THE SONG OF THE BAD
All gone now. Burnt to a crisp, down
to pure ash. Down to absolute zero.
The end of that which persists.
Persists in wait to be substituted,
for nothing is for ever, as we know.
Nice boys source their rebellion
from black shops. In readiness
for first dates. For the second
they will buy something else. The real
bad boys gone, employed elsewhere.
Engaged by corporations.
On expense accounts and gold
cards. And now our old bad boys are
supervising the building of the tallest of towers.
And this is their song. The song the
guests will hear upon its unveiling.
Where poisoned vodka with poisoned
girls will be served. Girls with that
indicator inside them. The air thick
with the air of luxury. The good
dead. Those who remain will launch
a new season, and I will write them a song.
A song about how it is
all ash.
YEARS OF PRACTICE
First the detail, there being too much of it
to get your head around with a single gaze.
Oh hell, you whisper under your breath, unheard of,
and then it’s all exclamation marks.
Intercourse continues and leads to new fragments found,
fragments which find their fans. Initial delighting
turns out too common, so now it’s time for expertise.
To be contemplated, like a Xi Shi tea pot.
You spend years piecing this together, attaching, adding,
and in the end it comes out completely something other than.
And so I can now tell you – Ingres,
not an ass! Not and ass at all! And smile right after.
30 MILES OF EARLY SAILING
For conversation, says the Captain, you need
both shouting and whispering. Breathless
you can only die, though this is not enough.
To catch seaborne creatures, as to
perform operas, one needs
a huge voice. Killing like an aria.
However, once it is all over, you whisper
in private a tale of higher destinies,
translated fireworks, simple bullshit sometimes.
And yet the origin of everything is –
this is the Captain talking still – the breath. You are born,
he says, though you look like you are drowning.
An oxygen bath, colours, lights! Oh castles,
mansions! The driver of the bus pontificating
about Baudelaire. The Captain shrugs his shoulders.
Swim, then, in an aerial aquarium.
Listen to the song of the swallows, they are the ones
who kill. Oh, Captain, my Captain!
A MEASURE OF DISTANCE
It is becoming dangerous, as dawn rises
and the trance passes. What was, leaves. In its
swat-stained place the dawn crawling along,
cold and tangible.
The night has no memory. Dreams always come out
of nothing, of a hat. Which is why we need to
record now, when the shadows
are still grey.
Shadows darkening, maturing into
memory. The sun burns a hole in a cloud,
then it starts to rain. Slugs slithering
onto the path without fear.
This guy, Kołodziejski, we spent
a lot of years together and don’t bother
each other that much any more. He’s funny,
hugging his hollow point.
Translated by Marek Kazmierski
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Marek Kołodziejski, lives in Inowrocław. His first book of poetry “Przekreślony horyzont” was published in 1983. 2009 saw the publication of his poetry collection “Koniec świata”, followed in 2011 by “Linijki” (Miniatura Press). The author regularly posts his verse on his own blog. |
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| Marek Kołodziejski, mieszka w Inowrocławiu. Debiutował w roku 1983 książką „Przekreślony horyzont”. W 2009 roku wydał tomik: „Koniec świata”, w 2011 kolejny -„Linijki” (oba w Wydawnictwie „Miniatura”). Autor publikuje swoje wiersze na blogu. |
