- PART ONE OF THE TRILOGY – “THE CROSSING” – NOW AVAILABLE FREE IN pdf FORMAT-
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SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN BORN represents the collected works by one of Poland’s most promising young poets, Grzegorz Kwiatkowski, available for the first ever time in English translation.
Each individually numbered book is hand-stitched using the Japanese Yotsume Toji binding method and made specifically to individual order.
Learn more about the way our books are bound and finished here…
Throughout September, we will be uploading sample translations from SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN BORN – available to order from our on-line bookstore …
Dream no. 16
the taste of black espresso, the clicking of women’s heels
and cats’ howling coming from the ruins of the Forum Romanum
I was in a cafê, reading La Stampa:
“Benedict XVI dressed in ordinary garb
visits his old apartment in the evenings
what does the pope do in the evenings
in his old apartment
on the Piazza della Citta Leonina house nr 1?”
I saw him: as grey as any Rome pigeon
his frail desiccated body
like the frail desiccated bodies
in the tombs of the Capuchin Friars in Palermo
he was already nearing door number one
what if I were to drag him into a side street
and rough up or rape him?
will Corriere della Sera
write in tomorrow’s edition:
Holy Father defiled?
from The Crossing
Marcel and Bruno
it’s autumn and the hairdresser Marcel Filip
is dyeing his client’s hairdo
the colour of falling leaves
out of the corner of his eye he has seen
the figure of Dominik Bruno passing
yes
it had to be him
it seems only a moment ago
he was rifling through a bin
looking for scraps
thinks Marcel
and begins his story:
there once were two young lads:
when the first of the two
dropped a ball
which rolled across the room
the boy cried and asked his mother for help
but the mother did not react
and the boy went to get the ball himself
while his friend
when dropping his toys
would cry instant tears
tears his mother wiped
ensuring his hands were again full of buzzing colour
the first of the two friends ran the best hairdressing saloon
in town and his clients always left with
the most beautiful hairdos the colour of fallen leaves
while the second friend fell on hard times
and couldn’t even afford to buy bread
his customer smiles and says:
of course this story is about you and that drunk Bruno
you were the first lad and Bruno the second
I didn’t know you two were friends
you are wrong madame
I was the second lad
and it was on me my mother doted
of course
I did not fall on hard times
as you can see yourself
but it was Bruno who was the first
or rather he could have been:
he was a very studious boy
scoring top marks in hairdressing school
while I barely made it through
the exams
for our graduation we had to pass a final test
and cut the hair of local dignitaries
the day before Bruno had been at his sister’s wedding
and took the exam less than sober
cutting off a piece of the lady mayor’s
ear
sometimes when I’ve closed up he knocks on the door
takes his place in the chair
cuts strands of his hair
and cries
while I show him catalogues of hairdos
from all over the world
and for a moment his face lights up with a smile
I cannot lie any more:
I was the first child
and Bruno the second
the killer of children kills children
and only those who are evil go to hell
it’s autumn and the hairdresser Marcel Filip
finishes the colouring and begins cutting
it’s autumn and in the salon “Filip” a scream is heard
and a slice of ear can be seen on the floor
the colour
of falling
leaves
from Eine Kleine Todesmusik
been born III
people etched dates into the façades of their houses
in times when they experienced relative peace
and were proud of themselves and their belongings
how many houses with no dates stamped into them did he see!
how many unplastered over stains of greyness did he see!
they carried him in a basket to the christening
but the basket slipped their grasp and fell into mud
a cold penetrating wind was blowing
and everyone was irritable
and their shoes were soaked through and their feet frozen
with staggering speed their quality of life decreased
with staggering speed
when he grew up a little he wanted to take all the crosses down
and swap them for sun symbols
he often walked the streets unkempt and bothered passers by
and said to them:
“we’re gathering forces again
enough humiliation
more water canals around the house
drainage!
drainage!
we have so little time
let’s rescue ourselves and our children
exile the faithful from musty catacombs
into the sunshine!
air the catacombs
and renew the law
drape skin over our faces
and walk gracefully and erect
towards death
without fear
walk proud”
until a woman appeared in his life
and gave birth to his son
and all night she wove a wicker basket
while he repeated over and over again:
“a moment’s weakness
a single moment of weakness
he should not have been born
we should not have been born”
from Weaken
| Grzegorz Kwiatkowski, born 1984 in Gdansk – poet, musician. Published his first collection of poems “The Crossing” in 2008, then “Eine Kleine Todesmusik”in 2009 and now “Weaken” in 2010. Member of the group Trupa Trupa. Shortlisted for the prestigious Politika Passports twice (2009 and 2010). Winner of the Young Artist of the Year in Gdansk (2009), the Splendor Gedanesis Prize (2011) and the Artistic Award from the Gdansk Association of Friends of the Arts. Beneficiary of the Grazella Foundation Scholarship (2009), the City of Gdansk Scholarship (2010) and the Mayor of the Pomeranian District Scholarship (2011). Winner of numerous national poetry competitions (incl. Władysława Broniewskiego, Witolda Gombrowicza, Złoty Środek Poezji). Nominated by Gazeta Wyborcza for the Storm Of the Year prize (2008, 2009, 2010). Nominated for the Splendor Gedanensis Prize (2009). Published in, among others, Tygodnik Powszechny, Gazeta Wyborcza, Dziennik, Lampa, Dwutygodnik, Kwartalnik Artystyczny, Topos and Odra. |
|
Grzegorz Kwiatkowski Rocznik 1984. Mieszka w Gdańsku. Poeta, muzyk. Wydał trzy tomy wierszy: “Przeprawa” (2008), “Eine Kleine Todesmusik” (2009), “Osłabić” (2010). Członek zespołu Trupa Trupa. Dwukrotnie zgłoszony do Paszportów Polityki (2009, 2010). Laureat nagrody Splendor Gedanensis (2011). Laureat Nagrody Artystycznej Gdańskiego Towarzystwa Przyjaciół Sztuki (2011). Laureat Nagrody Miasta Gdańska dla Młodych Twórców (2009). Stypendysta Fundacji Grazella (2009). Stypendysta Miasta Gdańska (2010). Stypendysta Marszałka Województwa Pomorskiego (2011). Laureat ogólnopolskich nagród poetyckich (m.in. Władysława Broniewskiego, Witolda Gombrowicza, Złoty Środek Poezji). Trzykrotnie nominowany przez Gazetę Wyborczą do nagrody Sztorm Roku (2008, 2009, 2010). Nominowany do nagrody Splendor Gedanensis (2009). Publikował m.in. w Tygodniku Powszechnym, Gazecie Wyborczej, Midraszu, Dzienniku, Lampie, Dwutygodniku, Kwartalniku Artystycznym i Odrze.
|
translated by Marek Kazmierski
It’s winter 1988. The first time I’m home alone
and scared of answering the phone. The model Spitfire
is still drying, its badly set undercarriage
doing the sideways splits. Outside the window, a snowy monument
- night, the lady of both tides. The silence
between rings is unbearable.
Twenty years on, I’m still scared of answering
the phone. Before me – an iron road, jaws
snapping, the whisper of grit, the squeal of sprockets,
waves of nausea. And love like overweight baggage,
like a vial of glue or green grease. Write it down:
inclined plane. Ten years earlier: unfortunate
drive up a ramp, a tiny skateboard wheel loose and the fall.
What an arena, dreams of fresh leaves on snow,
perfect surfaces of abandoned kites.
And also faith in the immortality of flesh and sudden silence
between rings. Diagnosis: cracked ankle
joint. Diagnosis: the hourglass smashed.
