Sixteen Poems by Wojciech Bonowicz (b. 1967)
Absolution
Who’s ashamed for having written about God?
God no longer has that letter: he tears up our requests.
Penetrates our diaries and kindly erases
confessions dictated by youth and naïve faith.
He could be more tenacious — L. says about God.
Let him be rather more like us — what a foolish human dream.
Quietly enters the room and wraps me up.
The body’s full of thorns. The sweat thick and sweet.
Translated by Piotr Florczyk
Glimmer
Here in the middle of nowhere the last bus
is the last light. The sky rarely clears up
but even then it’s not obvious why
the moon doesn’t reflect on the wet grass.
In the darkness roads disappear last whispers
hide away in their burrows.
If you want to go you can go. If you lie down
you’ll be amazed how quickly you’ll find yourself
where you had set out to be.
Translated by Piotr Florczyk
Relief
Why exactly did they choose you? You don’t know,
thinking in the dark. You go to the small window:
everything is in order and you’re inside that order
as if judging it from each place. You don’t know
if darkness is still working and how it orders things.
Many actions inside you many unfinished stories.
One is especially painful like a movement against everyone.
A small window: eyes lifting silver lines off the ground.
Translated by Piotr Florczyk
From the Start
These days I see more.
Some people even ask
me: What do you see there
that I can’t see.
It’s started to wear me out
staring straight into what
some people can’t even
get into their minds. God
is my witness that when
at last I explain how matters stand
they say pleasantly,
You could be wrong about it.
A few more came by, but they
don’t ask me anything. They want
me to hand over my eyes.
Perhaps that sort of bliss lost its hold on me.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Night
A poem
from the start closes you up in itself.
It doesn’t want
you to look around to search
for other words
from other poems.
You sit on the corner of the stone
folded
like a sheet of paper.
Helpless agreeing
you don’t breathe. The poem
doesn’t allow it.
On the stone you cannot
wriggle use
a bed a clock a map
or all the rest
of the imagination.
A poem
has its own imagination.
It built it for itself in you
and then closed
to release itself.
You have to wait
on the corner of the stone
where sometimes a light flashes
the golden dust of hope.
In the end a poem
will open itself. The stone
lets you go: a sheet of paper
that begins to breathe.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Celan
Celan cries out once more. He wakes up again
beside a ditch full of mouths.
Celan — a word that becomes the body
of an old man.
A river that flows
two currents
in one bed.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Song
You will be alone.
Surrounded by ocean.
You won’t even be given
a glimpse of a ship.
On the waves your every
breath will be
like setting a baby
into a crib.
And like so many
others before you
who met their end
in the depths where it lay
at that moment you gasp
and, do what you may,
you watch the baby
swimming away.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Chronicle
When I see soft and broken
boys when they meet in the evenings
and become whole and tough, I think again of
the same stories that want
to have their five minutes in each body.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
The Trees
Between us come the dead. And we
imagine that they don’t forget
about us. We say: Aha, they came back,
they missed us. All the while they came
between us as between the trees.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Either/Or
My friend leaves today for Copenhagen
where the author of Either/Or won great fame
for eight months he’ll be washing dishes
and then to London he’ll make his way
it should have been summer
but the rain came down and it’s over goodbye
two blinds boys were playing in the park
and one shouted to the other: you dummy don’t gape
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
A Door
Hidden under the tree where we shouldn’t be
We get a nod from those who run past laughing.
At the top of the tree, over and over someone slams a door.
I’m watching my foot that drinks from a mud puddle.
Some children’s clothes get sopping wet on the line.
We’re waiting for the sky to be smeared with more legible patterns.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Editorial Office
Off they go arm in arm, while I am held only by this text
indifferent to the rest, I see letters even on the windows.
They go down in my notes, the words pressed close
together while at the same time I try to write
them out with correct spelling, each by itself.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Private History
“It doesn’t hurt,” she says in her sleep. I know she says this
to me. Then she goes back to the place that fear
showed her. A cat and a pigeon a moment ago:
pursuit and escape. A flower swallowed in silence
fingers write in the air the first few letters
of the day: It doesn’t hurt. “It’s going to hurt,” I say.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
The Public
Why these poems about death?
I bite into a pear.
Bitter. In the broken flesh
a peerless white artist
makes me laugh with his
lively movements.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Region
Blood of the swamp brims over and fatigues the surroundings
pulling out from underground a pack of lies and sour moods.
People here are tough. If you punch one
you can break off a piece of an arm. But you can’t hurt them.
Though when the lord of flies pointed his finger there
they began to shake and jump through the windows.
Blood of the swamp pours into the houses. It put out the stove
and reminded people that their place can move.
You need to run away: the moon comes up
and calls to itself those who don’t believe in their own strength.
Running way is not the same as rejection.
Running away involves longing. The solemn moment, returning somewhere.
The strongest go through “a great range of mountains.”
Their hope is unfounded. That’s why it doesn’t exclude anyone.
The dry eye of the song can see movement in every valley.
The swamp never moves backward. The song of those who run away is wild, unhappy.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Political Observation
If he were buried
underground
he would start the bugs’ party.
Leave someone by his bed
who will whisper in his ear: “I will destroy you.”
He will recover.
He doesn’t believe
that which limits your freedom
after a while may become
part of it.
Translated by Marit MacArthur and Marta Pilarska
Edited byMarit MacArthur Kacper Bartczak