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.
V
THE TRAINS KEEP LEAVING
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
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”
VI
The Last Age
I looked at the knife
it could have been for cutting bread
a knife from the iron age
–I thought–from a death ca
mp
The iron age was last
truth shame and honor vanished
in their place were
fraud deceit trickery violence
and pernicious desires
the land once common to all
as the light of the sun is and the air
was marked out to its furthest boundaries
by cunning man . . .
Now harmful iron appeared
and gold more harmful than iron . . .
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
Dawn Day and Night with a Red Rose
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
Hafis umdichtend hat Goethe gedichtet
“unmöglich scheint immer die Rose
unbegreiflich die Nachtigall”
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
[2001]
gateway
Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi ch’entrate
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
hell has been dismantled
by theologists
and psychoanalysts
has been turned into an allegory
for reasons humanitarian
and educational
take heart!
beyond the gateway
there is more of the same
two drunken gravediggers
sit by a hole
they’re drinking non-alcoholic beer
snacking on sausage
winking at us
playing soccer
with Adam’s skull
beneath the cross
the hole waits
for tomorrow’s deceased
the stiff is on its way
take heart!
here we will wait for the final
judgment
the pit fills with water
cigarette butts float there
take heart!
beyond the gateway
there will be no history
no goodness no poetry
and what will there be
stranger?
there will be stones
stone
upon stone
upon stone a stone
and on that stone
another
stone
[2000]
Ghost Ship
the days are shorter
the sundial stands
hourless in the rain
the sanatorium emerges
from clouds
like a vast passenger liner
columns of black trees
drip with water and moonlight
the sanatorium sails away
in the November mists
it rocks
its windows darkening one after another
plunges into shadow
into sleep
while below
underground
the devil has lit the old stove
in “Little Hell”
don’t be afraid
it’s only a late-night spot
a café
the saved and the condemned
cheeks flushed
lap up what’s left of life
the temperature rises
and everything whirls
in a dance of death
um die dunklen Stellen der Frau
the ghost ship
runs aground
the mystery of the poem
once somewhere
long ago
I read a poem
by Eminowicz
whose first name
I subsequently forgot
this was before the war
then
for half a century
I never encountered
his poetry
he would come to mind
every few years
then return to oblivion
Chess?
yes I read the poem
in “Pion” magazine
chess? not chess
chess
I think it was chess the poem
rattled about in my head
like a death-watch beetle
(that was all I needed!)
two years ago
I found myself in Kraków
with Czesław Miłosz
in Ludwik Solski’s Dressing Room
Mrs. Renata (this was her idea)
was asking us questions
about poetry youth the occupation
and women (laughter)
the topic was our love poetry
all at once
I digressed and asked
do you remember the poet Eminowicz
Miłosz did
“Eminowicz? his first name was Ludwik”
later we talked about Staff and Fik
Czechowicz Przyboś Ważyk
a year passed
I was looking through Extracts from Useful Books
and on page 207 I found a poem
by Ludwik Eminowicz “At Noon”
strange poet
strange poem neither good nor bad
the vanishing poet