Maciej Rembarz (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Maciej Rembarz (pron. Machei Rembazh) was born and brought up in Poznan, he studied Polish literature at the university there; Stanislaw Baranczak was his teacher. Rembarz never finished his studies and led a colourful life working in various places, including as a teacher at various schools, looking after exotic fish in a zoo, writing slogans for an advertising company, for some time he had a farm with 300 sheep, a couple of years he spent in prison. Now he lives deep in Puszcza Notecka forest tending his goat.

I have to admit that in this case I have done more to make him known than just write English version of his poems. As it happens I know Maciej Rembarz quite well and have known for a long time that he claimed to be a poet. However, he wrote those poems on scraps of paper and never tried to publish them. Once I got hold of those scraps and sent them to my friend who at the time was the editor of "Czas Kultury" literary magazine. The poems were published there in 1992 and after that several books of poems followed. Well known he is not but certainly more than he would be if he just carried on writing on scraps.

MACIEJ REMBARZ LOOKS FOR THE LOST SHEEP,
BEING LOST HIMSELF
He emerged from the falling fog
holding fast to its fleece.
He heads towards the sheepsty
carried by the animal,
which every now and again kneels down.
Hooves every so often knock
on the field stones in the rhythm:
Alleluia
Alleluia



IN "HUNTER'S BAR" (MIEDZICHOWO)
MACIEJ REMBARZ TALKS TO LUBIK
You dig for all in the parish.
You take "for a hole" (as you say) seven grand.
It's too dear for me.
Anyway, who likes to pay too much
in such a friable and delicate matter ?
I wouldn't feel good in a grave dug
by a dog.
In you only the bicycle and the hat are human.
I’m never sure whether you haven’t come in my case.
I know, your war pension is low, few zlotys;
but thanks to it you can wait.
You can wait for each one of us.
Well, somebody's got to do it,
but why it has to be you ?
Face wet with someone else's tears,
spitting in your dry hands...
Fuck off, Lubik, keep
your dirty hands away from me
and don't slap my back either now or ever.
Remember, Lubik: never.

Prayer:
Don't take away his hope, o Lord.



MACIEJ REMBARZ TALKS TO A WOMAN WHO, AFTER AN ABORTION PERFORMED WITH A TABLE SPOON, ENDED UP AT THE WARD 19C OBRZYCE
It is Sunday and I with you
The blessing URBI AND ORBI
Should rest upon you
to you upon you.
You are the city and the world of misery,
Madonna with teeth knocked out.
I know, you couldn't bear the breath of
eternal humility.
Please, sleep.
Sleep, I beg you, don't press your knees
against this cold floor.
After all you gave birth to me.



MACIEJ REMBARZ, TOGETHER WITH HIS DAUGHTER,
SAYS THE EVENING PRAYER
From her mouth he reads the image
of prayer; rustling with his crumpled
lips he repeats forgotten
hopes.

My litany: a plea
Let her prayer be like a kite
O Lord.



MACIEJ REMBARZ WRITES TO A MIRROR
HAVING FALLEN INTO A TERRIBLE ADDICTION
OF FAITH IN THE CALLING OF THE WORD
He moves beads
of hope
between his fingers
asking
for hope
or
rejection.
Wooden tears of the Rosary
burn his face
wash his lips.

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

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

Marzanna Bogumiła Kielar (poetry from Poland cycle)

 

Marzanna Bogumila Kielar (pron. Mazhanna Bogoomeelah Kyelar) was born and brought up in a little town in the North-East of Poland. The countryside there is full of lakes and forests and images of this landscape appear in her poetry. She made her début in the “Czas Kultury” magazine in 1992. She teaches philosophy at the university of Warsaw.

FORECAST

Hunting scenes and beggar scenes, love scenes,

war panoramas, grouse courting fields,

racecourses, fashion houses, menageries, machine parks

glowing cities moored in the docks of night

the radiance that is being freed from freezing fumes, tearing itself from the depth

when the ceiling of clouds over the sea lifts slightly and the sky.

with rugged gulfs and straits,

flows around the cumulus clouds –

all this will be consumed by fire.

It won’t even turn into a script of shards and bones.

Waters will evaporate. Froth of clouds and mountains,

alternation of deaths and resurrections, all will flee

and the wild, joyful soul of the world won’t form inclusions

under the sand blown in. In bogs,

river deltas, swamps, asphalt, amber.

Roots, undercut, will die at their posts, pumping life

into full blown buds of days.

And the earth will disappear in the throat of emptiness

like a speckled egg found in a shallow hole in time

lined with grass.

O fire, who knowest everything

what permafrost will be covered by this ash,

this bone-deep blackness.

 * * *

How will you die, O bright day, so attached to yourself, with the sun

between the pine-needles, with this

bright light in the back mirrors of my car

as I am driving into a forest road, with the reddening ball

above the darkened, ploughed-over earth

beyond the ponds, over the furrow sensitive to the touch of feet.

When the wind opens the sky – and there are no footprints

in the treetops. O day –

with a yellowing nettle on a footpath leading down

to the water, with a heedless gnat sitting on my wrist

- will I die? So attached to you

and to the night, to love. The sky like a log stripped of bark

pressed into the turf of hills.

Below it a rugged leaves of sorrel are crowded in a wet bunch.

My gaze clings to the cloud, its greyness – its upturned

burning edge.

HAWK

fabric of water crumpled by cold wind, dark blue, heavy,

torn apart; sudden flutter of wings

far from shore – the lake glitters in sunshine

like a steel blade

blood, materia prima. Combs blindly

the depth that fills it

chokes it

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

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