Here are my poems in English and Polish.
Time measured by worn shirt collars and holes in socks,
or by glyphs drawn haphazardly by seagulls on windows
to be washed away by rain eventually, or by the varying
intensity and amplitude of pain in an arm—is it truly all
but nothing? After all, if I learned anything over time,
it was to appreciate a piece of home-made flatbread
with Moroccan-style hummus and black or green olives,
spiced with Sir Roger’s complaints about nightingales
and strumpets at Spring Garden.
Love is not a word—it’s an acronym,
but you will never learn what it stands for
until one day a man in a horsehair wig asks you
for its cash equivalent transfer value, or CETV,
and a few other lovely abbreviations.
I used to say that I’m never bored
because I share my time with a very interesting person
—myself. But lately, I’ve come to the conclusion
that I’m not that interesting after all.
Could this be why I so envy the bumblebees
bouncing off the linden blossoms outside the window?
Why cling to life if it’s such a hassle?
You have to take care of all the daily necessities
just to keep your body in shape, let alone your boredom-prone mind.
And then there is everything you crave—and often feel entitled to
as a creature of scripture—and what’s expected of you.
But whether you are Anton de Franckenpoint or Richebourg,
or the triumphant general in his quadriga or the auriga whispering in his ear,
you can count on nothing but two dates and perhaps a commemorative inscription
on your tombstone. Why then?
I doubt my parents asked that question that night, but five decades later,
I’m still looking for the answer.
If every sexually transmitted disease is a cause for shame,
why aren’t we ashamed of the deadliest of them all—life?
It has its moments—that’s true—but above all, it is a fight
against the daily dose of monotony. Sooner or later, we fall
for it—that if we learn the alphabet, then the highway code,
and follow the laid-out path, putting on a front, we will find
time to buy a ticket to bliss—only to get on the wrong train.
Tinker Bell tried to convince Peter that there was more to life
than peeking at public displays of affection, the disappointed
voice on an answering machine, or moments of happiness
scheduled for every other Sunday by court order.
She couldn’t stand the sight of him lying under the plastic fir,
whistling carols—for heaven’s sake, it’s June!—and wailing
that he could no longer remember a time when he was fearless.
Who said that one could only forget things that one once had?
Tinker Bell tried to be patient with him—even admitting that
they needed each other—but in the end, it proved too exhausting.
But before she left, she marked on his calendar the end
of mourning—one more arbitrary deadline he would never meet.
‘Pain doesn’t kill.’ ‘I know that, you daft prick—its cause does; it might.’ I thought
I was used to it—it’s been three years, after all—but lately it has gotten worse,
waking me up too early in the morning—which in itself is a real pain
because how can I get through the day on too little sleep?—and restricting my movements.
Yet, I do nothing about it because going to the doctor seems like a hassle I’d rather avoid,
and I hate pills.
It’s not like I suddenly discovered some hitherto latent adoration for the Book of Job
or awakened masochistic tendencies, though I suspect the almighty geezer,
who, it turns out, lived in an apartment in Brussels, would love that. On second thought,
he wouldn’t—where’s the fun when the tormented get pleasure from the ordeal? In reality,
it’s probably about energy conservation and the fact that I’ve already produced offspring,
or I’m just lazy.
My name is Adam, son of Adam,
son of Adam, son of… you get the idea—and this whole litany
is just to soothe some pesky qualms of questionable origin.
Wouldn’t it be easier to simply mention Eve?
After all, he was nothing but an accidental sperm donor.
If it were up to him, they would still be stuck
in that sterile confinement.
I woke up at five in the morning. It’s way too early,
but I can’t get back to sleep—it’s so goddamn bright.
Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough, or I should buy
thicker curtains. But isn’t it ironic how simple it sounds
when I preach something like this to my kids? I guess
that’s how he would have felt if it weren’t for the bottle.
I wonder what their excuse is going to be.
hidden pilcrow 