Here are my poems in English and Polish.
I have always been a man of few words. Even back in the day, as a journalist,
I preferred news over reportage. First, you clearly state the event, its location,
and the time frame. After that comes the purpose, and only then is the reason.
In the end, it turns out that life boils down to these five fundamental questions:
what, where, when, what for, and why, in that exact order. And yet somehow,
we are so fixated on the last two.
What if imagination is a decaying sense, only temporarily kept alive like a fading memory
of the letters I once wrote? For instance, the other day I was going through the laundry
and found in the inside pocket of my jacket an old coffee shop bill with a note on the back:
“Your lips have no eyes; my eyes have no lips—we are complementary entities.” I recall
that tingling feeling when we walked with cups, holding hands, unaware it was the last time
in a crowd where no one looked at us, and you liked it that way, regretting only that real life
has no soundtrack. Then, for a while, our hands practised irrelevant gestures to pass the time
between meals and sleeping hours. I know; I never asked why you decided to run into me.
You never asked why I left, either. Perhaps we were always just perfect strangers in disguise,
rehearsing another day of their drama on paper.
They say that with age comes wisdom. Perhaps, but how can I be certain?
What I do know for sure is that with age comes nocturia, high cholesterol,
and a bad temper, although in fact I was grumpy even before I got older.
Touch wood, I am mobile and keep up with my work. But I have also lost
my inclination to claim the source of all earthly goods that we endlessly
pursue. Because who needs cornucopia in the age of waste-defined plenty,
where even the ever-reinvented trinity of ubertas, veritas, and auctoritas
gravitates towards mockery?
Facing the future, I tend to drift towards the bygone predicament of the here and now,
as if the past were all that should concern me, yet I obsessively control each and every
passing moment as though a pocket watch I stole from my great-grandfather and carry
everywhere could keep them alive for a little longer. Then I wish there was more time,
often when it is too late for a little sleight of hand—the last trionfi card is already dealt.
One never sleeps with a corpse, maybe except for one’s own spouse
after twenty years of trite upheavals in the castle. But what got me there,
one might ask? That always-at-hand cliché of the great loves of my life,
I suppose: Audrey Hepburn, Marcello Mastroianni, Max Schreck—all
as dead as the celluloid that keeps them alive. At least I can still be a little
adventurous from time to time, although each film marathon eventually
becomes nothing more than an inconvenience. Probably like everything
else in life after a while. Perhaps that is why humanity’s greatest torment
is, in fact, boredom. No wonder that one has recently switched to voice
couching. Coital vocalisations are the latest challenge. Maybe unethical,
but how fulfilling! At least for now.
Have you ever been to an orgy? You bet I have, and it was epic.
Imagine ‘Stiffed’ ‘Homo Deus’ ravaging the rough space between
‘Being and Nothingness’ and the ‘Backlash’ aftermath when thick
‘Sex and Destiny’ marked ‘The Obstacle Race’ wearing nothing
but ‘The Madwoman’s Underclothes’ with ‘No Logo’. ‘Arguably,’
one might take this as an assault ‘On Certainty,’ but what is wrong
with a bit of reflective debauchery in ‘A Room of One’s Own?’
Window-shopping on Sunday afternoon was like adjectives attached to a noun when you say,
“This is beautiful,” so I could respond, “Nonsense, you are beautiful; this is just expensive.”
Then you hummed Come Away with Me, but the last time I touched your toes, they were cold,
and the bus left empty as you never wrote me that song. Only the rain has never let me down.
Not that I am being overly parsimonious,
but is not our alphabet somewhat extravagant?
Why not emulate the Rotokas’ twelve letters?
I am sure they can still construct the whole
of human knowledge out of them.
Reduced to a poem, to a world in terms of words, if only read like a distant memory
of the Lost Generation—witnesses of Verdun and the Somme—it can still shake off
the thoughts of cluster bombs and grain tanks hit by missiles in the port of Odessa.
But forced by the bare-chested madman to stop fantasising about the end of history,
the world may face the end of itself, ordered from a secret nuclear bunker in the name
of that same history.
hidden pilcrow 