Here are my poems in English and Polish.
It must feel good to see the world in technicolour. Mine has always been sketched with charcoal,
with occasional dun streaks and traces of mould in places. For long, I blamed myself for not being
a great drawing subject. After all, you cannot expect an artist to find inspiration in a boring shape.
But then it struck me that there is no such thing as my world but the world, and it has colours—only
I am colour-blind.
I always know when my next-door neighbour is watching a comedy or when the couples downstairs
have burned their Sunday dinner. On the ground floor, there is a rather odd man who lives in his car
instead of the flat and keeps the building door wide open and the floor wet when constantly washing
or repairing his equally strange old vehicle. I guess, for a poet, living in a multi-apartment building
could be a great source of observations on people’s habits, but I will not lie, it also annoys the hell
out of me sometimes. I just hope that talking to myself out loud at four in the morning while writing
does not get anyone on their feet. All in all, I seem to fit in quite well here.
For Elizabeth
I doubt myself every morning after I wake up and find I need another reason to get out of bed.
It was not always like this, but somewhere along the way, I lost my passion and limited myself
to simply staying alive. I have long since accepted that I am not going to be the sun, but now
I am slowly realising that even shining a reflected light in the depths of the night may be beyond
my reach. And I am actually fine with that. There is nothing wrong with being one of the pebbles
found on the river bank, as long as there is a warm hand to hold it.
We like to emphasise our uniqueness, but to tell the truth, we are all simple creatures of habit,
repeating the same mistakes over and over again, as if there really were nothing more important
than preventing ourselves from becoming unsubstantial, even if it is only through futile attempts
at growing ultra-long hair, or, as they call it, princess hair for her and bold six-pack abs for him.
And although lying prone on the bed makes it easier to choke down your screech with a soft gag
of the pillow, even that is just a matter of fashion.
We often say, I’m dying for this, or I’m dead serious about that, or even I would die
a thousand deaths before [something], not to mention the notorious dying of a broken
heart, but sooner or later death is going to be more than just another figure of speech.
Shadowing life like a stop-motion artist replacing figurines on a scene so that hardly
anyone notices frame skips, with a single casual stroke, it will stop you mid-sentence
for ever, regardless of whether you mind your words or not. But you could consider
those left behind.
Have you ever been to a pound shop?
I still remember, as if it were just yesterday,
my very first time in one.
It was right after I arrived in Scotland.
Imagine a recent immigrant, still without a job
and already on a very tight budget,
in a place where everything costs only a pound.
I found it an absolutely marvellous idea,
especially after discovering a well-stocked bookshelf.
Of course, I did not know a single word in English then,
so there was no chance of reading any of them,
but the mere fact that I could have some for the future
was enough, like a beacon of hope
that sooner or later everything would fall into place,
because where there are books,
there is home.
When not like a complete stranger, I usually look like someone’s colleague, often a neighbour,
sometimes even a father, but never like a husband or boyfriend, at least. How come, you ask?
Well, I tried once, but it turned out that looks can be deceptive, and the whole law of attraction,
if I ever believed in it, is nothing but a sedative. Of course, once tranquillized, I might make it
through another day. The problem is that being alive is not the same as living. So tell me, then,
what does that make me look like?
I have two desks at home, one for work and the other where the rest of my life takes place.
Coincidentally, the former is white, contrasting sharply with the near-blackness of the latter,
although I would not seek any particular meaning in that, and besides, both gather dust just
as quickly. But when I think about it, white really emphasises the futility of my nine-to-five,
while black goes well with the solitude of the remainder of the day. Perhaps there is meaning
in colours; I just missed the right palette.
Envy is a hard pill to swallow. Even a glass of summer rain does not help, although I try hard
to shower my conscience with its patter. There is always that distinct possibility that, by birth,
I am simply a bad person—if we follow the scriptures, of course, and overlook the simplistic
depiction. But I would rather reach for an umbrella and Wellington boots to survive one more
life outside your windows. After all, envy brought me here, so it cannot be that bad.
hidden pilcrow 