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
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