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OFF_press
Contemporary Writing Set In Modern Ways
| “70 years after the Holocaust”
“To frame experiences ever so hard to express, you have found the only possible form: a totally raw kind of simplicity. Because of this, you can be sure your poems will always live on!” W. Szymborska
Dark Flashes is the first-ever English language collection of poems by Irit Amiel, whose work is focused on experiences of the Holocaust, both her own and those of many others.
Irit Amiel was born in Poland in 1931 as Irena Librowicz.
Author: Irit Amiel Translator: Marek Kazmierski Language: English Genre: Poetry Pages: 114 ISBN: 978-0-9572327-2-3 Publication: 27/01/2013
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| Cena 50.00zl z przesyłką do Polski.
Bank WBK Apart Arts Ltd konto nr 84 1090 2851 0000 0001 1964 3928 IBAN GB51ABBY09066642690657 SWIFT-BIC code ABBYGB2LXXX.
prosimy o przesłanie emaila do info@off-press.org podąjac imie, nazwisko i adres pocztowy. |
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click on the image above to go to the White Review website for all poems…
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DOG-CATCHER
I’m so lucky
my pockets
always full of
shopping receipts
old tickets and odd buttons
Otherwise so many words
would work free of me
CANNIBALISM
Hidden within walls
old pipes
must sing in the night
At four when
silence takes over
you can also hear electric wires
cackling
And the aching floors moaning
The rooms devouring
themselves
ROOM NO. 8
The bow of the sofa’s back
down to the shapes of draped
maidens. One above.
Three people
at the three legged table. Obviously.
But the screen has four wings,
no one knows why.
The beds on undulating legs
(dizziness).
The mirror is new.
Reflecting, regrettably.
LOVE MODEL
I weigh
your words,
calculating their density and colour.
I study them with a magnifying glass,
under a microscope.
I slide a thermometer into their flesh.
Scales, slide rulers, measuring tapes to hand.
My name is Sevres.
HOLIDAYS. ETERNITY
Time is the diminishing
of suntan lotion.
And yet again
the inflaming of irritation.
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Anna Blasiak – born in 1974 in Słupsk, Poland. Studied Art History in Warsaw, Film Studies in Kraków and Arts Policy and Management in London. Published poetry in “Więź”, “Kwartalnik Artystyczny”, “Dekada Literacka” and “Odra”. Currently a full-time translator from Polish to English (fiction, art exhibition catalogues, film subtitles etc) and from English to Polish (mostly children’s and young people’s fiction as well as non-fiction). Apart from translating, she has worked in museums and a radio station, ran magazines, wrote on art, film and theatre. |
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Anna Błasiak – rocznik 1974, ze Słupska. Studiowała historię sztuki na UW, filmoznawstwo na UJ i zarządzanie instytucjami kultury w Londynie. Poezję publikowała w „Więzi”, „Kwartalniku Artystycznym”, „Dekadzie Literackiej” i „Odrze”. Tłumacz literacki z polskiego na angielski (proza, katalogi wystaw muzealnych, filmy) oraz z angielskiego na polski (przede wszystkim proza dla dzieci i młodzieży). Poza tłumaczeniami pracowała w muzeach i w radiu, redagowała pisma kulturalne, pisała o sztuce, filmie i teatrze. |
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Twin sky lake
“Some sensitive beings say they can see the sky,
But how can the “sky” be seen?”
Sutra of perfect wisdoms
Water swallowed up the clouds.
Fish getting their sleep on soft cushions,
while we struggle to cross
a dry sky.
Birds learning to fly through water,
order being reversed, mixed up,
a tiny fish cutting worlds in half
then binding them back.
Saved in temporary folders
I am constructed like a Rubik’s cube.
Let it be. It protects me from that which I desire.
I am learning participant observation,
though the absent kind is far closer to my heart.
I don’t like people, but they don’t know this.
Time for interaction? The tasting of someone else’s world?
I am watching my own too. As it contracts.
I am ever calmer. This is thanks to time.
It is high.
Shadowless
From word go you aim and hit light
intense enough to suck everything in,
sapphire deep enough to like, emerald which eventually
will have to shed its juices.
There is no place here for the light shades
of cruel Aprils in Paris or in London.
Count Basie appears too pale.
We need someone here who will not
be outplayed by cicadas. Do you know Jingo?
Yes, Eric and Carlos give it some!
You can hear all the brightness, ingesting it,
sucking it down like an oyster. This taste lingering
on the tongue, the roof of your mouth.
It will bring pale Aprils into definition.
Trailer
Waking came hard.
The air thick, filled with unease.
Mother gone; I blame myself
for being unobservant – she said where she was going?
He came out of nowhere. Fragile and weightless
like the shell of an empty egg in my arms.
And he did not bark. He seemed happy,
though his eyes were sad. I sought.
In the dark interior of an old town house
I hard something akin to the whirring of hair dryers
and women’s voices. Barber!
I remembered about the written page.
Squeezed into the dark room
were bunk beds. Hunched-over women
sitting down on some of them. They fell silent.
The only man in the room bent his head down low.
Something was moving slowly in the dark
as if drowning in syrup. Keeping silent.
I did not see. I knew.
I could not get near. And wake.
Clean is clear
- nothing reflected, everything has to be drawn by hand,
though drawing is not my speciality,
perhaps that is why this one and only, crystal pure,
remains outside of my reach.
I am waiting, purposeless. Training.
As it may seem, the ratio of transparency is growing.
But perhaps it is merely my optimism which is distorting vision?
I am waiting calmly. When clarity
reaches the point at which people walk into panes of glass,
doubts vanish. Hence where is all this dust coming from?
translated by Marek Kazmierski
in association with English PEN
Wednesday November 21st at the Free Word Centre http://www.freewordonline.com/ / http://www.englishpen.org/
60 Farringdon Road
London EC1R 3GA
6.30pm doors for 7pm start
entrance is £3, all profits go to the Pussy Riot legal fund and PEN writers at risk
Since the first Poets for Pussy Riot event, held on August 29th, Nadezha Tokolonnikova and Maria Alyokhina remain in prison, serving out sentences in notorious penal colonies. The community of poets that came together then, as an act of solidarity and commitment that this injustice should not be forgotten, will come together once more on November 21st, in association with English PEN, to mark the nine-month anniversary of Pussy Riot’s protest Punk Prayer performance, which took place on February 21st in Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. Please join nearly 40 poets from London for a evening of original poetry that will be one of a number events taking place across the UK and Ireland to raise local and national awareness of Pussy Riot’s situation. http://www.englishpen.org/catechism-poems-for-pussy-riot-live/
Readings from:
Tim Atkins / Becky Cremin & Ryan Ormonde / Sascha Akhtar / Jennifer Cooke / Tim Dooley / Francine Elena / Gareth Evans / SJ Fowler / Lucy Furlong / Charlotte Geater / Sarah Hesketh/ Michael Horovitz/ Jeff Hilson / Kirsten Irving / Antony John / Marek Kazmierski / Amy Key / Ziba Karbassi / Alex MacDonald / Candy Parfitt / Deborah Pearson / Claire Potter / Frances Presley / Shelagh Rowan-Legg / Will Rowe / Fathieh Saudi / Marcus Slease / Jon Stone / Philip Terry / M. Ly-Eliot / Stephen Watts / Michael Zand / Robert Kiely / Katy Price / Francesca Lisette
To celebrate National Poetry Day, OFF_PRESS is running a simple competition to win a copy of the latest poetry collection from Genowefa Jakubowska-Fijalkowska “of me a worm and of the worm verses”.
To win one of five copies of the book being given away, simply answer the following question:
Which five bookshops in Poland stock OFF_PRESS titles?*
Email your answer to info@off-press.org – closing date 31/10/2012
The first five correct emails win a book each!
* the answer can easily be found on our website…
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An astounding new collection of poetry from this well-established poetess, it presents a voice howling with fire and indignation, raising hell in an already hellish post-communist Polish environement – giving voice to women, children, animals, artists, Gypsies, Jews, the elderly, the crazed, the impoverished and the wild – in fact anyone for whom poetry should speak. Jakubowska-Fijalkowska is currently being translated into numerous other languages, the recent Czech publication of her book Něžný nůž (2011) being declared the publishing sensation of the year by critics.
The book also contains the poems in the original Polish. ISBN 9780957232709 Genowefa Jakubowska-Fijałkowska – born 1946 in Mikołów. Her books of poetry include: Dożywocie (1994), Pan Bóg wyjechał na Florydę (1997), Pochylenie (2002), Czuły nóż (2006), Ostateczny smak truskawek (2009), plus the collections i wtedy minie twoja gorączka (2010), Performance (2011), as well as the Czech translation Něžný nůž (2011). Her poems were published in ANTHOLOGIA #2 (OFF_PRESS, London, 2010) and in journals such as “Akcent”, “Odra”, “Fraza”, “Kwartalnik Artystyczny”, “Wyspa”, “Śląsk”, “Opcje”, “Arkusz”, “Twórczość”, “Zeszyty Literackie”, “Arkadia”, “Topos”, “Red”, “Nowa Okolica Poetów”, “Rita Baum” and “Gazeta Wyborcza”. Her poems have been translated into Czech, Slovene, German, English and Russian. Having twice been awarded the Ministry of Culture and National Heritage scholarship, she still lives and works in Mikołów. |
Cena 50.00zl z przesyłką do Polski. Przelew Santander Bank Plc / sort code 09-06-66 / acc number 42690657 / IBAN GB51ABBY09066642690657 / SWIFT-BIC code ABBYGB2LXXX. prosimy o przesłanie emaila do info@off-press.org podąjac imie, nazwisko i adres pocztowy.
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in association with
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“Welcome to my blog! Witam serdecznie!
When I was a child my greatest wish was to have a walkie-talkie. With one press of a button I thought I’d be able to banish loneliness, fear, boredom… I can’t remember who I imagined would be at the other end receiving my messages. Now here I am contemplating the endless vistas of the Internet which I mostly feel overwhelmed by. Forever behind with replying to e-mails and notifications, it takes me hours just to upload some holiday snaps let alone compose anything profound as befits a practising poet.
So what is it that makes me want to add my voice to the millions out there running along whatever it is they run along in cyberspace? (Unscientifically, my mind’s eye conjures lots of mice scurrying up drainpipes – rats in a maze?) A friend tells me blogging is about self-discipline and a sizeable ego. Hmmmn. Probably it’s the same thing which makes anyone write in the first place. The old message in a bottle addiction to communication. I know some people have it a lot worse – or is that a lot better? – than me. They blog all the time. Mine will be sporadic, erratic, occasional. Un-disciplined. I promise.”
Keep reading… click on the image above to go to the blog itself
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On 13 September, English PEN launched ‘Poems for Pussy Riot‘ in support of three members of the Russian punk band - Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, Maria Alyokhina and Yekaterina Samutsevich – who are currently serving a two year prison sentence. We will be posting poems dedicated to Nadezdha, Maria and Yekaterina in the weeks leading up to their appeal hearing on 1 October.
The following contribution is a piece by Genowefa Jakubowska-Fijalkowska, translated by Marek Kazmierski.
click on the image above to go to the English PEN website where you can read the poem
Marek writes of Genowefa Jakubowska-Fijalkowska: “a voice howling with fire and indignation, raising hell in an already hellish post-communist Polish environment – giving voice to women, children, artists, ethnic minorities, the elderly, the impoverished and the wild – in fact anyone for whom poetry should speak. Born in 1946 in Mikołów, she has published over seven collections of poetry. Her poems have been anthologised and published by all the major literary journals in Poland, and have been translated into Czech, Slovene, German, English and Russian. Having twice been awarded the Ministry of Culture and National Heritage, she still lives and works in Mikołów.”
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Poets for Pussy Riot
Wednesday August 29th 2012 – 7pm until late -
Free entrance at the Rich mix arts centre, main space venue, 35-47 Bethnal Green Road, London E1 6LA 020 7613 7498
With the news that Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, Maria Alyokhina and Yekaterina Samutsevich of the Russian punk collective, Pussy Riot, were sentenced to two years in prison for a wholly necessary and valid political protest, contemporary poets in London will come together in a unique evening of readings, featuring original poetry and text, as well as the words of Pussy Riot themselves. This event is an act of solidarity through the medium of poetry – a celebration of the courage and spirit of fellow writers of this generation, writing for real political change in a country that needs it. Featuring readings from over 30 poets including Tim Atkins, David Berridge, Becky Cremin, Kirsty Irving, Francesca Lisette, Chris McCabe, Reza Mohammadi, Sandeep Parmar, Tom Raworth, Jack Underwood, James Wilkes and many others.
email: steven@sjfowlerpoetry.com for details.
Tim Atkins David Berridge Becky Cremin Nia Davies Amy Evans Irum Fazal myself Charlotte Geater Kirsty Irving Keith Jebb Antony John Marek Kazmierski Robert Kiely Francesca Lisette Chris McCabe
intermission
Mendoza Reza Mohammadi Sandeep Parmar Claire Potter Nat Raha Tom Raworth Will Rowe Antonia Seroff Andy Spragg Jon Stone Jack Underwood MJ Weller James Wilkes Jenny Wong Michael Zand
Kurt gone mad
I have a newspaper photograph stuck to the fridge
- two fingers pressed against the spot where the temple
brushes wit, and the thumb for the hammer of a gun,
and a tiny blotch which signals the next move.
Although a smile’s breaking through the stubble,
fear fills the eyes (breaking the surface)
and then all those apologies. Sure.
He already knows you can drink half a glass
and feel empty instead of anywhere near full.
Kurt gone mad, only he doesn’t know it.
I only envy him this oversight.
Tied with chains
(for Dorota)
Too spacious the house – I don’t want to say: empty.
Severing the umbilical cord doesn’t hurt. Windows,
as if bullet proof, dull the hum of city streets. Walking
window to window (feet thunding). I close, open the curtain –
flowers and a trapped butterfly staring. I am speaking to you,
the echo just seemeing to find its voice. I am looking
for a trace of nastiness in a lit candle, for it entraps moths,
or in the web of a spider – yet you are not a foolish fly!
I calm myself, flattening the folds of my skirt. As a child,
you laughed when the lobster lolloped, while ghosties flew.*
I look for my migrane pills, bite the bitterness – it will heal
hypersensitivity and you will stop calling me a mad bitch.
*Polish children’s rhymes
Ukraine (9)
I came home for the holidays.
Lent a hand cleaning and making
dishes. Forced to go outside to smoke.
There is so much to-do. And so much
space left for us to think in.
I have considered the origin of things. And much
more about the business of dying (is, will be,
left?),
yet a moment ago I heard, from behind a thick wall,
my parents trying to make love, awkwardly
trying to keep quiet.
9 lipca w tragicznym wypadku zginął Tomasz Pułka. Informację śmierci poety potwierdził jego wydawca.
On the 9th of July, Tomasz Pułka, a young Polish poet, died in a tragic accident.
His publisher confirmed the information today. ha!art
I’m going to put down the white table cloth
spill across snow the infrared (outside of the range of red light)
petals of supermarket roses petals in foil unrecognisable to my eyes*
they will feel the cold and the foil and the snow in the lowest red spectrum wavelength
this redness will blanket Ukraine all the dogs shot in the head in preparing for the Euro
howling will leave behind traces of canine suffering the snow scarlet
(dogs do not have their crucified Christ)
Letters
Peace (…) cannot be found even here and I will stop seeking it in life
F. Kafka
I am writing to you, this April morning, the worst
already behind me? Answer.
I lost my job, spent a few years with a certain guy,
you know the type. Those who were going to hate me
probably do so already. How’s things with you?
How is your anxiety and your silence? Metaphysicians
mope about the whole day long in bathrobes, waiting
for supper while watching soaps. We would rather not live
Than allow ourselves to be put through the grinder
like living meat in better days calling this
happiness, usually – normality.
I am writing to you, this April morning, the worst
already behind me? Or maybe
let’s be in touch?
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K.P.
Happiness is a word from a handbook for ladies
and gents who have not yet learnt the true texture
Of truth? Only finally, essentially
with irony, seriously. You must go now, so
we will return to this another day. There is
no returning anywhere.
I like thinking of things which
I do not know about you. That which is interesting
does not fit sentences.
I like thinking of things which
have not happened, past tense
incomplete, future tense without plans
for the future. Now
You must leave, so we won’t go back there again.
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Evenings as they ought to be for the world’s
finale. Lights do not illuminate anything,
sadness suits you
The one you were left with after you got rid of
illusions, hopes, weeks whole? These are not
words fit for poems, but then again
This is what they call the age of innocence,
the sun under the skin, it will set next and smoothly
you will move towards the next stage
Pretending you had some influence on the outcome.
Game over? Pretending, that to console oneself
is the same as to clap.
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I will not talk about the subtle details,
because things were far from subtle. The city began
after dusk, I inhaled it into my lungs, it was
making fearsome faces. Someone was worried about me,
someone else mad with or did not want to see
me. Everything without meaning. I was breathing
signs of relief, waking completely unwell. Pain
looks great on you, he would have said, had he still
been talking to me. That which was meant to come
was casting shadows already.
Translated by Marek Kazmierski
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Joanna Dziwak – (born 1986) – has had her verse published in numerous literary publications (including “Akcent”, “Czas Kultury”, “Portret”), her début collection “sturm&drang” appeared at the end of 2010. She also translates German poetry, mainly Bertolt Brecht. She is studying philosophy, lives in Krakow. |
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| Joanna Dziwak – (ur.1986) – publikowała wiersze w wielu pismach literackich (m.in. „Akcent”, „Czas Kultury”, „Portret”), jej debiutancka książka “sturm&drang” ukazała się pod koniec 2010 roku. Tłumaczy również poezję niemieckojęzyczną, głównie Bertolta Brechta. Studiuje filozofię, mieszka w Krakowie. |
audiogram
the doctor joked: with such hearing
miss, you qualify for the army
he didn’t know I had taken psychology in 2007
when all the graduates were called up
except for me as I had forgotten
to check out of finland
I concluded: seems it’s still not enough
post regiment in headphones worth 5 zlotys
yes madame, you must accept
your slow loss of hearing
for the good of resonance
because a box like you, miss, can only rumble
you can forget fucking and families
and work is a waste for anyone
who happens to have a voice
and yet if you, miss, are afraid
of exposing yourself to ridicule
out of hunger eat a piece of shell and die alone
please apply two drops to each ear
three times a day until the barricade falls
next I would advise
a cure for the cold, punk rock, hangover and romanticism
and then just calmly
enlist in this world
kitten
autumn has come
the cat`s reaction to LSD has been checked
the animal could not stand on its own four paws
just like józek after the last bender
a village in syria was ambushed, a small siren was caught
I’m still waiting for the planet`s trepanation
the cat trembled like majka to whom we read
st. john’s apocalypse at bedtime
tabby saw the approaching horsemen with needles and squinted his eyes
in grotniki I found a portal leading to kołobrzeg
we entered the schengen zone
the terrible meowing resembled maciek
who sang our own country & western out of tune
and so a crowbar up your ass, a chocolate tomb and overwhelming solitude
all of these were bad trips but what could a cat expect
being filmed by some asshole straight-A chemistry student?
józek got to his feet
majka calmed down after a month
maciek got what was coming, and I woke in the eu
this cat will never rise again, all stripped of his catness
and his vision of doom will not return to the book
here comes the winter, a war with iran and other wild parties
all for the people so leave cats the fuck alone
surprising myself, I applaud the use of torture
against tabby’s butchers, each of us
keeps in a closet a private guantanamo
Tola
I’m not sure I can stand you saying
you don’t like reading
I may have to stop you playing disco
dress you all in black
and you won’t be yourself
you know Tola
that’s what you’ll be called
me, I’m always army boots and death disco
fuck the system – the only reasonable option
I would like you to be wise and beautiful
when I was your age I was neither
wise nor beautiful
it must be a wonderful feeling
but you put in so little effort
if you are ever born
know that it runs in our family
you must love yourself
to spite me
to se ne vrati
they say it won’t come in useful and are right
meal is better than metaphors, a poem
like a piece of cake
paradoxically
any man who can be seduced with poetry
is a pitiful thing
not that he should start waving guns about
real balls are something those chinese students had
when they stuck flowers into the barrels of tanks
naturally work
is acceptable only when
it brings real fruits, anyone who’s tried
tossing words into a blender knows
no juice will come out
only gibberish
they say poems are only good for wiping your ass
which is nice
knowing they have some use at least
though of course it’s nothing compared
to the oracle who in hexameter
declared the fates of the world
poets have never had it easy
he who attempts to explain himself in rhyme
will be locked up for certain
though it was not always so
when the sycylians conquered the athenian army
they only let go of those captives
who knew eurypides off by heart
killing the rest
it seems once upon a time it was possible
to live on poetry
remedy
I know you can raise your hand to strike
either me or a guitar string
to draw the most tender sound and what is the difference
between hitting a woman and smashing a guitar?
I don’t know which one of us is better
either for loving
or for receiving treatment
I once convinced you to see a psychiatrist
he told you to leave me
poems translated by Zuzanna Ogorzewska and Marek Kazmierski
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Zuzanna Ogorzewska (1983), a psychologist by profession, a layabout by nature. Poet and author of the volume “Pomidor i inne techniki przetrwania”. Winner of several literary competitions, tournaments and poetry slams. Her work has been published in “Opcje”, “Tygiel Kultury” and various on-line portals (including wakatonline.pl, odra.pl, cycgada.pl). |
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Zuzanna Ogorzewska (1983), z wykształcenia psycholog, z zamiłowania leń. Poetka, autorka tomiku “Pomidor i inne techniki przetrwania”. Laureatka kilku konkursów, turniejów i slamów poetyckich. Wiersze publikowała w “Opcjach”, “Tyglu Kultury” oraz na różnych portalach internetowych (m.in. wakatonline.pl, odra.pl, cycgada.pl). |
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OFF_News
- Wioletta Grzegorzewska and Genowefa Jakubowska-Fijalkowska in London on Monday
- OFF_BLOG #12/ Barbed wire and wild flowers
- OFF_BLOG #11/ Dirty, dirty, dirty
- eMigrating Landscapes / “New Europeans?”
- Our Oval Office / BOOKS AND BEYOND / opening April
- Enemies of the North / Enemies of the South
- OFF_PLACE London / BOOKS AND BEYOND
- Don’t miss Wioletta Grzegorzewska reading this Thursday @ the Redroaster.
- OFF_BLOG #10 Books and beyond – the future is OFF
- Franciszka Themerson – a European Artist | 12 Star Gallery
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