Here are my poems in English and Polish.
In the comfort of an old cardigan, your world stretched
between Cassirer’s The Problem of Knowledge, The Avengers,
and a fridge singing its lullaby at night, all hidden behind curtains
when you watched your rotund neighbour cross the street.
I always wondered why you had never found it peculiar
that you felt sorry for him, but then you closed your eyes,
counted to ten, and moved away from the window
as if this were a way to apply kintsugi
to a soul.
Everyone has a need to matter, even if only for a little while,
and sometimes we can be oddly specific,
like when you mentioned a certain Morris Minor
parked on the corner of King Street and Merkland Road
while asking if I would look at you again in the morning.
Then you turned off the bedside lamp, so I couldn’t see you
wondering if this would sound different in French or Pirahã.
I guess melancholia is the word, but only if neither of us
is bold enough to point out the fact that we are both twisting
the meaning of repentance. Perhaps it’s not so much regret
for what we’ve done, or even fear of what might happen to us
because of it, as an attempt to feel something, anything
—anything at all.
Is being remembered really that important, you ask,
and yet the very fact that you wrote it down for others to read
belies its premise—and how long has it been since I lost
my innocent eyes that knew no doubt
whether to pursue the preoccupied with iambic metres
scattered across the yesterdays of enlightened fools
diving barefoot into the grass of the night lea?
You once told me that the intrepid look straight
and master all the right words, unlike us, the fickle.
We are a peculiar breed, creatures of timid vocabulary
who prefer an accidental graze, an answer cut off halfway,
and a picture taken with a wink. And we hardly ever cry,
but when we do, it’s probably because we missed the rain,
as if it all came down to the umbrella stuck in the rack.
I only chop onions when I’m blue, and it’s not a rainy day
to go for a walk without an umbrella. I am a man, after all,
even if no one expects me to keep up appearances anymore.
And I suppose belief in constellations was a hallmark of youth
until one night we looked up at the northern sky and realised
that even the closest stars were light years apart—without fear.
Life always seemed to be outside the realm of our expertise,
and as unrepentant as one can be, we thrived on the idea
that any seemingly genuine feeling other than all the anguish
that one could muster would turn out to be nothing but a façade,
so instead we have been collecting stains since time immemorial
and, ever eager for a gaze into the abyss, continue to do so.
But what’s most bizarre is that we truly intend to celebrate
our forlorn retirement as if we were mere spectators
in this panopticon.
What are the odds of getting one double-yolk egg,
let alone a whole box? One in a thousand, I read,
and yet the latter happened to me just the other day.
You have to admit, I must be one lucky bastard
or an unlucky one, depending on the superstitions
we follow. Speaking of which, I have always wondered
why blue is considered better than red and white imposes
its supposed supremacy over black, brown, and yellow.
After all, in the game of colours, nothing lasts but the dire
shades of pale.
The shadows outside my bedroom wear names other than mine,
but at least we still share the sentiment of having one.
Also, we all measure time, although I’m not particularly fond
of manipulating it, even if only twice a year.
The shadows outside my bedroom are keen on collecting proverbs,
as they look good pinned in a display box on the wall.
Well, as long as guests don’t mind the smell of naphthalene
and glossy reddish-brown stains on the pinning stage.
The shadows outside my bedroom preach kinship with the sun
yet practice fluttering around the glowing, coiled filament of tungsten
I come from. Sometimes I wonder if, behind closed curtains,
they simply cease to exist.
Nothing is real but reality in a watercolour
fog washed with the secretions of the graveyard
shift, like the yawner’s mention of a scarlet dawn.
Is it the fool moon mocking the street lamps
with reflected light that holds terror for one,
or is it the crunch of pebbles with each tired step?
And while the outline of meals has long lost its meaning,
they are still necessary to keep up appearances.
After all, any of them could be supper.
In the river of yellow umbrellas,
the rain swims with frantic crawls,
as if plotting wet shoulders were barely enough.
But even if the sky forgives the reflection
and the wind forgets the manner,
once they learn that forever has a pretty short shelf life,
they will realise all that’s left is to count
the grains of sand stolen from an hourglass
and be cautious.
hidden pilcrow 