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"
No comments:
Post a Comment