sobota, 22 grudnia 2012







kopiąc nogą gorzki cukier
który opadł na obsrane trawniki
wspominam bose stopy w kałuży
wypłakanej przez niebo
złe, że wywiązuje się - wcale
z obietnicy koloru - teraz też nie
czy kupić nową choinkę,
czy zamknąć oczy i przywołać
obraz zeszłorocznej - nadal żywy
jak czterdzieści innych, prawie
i nawet haiku spieprzyłam

piątek, 30 listopada 2012

Words of Hatred (complete?)




Words of hatred every day:
Love thy neighbour but only if he's gay
Don't be proud of who you are
Unless your parents came from far

Words of hatred every day
Limit things that we should say
Past is by-gones, let them sleep
They'll tell you what memories to keep
Don't stand by yourself, unless
You're a hater, better join the nets
Words of hatred everywhere
Stand in line, behave, beware

Words of hatred every day:
Love thy neighbour but only if he's gay
Don't be proud of who you are
Unless your parents came from far


We've been given a freedom of speech?
The old walls we used to breach
See, they've risen once again
When you criticize you hate
Just enjoy your flat TV
Clap your hands and down your knee
Words of hatred any more
Won't be in your private store

And only in the most savage mind of yours
Will you make out the right course
Time you stopped being manipulated....

Words of hatred every day:
Love thy neighbour but only if he's gay
Don't be proud of who you are
Unless your parents came from far




wtorek, 27 listopada 2012

Words of Hatred

Words of hatred every day:
Love thy neighbour but only if he's gay
Don't be proud of who you are
Unless your parents came from far

Words of hatred every day
Limit things that we should say
Past is by-gones, let them sleep
They'll tell you what memories to keep
Don't stand by yourself, unless
You're a hater, better join the nets
Words of hatred everywhere
Stand in line, behave, beware

Words of hatred every day:
Love thy neighbour but only if he's gay
Don't be proud of who you are
Unless your parents came from far

to be cont....

poniedziałek, 12 listopada 2012

Somewhere in the Forest (song 2)



Sour winds more bitter than memory
Catching the thoughts in icicles
Sour winds more bitter than memory
Catching the thoughts in icicles
Are we at all sorry?

By the stone wartime grave, I know
Thou art my burden though you bestow 

Yet I will never stop being proud
To live in this country, my vow

Trees wrinkled with time
Or maybe bullets are still looking for their way out
Of the forest
Way out of the forest, no doubt
The fault is not mine

By the stone wartime grave, I know
Thou art my burden though you bestow 

Yet I will never stop being proud
To live in this country, my vow


Forgive the others, forgive yourself
Your troop is far away
Forgive the others, forgive yourself
Your troop is far away, a confusion
Your country's a distant illusion

Winds will melt diamond tears
Do windmills care which state they grind in?
Scattered stones scar the slopes
But no-one clears the moss
In the cosmo-inn

Under the starred blue sky
We're children of the void

By the stone wartime grave, I know
Thou art my burden though you bestow 

Yet I will never stop being proud
To live in this country, my vow

piątek, 9 listopada 2012

nocturnal





and what really binds us
is this furry bundle on the duvet
as long as it keeps breathing
our world will keep up
to the notion it's all but brevet
and will end up void-sniffing
...or snuffing


and if the world starts turning
backwards forwards in a fortnight
and matter will become will
will it matter?
as long as the downy link
exists



czwartek, 4 października 2012

Grandpa (having had a facelift)


a story by K. Sowiński, my translation revisited and redecorated

Grandpa

Wake up and smell the coffee – he’s a grandpa, already.....

All have passed so soon, even though never-ending childhood days, holidays so long and fragrant of sand, grass, water – predicted eternity. Passed like one blink, eyes open , eyes closed, like one not too long yet calm sleep. What a cliché!............


And now, he was standing at the airport. By himself. Yes, once he’d heard Him and Her say it is one of the largest airports in the world – Heathrow… But, can words express such immensity? Can imagination imagine THAT, can’t it?....

That was like an enormous city, full of giant-building-like aircrafts, compared to which buses, seemingly huge - so far, now appeared as toys only. And worse, the noise… Terrible… The incessant noise made his head split. Tremendous pain he’d never felt before. And every now and then, when a plane, like a colossal hawk, or maybe another bird, floated above his head, his legs alone were startled to run away, swiftly – despite first signs of arthritis and contracture...


His height was quite considerable. Not a giant - one of those biggest, though. But his spine - as it happens amongst the elderly – was ‘bent like an arch’, and whatever this forgotten expression would mean – just wasn’t straight or flexible...

He had long, not very muscular legs. Rather thin they were, and, when young - sturdy, enduring, sinewy, but not much powerful...

His considerably large posture, however, wouldn’t scare anyone; even years before no-one had certainly ever been afraid of him. His head wasn’t very big, and he was rather one of those types that were always spontaneously and gladly welcome...

Now, he happened to bow his silver head far more often. He lowered it as if apologizing for so much trouble about him. And there was. No doubt. ....

He’d heard that journey wasn’t going to be quick, but the facts were even more appalling. It was dreadful, lonely, ghastly. He and She’d tried to explain (it was rather She that talked to him) that they couldn’t fly with him, that everything was going to be ok, that he could do it, and that they were going to meet soon. Well… Let’s face it – things weren’t just as they had said...


The bloke to meet him at the airport was young. Not a bad one, really, smelled good (Armani, as he knew), though he didn’t pay too much attention to him, and talked on the phone all the time instead. He said, “Fuck this job. I’ve got fed up! And for what? The frigging shitty quid! Gonna find something better or come back home….Kurwa…. Three years and nothing changes, on and on….You know…. Kurwa, what a bash we had last night!? I tell you, that chocolate girl surely fancied me…”....

Grandpa kept listening to the chatter, in his own – miraculously! – so familiar language, and this language, so common to him, its intonation, melody, hoarse sounds, lifted his spirits a bit. He was almost about to say to admit, “It’s not gonna be bad. Surely, it’ll be ok.” But he found no guts to do so.....

It’s not that the lad was insensitive, only bored to death with the monotony of his work. With abundance of work. Never-ending struggle with time, which always ran too short to carry out the plan, ever-lasting traffic jams, and the bosses totally devoid of empathy and telling him off non-stop. With no hope for any singular change in his life, the change he’d expected, desired, flown here from a remote country for. And here, nought. Swarming days twinning one another. Pity. Pity. Pity.

The young man suddenly dragged him with a swift and rough sweep. Some hundred metres, towards a huge litter bin, but it wasn’t a straight way! No way! Veering among dozens of roaring lorries, fumes of which choked him and wouldn’t let him breathe. Grandpa was petrified with such racket. He was about to wrench out and run away where - as he would learn as a child – ‘the pepper grows’, to whine like a puppy, but he only bowed his head even lower, being up to his ears in worry - and grunting, with his legs stumbling, wobbled behind the youth.............


The lad threw the dirty paper towels into the bin.....

Oh, yes. It was Grandpa who - threw up into them. His companion wiped off the remains of his vomit, quite thoroughly, and it could be all right if it weren’t for a tiny trail of stench following Grandpa ever since. Well… It appeared he didn’t tolerate flights. And She had told him it was going to be fine. That the journey should pass quickly. That Grandpa would fall asleep. And when he woke up, it’d be over. Unfortunately, it was contradictory – some strangers, the roar of aircraft engines, ascending and descending, which made butterflies fly in his tummy. He didn’t get any shut-eye, not for a second, all the time he hovered, tense, alert and ready to jump. He had been brought some water, but after a few minutes in the air it got spilled and nobody gave him any more. And now, he was so thirsty. So much. Adding up, there was no other way to rinse this bitter smell of half digested food off his teeth. Gradually, he got used to light, which had struck him with all its power when disembarking. And to vastness of sky when you look up. Cloudy sky, bursting into rain every now and then. The sky, which consistently kept the sun smothered. Was this the ‘land of milk and honey’ he was supposed to live in? Was it? Where they were supposed to be able to afford everything and to live ‘like humans’? Anyway, He’d say so...


In the end, all went fast...

The young man cast him into the car, on the back seat. He started vigorously. Hundreds of crossroads. Horns. Immeasurable stench. All streets so sinistrous. And finally – they were reaching their destination…


He: “See….. All’s fine. They’re on their way. Grandpa is a tough guy. Once again, he did it.”...

She: “I dunno…We should ‘ve travelled with him, even in a bus – the journey would’ve been terribly long and exhausting, but we could ‘ve been together. Together...

He: “ We could’ve left him behind”....

She: “You know, he’d die of nostalgia if we’d done so.”...


Grandpa yelped with joy on the stairs. The flat much worse than the one they had left, but it was nothing. Through the door he could sense that He and She are inside. Are. There. Here They are. His heart was – like everything in the insular wind – flapping. And when the bloke opened the door, Grandpa, with a squeal unsuitable for his age, hurtled inside. She didn’t even manage to stand up from a stinky dirty old armchair, still reminiscent of a rat. He put his silver head on her lap. He only heard Him say, “See, I told you everything would be fine. Didn’t I tell you? And you’re always apprehensive…He did it, our Grandpa…He did.”....

Grandpa knew all rave was about him, “He did it!” This made him so exhilarated that glee and peace flooded his heart, emotions he had almost forgotten. Even the thirst was vanquished. And She kept stroking his head. He wagged his tail for the last time and… passed away...




niedziela, 23 września 2012

A Visit 2 (Land on hand)



Running on my sore feet again
Chasing  illusions and pain
With the river squirming to and fro
Tracing insights by Leonardo

Sometimes hammered, sometimes with a pure mind
Feeling stone walls as if I was blind
Can a city be ever-inviting
At the same time be alien and biting?

A great spider has crouched firm and proud
On the watercourse, to the dome, bowed
Poor Ophelia in her silent scream
Will not last till the age of steam

Running on my sore feet again
Chasing  illusions and pain
With the river squirming to and fro
Tracing insights by Leonardo

Round the city with the pubs so hoary
They could make for a gallery
Cunning Jack is still humming tunes
Yet, they're smothered by the car fumes

Waterloo sunsets, parks and gardens, cranes, sights
Darkening figures in their old rites
Jagged skyline will brush all mirages
People burdened with their own collages


Running on my sore feet again
Chasing  illusions and pain
With the river squirming to and fro
Tracing insights by Leonardo

And please, just don't pass me by as if I was some furnishing
It's so easy in this crowd to change a human into a thing



Running on my sore feet....


środa, 5 września 2012

My Trouble


(to my dog)



When you came into my life
You could walk only to the sides
Smelled like milk that has gone off
Soft like silk, with needle-like claws

Now that you have grown so old
Need my help so let me hold
You when climbing up the stairs
Wag your tail, be free from cares

Wag, wag - they say you're a hooligan
Wag, wag - and that you're not very smart
Wag, wag - I'd say you're the sweetest thing
Wag, wag - though not as quick as a dart
(in the uptake)

Though you teach us how to pass
I don't want it, let it last
Let us walk an endless stroll
Make up for what long time stole

Still a puppy in a fogey's flesh
First day memories are always fresh
When I sink deep in your eyes
Your love's clear with no disguise


Wag, wag - they say you're a hooligan
Wag, wag - and that you're not very smart
Wag, wag - I'd say you're the sweetest thing
Wag, wag - though not as quick as a dart
(in the uptake)

And be my trouble be my little trouble
My furry warm and stinky nubble

Wag, wag.....

wtorek, 28 sierpnia 2012

Summer Lure (song version)


Summer Lure




work, don't work, get old, ignore it, be happy
suicidal winds will carry the rays of the sun
summer lure, make me sure
summer lure, elude and cure

water runnig past the pebbles, go to the sun
evaporate, dance with fireflies, blissful
summer lure, make me pure
summer lure, never injure


ice melts, flowers die so suddenly, rotten gems
think of gone, don't think, now is time to
unfold existence, find consistence
summer lure, so mature

and then the winter comes too quickly
all I want to cuddle turns out prickly




no future defined, seize the watch, never judge


stride with care, ignore yourself, be happy
summer lure, reassure
summer lure, I'll endure


fot. M. Walczak

Night Table (final)







On my night table, there is a ring
That was supposed to join forever
A thrown bracelet will ting
A necklace that may sever


On my pillow there rest my dreams
That meant to finally come true
A specked window pane seems
To shadow what is right due

I watch but I can't see
I know but can't take in
Have name, but no ID
Have conquered, but never win

I should have done so many things so far
I could have gone around  the world
I needn't have spent my youth in a bar
I must have been stone cold

I pick my plastic pride from the pocket
And get some happiness instead
But there's that notion, seems to rocket
If you sow nothing, what can you get

And some people around me will claim
I am a hypocrite.....right
Guess all my excuses are lame
So let me take that 'roller-caster' ride


I watch but I can't see
I know but can't take in
Have name, but no ID
Have conquered, but never win

I should have done so many things so far
I could have gone around  the world
I needn't have spent my youth in a bar
I must have been stone cold


sobota, 25 sierpnia 2012

Coffee Man (rough version)






Coffee  man

a story by Krzysztof Sowiński, my translation

They stood in front of me… Aiming at me with their automatic arms.
It was just like a film. We’ve seen such sights so many times that, instead of being petrified, we raise our heads higher and higher, driven by curiosity and disbelief this has happened to us, when it actually happened. And that’s a mistake.
They were aiming with one of those most up-to-date machine guns that a man has ever invented to harm another man. Such guns aren’t carried by ordinary bobbies. Those mates were probably in their forties (about my age), not any squirts just starting their ‘career’ in the elite unit.
But… unlike many of their peers, who already had enormous bellies and awkward slow motion and made up for neglecting their bodies only with their self-confidence, and every weekend, having had some beers, when in fighting spirit and with an active reproduction instinct (with every woman but his wife), they felt again as youngsters – those with the guns were different.
Shaped like middle-weight, at most  light-heavy boxers. Watchful eyes. Moving their legs softly like agile cats. Gliding their feet over the ground barely touching it, as if they were skating.
I knew at once, being a person who had been exercising for all my life, those guys must go to gyms regularly – and not for some mindless weight-lifting and stuffing buckets of supplements in their stomachs only to wear too tight T-shirts after a while, arousing an applause among other giant fellows – but they had set objectives, well composed and greatly organised training programme that makes a man an efficient tool. A combat tool.
Yes… Those who rule this world need such tools.
And the day was lovely then. Here, in this part of London, one does appreciate the tiniest bit of sun. Because everything is marked with a dark shade, which falls - nobody knows when and from where.
And now the sky raised its head – as usual here – at Heathrow, it was terrifyingly huge and beautiful. Even the giant planes were only a dark spot in that blue after a while, the blue marked with white scattered clouds, fringed at the bottom here with endless ramparts of concrete, steel and barbed wire, just as dreams of freedom.
Around me, I watched - every day since I appeared here for the first time a year ago – dozens of enormous lorries, bringing something here and leaving full of something else. The space between the two big parallel buildings, where all day and night long, forklifts were bending under the burden, was full of them. But before they parked precisely in the square, the lorries stopped in the penalty line under the floating over their heads sign ‘Warning!’
One was aiming, standing at the driver’s side of the car, the other stood some metres further, right in front of my mini-van, alert to dodge, and one more, calmly but firmly, gave me a signal to pull over.
When I stopped, one of them, dressed in the same manner – in a beautiful well-ironed blue short-sleeved shirt and black uniform-vest accommodating spare magazines, short guns, handcuffs, and torches in its numerous corresponding pockets – told me to get off, slowly. And to stand by the car.
-         Who are you and what are you doing here?
It was more of an anticipation rather than full understanding his inquiry. And he, seeing my hesitation… seemingly somebody having difficulties with the language that is not his mother tongue. And the tongue that doesn’t want to leave the barrier of the teeth when someone without any notice asks him a question, so surprisingly, fast and offhand.
-         Who’s that man? Do you know him? – he asks a woman, his acquaintance, whom I’ve been greeting every day for a year, asking how she is, and she invariably replied she is fine in health and spirit, and who was just passing by.
I thought to myself I was so lucky that it was she who came there in that very moment – such a nice, pretty, still young, well mannered ‘lady’, a little plump, but here, in the Islands she could be still considered as slim, always smiling… - and she’ll explain everything to those men.
Especially because they were stealing my precious minutes, very precious. Every minute taken now meant that my already long working day would be drastically longer. I already imagined myself stuck in a gigantic traffic jam, late in the evening. And then at least half an hour for seeking any parking space. I was really worried, “Fuck… fuck…!”
And she looked at me and said, “I don’t know him.”
And when they already tossed me to the ground, face down, handcuffed, a driver, huge fat bald guy with gold rings in his ears, shorts revealing his tattoos (a girl in blue on one, and a red cross on the other of his powerful calves), wearing heavy working boots, a mate like many here – also visiting this place every day, came, holding a coffee in a plastic cup and asked, slurping loudly, “Don’t  know him? How can you don’t know him? He works here!”
And then she had a revelation, “Oh…. Yes, yes….. He’s our… ‘coffee man’!”
-         What ‘coffee man’ ? – asks the officer.
She: Yes, the ‘coffee man’! The guy servicing the vending machines…
And everyone started to laugh cheerfully, because here there’s no more important thing than to start a day with a coffee from the machine, and you can’t do without a ‘coffee man’. And without coffee the world would be unimaginably worse.
The officers laughed, too.
-         A ‘coffee man’, ‘a coffee man’! Ha ha ha! A ‘coffee man’!
They take off the handcuffs, apologise, one is tapping my shoulder.
He gives back my documents, which fell on the concrete before and says, “I see you exercise… You’ve got tough muscles… Keep fit… Your looks made us suspicious.”
-         Yes, I try to exercise, but it’s difficult here, My work is very hard.
-         What did you do in your country? Who were you?
-         Who? I don’t know now. Who wasn’t I … I was a sports teacher, but for the first time I am a shadow. Here, I am a shadow. Just a shadow.
-         Who? Who? A shadow? A shadow?
He didn’t understand. He took it for granted that is comes down to my poor ‘his language’.
We kept tapping each other’s shoulders more and more resolutely.
And then I heard a shot. Casual shot, as the specialists will apparently claim later. An accident, mistake.
-         I’m sorry, sorry – says the one behind the car.
And that was the last thing I heard.
So I am a shadow.
And suddenly, out of the blue, without any notice – so it goes in London – it started to rain.

piątek, 24 sierpnia 2012

dym/smoke





Puściłam Cię z dymem. Z ostatniego papierosa.
Lekko odeszły wszystkie ciężkie uczucia.
Musisz wiedzieć, że Ci przeszło koło nosa
Coś, co nigdy bez zmagań nie wróci.

I let you go off with a smoke. Of  the last fag..
See how lightly flow all hard feelings.
Know you've thrown away like an old rag
Something that now you'll be only stealing.


Such is the tale on and on and ever
To let go means one is clever
Tak się w kółko i stale dzieje
Odpuszczam mądrze i nie szaleję.

wtorek, 21 sierpnia 2012

London Language Lesson


London Language Lesson

a story by Krzysztof Sowiński, my translation

In Memory of Edward Stachura

This English language school for adults is run by a plump and beautiful black Canadian, whose each little braid in her elaborate coiffure smiles… as long as you… pay.
This school consists of several quite dirty classrooms, long-ago-painted walls.
Once in a while, when a whole group of  students will fall asleep, heads – weary of hard daily duties - on the desks, and even the teacher will take a nap in the middle of a sentence or a gesture – then, there runs across the room, encouraged by the silence and smell of biscuits, sour odour of sweat, dirty bodies, a courageous rat-polyglot.
The school boasts its signboard: “New Life!”

Lesson number 1
- My name’s Imran. I come from India.
- My name’s Mo. I come from Iran.
- My name’s Draman. I come from Mali, Africa.
- My name’s Paweł. I come from Poland.
- My name’s Marta. I come from Poland.
- My name’s Chris. I come from Poland.
- My name’s Jacek. I come from Poland.
- My name’s Ola. I come from Poland.
- My name’s Aru. I come from Afganistan.
- I go to work every day – says Imran.
- I get up for work very early. At three o’clock, and sometimes I still work at eight in the evening – says Paweł.
Marta: And I gave birth to a baby here and now I don’t have to go to work. My husband works hard. He’s never at home.
Chris: I work very hard from morning to evening.
- I also work very hard, my boss is a bad man, shouts at me all the time and is… is… unhappy – complains Draman.
Imran: I work for my uncle, I make furniture. I arrived a year ago. I get food and accommodation for my work. I sleep on the floor. I have to keep working like that for another year.
- Yes, yes… - Ann nods her head. She’s an elderly English teacher with an excellent accent and a mouth full of classy phrases, devoid of memory, though. – They exploit as much as they can. Because they can. Nothing can be done. Nothing.

Now, a coffee break. Marta and Ola will rush outside to have a cigarette. When they’re smoking, a bus almost wipes them out, because there’s a bus stop. Some drunk black workers, wishing they didn’t have to leave the bus stop, casually wipe their hands on Marta's awesome breasts. There also get on some elegant ladies and, apparently lost at this time, some schoolchildren.
Draman and Chris are having coffee. Chris drinks strong and black, and Draman white with milk. Draman likes it sweet, so he’s taking six spoonfuls of sugar. They’re smiling at each other. Tapping each other’s shoulders. Draman’s a cute, always smiling boy in his early twenties, who smiles even when his boss calls him by a lazy Negro in Arabic.
Both of them are holding hot coffee cups in their worn out hands, cups, which are the only warm spots in this city. Near the litter bin - the rat’s lurking, eating a biscuit.

Lesson number 2
- Who knows what the words ‘optimistic’ and ‘polite’ mean? – asks Ann, but, before she can hear he answer, she’s fallen asleep, right in the middle of the sentence, she’s also very tired and she’s been working since morning, it’s evening now, the night is interrupted only by the lights of buses and thousands of cars. Rain is tapping on the window panes
- Ann, my colleague, the English, keeps nagging me, mocking all the time. He says I’m an animal. What shall I say? To be polite? … What phrase will be the most appropriate? -  Jacek wakes everybody.
- Polite? Appropriate? The most appropriate will be…  will be… ‘fuck off’.

Lesson number 3
- Where are you going on holiday? – asks Ann. She’s waiting for any reply, but no-one’s going anywhere.


Lesson number 4
- What did you do at the weekend?
Draman: I worked hard. And I had Monday off, so I slept all the day.
Jacek: I worked all weekend. I have no days off.
-         And I don’t have either.
-         Neither have I.
-         Nor have I.

Lesson number 5
- What’s your religion?
Mo: I’m a Muslim.
Imran: I’m a Muslim.
Draman: I’m a Muslim.
Aru: And I’m a Muslim. I’m a doctor, I come from Afghanistan, I have five children. I lived in Norway for eight years but we can’t practise our religion there, so I came here. For my children… to raise them in my religion.
Marta: I’m a Christian.
- Chris is also a Christian, because he’s from Poland – says a student.
Chris: I think religion is foolish, and the prophets, and our politicians alike, are cons. So I have no religion. Some want our money and obedience, the others our money and votes. Religion’s a shit.
-         What? What? What? – ask Ann.
-         Religion’s a shit. Religion’s rubbish.
Ann: A coffe break! Now!
Students: We’ve got fifteen minutes left to the break!
Ann: Now!!!
Marta and Ola are rushing outside to have a cigarette. When they’re smoking, a bus almost wipes them out, because there’s a bus stop.
Draman’s drinking coffee. With milk. Draman likes it sweet, so he’s taking six spoonfuls of sugar. And everyone is holding in their worn out hands a cup, the only warm spot in this city; and near the litter bin there is a rat, lurking, looking curious. It doesn’t like coffee, no matter black or white, but a biscuit would do good.
And Ann is talking to Chris, in private, much as they can hardly understand each other.
-         One can’t talk bad things about religion. Religion’s extremely important for Muslims. Don’t you know?
-         Really?- asks Chris – But… It’s the twenty-first century, and this is England, right?
-         Right, but it’s dangerous to say such words.
-         Dangerous?
-         Yes. Remember. They can tell someone. They have many brothers, cousins. Knives are used here to express differences of opinions. They attack in groups. And there are so many dark corners.
Chris: You are joking?
Ann: No.
After the break.
Chris: Religion’s stupid. Religion’s shit! Each religion. Freedom!!!
He’s so proud of himself, he’s just learnt a new word: freedom!

Lesson after the latest
Ann: Does anyone have any idea why Chris isn’t coming to school? Does anybody know?




poniedziałek, 20 sierpnia 2012

Tree girl (song version)




A distorted tree sprung from a stone
Wall that was unbreached
And my every bone
Rotten, rotten

The place maketh me grow from ashes
I'll be a shadow for the tree
That's still a seed in ground but flashes
up and up it grows through me
Water no longer moves the mill with eaves
A trunk from the leg 
My face made of leaves
Rotten, rotten


The place maketh me grow from ashes
I'll be a shadow for the tree
That's still a seed in ground but flashes
up and up it grows through me
Does matter matter? But how?
Will it survive? Will it die now?
A ghost in the machine?
Nature's child? Worms' cuisine?
Fools' feast? At least...




niedziela, 19 sierpnia 2012

Somewhere in the forest (song version)






Sour winds more bitter than memory
Catching the thoughts in icicles
Sour winds more bitter than memory
Catching the thoughts in icicles
Are we at all sorry?

By the stone wartime grave, I know
Thou art my burden though you bestow

Trees wrinkled with time
Or maybe bullets are still looking for their way out
Of the forest
Way out of the forest, no doubt
The fault is not mine

By the stone wartime grave, I know
Thou art my burden though you bestow

Forgive the others, forgive yourself
Your troop is far away
Forgive the others, forgive yourself
Your troop is far away, a confusion
Your country's a distant illusion

Winds will melt diamond tears
Do windmills care which state they grind in?
Scattered stones scar the slopes
But no-one clears the moss

Under the starred blue sky
We're children of the void


By the stone wartime grave, I know
Thou art my burden though you bestow





sobota, 18 sierpnia 2012

A visit /Hungry I am




Over the soaring hills, proud palaces and churches claim their place
White angels of towers are dancing in the mists of dawn
Here, on the other bank, each building wants to embrace
And reflect the beauty of its twin town, beauty never gone

Running on my sore feet, running to chase the ghosts
My reflection in the windows with such pursuit always boasts

Over the cobbled streets, people flow in the quest to find joy or clue
Stop under colourful umbrellas to remember what they're running for
The chains carry the steel desire to glue what wasn't one but two
Time that's been always dissolving fast now is spreading slow


Running on my sore feet, running to chase the ghosts
My reflection in the windows with such pursuit always boasts

Under the mirror of water, the hole in the ground, tempting us, lurks
Accommodating dark-skinned rappers, pharaohs and winemakers
With lips still sweet of tasting the liquors from ashes, and his quirks
And his eyes of a murderer make me wonder, and my body flutters

...
Flutters to the rythm leading to a catastrophic conclusion
Am I an idiot letting myself fall into illusion?
...


Running on my sore feet, running to chase the ghosts
My reflection in the windows with such pursuit always boasts

...
This will never return, like water in the once blue river....

(from Budapest)



środa, 8 sierpnia 2012

Form (3)



How many years must have passed

To sort out some things that last
Those should have gone away though
Many, many moons ago
How many wrinkles must come
To understand that it's far and done
Can I keep up with the river's flow
Or rather give up and let it go?



Where are the winds that carry my thoughts away?
Go ahead, my hands, feel and caress the clay
Until you form a better me
And I'll put my mind into it and make you see


How many strings must break up
Until I see the bottom of the cup
With no links no vest no boat
I still feel that I can float
How many cries must have gone
How many sighs before the dawn
To give up trying to let go free
Or rather keep it and make you see

Where are the winds that carry my thoughts away?

Go ahead, my hands, feel and caress the clay
Until you form a better me
And I'll put my mind into it and make you see


unconquerability, unpredictability, impossibility, undefinability, 
shall I question their attractiveness?
... shall I turn to vanity instead?... diminish...
 find joy in plain matters?

How many men must have passed

To take in it never lasts
But when at last I make you see
Stand by me and never flee


Where are the winds that carry my thoughts away?
Go ahead, my hands, feel and caress the clay
Until you form a better me
And I'll put my mind into it and make you see

piątek, 3 sierpnia 2012

Parting


It's easier not to say goodbye and turn away
The game we played
It's harder when you have to stand
Remembering all the things

Some wise men say I need to part with you and let you go
Such grain of truth
But how can you divide so merciless
What should be still one?

And the time's never right
To justify why this should be done
And the day always comes
Too early to go

You really ought to pass this post and leave today
Why can't you stay
What are those hopeless circumstances
My eyelashes getting wet

No man can say we need to part with you, I can't let you go
'Cos this is cruel
You never can divide so merciless
What will always be one

And the time's never right
To justify why this should be done
And the day always comes
Too early to say goodbye

Where are your velvet cheeks, where are they now, they're gone for good
Where is your sweet strong voice, please share....


And the time's never right
To justify why this should be done
And the day always comes
Too early to say goodbye






napisane po rozstaniu z moim jamniczkiem, Sułkiem...
written when having said goodbye to my first dog...

czwartek, 2 sierpnia 2012

My Trouble

... czyli o piesiu Kłopotku ;)
... a song for my dog ;)




When you came into my life
You could walk only to the sides
Smelled like milk that has gone off
Soft like silk, with needle-like claws

Now that you have grown so old
Need my help so let me hold
You when climbing up the stairs
Wag your tail, be free from cares

Wag, wag - they say you're a hooligan
Wag, wag - and that you're not very smart
Wag, wag - I'd say you're the sweetest thing
Wag, wag - though not as quick as a dart
(in the uptake)

to be continued...

środa, 25 lipca 2012

City Phantoms


today, my translation 'service' / dziś z moich 'usług' tłumaczeniowych



City Phantoms

Under the windows quiet dream
Just as cats crawls silently
O’er the roofs, too, evening walks
Treading clouds with catlike paws
Silence creeping round the square
Tracks down some surviving words
Misty streets will gladly share
Cobbled spread with a whole world

So, man, beware – when darkness comes
Watch out and mind – your steps reach chasms

A silent howl spreads thru the night
The silent phantoms glide dressed up as cats
The freezing glow comes out at sight
Of thousand eyes, ill-omened chat
Once paralyzing then observes
You move, they sing their serenades
Each of them – is pure lust

Hold breath and stab with eyes
Pierce the hollows where night hides
Hear the moth inside the lamp
But to deaden their foot’s sound
Failed to find out where they lurk
They’ll just spring out from the murk
And a sole look from their eyes
Makes your nerves go petrified

So, man, beware – when darkness comes
Watch out and mind – your steps reach chasms

And lock down all your doors
For the night is deep
Wait up till the milkmen come
You’d better not even leap