new poems (10 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In cell no. 20
I'm the most senior of the condemned

 

I've been inside for 83 years (like
all the living I've been put away
for life)–with no prospect of
eternity I stare at the ceiling

 

Ryszard and Piotr are silent
how old are you Rysio? I lead off
Piotr is getting on too
he must be over six-ty?
I'm 69 says Piotr
69 is a magic number
and even an erotic
position

 

Piotr uses a cell phone a computer a virus
he's the only one who
runs an auto-mobile
and also the Poza Theater
Piotr says worriedly
that Hoene-Wroński has sold Absolut
to some Frenchman

 

I gaze at the spines
of the books (Mandelstam Lévinas . . .)

 

slowly book after book
opens
Piotr says to Ryszard
“you know, Tadeusz told me today–
in confidence–that Copernicus' theory
wasn't just harmful for
the church, because people
lived on a flat and motionless Earth
and were happy
the revolutions of heavenly bodies need only
be known to a select group . . . of priests and politicians”
Here I broke in
please don't tell this to Marysia
or to Hania or Jola or Ania . . . for me
the Earth was and is the center of the Universe
humans are the only creatures
who created God who created
humans

 

Ryszard cupped his hand round his ear
and whispered

 

“a monk who counted the number of beans
he'd eaten during the day, though he dreamed
of quickly becoming an angel,
deep down was concerned with his body . . .”
I shifted uneasily
in “VrÅ¡ac Elegy” written for
the poet Vasco Popa I had said
“let's go to dinner I like bean soup”

 

but Vasco died
and Yugoslavia was dismembered
the eyes of Orthodox icons
were once again gouged out
on Kosovo Polje
broad beans and French beans are
my favorites I've eaten many a bowl
of broad beans with Master Jerzy
. . .
fasolka po bretońsku
soup . . . a treat
from our youth . . .
youth give me wings
and I shall fly above the lifeless earth
together young friends!

 

Ryszard and Piotr looked
at each other and at me

 

I am he is you you are me (Lévinas is repeating on me!)
I started to talk with Rysio
about Mandelstam and Nadezhda
about Anna Akhmatova about the transit
camp of Vtoraya Rechka
I climbed on my hobby horse
spoke about Dostoevsky
about the acquittal of Vera Zasulich
about Semyonov Square
and how last year I had visited
Oreshek Fortress
and Walerian Łukasiński's cell

 

red wine appeared on the table
bread cheese I asked for water
in vino veritas in aqua sanitas
in wine is truth in water is health
I began attacking Lévinas
who's becoming “fashionable”. . . I was
annoyed... that he took away my
“faces” (a matter still to be cleared up)

 

Piotr knows what this is about and even
what it's round-about

 

We fell silent after the silence
Piotr described a scene
that was “played out”
many years ago
in a Parisian café
between Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz
and an unknown woman
who was sitting alone
at a table and weeping
no one was paying any attention
to this “occurrence”
it may have been a fashionable
café frequented by existentialists
by members of the “resistance” (ha ha!)
by collaborators
the woman wept
without hiding her face

 

Jarosław stood up
crossed to the woman
leaned over her
whispered something in her ear
put his arm round her and kept talking
the woman stopped crying
wiped her tears left

 

Jarosław returned to his seat
and said (to Piotr)

 

“when someone's crying
sometimes they need
to be touched held”

 

We each drank a glass
of red wine

 

remember–began Ryszard–
how Nietzsche put his arm
round the neck of a cabdriver's horse
and burst into tears? . . . was that in Trieste?

 

It was in Turin
and it wasn't quite like that
the cabbie was beating the horse about the head
Nietzsche embraced the suffering creature
and wept
wenige Augenblicke später
taumelte er von einem Gehirnschlag gerührt,
zu Boden
Nietzsche knew that the horse
would not utter platitudes
would not console
the superman and philosopher
sought consolation from a horse
and not from Plato
Ryszard says: what are you two laughing at?
Nieztsche went mad but what
became of the horse?
I know . . . the horse
was eaten by the Italians they
eat Polish horses and even
larks (I wrote about it in my play
“Spaghetti and the Sword”) they need to be
converted . . . all of them . . .
Moscow . . . Rome . . . Paris . . .

 

we were supposed to be talking about God
I reminded them

 

do you know what Mickiewicz said
to a French writer
who invited him to his salon
for conversations about God?

 

“I don't discuss God over tea”

 

surely that's a lot wiser than
Nieztsche's dictum “God is dead”
or Dostoevsky's “if there is no God
everything is permissible”

 

Hora est . . . we were told by Quiet

 

I'll return the Lévinas
before I leave for Warsaw

 

God is fashionable Also fashionable is Absolut
God is invited to appear on television
the God of Lévinas the God of Buber
the God of Hegel Pascal Bloch
Heidegger Rosenzweig
he's on between an Argentinean soap coffee and tea

 

Lévinas thinks that God
can be inflected like a noun
they've turned theology into grammar

 

Lévinas!
Lévinas learns that he must die
from Jankelevitsch
if God exists philosophy is unnecessary
the philosophy of Heidegger and Rosenzweig

 

Hora est . . . silence set in
(there'll be no continuation)

 

but Piotr stirred the waters
and quoted Hegel in a whisper
in German . . .
“es ist der Schmerz, der sich
also das harte Wort ausspricht
daß Gott gestorben ist”

 

cogito and dubito
share a house you know
mr cogito above
mr dubito below

 

having lived a rich life
they switched you know
dubito above
cogito below

 

both of us are old
and we're aware
for some unknown reason
that we have to die

 

we're also aware
that the shortest road to the Lord
is Hard Times

 

as the saying has it
when times are hard folk turn to the Lord

Lord! I left the keys
to the Heavenly Kingdom
in my car

 

cries a young priest
who lacks a calling
but has good intentions

 

someone opens up anew
but looks for roots

 

though a wise old Jew
who sought to be a German
said that humans
have legs not roots

 

the third lady of Polish theater and film
is searching for her identity
but she can't find the key
to herself
because she left it with the first husband
of the second lady who wrote a book

 

another lady is searching for the key
out of herself and cannot
find it at home
so she flies to Tibet
as if she couldn't satisfy
this minor need
in Pińczów

 

a “likeable home-bird”
(as the small ad said)
is searching for her key
in the handbag of a mature lady
with house and car
and “independent” (sic!) garden
she may be a well-padded
Catholic

 

the merry wives of Warsaw
are turning into
miss-sticks
they jabber away like coffee mills
that have to be from Tibet (etc.)

poor B. B. said
before he died
“Und nach uns wird kommen
nichts Nennenswerts”

 

I don't get it, Daddy!

 

Learn German, son
it'll come in useful
Zeit ist Geld!
Time is money

 

So why do people
kill their time?

 

Because when they have time
they get bored, son!

 

I get bored too, Daddy!

 

We all get bored
children get bored
and grownups get bored too

 

Grownup to what, Daddy?

 

That no one knows

 

But soccer fans don't get bored?

 

They get bored too . . .
because the ball isn't round
the match is sold
the ref is bought
you're too young
to remember
the historic goal
that Lato scored
thirty years ago
it was under Gierek
Grandma's always talking about Gierek
and singing
“Under Gomułka we had curds and whey
Under Gierek, meat by the tray
But not a sausage in Kania's day”

 

Who was Kanyass?
Don't be so curious son
or you'll end up in a barrel of
sauerkraut like those quintuplets
that have been served up for us
for months now by public or religious
or commercial or private television like some
kind of benefit or music festival

 

But soccer fans don't get bored, Daddy!

 

Soccer fans go about in facepaint
like cannibals
with sticks knives axes
chains clubs flags
toilet paper
which was in short supply under communism
here and in the evil empire too
but don't forget that Poland
beat Greece though it never became
the Trojan Horse of the European Championship!

 

Daddy! Is it true that there are players
who don't respect the ball though they're
brilliant and that the philosophy of soccer
has replaced basic theology
and that in Argentina people pray
to Saint Maradonna

 

Yes son! the light of the goalmouth
has replaced the light everlasting

 

Drink milk! it'll make you
strong as a Tiger great as Kiepura
or as Rinaldo-Ronaldini!
or as Longinus Podbipięta!

 

I don't want any milk!

 

Then eat your custard
and knock it
off!

 

Daddy! Then I'll be a firefighter!
because firefighters don't get bored!
and when they do they set fire
to forests meadows buildings
even lakes
then they put them out
and are given medals even though
the fires kill off frogs moles
earthworms

 

Drink some Polish buttermilk son
and stop pestering your father!

 

Who am I supposed to pester?
Pester your Grandma

 

Daddy, what's a pedophile?

 

Eat your angel's milk custard
and leave me alone
will you! Can't you see
that I'm busy and don't have
time to read even
one book by Mendoza
you're an unwanted child
so shut it

 

Then why did you make me, Daddy,
and how am I supposed to shut it?
children aren't “made”
children are summoned
to life
in unprotected intercourse
Your grandfather used to say
“Have bees, and you'll have honey as well
Have kids, and all your house will smell”
Grandpa's as wise as Fukuyama

 

Then why don't you bring him home
from the hospital . . . ?!

 

(not to be continued)

 

many many years ago
Sister Elisabeth and I strolled
from Zgorzelec to Görlitz
and back
to visit the house of Böhme the shoemaker
to buy thread
drink a Franziskaner Weissbier
learn something about the Rosicrucians
and see a lily in bloom