Andrzej Bursa (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Andrzej Bursa (pron. Andzhei Boorsah) (1932-1957) lived all his short life in Cracow.  He made his début in the press in 1954, although he never wrote praises of socialism. Three years later he died because of problems with his heart. The first book of his poems appeared after his death. He grew up during the Nazi occupation of Poland and the Stalinist terror. Never attracted to the socialist-realism, he wrote poems full of anger, which could only be published after the terror ended. Unfortunately the poet himself did not see that.

DICTATOR

I am a dictator and I can do anything

I burn I hang I murder

I fuck the most virtuous wives and daughters

In the public view

I import toys made of precious stones for my whores

I pay for it in hard currency

While the masses eat tripe and bran

I say to my ministers:

„You can kiss the middle of my arse”

And take down my uniform trousers in the Parliament

And there fools obey me

In the evenings I dream up plans

from all the roses in the country

I will make garlands and surround with them whole cities

so my citizens live in moving bouquets

In the end I'll give up atrocities

They don't amuse me anymore

I'm past that age

But this I can't do

In no time at all I would fall head down

Into the anthill that tears everything into pieces

People will bear anything

But they want to be treated seriously

THE EXECUTIONER'S TALE

The funniest are those who are astonished

They lived all those years in wickedness

They had enough time to understand some things

But now they are surprised:

What? I am to be skinned alive?

It is not possible that in a minute my eyes will be gauged out

Excuse me, is it me to be burned at the stake?

They are gobsmacked

They mumble something with eyes goggled out

Until

Suddenly they remember

the names of gods

false kings

sentences from books they didn't read

They shout till late at night

Banging at the walls of the torture ante-chamber

* * *

What a nice and wise bloke

really wise

not one of those smartasses

a globetrotter

who ate bread baked im many ovens

forbearing and polite

the whole anatomy of his face

showed a slight effort

of his mouth -

to talk to me more wisely and politely

of his eyes:

to listen to me with more attentiveness and understanding

yeah...

I really couldn't resist spitting in his face

LEARNING HOW TO WALK

I had so many difficulties

with overcoming laws of gravity

I thought that when in the end I stand on my own two feet

I would get some respect

but they punch me in the face

I don't know what's going on

I try heroically to keep myself upright

and I don't understand it at all

„You are stupid” some well wishers tell me (they are the worst racsals)

„in real life you have to crawl crawl”

so I lay myself down on my belly

with my bum cutely-stupidly sticking up

and I try

from the little sandal to the little shoe

from the little plimsoll to the little boot

I am learning how to walk on the world

SINGLE CELL BACTERIA

Children are nicer than the grown-ups

Animals are nicer than the children

You say that according to this logic

I will have to conclude

That the nicest of all is the single cell bacteria

so what

To me the single cell bacteria is nicer

Than you, you mother-fucker

A GAME

When you get bored with everything

Get yourself an angel and an old man

You play like this

You pull the man's leg so he smashes his face on the ground

The angel droops his head down

You give the old man five pence

The angel raises his head

You smash the old man's glasses with a stone

The angel droops his head

You free a seat in a bus for the old man

The angel raises his head

You pour the content of an chamber pot over the old man's head

The angel droops his head

You say to the old man „God bless you”

The angel raises his head

And so on

Afterwards you go to bed

In you dream you will see a little angel or a little devil

If it is a little angel – you'vr won

If it is a little devil – you -ve lost

If you have no dream at all

Draw

MY DAY

Early morning I run to the courts

To start with I offer my services

To the big bellied men and their expensive females

I straighten my suit, try to be charming, a bit silly

„Do you need a perjurer by any chance?”

Later owners of real estate

Deformed fauna of the middle class

I touch them confidentially like a waiter and whisper to the ear

„Do you need a perjurer by any chance?”

They puff with horror

Their beastliness appears in full view

Finally the rednecks

Peasants, country bumpkins

They came half dead, squashed

Squatting in a crowded bus

To sue a neighbour about acres

I catch them by their jackets and trumpet into their ears:

„Don't you need a perjurer, mate?”

When this fails

I drag myself to the reception

And till the evening play a backgammon

With my mate, the cop

Tomorrow will be better

I say to myself

well

tomorrow the sun will shine

HOPE

If we ever achieve what we aimed for

And all those suns that we grew in our flower-pots

Of our drawing-room discussions

And redneck minds

Will rise over the horizons

And we won't have to say that we are geniuses

Because others will say that

And the halos

Rainbow halos

... well, words cannot tell

Gentlemen, it we achieve that

Then we'll get pissed legless

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

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