new poems (2 page)

 

you have your method and I have mine

 

scrambled egg with sausage or bacon
is out of the question now

 

I remember now what Norwid said
at the Matejko exhibition in Paris
in 1876 (I think it was) you know for the last two
years I've been immersed in Norwid I intend
to write a little book
learning Norwid or learning from Norwid
Norwid said about one of Matejko's paintings
–I'd missed this though I know
almost all there is to know about Matejko–
Norwid called it “the scrambled egg of the nation”
it was
Zygmunt's Bell
I don't know where the painting is now
from the Palais de l'Industrie (in 1873)
Scrambled egg of the nation! between
ourselves neither Europe nor America knows
what real scrambled egg is like
that's the truth . . . but how's it going with Norwid
it's not going . . . or rather it's going ploddingly
Art is like a flag on the tower of human labor

 

he's extraordinary . . .

in the afternoon we visited
Hania's grave
Hania passed away five years ago
Mieczysław was left on his own

 

Robigus the rust demon
covers the past with rust
covers words and eyes
the smiles
of the dead
the pen

 

we walk further to the tomb
of Bronia Przybosiowa
her funeral was attended
by daughters and grandchildren
from Paris New York

 

Julian wanted the elder daughter
to be a gardener an orchard-keeper
he probably dreamed that in his old
age he'd have his own little apple tree
and would write
avant-garde poems
in the shade of the apple

 

in the shade of the tree

 

that he would continue
his profession–the profession of Czarnolas
but
metropolis mass machine
brought the avant-garde
an unpleasant surprise
turned into a trap

 

the transports set off

 

freight cars and cattle cars
laden with banalized evil
set off from the east
west
south and north

 

freight trains
crammed with banal fear
banal despair
to this day the faces
of old women
are streaked with banal tears

 

after the war miraculous images wept
and so did living
women

 

figures wept people wept

Mieczysław in a letter to me
from 1998
after I'd asked him
where the knife came from

 

whether he'd made it himself
found it
stolen it
dug it up
(the iron age)
whether it fell from the sky
(miracles do happen)

 

Mieczysław:
I thought some more
about that knife of mine
made from the hoop of a barrel.
It was kept in the hem
of your striped prison uniform,
because they confiscated things
and it could cost you dearly . . .
And so its function
was not only practical
but much more complex
(we should talk about it some more) . . .

 

Robigus coats the short iron knife
with rust
and slowly consumes it

 

I saw it for the first time
on the Professor's desk
in the middle of the 20th century

 

strange knife–I thought

 

neither a paper knife
nor a potato peeler
nor a knife for fish or meat

 

it lay between Matejko and Rodakowski
between Kantor Jaremianka and Stern
between sheets of paper
between Alina Szapocznikow
Brzozowski (“Tadzio,” “Tazio”)
and Nowosielski between
lectures and index cards
“strange knife” I thought
I took it in hand
laid it down again

 

Mieczysław went into the kitchen
to make tea (he makes strong
dark tea that I have to
dilute with hot water)

 

another twenty years went by

 

“strange knife” I thought
it lay between a book on cubism
and the end of criticism
he probably uses it to open envelopes
and in prison
he peeled potatoes
or shaved with it

 

that's right–said the Professor–
potato peelings could save you
from dying of hunger

 

order ruled on the scholar's desk
just as in his mind

 

you know Mieczysław I'm going to write a poem
about this knife
years passed
our children went to school
grew up graduated

 

it was 1968 . . . 1969
a human set foot on the moon
the exact date I don't remember
in Poland there was the memorable “March”
the March of “let writers stick to writing!”
someone caused me to stop writing . . .
I was sleeping at Mieczysław's
he lived in the building
of the academy of fine arts
on Krakowskie Przedmieście
a foul evening police zomo
patrol wagons white batons
long white batons in the fog
helmets shields

 

the next day I met
Przyboś at Zachęta
what is it these students want he asked
he seemed surprised taken aback
then he began to explain to me
Strzemiński's theory of the afterimage
“students”
he said as if to himself

 

I went back home Mieczysław's daughter
Asia asked me over dinner
“what's to be done? . . .” but I had the sense
she knew better than her father than Master Przyboś
and than me . . . what was to be done . . .
I answered “we need to stay calm”
Asia smiled . . . left

 

Mietek was in the hospital on Szaserów Street
he'd come round from the anesthesia
I was alone in his studio
on the walls familiar paintings
Strumiłło Nowosielski Brzozowski
a self-portrait by Mietek from the occupation

 

the knife lay on some newspapers

 

at the airport I read the slogans
writers stick to writing zionists go home
(or was it the other way round?) after I came
back to my native region
those slogans . . . smacked . . .
(smacked? of what?)
Aleksander Małachowski
asked me to do a TV interview
I spoke about how that step
the human footprint on the moon
would change the world and its people . . . I was naive.

from memory now

 

to Oświęcim Auschwitz
Terezín Gross-Rosen Dachau
to Majdanek Treblinka
Sobibor
into history
The sidings
trains leave
from small stops
from central stations
turned into Art museums
Hamburg Paris Berlin
here artists
create their installations
trains
locomotives rusting on
closed railroad lines
Robigus spreads rust
on rails signal boxes switches
soccer fans and draftees
vandalize cars
celebrating the happiest day
of their lives
the end of their service
others are taking the oath
they kiss the flag
parents wives fiancées in tears
the band strikes up a march

 

but the train
that I see
(with the eyes of my soul)
has rebelled
and left the railroad tracks
the rails the lights
the switches

 

it's crossing green meadows
country lanes grasses
mosses
water
sky
clouds
a rainbow

 

is this Treblinka already
I'm asked by a young
Girl
in the flower of youth
I recognize
her lips
and her eyes like a posy of violets
it's Róża from Radomsko . . .
“I named her Róża
since a name was needed
and so she is named”
what she was really called
I don't remember

 

The train crosses
pads
of silver and green
moss
through woodland cuttings and clearings
forests
of the righteous and the unrighteous

 

surely it's Alina I think to myself

 

Alina the sculptress
student of Xawery Dunikowski
in a cattle car
opens a window
leans out kisses the wind
closes the little window that is disfigured
with barb wire
I'm sitting so close
that our shoulders are touching
“I've got something in my eye”
I lean forward
I have a clean handkerchief I say
pull back your eyelid please
we conduct a small operation
without anesthesia
she smiles at me through her tears
please don't be afraid
I say
it's only a speck of dust

 

I've performed such operations
many times
you're my guinea pig miss
(she doesn't know that she'll remain
a guinea pig)

 

all done I say
the tears will wash it clean
I wipe her eyes
here's the culprit
I show her a sharp black
speck of coal

 

allow me to introduce myself
my name is Tadeusz
I'm Róża . . . Mama and I
are on our way from Terezín to Treblinka
Mama's in the dining car
they separated us
her car is at the other end of the train

 

we're getting out at Treblinka
you know sir I'm dying of hunger
I'm really dying
I'm so hungry
I could eat a horse

 

or a carrot
a turnip
a cabbage stump
. . . and where are you going sir? if I may ask

 

me? nowhere special! to the woods
to collect mushrooms blueberries
get some fresh air

 

I'm a Satyr
the girl laughs

 

I can tell you the secret now
I'm getting out at the next stop
my unit is stationed at a place called
“high trees”

I looked at the knife
it could have been for cutting bread
a knife from the iron age
–I thought–from a death camp

 

 

the knife
made from a piece of hoop
from a beer barrel or some other barrel
has a handle
ingeniously
curved

 

Hania the Professor's wife has passed away

 

when the Professor sits with eyes closed
when he is silent thinking writing
preparing a lecture
moving away from criticism
toward mathematics and philosophy
or perhaps logic and mysticism
he recalls what he did
with the knife in the camp
cutting bread dividing it up
saving every crumb
he did not peel potatoes
(but did not throw away peelings
as they could save someone
from starvation)

 

years passed
we count up
together we are
a hundred and sixty years old

 

the 20th century is over . . .

 

the Professor lives alone works does not sleep
listens to music
I came to Ustroń
from Radomsko
from memory from the past

 

I came to Ustroń
in July 2000 from Wrocław
and Kraków via Wadowice
I wanted to see the hometown of the poet Jawień
I was moved to see his hills his clouds
his family home the school the modest church

you gave me a rose
red
almost black inside
autumnal

 

it stands out sharply
in the empty white
room
as if carved
with a lancet
by Doctor
Gottfried Benn

 

at night the rose
describes its shape and weight
in fragrance

 

it rouses me
with its thorns

 

cast
from sleep to a waking
that is still tremulous fluid

 

I see it
basking in the sun
unfolding
predatory

 

in its vicinity
it tolerates
neither nightingales
nor poetry

 

 

with my eyes I touched
the compact
places
between the petals

 

the next day
at dawn
I took the rose
into the other room

 

at last I could get down
to my poem

 

in the presence of the rose
it had been fading away
before my eyes
secure now it took on
color
perked up

 

I'd realized that poetry
is jealous of the rose
the rose jealous of poetry

 

after a few hours
with the muse
I opened the door

 

I saw a black rose
gazing at itself in the mirror

 

it had lost none of its dignity
or significance

 

I took from the rose
its reflection in the mirror
and turned it into words

 

and in this way
I completed
the deed

 

 

all hope abandon
ye who enter here

 

the inscription at the entrance to hell
in Dante's
Divine Comedy

 

take heart!

 

beyond that gateway
there is no hell