if you cannot be a poet, be a poem

T.Różewicz “Ocalony”/”The survivor”

I am twenty four years old

I survived

when was lead to the slaughter

These are empty and not ambiguous names

a human and an animal

love and hate

an enemy and a friend

light and darkness

You kill man just like an animal

I saw:

carts of chopped people

who won’t be ever saved.

Notions are just words

virtue and maleficence

beauty and ugliness

bravery and cowardness

Virtue and meleficence weigh the same

I saw:

a man who was one and he was

both virtuous and meleficent

I looked for a teacher, for a master

who gives me back my vision and speach

who once again will name entities and notions

who will separate light from the darkness.

I am twenty four years old

I survived

when was lead to the slaughter.

Z.Herbert “Apollo i Marsjasz”/”Apollo and Marsyas”

the proper duel between Apollo

and Marsyas

(perfect pitch vs

enormous range)

takes place just before the evening

when as we all already know

the judges

awarded the god

he is tied tightly to the tree

precisely skinned

Marsyas

screams

before it reaches

his high ears

he relaxes in the shadow of that cry

shivering with repulsion

Apollo cleans his instrument

only on the surface

Maryas’ voice

is monotonous

and consists of only one vowel

A

in fact

Marsyas

tells

countless treasures

of his body

bold mountais of his liver

white gorges of nourishent

humming woods of the lungs

sweet hills of muscles

joints bile blood and shivers

winter bones wind

over the salt of memories

shivering with repulsion

Apollo cleans his instrument

now to the choirs

joins spinal column

basically the same A

just deeper with a bit of rust

this is the end of endurance

of the god with nerves of plastics

the winner walks away

on the gravel alley

boxtree on each side

he wonders

whether Marsyas’screams

won’t inspire

a new art trend

-let’s say- a defined one

suddenly

on his feet

falls

a petrified nightingale

he turns around

and notices

that the tree, the one Marsyas was tied to

is gray

absolutely

Z.Herbert “U wrót doliny”/”at the valley’s gates”

After the rain of stars

on the field of ashes

everyone gathered under the angel’s guard

from the hill that lasted

you could’ve watched

bleating stocks of bipedals

there aren’t many of them

even when you count those who will arrive

from cronicles fairy tales and life of saints

but enough of pondering

we should focus on

the valley’s throat

from which a scream ascends

aftera a swish of explosion

after a swish of silence

this voice like spring of fresh water, beats

this is, they explain us,

mothers screaming when their child is separated

cause it turned out

we’re going to be redeemed individually

guardian angels are ruthless

and it has to be said, their job is hard

she pleads-

hide me in your eye

in your hand in your arms

we were together forever

you can’t leave me right now

when I died and need affection

the elder angel

explains this misunderstanding with a smile 

an old lady carries

a cold body of a canary

(all the animals died earlier)

he was so nice- she says, crying

he understood everything

when I was saying-

her voice is lost in the sea of screams

even the lubemrjack

you wouldn’t suspect him of it

an old hunched fellow

presses an axe to his chest

-the whole life she was mine

now she will be mine, too

she’s been feeding me there

she will feed me here

none has the right to

-he says-

I won’t give her away

even those who at first seemed as

without any thoughts followed the orders

walk with their heads lowered in reconcilation

though in squeezed hands they hold

fragments of letters ribbons cut locks

and photographies

that, as they presume naively,

won’t be taken from them

this is how they look

one moment before

the ever lasting division

into those grinding their teets

and those praising the Lord

Z.Herbert “Prometeusz”/”Prometheus”

The old Prometheus writes diaries. 

He tries to explain in them place of a hero in the system of necessity, 

reconcile contradictory notions of fate and existence.

Flames happily crack in the fireplace,

in the kitchen his wife hustles- she’s an exalted girl

who couldn’t give birth to a son, though she comforts herself

she will go down in history.

Preparations for a dinner attended by the 

town’s rector and the pharmacist,

closest friend of Prometheus.

Fire in the fireplace,

on the wall a stuffed eagle and letter of thanks from a tyrant from Caucasus

who thanks to Prometheus’ invention

was able to burn down a rebellious city.

Prometheus laughs silently.

Now it’s the only way 

he shows disagreeent with the world.

Z.Herbert “Kaligula”/”Caligula”

While reading older cronicles, poems and bios, Mr Cogito experients

feeling of physical presence of people who died long ago

Says Caligula:

from all the Rome’s citizens

there was only one I loved

Incitatus- a horse

when he entered senate

a spotless toga on his fur

shone immaculatedly among the cowardly murderers covered in purple

Incitatus was full of merits

never spoke

a stoic’s nature

I think he read the philosophers at night at the stables

I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him

but his noble anatomy opposed this idea

he indifferently accepted consul’s office

he ruled in the best way

meaning he didn’t rule at all

I couldn’t persuade him into continous love affair

with my lovely wife, Caesonia

so the centaur line of ceasars wasn’t born

this is why Rome had fallen

I decided to designate him as a god

though at the nine day before the February calends

Cherea Cornelius Sabinus and other fools interrupted these godly intentions

he calmly accepted my death as a fact

they threw him out the palace and banished

he bore this blow with dignity

he died childless

stabbed by a harsh butcher from a town called Anzio

Tacitus remains silent

about the posthumous lot of his meat

Z.Herbert “Deszcz”.”rain”

RAIN

When my older brother 

came back from the war

he wore a silver star on his forehead

and under the star

nothing

a fragment of a bomshell

hit him at Verdun

or Grunwald

(he can’t exactly remember)

he talked much

in many languages

though the one he liked the most

was the language of the history

until breathless moments

he raised fallen comrades from the ground

his friends- Rolland Feliksiak Hannibal

he cried

that this is the last crusade

that soon Carthage will fall

and then between sobs he confessed

that Napoleon doesn’t like him

we watched

as he paled

senses lost to him

he slowly turned into statue

into musical shells of ears

spread stony forest

skin of his face

was fastened

with two blind and dry

buttons of his eyes

the only thing left was the

sense of touch

and what stories

he told with his hands

in the right one he had romances

in the left memories of a soldier

they took my brother

and removed him outside of a city

he comes back every fall

thin and silent

he doesn’t want to go inside

knocks on my window so I go out

we walk on the streets

and he tells me 

tall stories

touching the face

with blind fingers of tears

Z.Herbert “Przesłuchanie anioła”/ Angel’s interrogation

Zbigniew Herbert 

Angel’s interrogation

When he stands before them

in the shadow of suspicion

he is still weaved

from the matter of light

eons of his hair

are pinned into 

a curl of innocence

after the first question

his cheeks fill with blood

tools and interrogation

distribute the blood

with iron with cane

with fire so hot

they define the border

of his body

blows on his back

strenghten his spine

between the cloud and a puddle

after few nights

their work is done

angel’s throat

is full of wet agreement

and how beautiful is this moment

when he falls onto his knees

embodiment of guild

saturated with meaning

his tongue falters 

between knocked out teeth

and the confession

they hang him his head to the floor

from angel’s hair

drops of wax drip down

creating on the ground

a simple prophecy

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T.Pióro “HWDP/ T.Pióro ‘Fuck the police’

Fuck the police

“Gentleman, we have a guitar and all the lyrics

Perfect circumstances and the supremacy of

Ars longa vita brevis….

This is the stairs that will lead us to heaven

And down the pipeline full of Russian champagne

We will float to Alpes, like on that one’s New Year’s Eve”

He said and added “If they’re gonna drink

they have to pay”

So I drank to those who do porridge

Scab of foam fizzed and disappeared

There was no weave practically

There were no ladies actually

There was guitar and lyrics

And an ambiguous demand

“Your IDs, please”

You don’t photograph the pipeline.

Antiterrorists from Gdańsk watch over us.

But the night is ours and ours are the walls

Dishabilled stars 

Fire and knife eaters

And whores thin as razor blades

They fall from the sky dropping on the wet sand

Their numbers

Made us speechless

and impeccable manners

 turned into a joke

Too fast, as for me, and for always.

For sure? No, for ever.

original:

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Z.Herbert ‘Do Marku Aurelego’ /Z. Herbert “To Marcus Aurelius”

To Marcus Aurelius

To Marcus Aurelius

Goodnight dear Marcus, shut off the lamp

And close your book

Above your head there’s a bunch of stars

It’s sky that speaks in an unknown tongue

it’s the barbarian cry of threatened

the ones your Latin barely knows

it’s fear so ancient the fear so dark

about a fragile human land it starts

to beat and will win Do you hear the hum

it’s the high tide Your letters will be surged

by the unstoppable elements’ move

until the four walls of the world fall down

what’s left for us- to tremble on the wind

and blow the ashes huff to stir up the ether

bite the fingers to look for  empty words

and drag along the shadows of the beaten

So better Marcus stop being calm

And through the darkness extend your hand

Let it tremble when it strikes the five senses

Like a blind universe playing lir

Universe will betray us so will astronomy

Account of stars and wisdom of grass

And your grandeur is way too great

And oh, my hopeless Mark, just cry

 original

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