Jerzy Harasymowicz (poetry from Poland cycle)

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"