Ryszard Krynicki (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

When I lived in Poznan, in the communist Poland, Ryszard Krynicki was one of the dissidents there. He was a friend of Stanislaw Baranczak, who also lived there at the time. Once Baranczak wrote a poem about an underground poetry reading where police entered and arrested everybody; Krynicki had similar underground readings although the police did not enter those meetings (I know because I was there too). His poetry, though, is very different from Baranczak's, very short poems, almost haiku-like, but his haikus are not about whether or nature. Instead they are observations that show absurdity of certain reactions that most people would consider normal. Most of them, unlike haikus, have titles. Some of those poems seem to have a kind of transcendental dimension to them.

Below are the poems that made such impression on me that I decided to write their English versions. In fact the first poem here, the one without a title, I remembered all my life (I saw it first in 1970s, soon after it was published) and recalled it whenever I had a difficult decision to make. It did help. 

* * *

Who chooses loneliness – will never be alone

Who chooses homelessness – will have the roof of the world over his head

Who chooses death – will not cease to live

Who is chosen by death – will die

only this

WHO DOES NOT EXIST

fear God

who does not exist

in your heart

HOW TO WRITE?

To write so that the hungry

think it is bread?

The hungry have to be fed,

you have to write so that the hunger

is not wasted

NOT ALL

Do we really learn to live only after the defeat?

Not all: whoever does not live for victory

cannot live in defeat

YOU HAVE TO BE

You have to be free

to learn

from your own mistakes

WHEN

When a clown gets to power

he is no less ridiculous

but who wants to laugh then?

SAYING

Saying – How can I fight

for human rights

when I have a wife and children?

you yourself pronounce a sentence on them

but even the executioners do not know

how severe the punishment will be

UNFORTUNATELY

Bad poems won't convert a despot

unfortunately this can also be sait

about good poems

VERTIGO

Those in power are afraid of hights

The higher they climb

the more afraid they are to come down to earth

INSIDE

Look, the real light

a stained glass window has only

inside the church

* * *

Blind? Deaf? Mute?

Incomprehensible?

It is there. It hurts.

AMONG THEM, IN THE CENTRE

Twelve men at the table set for destinies; by now they know that one of them will betray him and another will betray him thrice (or twice, it won't be clear till the end) before the cock crows. With them, in their midst, at the centre of his own infinite oneness, he – their master and teacher. He, the one beyond numbers. The son of the unutterable Name. The Son of Man. Having just finished breaking the unleavened bread for the last time ever, he lifts a cup of wine. His face is hidden to us. His hair anointed with precious oil shines with unearthly light. His few words reach us only in translations. Laborious translations, constantly improved, so many wars have been fought and we still don't know how faithful the translations are.

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"

Tadeusz Rozewicz, the third pillar (poetry from Poland cycle)

Some people consider the triad Milosz-Herbert-Rozewicz the three pillars of Polish poetry of the 20th century. Certainly in my case reading Rozewicz (when I was a teenager) was a crucial experience. Only after this I became interested in poetry at all.

Tadeusz Rozewicz (pron. Tadewoosh Roozhevich) (1921 - 2014) was born in a small town in central Poland. During the war he was a member of the underground resistance army fighting the Nazis. After the war he studied History of Art, but never finished it. He was one of the first post-war poets to write in an open verse. Reflected in those poems is the terror of war, but never despair. For some reason his poems were published before 1956, during the Stalinist era, even though Rozewicz in his poetry never praised socialism or Stalin. Thus for a reader living in the country it would appear that Rozewicz was the first important poet to write in a modern style. In the hindsight we know that at the same time Herbert wrote no less modern poems, but didn’t publish them, whereas Czeslaw Milosz published his poetry abroad.

Here are some of my attempts of recreating in English those poems that moved me when I was a teenager.

TWO AXES

when my father had

his 77th birthday

he said to me:

„two axes, my son,

you pass two axes

and afterwards

everything is easy”

we drank half a litre of vodka

my father unhurriedly

lit a cigarette

and started blowing

wheels of smoke

one wheel

after another

they flew to the ceiling

grew and dissolved

I remember one question

from that birthday talk:

"Tell me, dad,

is life worth living?”

my father watched

the wheels of smoke

shook the ash from the cigarette

and said:

"Of course it is”

and then he looked at me

"What's wrong with you, son?”

Then I understood

that our father loved us

he just never talked about it

GOLDEN MOUNTAINS

The first time

I saw mountains

was when I was

twenty six years of age

I didn't laugh

didn't shout

in their presence

I spoke in whisper

When I returned home

I went to tell

my mother

what mountains look like

It was difficult to tell

at night

everything looks different

mountains and words

mother was silent

maybe she was tired

and fell asleep

in the clouds

the Moon grew

the golden mountain

of poor people

* * *

Assisi the nest

on a cracked rock

bird's white

egg

I carried

this landscape

that was turning pink

to my

city

I didn't make it

on the third day

your smile

started to go off

I gave you to the earth

the river of forgetting

flows

onto eyes lips

onto your feet

shod in slippers

made of paper

BUT WHOEVER SEES...

But whoever sees my mother

in a livid frock, in a white hospital ward

who shakes

who stiffens

with a wooden smile

with white gums

who for fifty years had faith

but now cries and says:

„I don't know... I don't know...”

her face is like huge dim tear drop

she folds her yellow hands like a frightened

girl

her lips are navy blue

but whoever sees my mother

a little cornered creature

with a staring eye

he

well, I would like to carry her in my heart

and feed with sweetness

DEAD FRUIT

There are golden pears on a plate

Flowers and two young damsels

A photo of a boy on the table

Beaming and at attention in a black kepi

The damsels have soft lips

the damsels have sweet eyes

The poor mother walks across the room

She straightens the photo and weeps

Golden suns on the table fade

And so does the dead fruit of her womb

If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper, 

You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"