Here are my poems in English and Polish.
Why can I not be C.C. Baxter, Paul Varjak, or even Harry Burns
(but not Phil Connors—I find Rita annoying)? Where is my turn
for a game of gin rummy and Moon River listened to on the fire
escape? I guess it all boils down to managing one’s expectations
since life is not a romcom; you could hardly call it drama, either.
It is more like a whole slew of footage that did not make the cut.
CCTV footage, I mean. But you know what? At least this time
it is you who holds the scissors.
For Stacey
A sudden rain washed the life out of a tree outside my window and stopped as soon as it started
mocking the rainbow. Separated by thick glass, I thought that even if I had no inclination to spit
from a height into the dirty current in the street, unable to reflect any of the ephemeral colours,
I would go rafting to mourn the will-o’-the-wisp and all my fallen brethren, weakened by a lack
of viands, only to discover that a spoonful of breadcrumbs from a percipient baker can nourish
better than a whole cake.
If you roam around your place in nothing but an oversized white tuxedo sleep shirt
while holding a crystal goblet full of milk, you are my kind of girl—or everyone’s,
I suppose. I may even skip a ‘decorator’ as an excuse to meet you. Also, I am a writer,
just so you know—well, a poet, but a real one, and fortunately, not having a ribbon
in a typewriter is no longer an issue. Just please do not water my plants with whisky.
And yes, we are friends. We will be, even when one day, long after we find a ring
in a box of Cracker Jack and a name for the cat, instead of Fred, you start calling me
Doc.
With my mouth open, I doze in a garden chair, trying to warm my bones
in the Sunday morning sun. Is this the first sign of ageing—the chilling
fact that I am freezing in August? I know that this is the north of Scotland,
but still. And with all due respect, I am only slowly approaching my fifties,
not my nineties. I am nothing like all the elderly folks passing by my place
on the way to the nearby church. To be honest, they somehow seem more
alive.
Sometimes I wonder, Who am I writing for? If for myself, why would I bother
showing these words to the public in the first place? However, if all the hassle
is for your sake, then I crave nothing but to meet you in the comments section,
or better yet, to revive the long-forgotten art of letter writing. On second thought,
perhaps I should watch what I wish for, because if the old tease Socrates was right
about me, once engaged in such an endeavour, I will most likely reveal how much
out of my depth I am. Thus, I am asking you, my devoted reader, are you ready
to be disappointed?
I found ‘The Help’ in the cheapest DVD section of my favourite second-hand film shop,
and the strange thing was not the place, not even the price, but that the disc was in perfect
condition, as if no one had ever touched it, not once, while all the other DVDs I bought
had typical signs of wear. It is not like I was complaining about buying what is basically
a new disc with a great film for pennies. Call me a snob, but standing in front of the shelf,
I was having trouble understanding how someone let it out of their hands in the first place.
Only back at home did I find many critical voices of African-Americans accusing the film
and the book it is based on of trivialising systemic racism during the 1960s in America.
What is more, some of the leading cast members even expressed regret for taking part in it.
There were words like betrayal, the Magical Negro character, and the white saviour trope.
After all this, I still decided to keep this film in my collection. As imperfect as it might be,
it taught me something, albeit indirectly, and even if only for that reason, it is worth having.
In moments of distress, I find myself asking trivial questions, answers to which I can simply
disregard without any harm, so stop holding me accountable for every forgotten conversation
on some twopenny-halfpenny matters you deem important by the mere fact of your presence,
because if life happens to be the last sentiment I like to pursue, I would rather be the swimmer
from the Portrait of an Artist, an incidental faceless body still more alive than the pink jacket
at the edge of the pool—that quite handsome foreground hero, yet known only by association.
And although a lost cause, you could at least appreciate that there is an irresistible charm
to bystanders—the background figures of the elevated posture.
If dirt can kill you, so can a life that is sterile. But, to be honest, I have never really been afraid
of death, and I can only repeat after a sage: why should I? What terrifies me is the act of dying,
where the pain—which only eases a little with a dose of morphine—takes away the last vestiges
of dignity. It happened to my father, so it makes me think about what my end will be. Perhaps
eating a slice of honeydew melon while writing these lines is not exactly the height of decorum
and profundity, but the magpie squawking on my windowsill does not mind either. We are both
creatures of casual transience.
I can remember words I read only for a little while, so I keep the most treasured pages close.
This way, I can read them again whenever I so desire. But every now and then I ask myself,
Why have I learned how to read in the first place? And, most importantly, why have I learned
how to write? To manoeuvre more shrewdly through all the tedious little dramas of ours?
I know there were times when imagination was a threat. The visionary was nothing but a regular
at the asylum, or even better, burned at the stakes. I am not that stubborn; you can bet on it.
But ever since the winter of my birth passed, I have been looking forward to seeing another
one—the one perceived as a betrayal. Betrayal of what?
hidden pilcrow 