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Mirka Szychowiak • Katarzyna Zwolska-Płusa • Daniel Odija • Joanna Fligiel • Małgorzata Południak • Rafał Gawin • Ka Klakla • Wioletta Ciesielska-Pawlak • Elżbieta Lipińska • Paweł Biliński • Łucja Dudzińska • Joanna Wicherkiewicz • Radosław Wiśniewski • Romana Cegielna-Szczuraszek • Dominika Lewicka-Klucznik • Izabela Fietkiewicz-Paszek
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I would like to thank Anna Blasiak for the huge amount of work she has put into, and consummate care she has taken over, this comprehensive selection of contemporary Polish poetry. [Editor]
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Introduction
The below is a very subjective selection of new(ish) poetry from Poland, poets whose writing excites me personally so much that I jumped at the opportunity given by The High Window editor, David Cooke, to introduce these poets to the English-language reader. I have on purpose omitted those who have already been translated and published in English, attempting to bring to the fore those who so far had not have much of a chance to inhabit this language. There are some very established poets on my list and some perhaps a bit less-known, but, I would argue, well deserving the attention. And this is by no means an exhaustive list. I struggled whittling it down and still ended up with a list substantially longer than what David had initially suggested. But I thought smaller samples of writing from a larger number of poets might be a better solution here – presenting more diversity of voices, styles and themes. [AB]
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The Translator
Anna Blasiak is a poet, translator and managing editor of the European Literature Network. She has published two bilingual poetry and photography books (with Lisa Kalloo) and a book-length interview. Her translation of Maciej Hen’s According to Her was shortlisted for the EBRD Literature Prize in 2023. Her translation of Radosław Wiśniewski’s Psalm to Saint Sabina recently won the inaugural Trafika Europe’s Andrew Singer Prize for Verse. Anna regularly reviews books in translation for the ELN, where she also runs a monthly poetry column Poetry Travels and a blog devoted to Polish literature The Polka. She is one of the editors of Babiniec Literacki.
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Mirka Szychowiak: Three Poems
(photo by Janusz Wilkoński)
SHE IS NOT THE ONLY ONE
She will be comfortable here – they will bring her food, change
her bedlinen. She will tell them she would like to eat some good
ice cream, surely somebody will get it, no sulking or tips needed.
She’s only here temporarily – she needed a break from the empty,
widowed house. She had dreams there in which
she could see faceless people chasing her all the time.
Dreams come and go, but fear stays for longer.
Why am I so old? It all went too quickly –
eyes are the worst, but the head
is still pretty good. Too good, unfortunately.
Today she pours her heart out to the woman from
the opposite room: I dream about dementia more and more.
That’s when you only remember the past
and I have lots to remember. I would be happier.
Poor her, she would like to set the end of her life
so that she doesn’t know it’s now.
TOO FAST
Will you be a good father for our children?
We don’t need children. Her face turned ashen,
eyes flooded with darkness – he understood straightaway
that she struck him out of her life for good.
She didn’t have time to forgive me, because she died before
I changed my mind. How can I tell her about it?
He starts moping and I even feel a bit sorry for him,
he was too quick with this childlessness of his. Perhaps
he craved their nights together for as long as possible.
Just for himself? He left her out in his dreams,
and now he’s crying that it’s all his fault.
VENDETTA
I nurse several vendettas inside me that I will never
carry out. Those ferocious ones scare me
the most, they contain so much suffering,
blood flows. At night I start getting even
freely, but when IT is about to happen,
I turn the lights on. No scars or wrongdoing
I will never forget can turn me
into a bad person, worse than I am.
Is it weakness? Maybe, maybe not – I think
of things that time wanted to wipe out, but I still
feel pain, because some things didn’t heal
and I have to live with it. Memory is supposed to be
a treasure, but it can also be cruel, intrusive, it can take
breath away. Not everything you want to remember.
I wait for the day my head is free of
the almost-rapist from Krzyki in Wrocław,
the almost-rapist in a cassock, the bald paedophile
or the panting man in dark polyamide
exposing himself in front of the underage girl.
I wish I didn’t carry this in me, I wish these images
didn’t live in me and memory didn’t paint them still
anew. There is less and less space for beauty
and less strength for vendetta.
from Poza zasięgiem, 2024 (Wydawnictwo Anagram) – permission granted by the poet. Translations commissioned and supported by the Book Institute in Poland
Mirka Szychowiak is a poet and prose writer, author of nine poetry books and a short story collection, nominated, among others, to the Nike Literary Award for her volume Jeszcze się tu pokręcę (2010) and the Wisława Szymborska Award for Uwaga, obiekt monitorowany (2020). In 2015 she was the finalist in the International Short Story Festival.
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Katarzyna Zwolska-Płusa: Two Poems
A MIRACLE AND AN ANOMALY
when she was eight it became clear and it became the word
that children’s bodies may be abused.
when she was thirteen her thigh could be gripped
with one hand. her own hand, picked clean like a bone.
when she was twenty, her body fell apart
and never came back together. It became clear and it became the word
that women’s bodies may be abused,
that a body is obedient when it is hungry
and that it can be frozen like meat.
when she was twenty five she found out
that a baby inside a woman does not always equal pregnancy.
at the age of thirty she has red lips and a nappy
a daughter and rheumatism. She has everything.
YOU KNOW WHO I AM WITHOUT LOOKING
I’ve discovered it during the morning round
along the corridor of veins and how ridiculous
red is under blue where what is solid and fragile
hides the sense of fluid circulation
today I let it hurt when three layers are put together
into three layers when from underneath the ironed
skin comes out the irregularity of character
and swims towards you
from Cud i anomalia, 2017 (KIT Stowarzyszenie Żywych Poetów) – permission granted by the publisher
Katarzyna Zwolska-Płusa is a writer, poet, psychotherapist and academic teacher. She published two prose books and four volumes of poetry, most recently Daję wam to w częściach (2021) which was shortlisted for the Wrocław Silesius Poetry Award. She teaches Polish language and literature, and is on board of the Girls on the Spectrum Foundation.
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Daniel Odija: Four Poems
(photo by Iwona Lompart)
A CAT
darts under a parked car
eyes shimmering in the dark
gap of the chassis
it watches the movements of legs and wheels
lurks waiting for the right moment
to scamper further
beyond this time
beyond this place
where it isn’t
BUT AFTER THE WAR
said a boy to a girl
snuggled on a sofa in a café
in a country that’s not theirs which is theirs now
because where they used to live you can’t live anymore
SPRING SNOWSTORM
since we are
of water
then every flake
of drifting snow
is a human being
melting
on a face
turned towards the sky
DAILY RITUALS
it’s not about brushing your teeth
drinking coffee always at the same time
relaxation exercises
or leaving and coming back
but about bog standard falling asleep
and waking up in safety
that’s what’s absent
during the war
from ale, 2024 (Wydawnictwo Warstwy) – permission granted by the poet
Daniel Odija is a fiction writer, playwright, poet, author of commentaries to documentary films and scripts for graphic novels. His works include two collections of short stories, five novels, a poetry collection ale (2024) and a tetralogy of graphic novels (together with Wojciech Stefaniec). He won numerous awards and was twice nominated to the Nike, Poland’s most prestigious literary prize. His fiction has been translated into over a dozen different languages. Stolp and Rita, first and second volumes of the graphic novel tetralogy, were translated into Dutch. English-language extract from Stolp (in Anna Blasiak’s translation) was shortlisted for the Trafika Europe’s Prize for Prose.
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Joanna Fligiel: Three Poems
THIS IS LOVE
This is Klara. In seventh grade she was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Today she looks like an old woman. She smiles at me.
Says I look like one girl from her primary school. The boys locked themselves
in a room with that girl and she had to flee through the window.
Klara can’t know. When I was fleeing, she was
hospitalised. I think that maybe Klara is God.
This is Marek. Marek is blind. As a kid he caressed flower petals
with the tips of his fingers and called them by their Latin names. Today
he is a gardener. He smiles at me. He smiles at Klara.
Says she smells like Matthiola longipetala. I can smell the pleasant
aroma of Evening Stock. It emanates with Klara’s every move,
just after Marek has touched her hand to say Good Morning.
I think that maybe Marek is God.
I WAS BORN
in nineteen sixty eight, against nature.
Mom lost weight before giving birth, even though
Grandma took care of her like she had done of her mother
after her return from Ravensbrück. They looked alike:
with swollen bellies, faces covered
in spots. Then God wanted me to die again,
but the female doctor put me into a tub of cold water
and the fever only evolved into an ear infection.
Tired with pain I sat in Dad’s lap,
but it was me who tipped boiling water on myself.
As a token of remembrance a photograph was taken of a little
pouting face and bandaged
limbs. I am in that photo. I am also in
several others, sad ones, hidden
in a red box behind the books.
Since I started taking pictures myself, I smile.
There is nothing more deceptive than a smile.
I think to myself that if I manage to trick you, I will manage
to save myself.
MEDDINGYNIAETH
I often wonder what made me
come to you exactly.
I can be vain, so perhaps vanity,
as you were indeed very pretty.
Dad on the other hand was always unhinged,
so I had to be courageous too.
Some lost soul in the golden colour
of vanity and red of courage.
Two colours that I never wear today.
from Rubato, 2018 (KIT Stowarzyszenie Żywych Poetów) – permission granted by the publisher
Joanna Fligiel is a poet, the founder and editor of Babiniec Literacki. Born in Katowice, raised in a tuberculosis sanatorium in Bystra near Bielsko, she lives in Bielsko-Biała in Poland and in Neuss and Bengel in Germany, constantly traveling between her three homes. She has published three volumes of poetry, most recently Rubato (2018).
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Małgorzata Południak: Three Poems
(graphic with self portrait)
A FISSURE
I was lost in thought at this point.
Not because somebody had died,
or because of dragonflies’ shimmering wings.
It’s trivial anyway,
like a red-haired beauty wearing lipstick
or the absolute pitch.
Digging peat on the heath.
I get confused when I think of friends’ loyalty.
It’s this moment when something grated and disappeared. On the spot.
I saw birds, barely alive, and dry gingko leaves.
Several deep breaths. Something moved in the tall grasses,
in the reeds, in me. I knew that one day I would be left on my own
in the middle of the island. Glistening drops, wet stones, dolmens.
You have what you dreamed of. A sharp smell of the soap store,
a sweet one from the chocolate factory.
Incredible that I had to believe in that.
I remember it rolling into a metaphor. Then unfolding and drowning
in the ocean. Is there something wrong with me
that I wonder about it?!
ON THE FIFTEENTH PAGE OF
KEROUAC’S ON THE ROAD
I FOUND A CARD OF THE PURPLE INK TATTOO PARLOUR
I had to look against the light,
at the pattern on the mustard yellow linen curtains.
We drank at an even pace, but I was the first to look
for a cushion and a place to rest.
One faint lamp in the street. I don’t know if it was needed
on such a warm, bright night. Children switch from
English to Polish when they don’t want to be
understood, they dissolve into laughter. I can just lie there
and listen to their antics. Their resonant rustling.
They end the day. Several side roads in the valley
start in bars where fathers tell their
jokes. Then they go back, their knees buckling,
wind making noise. Dark contours of the passing cars.
One day somebody will stop and get out.
Walk past the bog, pay the children for the lemonade.
At the same moment you will feel a sting. And another one, and another.
Ink will spread under the skin.
Nausea from repeated moves, from piercing.
Nobody yearns for death, but the thought
returns at times. Jazz and the heavenly view over the fields. Purple sky
spilling over from behind the hill. Sheep munching on grass,
steamed up windows. One day you will say it’s the best
sunset picture. I’ll invite you in.
Several times.
IT’S ALWAYS RISKY WHEN WE DECIDE TO LIVE
We untie relationships, shoe laces, ribbons,
summer dresses, hill tops. Trails leading down,
problems, which we want to forget about
before they lift up in the neighbours’ eyes
to leave home in peace. Sometimes we run
ahead or stop in the wind, we sway
in the rhythm of grains, next to falling leaves.
In the grass, the smell of pastures, of peat which I recognise
even though it hasn’t been many years
since I started living at the end of the street and I never tried
to get further out, further to the west. In the new era of nothing.
In the dug out ancestors’ tongue sometimes I don’t understand
a word, but I see trust and disappearing secrets.
The order in which people go out and lose their waistlines.
On the banks of marshes, in the sludge of rainy days, the earth closes up.
The shoreline disappears, the light. Secluded hiding places, dens, blurry
ownership. Renewed grudges, competitiveness.
This means that we won’t notice the little spot on the inside,
swelling thoughts, time and space.
Where do you exist if I can’t recognise the road?
We don’t need to explain letters, intentions and smells to each other.
It annoys you, like the mystery of death. Pop-up windows,
obstacles. It’s strange that you don’t know much about food and drink,
since you stir my appetite. You wait for me to name the curiosity,
the fear and the world which – not in my way – circles
around devices and some trifle.
Translated by the Author and Anna Blasiak
from Podróżowanie w przestrzeni, 2021 (Wydawnictwo FORMA) – permission granted by the poet
Małgorzata Południak is a designer, visual artist, columnist for eleWator and poet. She has published six poetry collections: Czekając na Malinę (2012), Liczby Nieparzyste (2014), Mullaghmore (2016), Pierwsze wspomnienie wielkiego głodu (2017), Podróżowanie w przestrzeni (2021) and Pierwszy milion nocy (2024).
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Rafał Gawin: Three Poems
(photo by Karolina Kot)
AGAINST BAOBAB TREES. THE CANCEL CULTURE
‘I think a religious experience is a very risky thing,
as it can rapidly destroy the brain’. Marvin Minsky
*
Last time I had a dream,
I woke up crying.
Only emptiness from then on.
THE ROJAVA SYNDROME
‘And if they sway towards peace,
then you do the same and have trust in God’. Sura Al-Anfal
the only thing that will save us is the dot
at the end of the exclamation mark
the rest is disappearing in the dark
the rest is disappearing in the dark
the rest is disappearing in the dark
THE WHITE PROTEST
For the dog, Andrzej Strąk’s leg and other leaders of settling down
I am ill so I have nothing
to blame myself for. Emptiness. I don’t eat often
but heartily. Fog. I crawl
a little bit, but it was my own choice
(emptiness) before the war broke out
(fog), before I left for bed.
Snow. I’m on duty every day
so as not to miss the end
(snow).
from Oferta bezzwrotna, 2024 (Wydawnictwo J) – permission granted by the poet
Rafał Gawin is a poet, reviewer, editor, proofreader, publisher. He published five poetry collections, most recently Oferta bezzwrotna (2024) and two long poems, recently Zdania bez wypadku i żadnego trybu (2024). His work has been translated into Ukrainian, Bengali, Bulgarian, Kurdish, German, Romanian, Slovenian, Hungarian and Italian. He lives in Łódź and works for the local Literature House.
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Ka Klakla: Three Poems
(photo by Marek Jaczyński)
DEPENDENCE DAY
unchosen second sons we wait
ploughing unpromised land in the surplus
of rain and fog
we leave rusty furrows plots
we beg for fatherly looks hungry
for merits eager in delivering punishment
damp forces itself into pockets it gunks
the hair washes colour and faces out
crawls into walls wardrobe and bed we hide
our bodies in daytime and at night we speak
with a harsh accent making sure the droplets
don’t soften our words
our hearts devoid of sun
shrivel cold go our eyes staring into dirt floor
into cheap shoes lowered foreheads
within the four walls we enclose
our singing and dancing laughter and tears
anger and love rhythms swaying with sadness
dances are tight and separate and monotonous
songs resemble stagnant water they permeate
cottages’ beams and fill the attics
jealous of the firstborns disappointed with our own
we keep cleaning the rust off the iron we take hemp cloth apart
to whiten and redden the grey canvas
HARVEST
in the name of the father and the son
we burnt our forests in the south the north
the east the west cindery green
stained the blue soiled the clouds what’s left
is only four winds one stronger than the next
infuriated they scatter ash on our heads
so that we could finally disappear into thin air
like a stone thrown down the well autumn winter will be taken from us
and spring instead there will be summer and summer and year-long
hunting season we will tan to the skin and bone
crying for rain
in the name of the mother and the daughter
BAMBI
(book of genesis 1.28)
from your protection I would fly oh holy
tormenter of mine a bow of red
in your hair a drop of fear in your eyes
human smell of the annunciated death
my petitions you usually despise
in my necessities and from all
dangers you never deliver
from the instagram pulpit followed
and commanded the communion of thrill
it would be simpler
if you were a wolf to me
from Żałoba po kocie, 2020 (Fundacja Duży Format) – permission granted by the poet
Ka Klakla is a writer, architect, designer, illustrator, photographer; a feminist and a rebel from Kraków. She writers poetry and prose, of literary and everyday variety. She published two poetry collections and two prose books. Her work also appeared in magazines, Internet portals and anthologies.
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Wioletta Ciesielska-Pawlak: Three Poems
AT THE SECOND COMING
he could not walk on water, had holes in his feet.
they didn’t believe, laughed that he was drowning.
at the bottom he hummed lullabies to whales,
wanting to convince one to swallow him.
he multiplied fish feed.
caused a scandal when he turned water into wine.
delayed by another five minutes, he is standing at the depot.
the tracks nicked by crackpots equipped with wheelbarrows.
crows’ feet leaving a trace in the snow leading to the tree of knowledge.
voices in the head are asking for matches. striker behind the ear.
CATHEDRAL
full penetration with semen left behind in the vagina*
penetrate me like your god said (i just don’t know where –
i see it on mount sinai, i see it in the belly of a whale,
i see it among the burning bushes – a sea of interpretations).
penetrate me drunk, penetrate me high,
penetrate me with a black eye
and a blade under the rib.
i’m just a vagina on two legs,
so don’t be shy, please, drown me in semen,
holding me deeply
in contempt.
* Danuta Sobol’s radio programme called How to be a good wife in the bedroom, Łódź frequency – 87.9.
FEET ARE THE LAST ONES TO LEARN ABOUT DEATH
pleasant numbness, like when sitting on the bog for a long time.
roly-poly – jolting sideways, excreting surplus matter.
postmortem convulsions in the left trouser leg.
blue blood on the collar (from meths).
no need for shoes anymore.
from Krańcówka Litzmannstadt, 2019 (Miejski Dom Kultury w Radomsku) – permission granted by the poet
Wioletta Ciesielska-Pawlak has published three poetry collections, most recently Pokój do płaczu (2024). Her poetry was also published in the various magazines and anthologies. She lives in Tomaszów Mazowiecki in central Poland, but was born in Łódź, the city which features strongly in her writing, especially in her first collection, Krańcówka Litzmannstadt.
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Elżbieta Lipińska: Two Poems
THE MORNING ONE
It’s six am. The mirror is dead.
Let’s kill something else.
OK, let’s. Without much thinking
you can cast several kinds.
So let’s kill boredom, the alarm clock
and the person who constructed it.
Let’s kill the reason for the alarm clock
and its results – eyes with dark circles,
empty gaze, rapid pulse
unsuccessfully attempting to catch up
with the hours which the day had shed.
Let’s kill the repenting remnants of our reflection,
which challenge the theory of the mirror’s peace and quiet,
which deprive us of our belief into the finality of things.
Then let’s try to kill ourselves by pressing our face
into the cushion prescribed by the therapist.
No chance, not at six am.
Let’s carefully strain the strong coffee
down a narrow, morning funnel,
and let’s call ourselves, even though we are already old.
SCRAPING OUT
The old woman squeaks when she walks
like new shoes or an old clock,
or a poppy-head shaken by a child.
The woman used to be full and hard as rock.
Her flesh has been scraped out of her for years.
Turn her inside out and you would see the traces left by a knife.
When she was a child the woman was taught how to toughen up the skin
using thought, word and faultless deed.
Inside she is soft and delicate, she still doesn’t give in to just a scrape.
The emptiness grows bigger with every passing day,
It resonates, it rustles with dry skin.
Just listen to the squeaking of a hollowed out woman.
Only a thin layer divides her from experiencing
that everything is an illusion.
The sky is blue, the woman is old.
from O obrotach, 2021 (KIT Stowarzyszenie Żywych Poetów) – permission granted by the publisher
Elżbieta Lipińska is a poet and a lawyer. Born in Warsaw, she now lives in Wrocław. She published six volumes of poetry, most recently O obrotach (2021). Winner of several poetry competitions. Her work was also featured in numerous literary magazines and in several anthologies. Her poems in English appeared in the Anthologia#2 published by Off_press in London.
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Paweł Biliński: Four Poems
(photo by Justyna Bilińska)
INSTEAD OF A LULLABY
come and say nothing hang the moon in the wardrobe
instead of a lullaby play me your fears
scatter night’s black pixels on the pillow
pull sleep over my head revoke death
and give me a goodnight kiss once more
in the empty space you left behind
SHORT POEM ABOUT TOUCHING
I wanted to touch you
but you were too far
I wanted to touch you
but I was told I had no right
I wanted to touch you
but you had no untouched places left
I wanted to touch you
but I lost “t” and it turned awkward
I wanted to touch you
but I saw a “don’t touch” sign
I wanted to touch you
but I wasn’t brave enough
I wanted to touch you
but I was too cold
I wanted to touch you
but you were too hot
I wanted to touch you
but I couldn’t find you
I wanted to touch you
but I forgot your name
I wanted to touch you
but I lost my hands on my way to you
MOTHER
the inexistent definition of my mother
is still missing some key terms
there is only a bunch of wildflowers
dark hair pleated skirt
stories about childhood in the countryside
hands sore from carrying bags of shopping
and several plain simple words
presence caring laughter and tears
I close my eyes and I see her bent over
darning in an even stitch
the little boy’s torn soul
NOVEMBER
four walls of rain
bars of naked branches in the windows
and doors under lock and wind
we are there
autumn imprisoned
from Część urojona, 2019 (Fundacja Duży Format) – permission granted by the poet
Paweł Biliński is a Polish poet and winner of the 2016 Połów Poetycki contest, as well as several other literary awards. His debut collection, Część urojona (2019), was followed in 2021 by Bezsynność. The English edition of the latter, titled Insonia, is also out now. He lives on the outskirts of Warsaw and works in the internet industry.
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Łucja Dudzińska: Three Poems
MATCHING MISMATCH
I’m hastily looking for my other glove. I keep an eye on
a pair of shoe
They’re awaiting my feet. They don’t care that I’m wearing
mismatched socks. It doesn’t matter if it was the result of rushing
or sophistication – one foot differs from the other – after all two
halves of an apple are not identical but make a whole. Perhaps
it’s enough to hide them in shoes. What matters is that they will
move forward, not revealing the difference in colour
and in character to the world. Four walls know about it
and the homeless mirror.
I stomp my mismatched feet again and hastily look for the other
glove to hold hands – like a couple.
MILESTONES
We lie next to each other like stone tablets
with commandments. I can’t sleep. I’m counting.
I infiltrate your dreams about the power of normalcy.
We fly to our favourite island before the pain
human existence and urban civilisation wakes up.
We are filled with so much chaos, meat, spikes, blood and bones.
And again I lie next to you, like some naked truth
about love. Together we imagine a different life
and the bed sways, turns into a boat, carries us
to another shore, nothing but our realm of being there.
Love your neighbour as yourself.
TIMELINE. IN AN ARMCHAIR
No past or future – like an engine in neutral gear – burning
but not moving. One more time, you say – what happened
didn’t happen and nothing else will happen. You sit behind
the wheel and wait. You wait for it to move on its own.
Loneliness captures sounds from outside the cab, feigns closeness
like intimate moments of listening keenly to silence. Everything
looks unchanged, cause it’s always same and ness, so you go under
all the same. You can’t see the bottom or exotic fish, anemones,
coral branches. Silt cakes the lungs. Instead of breathing,
you listen, listen, listen.
from Bez-Troska. Próby wyrazu – Mis-Concern. Attempts at Expression, 2024 (FONT) – permission granted by the publisher
Łucja Dudzińska is a poet, aphorist, editor of over 100 books and several publishing series, a juror and cultural events organiser, including the festival Literatura do Poznania. She published 13 volumes of poetry (including five bilingual ones) and has been translated into and published in 14 languages. She is the chairperson of the Polish Writers Association branch in Wielkopolska and of the FONT Foundation.
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Joanna Wicherkiewicz: Three Poems
(photo by PremasFoto)
ZACHARY’S BONFIRE
Zachary’s been gone for a few days
apparently he went hunting for a woman
he stood by the side of the pavement and waited
they marched alike
shouty and masculine
wanting to hammer nails
and dig trenches
and he just craves a goddess of the hearth
he still stands there the match of last resort in his hand
ZACHARY WANTS TO BE SOMEBODY
Zachary likes to glam up
black suit
years-long moths’ refuge
it makes him bigger
stronger smarter
when
he walks along the marble carpet of the church
he can see aisles’ eyes on him
he stretches his neck as if he wanted to touch the vault
and then he stills in a prayer
lord please forgive me
this minor scam
ALL TRUTH IS CONTAINED IN A SHELL
Zachary is holding
a seashell in his hand
apparently the sea contained inside
unfailingly hurls waves
at the calcareous skeleton
sleep tight
you really don’t have anything
so you won’t lose anything
the hum drowns the fears
from Kim jest Zachary, 2020 (Wydawnictwo Anagram) – permission granted by the poet
Joanna Wicherkiewicz works as a teacher. She is a poet and an editor of several poetry columns. She runs poetry workshops. She published four poetry books. Her work was also appeared in various literary magazines and anthologies. Her poems have been translated into English, Ukrainian, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese and Turkish. She won several poetry competitions
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Radosław Wiśniewski: Two Poems
KORA/BARK
I’m tired fighting for the country
I have never seen
Tenzin Tsundue
Every day you see this inscription on a concrete post by the end of the road.
In large letters: “Kora” and a telephone number you are scared
to dial. Yet concrete doesn’t grow kora, that is bark. In the language
of the non-existent country this word means circumambulation, pilgrimage, revolution.
So this is your kora, circumambulating an invisible mountain, which is the centre
of the world like a monk with a prayer wheel around Kailas,
Sawayambunath, Jokhangu with such regularity that you don’t even notice when
you become the bone rattle. Cheap watches made in China
could be set according to your monotonous movement,
children woken up to go to school or frightened before going to bed. And the way back
is not the way you take to get to work and the way you take
to get to work is not the way back. Because kora is a circle,
not a pendulum. And a circle needs to be closed and sworn. Then it becomes
a bridge thrown over a river which doesn’t flow there yet.
YOUNTEN
I smile and remain sad
Ryszard Chłopek
When he talked about walking for many days as a boy
across the Himalayas to India – he smiled. Anyway
it was only there that he found out he was Tibetan. He said –
not all made it, some fell down and didn’t get up,
but you couldn’t stop, because the Chinese shoot at people
like us, so we kept walking. And when he said that one time
he fell down too, he didn’t stop smiling. His smile was like
a comma and a full stop. I lost consciousness, he said,
and when I woke up, there were no people around me, just
the mountains and traces left by those who went ahead and didn’t stop.
It wasn’t snowing, so the tracks were clear, nothing obscured them.
I don’t know how long I chased them, I don’t know how long I lay in the snow.
Now it all seems just a white stain. That’s what he said and how
he smiled. And when he talked about the Chinese building dams
on all the rivers starting in Tibet which supply
drinking water to half of Asia – the smile didn’t leave him.
And when he recapped the names sounding like syllables of a great mantra –
Indus, Irrawaddy, Yangtze, Mekong, Huang He, Brahmaputra –
his smile seemed to have something in common with a state of
deep happiness and the open space of the free mind. And he asked –
never forgetting to smile – guess who will turn off the water tap
when the climate crisis kicks in? Who will say that they will only
turn it back on when we all bow before them? And he was smiling
when we stayed silent, as if we half believed in this smile, in this
freedom.
from 7 książek porzuconych, 2022 (Wydawnictwo Papier-w-dole) – permission granted by the poet
Radosław Wiśniewski is a poet, prose writer and literary critic, co-founder and president of the indie publisher KIT Stowarzyszenie Żywych Poetów. He published ten volumes of poetry and several prose books. His long poem Psalm to Saint Sabina in Anna Blasiak’s translation recently won the inaugural Trafika Europe’s Andrew Singer Prize for Verse. His poems have been translated into English, German, Spanish, Czech and Hungarian.
*****
Romana Cegielna-Szczuraszek: Three Poems
***
down up down up
six am sharp
not to be late for the bus
not to be late for the spelling test
not to be late under the spelling
of future expectations
for the life to follow
Everything tidy orderly neatly folded
down where
it should be up
minimum or maximum
no middle ground
no happy medium
some would be jolly and content
with what they have
I scream to myself
like once
my mother to me
***
grandma used to say
it could happen to anybody
grandpa
that it even happens in the best families
broken bottle plate
scraped little knee torn trousers
mother killed me with her looks so many times
so many times she lashed my soul and body
that I grew completely indifferent
to each move of her lips clenched teeth
and serpent’s tongue
even urine dripping down my legs stopped stinging
***
first
she would lick the tiny brush
then
rub the black stone in a rectangular box
make a face straight from Munch’s “Scream”
and look beautiful
with her long black lashes
make-up removers didn’t exist
every evening
she squeezed her eyes shut
and removed the perfect make-up with cheap soap
sometimes turned halfway
and then a rare shared laughter
her rare second face
joyous
if not for her youth
she would be just like when
her eyes were stinging
and we were giggling in the bathroom
together
at the most beautiful nothing
from Matka tkała ała, forthcoming (Wydawnictwo Veridian) – permission granted by the poet
Romana Cegielna-Szczuraszek is a poet and an artist, author of four collections of poetry, most recently M jak mi_ość and kompot z wiśni – wyrób haiku podobny, member of the Polish Writers Society and one of the editors of “Liry Dram” magazine.
*****
Dominika Lewicka-Klucznik: Four Poems
(photo by Barbara Popiel)
THE NATURAL LIFE NEED
December is like that, Anna. I’ve learned to live
without a calendar, I don’t tear
the dates, I don’t copy the numbers. Memory
got digitised and that’s easier to reset.
It’s about not getting attached.
Not getting used to.
I don’t check the timetable. Don’t look
for accommodation. Don’t plan. Life without a ticket hurts less.
SATURDAY. A CONVERSATION WITH A.
I don’t know whether there will be a Monday, Anna,
but I’ve been to hell three times already.
Now I made myself comfortable where
your heart used to be. And it’s fine.
You speak to me in white verse,
there is no need to strain for rhyme.
Doesn’t make sense to count. On yourself.
We are like scraps from the master’s table.
Always instead, always temporary,
always on the sly. Not to miss, not to
tell and not to say. I’m beginning to regain
feeling.
AUGUST SMELLS
of mirabelles, Anna. Pavement is sticky,
and I remember that many years ago
I didn’t know how to climb down a tree.
You locked summer in a jar. For winter,
you used to say but I never visited you
in January. I tried to have my fill
in advance, but it was never enough.
DO YOU KNOW THAT FLAT WHITE CAME FROM AUSTRALIA?
Out of habit you make two coffees.
I don’t live here anymore, Anna,
which is why we only use
Past Perfect tense.
You can’t forever extend
life by yet another month,
even the books from the library
Eventually need to be returned.
I’m tired of waiting for results
and rulings. Shouldn’t have gotten
used to it still working. I can’t forget
that my life is a variation on the theme.
from Rewir, 2024 (Fundacja Duży Format) – permission granted by the poet
Dominika Lewicka-Klucznik is a poet, editor and reviewer. She published five poetry collections, of which the most recent one is Rewir. She dreams of having time for prose (not just of life) and perhaps a little drama (not at all in real life). She values writing workshops, slams, poetry contests and festivals, as they are a way of meeting new people and finding new writing paths.
*****
Izabela Fietkiewicz-Paszek: Three Poems
(photo by Maksymilian Kryszak)
OPOLE STATION
1.
A season, a hostel, I don’t remember
the details, don’t know whether they matter.
It was winter (your hands were cold), it was
a balcony flat (you smoke too much)
with sliding door to the toilet and a punch code
for the gate (it took over an hour to get it).
2.
And eventually you introduce me to the first
living person, you introduce me to your friend,
you introduce me to Asia. We drink coffee.
I brush aside a strand of your hair.
And eventually it’s normal. You and me, your
friend, a strand of hair on your forehead,
brushing it aside. It’s normal. It doesn’t start anything.
3.
We talk about everything, we talk
about nothing. Love entered
this conversation on its own and then Asia said it.
It was then. Or later. Later when
she called to talk about that first meeting
in person. When? When did she say it?
I know, it’s a detail, but details matter.
4.
First times leave marks behind, that
first time then – you, me and somebody else – left
a new certainty behind: one day I will stop being
see-through, forbidden, the third one and in a hostel.
5.
You get impatient, pulse raised,
since that coffee with Asia you don’t hide
me from the neighbours or the family.
You wonder why I still don’t come out
of the poem, why I don’t try to hold
our reflection in your bathroom mirror for longer.
6.
All the dots have been long connected,
the algorithm is working, one just needs to pack.
We will keep thinking about what’s after
with utmost tenderness
until the days that we die.
DEATH BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
1.
A November, and Novembers
are full of death.
Dusk, and when to die
if not at dusk?
A road, and where to meet death
if not on a road?
Returning, and death
is like a return.
Returning from you, and that’s
when I’m always closest
to death.
2.
The cost of damage was estimated at
five thousand six hundred and forty-three złoty.
Dents in the bonnet,
scratched paint, a broken bulb.
Tufts of fur
in the cracked plastic.
3.
The moment when you still can
quit, reschedule, change
the route, turn back, even scream.
The moment when you still can.
4.
And the moment when you know
that you can’t do anything,
turn, brake, reverse.
The moment when you know.
5.
Nobody is ready
for the sound of a body crashing
into the car’s bonnet.
Nobody is ready
for the story about a sudden death,
it doesn’t roll off
the tongue easily.
6.
The weight of responsibility – from now on
death will be the way I describe it.
7.
And it all happened midway – fields around, sun
disappearing behind the line of trees, nothing special,
no signs, premonitions. Well, perhaps just that dream
last night.
8.
It was just a baby. A baby jumped
straight in front of the car. Can you feel guilty?
Can you not? What are these questions
compared to really important questions
about death?
9.
It would have been easier if she died on the spot.
I inflicted death on her. She still got up,
she still let me see my reflection in her eyes,
drive away, call for help, not get help,
come back, rush to her, hold her head,
look again into those matting eyes.
Leave my own baby deer body in the ditch,
drive away, dream about her, think about her forever.
DEATH BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. EPILOGUE
stubbornly not give into
the trial of a poem.
Two years later I pulled the remnants of the fur from the plastic.
I fixed my car, sat down to write and gave into
the delusion that it would be the end of the mourning
or at least of the deer’s dying.
from a forthcoming collection – permission granted by the poet
Izabela Fietkiewicz-Paszek is a poet, cultural events organiser and Holocaust educator. She co-founded the Wanda Karczewska poetry festival, organised and chaired dozens of literary events, runs a poetry vlog and writes reviews. She published four poetry collections, most recently Koniec srebrnej nitki (2022).
*****
Previous Translations
THW35: Bulgarian • THW34: Czech • THW33: Flemish • THW32: Marina Tsvetaeva • THW31: Greek • THW30: Swedish • THW29: Galician • THW28: Galician • THW27: Early Irish Poetry • THW26: French-language Poetry from Africa and the Arab World • THW25: Contemporary Hebrew • THW24: French • THW23: Italian • THW22: Russian • THW 21: Austrian • THW 20: Macedonian • THW 19: Swiss-German • THW 19: Spanish • THW 17: Franco-Canadian • THW 16: Modern Greek • THW 15: Kazakh • THW 14: Hungarian • THW 13: Polish • THW 12: Classics • THW 11: Catalan • THW10: Hispanic • THW 9: Hebrew • THW 8: Bulgarian • THW 7: Japanese • THW 6: Dutch • THW 5: Portuguese • THW 4: French THW 3: Italian • THW 2: German • THW 1: Italian
The High Window 