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 “Vršac 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
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”
[Konstancin–Wrocław
January–March 2004]
knowledge
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
searching for keys
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 hus
band
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.)
conversation between father and son about killing time
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)
[2004]
we’re building bridges
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
over the bridge of reconciliation and peace
from dawn till dusk there came
unemployed Polish ants
and retired German ants
the ants were carrying
Europe’s Largest Gartenzwergen
Garden Gnomes wicker baskets
quail and ostrich eggs
clothes cabbage asparagus
beer beer beer
bier bier bier
brandy
in the crowd I encountered
mysterious individuals
who winked at me
and offered marks from the time
of Erich Honecker and Helmut Kohl
medals of Soviet heroes
Nikita’s pants pieces of the Berlin Wall
they tried to sell me knockoff Absolut
mixed with godknowswhat
by the roads highways
Lechites sat selling berries and
pfefferling mushrooms to the Germans
there were Polish plaster storks
willows wept under the burden
of Polish pears
and Chopin
was left hanging in the wind
there were maidens from the lands of central
and eastern Europe Bulgarians Ukrainians
Russians Poles blondes
qualifying heats for the miss
wet tee-shirt and miss world
competitions were taking place
in the nearby bushes
in the Mona Lisa bar woolen caps and black
tights were being pulled over heads side arms
and firearms cleaned
foundations were established there were no
bathrooms
the former
“leader of the nation” had lost his mustache
the workers their socks
a Polish Raskolnikov
instead of an old money lender
killed a professor
who had flunked him
the “Angel” was gone so was Boniek
Moniek who used to have a clothes shop
had flown away with a stork to
the Promised Land the Roma bought up
all the free plots in the cemetery
where I’d intended to organize
(for myself) a “Polish-style funeral”
you can’t scare me
(written on Fat Thursday,
&nbs
p; the day after Ash Wednesday, 2002)
young women in Germany
have been hunting men
(with scissors)
cutting off their
ties
at the neck
this practice symbolizes
the taking of power
one staunch lady
cut something more
off her husband
Bild carried
an article
with numerous pictures
the husband however got
to the hospital in time
and the severed tie
penis was sewn back in
place
wife husband and surgeon
are collaborating on
a movie script
a stage play
a bestseller
for a million
in France on Fat Thursday
the ladies don’t cut anything off
“on the other hand” everyone eats pancakes
in Poland (on Fat Thursday)
the ladies eat lots of doughnuts
“with rum or without
but with jam . . . I eat them I mama