day at dawn
in anyone
who emulates him
[2003–2004]
finger to the lips
the mouth of truth
is closed
a finger to the lips
tells us
the time has come
for silence
no one will answer
the question
about what truth is
the one who knew
the one who was truth
is gone
the last conversation
instead of answering
my question
you put a finger to your lips
said Jerzy
does it mean
that you won’t
that you can’t answer
it’s my reply
to your question
“what meaning does life possess
if I have to die?”
placing a finger on my lips
I answered you in my thoughts
“life possesses meaning only because
we have to die”
eternal life
life without end
is existence without meaning
light without shadow
echo without sound
. . .
ever since the “little”
pope
smiled at me
the world has been a tad better
lord! What was his name
Luciano
or Luciani
that’s it
Albino Luciani
He was like a child
he asked
what had happened
at the Ambrosiano
bank
when that little pope
smiled at the world
the “grown-ups”
took offense
Children would ask him
if they could call
God
mommy and daddy
he answered
yes
yes you can
God may contain
more of the Mother than the Father
(at which Cardinal B. made a face)
Naive as a child
though wise as an owl
he sought to know
the mysteries of banks and accounts
and money laundering
he died of a heart attack
they took some papers from his hands
and gave him a book on Emulating
Jesus
he emulated him well
he tried to drive the merchants from the temple
he left behind some worn slippers
eyeglasses and a smile
that illuminates
our depths
[2001–2002]
heart in mouth
in 1945
in October
I left the resistance
I began to breathe
word by word
I regained speech
it seemed to me
“Everything”
was working out
not only in my mind
but in the world
at home in Poland
along with Przyboś I sought
a place on earth
along with Staff I began
the rebuilding
with the smoke from the hearth
along with Professor Kotarbiński
I voted three times yes
I took a seminar
with Professor Ingarden
introduction to the theory of cognition
Hume helped me
to organize my ideas
the referendum was rigged
the rebuilding of the temple
proceeded in accordance with
the plan and the dream
God left me alone
do what you like you’re a grown-up
he said
don’t hold my hand
don’t turn to me
with every little thing
I have two billion people to worry about
in a moment it’ll be ten billion
I helped you in 1935
with those algebra problems
said God
from a burning bush
that turned to ash
the 21st century was sneaking up like a thief
my mind
scattered to the four corners of the earth
on the wall I saw
an inscription Mene Tekel Peres
in Babylon a knife at humanity’s throat
poor Stachura the poet
near the unclean channel
of the Vistula
a herd of sows and boars were grazing
alongside Apollo’s children
to this cafeteria
there came from a far country
Janko the musician a lad possessed by poetry
he cast pearls before swine
sang played on a golden comb
till he heard voices
and went mad
he was like a butterfly
in a spider web
I talked with him
just one time
at a writers’ retreat
he stood in the door
of my room
and asked for a sheet
of paper
I told him I had
only squared
recycled paper
he gave a polite smile
thanked me
and left
with three sheets
sometimes I think he meant
something else
that he meant his and my
and our life
[September 2003]
labyrinths
the leśmianek emerged from the fetal waters
and was entranced by the world
through the hollowing out of the afterworld
through excess and inattention