new poems

by Tadeusz Rozewicz

  to be a sparrow but I was

  told I can’t be

  a sparrow

  I asked why–because you’re

  a rhinoceros and you’ll always be a rhinoceros

  with thick skin and a horn on your nose

  poor eyesight and a small brain

  it seemed unfair to me

  When I got bigger mama and I

  started going out in the enclosure

  nearby there lived a troop

  of apes

  apes are cheerful souls

  they copulate blithely without

  using condoms

  they scratch their backsides delouse themselves eat their

  parasites

  masturbate without being afraid

  they’ll go to hell

  though

  the males are vicious arrogant

  jealous

  the females show their

  colorful backsides not just

  to the males but to the “whole world”

  for which they do not receive large

  fees from the television or

  the playmate channel goodness how

  talkative I’m being

  we’re visited

  in the zoo by a strange

  species of ape

  these apes are wrapped in various

  colored cloths

  and they’re bare

  they have hair only on their heads

  they carry their young in little carts

  they’re always drinking eating laughing

  mama told me

  that they’re close relatives

  of the orang-utans

  they’re called homosapiens

  and a long time ago

  they came down from the tree of knowledge

  and went astray

  In Southern Africa

  these degraded apes organize

  white rhino auctions

  they sell our females

  for fifty thousand pounds

  they organize “safaris”

  they use our horns to make

  powder for their

  impotent males

  Mama told me that their females

  are pregnant for nine months

  Ours are pregnant for seventeen months

  and during this time they don’t smoke

  don’t drink vodka don’t go to discos

  don’t watch horror films on TV

  An old orang-utan told

  me all kinds of terrible

  things

  about those apes and I thought

  how good it is that I’m a rhino

  last night I dreamt

  I was a parrot

  and I was terrified

  embarrassment

  Długa Street

  “długa” meaning long

  longer and longer

  1 Długa Street

  I’ve been invited

  to the book fair

  in Kraków

  Długa Street

  blades of grass between paving stones

  moss on concrete

  frail little flowers

  in the gaps

  between bricks

  my guest room

  is beneath a clock

  in a tower

  overlooking Basztowa Street

  I get mixed up

  count the steps

  I’m thinking about Marta and Maria

  Zosia Krystyna Małgorzata

  Ewa and Renata

  about Hania

  I count the steps I count the years

  148 steps

  that’s no joke

  I breathe deeply

  for the living and the dead

  there’s a kettle in my room

  I’ll make tea or coffee

  invite the ladies from Art History

  I have rolls cheese butter fruit

  books flowers poems beer

  our class never had

  a “reunion”

  it’s high time

  tempus fugit

  the clock strikes twelve

  I’ve been given an honorary doctorate

  by the Jagiellonian University

  why is no one coming

  that’s right Julian is a hundred

  one’s become a grandmother another’s flown away

  the charming dimples

  in Marta’s face have deepened

  where did Professor Feliks Kopera come from

  what’s he doing here

  he came from memory

  but

  how did he get up those winding stairs

  I count the chimes of the clock

  the book fair starts tomorrow

  I’ll sign copies of little soul

  the scattered card index

  gray zone

  and unease

  I sit at a plain booth

  on a rickety chair

  and start to feel embarrassed

  above us there grow

  supermarkets with baskets (!)

  full of books

  baskets with

  bestsellers sanitary towels

  for angels and fairies

  a special on pretzels

  J. K. Rowling

  Paulo Coelho

  Charlotte Link

  and Stephen King

  J. K. Rowling

  J. K. Rowling

  way

  in the back the Dalai Lama

  with his advice

  from the heart

  cannot keep up

  with the lord of the rings

  or with Queen Noor

  or Ms. Nuala O’Faolain

  with Hitler’s manservant

  or with Rowling Sabrina

  Madonna

  someone smiles at me

  I hide my face

  poetry graveyard

  Hoesick’s Poetry Library

  Warsaw 1928

  Kazimiera Alberti Revolt of the Avalanches My Film 2 złotys

  Józef Birkenmajer By Street and Road 5 zł

  Antoni Bogusławski Honor and Fatherland

  Mieczysław Braun Trades Industries

  Leon Choromański The Urn 6 zł

  Wacław Denhoff-Czarnocki The Tramp 4 zł

  Paul Géraldy You and I

  Marja Grossek-Korycka A Lyrical Diary

  Janina Hełm-Pirgo The Multicolored Sonata

  Witold Hulewicz Instrumental Sonatas 4.50 zł

  I. K. Iłłakowicz Weeping Bird The Golden Wreath

  Maria Kasterska 1.50 zł

  Wanda Miłaszewska God’s Year 2 zł

  Maria Pawlikowska Kisses The Fan Dance Card

  Zofja Rościszewska Ribbons 6 zł

  Antoni Słonimski From a Long Journey

  Anatol Stern Race to the Pole

  M. H. Szpyrkówna Poems 4 zł

  Kazimierz Wroczyński Aeroplane

  Emil Zegadłowicz The Juniper House

  Stefan Napierski Letter to a Friend

  “In Częstochowa (or Piotrków), remember, my dead cousin . . .”

  recent poems

  so what if it’s a dream

  I write on water

  from a few phrases

  a few poems

  I build an ark

  to save something

  from the flood

  that takes us by surprise

  wipes us off the face

  of the earth

  when full of joy

  we turn our faces

  to the god of the sun

  and to that God

  who

  “does not play dice”

  we know Nothing

  of cracks in the innards

  of old mother earth

  we raise towers

  of sand

  we build

  on the verge

  of life and death

  our mother the earth

  blue rounded

  swathed in clouds

  replete with the
fertile waters

  of life

  full of volcanic fire

  between two white ice-caps

  green smelling of sap

  flattened

  after menstruations of war

  after orgasms

  of revolution

  she falls asleep and dreams

  of the Garden of Eden

  of the gods on Olympus

  of god in the highest

  she breathes grows beautiful

  gathers strength

  flushes breathes deeply

  rests after the creative work of evolution

  like a mother wolf

  she feeds human cubs

  abandoned by the gods

  neglecting

  her responsibilities

  My ark runs aground by degrees

  on the sandbanks of words dreams

  the gathered crowd

  waits for a white dove

  for fireworks and balloons

  waits in curiosity

  for human survivors

  for animals and trees

  moles and birds of paradise

  But no one nothing

  emerges from the ark

  The drunken builder

  sleeps amid naked bodies

  that stink as they decompose

  My name is Kanagawa

  My name is Tsunami

  laughs the young woman

  she shows tattoos

  on her backside and belly

  prying cameras roam

  over her pubic mound

  filled with algae pearls

  they glide across her labia

  across her mouth

  filled with shells with sand

  The carrion stinks

  providence watches web-eyed

  over us

  colorful bags with carcasses

  of the drowned lie scattered in disarray

  or stacked in containers

  in refrigerators mass graves

  pits cold-rooms

  the waters have not yet fallen but

  tourists are already on the beaches

  beautiful young girls

  sporting tee-shirts with logos

  I have an urge for a Great Tsunami

  perhaps you’d like to have a stormy

  Tsunami with me

  they sell gadgets

  toys teddy bears

  photos of decaying

  corpses remains of animals humans

  children are bought

  children are sold

  into houses of vice

  Tsunami is a colorful media

  spectacle on the surface

  of infinity

  Prying cameras rummage among the cadavers

  lenses penetrating defenseless dead bodies

  reporters and photographers

  carry in their claws

  fragments shreds pieces

  of human flesh watches

  heads arms rings hands

  earrings innards notebooks cell phones

  “everything” gradually

  returns to normal

  Tourists do not give up

  the vacations they have paid for

  it’s good viewing it sets the adrenaline pumping

  there are record ratings

  I write on water

  I write on sand

  from a handful of salvaged words

  from a few simple phrases

  like the prose of carpenters

  from a few naked poems

  I build an ark

  to save something

  from the flood

  that takes us by surprise

  in broad daylight

  or in the middle of the night

  and wipes us from the face of the earth

  I build my ark

  a drunken boat

  a little paper vessel

  under red

  black sails

  So what if it’s a dream

  [Wrocław 2004–2005]

  farewell to Raskolnikov

  The waiter was pretending to wipe the table

  I wanted to become a Napoleon

  said Raskolnikov nonchalantly

  but I only killed a louse

  I had decided to act

  with vigor to pave the way

  for a great career

  the air in the cheap cafe

  was dense and rancid

  on the table where I sat

  with the “former” law student

  was a glass of cloudy tea

  on a small plate lay a squashed

  stale napoleon

  the greenish cream oozed from the pastry

  like dried pus

  sprinkled with icing sugar

  I forgot about Raskolnikov

  he forgot about me

  everyone has their own affairs

  a black fly that appeared

  out of nowhere brought Raskolnikov to life

  he moved aside the tea

  and began waving the newspaper

  containing his article

  I knew he was aching

  to show it me and even

  read it aloud

  the debut of a young

  writer and scholar in the distant

  hazy future

  I remember that strange uncommon

  feeling I shared it now

  with Raskolnikov the excitement

  my name in print!

  youth has its entitlements

  Forgive me it was amusing

  naturally you wished to act

  with vigor and so with an ax

  not a fingernail (on the fingernail)

  if Napoleon had wanted

  to kill a louse he’d have used his fingernail

  or one of his marshals

  you’re making fun of me he said

  I know the whole thing was done

  amateurishly and shoddily

  to be honest I did it

  out of boredom

  I killed in my sleep

  I killed a louse in my sleep

  but the ax was real

  I shot at lice

  with a cannon

  I was quite the Schiller

  Raskolnikov lapsed into thought

  then stood up and walked away

  without shaking my hand

  I remained alone with the napoleon

  I paid for the tea

  and left

  Raskolnikov

  was still standing in front of the cafe

  which way are you headed I asked

  “me? the other way” he said

  nonchalantly and shrugged

  he walked with lowered head

  turned right into Sienna Street

  a moment later

  I heard shouts laughter

  whistling ringing

  I looked round

  Raskolnikov was kneeling on the roadway

  in a puddle of muddy snow

  amid horse droppings

  the new top hat Sonya bought him

  set down on the cobblestones

  he kissed the pavement three times made the sign of the cross

  crossed himself . . . applause rang out

  some guttersnipe knelt by him

  I tried to raise him to his feet but he

  fended me off gently and stood up

  took my arm

  and said confidentially

  “here you have to avoid

  being conspicuous . . .

  Details, details

  are the thing!

  It’s details that always

  betray Everything . . .”

  you to the right and me to the left

  or the other way round . . . adieu

  mon plaisir . . . till the next time we meet!

  I never saw him again

  [2004–2005]

  depressions II

  awakened I touch

  my body

  my face

  the painf
ul places of memory

  I touch my skin

  touch an alien body

  I rub my eyes

  but do not wish to open them

  opening them

  I rise but stay in bed the day rises

  I look at my hand

  say to myself: “dear lord!”

  I hear that in the fields outside Cologne

  a million young people

  are searching for themselves God faith

  the rag (yesterday’s paper)

  rustles underfoot I rise

  start moving but not toward myself

  depressions VII

  “poor people”

  Someone phones me

  wants something I explain that

  I’m here

  that I’m not

  that I

  it’s someone young

  younger

  he has plans

  involving me

  I explain that I have no

  plans

  in my thoughts I say

  to myself be patient

  polite

  those young voices

  scratch me

  hurt me

  those live voices

  hurt me

  why do young people

  yell shout bellow

  after all there’s no

  dudek or maradona here

  małysz came in 20th or 26th