Jerzy Harasymowicz (pron. Yezhy Harasimoveech) (1933-1999) was a poet of the “Generation ‘56”, but very different from Zbigniew Herbert. The subject of poems by Harasymowicz is the cultural landscape of the countryside of South-Eastern Poland, around Cracow, his hometown. This is an area where two cultures meet: Polish Roman Catholic and Ukrainian Greek Orthodox. But it is not theology or philosophy that Harasynowicz is interested in. What arrests his attention is an Ukrainian church seen from afar in a mountain valley, or a dialect spoken by villagers. He uses different dialects to give atmosphere to his poems, in fact some of the poems are written partly in Polish and partly in Ukrainian. He must have been a keen hiker, his poems are full of images from the mountain trail. Many of his poems are like haiku – very short, like quick glances at nature. When he died his ashes were dispersed over the mountains.
In the 1970-ties he was extremely popular, possibly the most widely read poet at that time. He was especially popular among hikers, many a campfire song was written to his lyrics. His popularity fell rapidly after 1980, when he publicly declared his support for general Jaruzelski and his martial law. Now he is slowly regaining popularity among younger generation, for whom the martial law is a problem of a bygone era.
A NIGHT IN MARCH
Moon is rushing in ash trees
I'll throw him some golden straw
Moon is rushing in ash trees
I'll brush him really well
Moon is rushing in ash trees
I'll give him an old mantle
Moon is rushing in ash trees
I really love you, my Moon
Moon is rushing in ash trees
I'll drive him to my backyard
FROM A LEAF EDGE
I live with nature
Like that passing wind
on a leaf faith
I LIVE IN OPULENCE
My finger is decorated
by a high carat
grasshopper
THE TARTAR HORSE
A Tartar horse of my genealogy
gallops through all my books
this is where the wild whistles come from
in the green rushes of words
The ensign of red brown grasses
flutters
in the wind
One day
before your house
the Tartar horse will appear
alone
GRANDAD'S SHOES
Granddad, again
you went to steal plums
and you even went there in your best shoes
the ones you wear to church
you could at least take
the every day shoes
Indeed – says the granddad
what did they think, those church shoes
they listened to all those sermons
they stood in the church so long
and they went
GENEALOGY
I have inherited from my ancestors:
from my German grandma
trumpets windy inclinations
grammatical rhymes
from my Ukrainian grandpa
icons in frankincense smoke
talent of a deacon scribe
from my Tartar mother
untamedness of life
whistles of feelings
black conscience
I am a tablet
filled with writing long ago
THE POET HAS NO TIME
I've got no time
I'll tell you who I am
in just three words
under the peaked cap
eaves of my face
of a thief
like two halves of a tankard
I'm holding in my hands
a poem split in two
now
when you know it all
clear off
GRASSHOPPERS
Evening silence
lack of people
nobody to teach
some boring theory
Only grasshoppers
hastily translate
my poem
onto meadows
If you would like to read these poems (and some more) on paper,
You can get a printout of my book "POLISH INSPIRATIONS"
