Here are my poems in English and Polish.
It is truly baffling how easily we forgive a young, beautiful woman pretty much anything.
No matter how you look at it, it is unfair to her less appealing sisters that she can get away
even with a ridiculous hat that looks like a lampshade as long as she asks with an innocent
smile, So how do I look? And you can never be sure what, in her opinion, constitutes cute
or gross, for that matter, until you realise that in all her splendour she has also got nothing
but a crooked mirror.
When I was a little boy, the priest in the catechism lessons admonished us to remember
to do good deeds. We should have done at least one a day. I wonder if feeding the flies
I caught to the two spiders residing in my bathroom counts as such—double, actually,
if you look at it economically. I guess it should, at least from the spider’s perspective.
But before you accuse me of mockery, we should love every creature, should we not?
And is a spider not also your god’s creation? Since I cannot stand flies, it is only natural
to support their predators. As they say, an enemy of your enemy is your friend, and you
should always take care of friends and family. And do not give me that look. I know I am
supposed to love my enemies, but since I am no longer a believer, well, I can always ask,
Why are spiders not vegetarians then? Or, even more, why is feeding required in the first
place? After all, even plants are living creatures.
I hope you do not mind becoming a muse, as nothing more than an occasional verse
will ever come out of that. No expectations, no strings attached; your pure existence
three thousand miles or so away is all it takes. And even if, by sheer chance, we meet
somewhere, we can always avail ourselves of some small talk. I hope you do not mind
becoming just one more moment of reflection.
For Makenna
An ocean and three decades apart, how pathetic can a heart be
to change its beat for a blooming wit? Has it learned nothing
from Molière’s old geezer about what awaits a risible suitor?
Perhaps the Harpagons of yore really are my only brethren
in this old conundrum, but for what it is worth, I can always
share a verse about it.
Some claim they are half-full-glass kind of people; others say they are half-empty.
Me neither, as I already drank the liqueur and smashed the glass, and all that is left
is to pee, pray, and go to sleep. Perhaps the proverb holds true, but only if you play
by its rules.
While life is still in technicolour, I like watching it in the sharper contrast of a black-and-white
motion picture. And so you can imagine my irritation when I see on the silver screen a pale, flat
palette of colours instead. Where does this strange trend come from, and why? There is a saying
where I come from that better is the enemy of good, which basically means if you start messing
with something that is already fine, you will ruin it. I cannot argue with that after seeing Scarlet
Street colourised. I just hope they never touch Nosferatu.
My first child was never born—the foetus failed to develop a heart and died.
The doctor assured us that we had nothing to worry about because, in the first
pregnancy, such things happen often—kind of a false start—and the next one
will be perfectly fine for sure. What really struck me then was the discrepancy
in the language. I guess the child occupied the parental realm of the possible,
while the foetus was the clay-cold reality of medicine.
If you have ever wondered what life would look like with a poet, take me as an example.
You can count on a walk along the Victoria Road and across the golf course to the lighthouse,
where you have a chance to spot a flock of house sparrows along the way and, if you are lucky,
even a curious fox, but not on a holiday in Sicily or a weekend in Málaga. I will also be more
inclined to write you a verse or two than a cheque, and if I happen to remember your birthday,
you will get Camus rather than Versace, likely purchased as a gift aid at Oxfam on Back Wynd.
Of course, evenings on the sofa with a book or a black-and-white film can be taken for granted.
Perhaps none of that has anything to do with poetry and is just me being, well, me. No wonder
I spend my days in solitude.
Bread-making came to me out of necessity rather than some newly discovered passion
for baking when I found that the daily loaf was slowly ravaging my guts and its pricey
replacement tasted more like a piece of cardboard—not that I ever tried it, but I imagine
the sensation would be similar—than anything even remotely resembling my favourite
multigrain. Years of experimenting gave me something quite likeable—a bit heavy, more
on the chewy end like pumpernickel, with an intense aroma and spicy aftertaste. I guess
even an illness can do you some good sometimes.
hidden pilcrow 