TOMASZ HRYNACZ – five rapid yarns





Writing


Write on. A cold writing.
Unutterably pale and desiccate.
Like a less than friendly dream, lunacy’s confidant.


Write on into the future, which has no gender or soul.
Driving through ashes. Through the dusk it crosses
with horrendous features, eyes of no colour.


Where a river runs trembling through dead quills.






Down to


The first and most vital function:
shave. Remove all stubble down to first
blood. Real desire for live touch.


The world as if the shaft of a three-dimensional
lift humming unknowing.
“Is immortality at all possible?”


So many chances that we will in the end show
what we are capable of. You’ve not looked this
good in years. In the mirror a litter of darkness


instead of a smile’s spark.
Do you remember the most well aimed sentence
of your life? In a line of wind powder


caresses rusted leaves. A letter
posted in a bottle did not reach your
hands. Whose eyes therefore cool


the eclipse of his signs? Things manifesting themselves
in a duel. They rock like the sun’s
stamp on a sky-blue vein.


Find the cause,
one for which I should now
die.







The kingdom of frost caught leaves


The kingdom of frost caught leaves.
Immortal eyes, puncturing
the knocking on heaven’s depths.


Indistinct light
like illusion. The whole square
clapping with the wings of doves.


Memory has fallen.
And histories too.


Does it not seem as if sin
has come up with a new trick?






The truth of others’ words.
Additions to notes by Marek Wittbrot


“If there is a city,
just a few streets or
a few places you
can call your own,


if there is one spot,
one path in a park,
wharf or deserted
morning alley, Curve street


or another, on which
we have come to live, not
seeming strange and if there
is something we want to love, in


which we find ourselves, do we
need words then, is it necessary
to talk about feelings of relief or
immortal thirst?


And if there is nothing, what
could we consider as our own?
If even our nearest, fullest
innards and simultaneous hollows,


the only place which seemed
home to us, turns out to be
an illusion, just another
desert, is there then all the less


need for silence, peace, solitude?”


In the snow
a crow is leaving dumb
marks.






Prayer


The dusk of words unsoothed by the prayer
of animated lips. White spaces vanishing.


Mountains shrinking and seas evaporating.
The vortex of time absorbing mute tears.








Taken and translated from


“Prędka przędza”


(Wydawnictwo “Forma”, Szczecin- Bezrzecze 2010)









download the poems in PDF format by clicking the book cover image above






Tomasz Hrynacz born 1971. Poet. He debiuted in 1997 with a volume of poetry „Zwrot o bliskość” („Studium”, Kraków 1997). Author of seven collections of poetry, the most recent being “Prędka przędza” (Wydawnictwo “Forma”, Szczecin- Bezrzecze 2010). His poetry has  appeared in numerous literary publications in Poland, including „brulion”, „Kresy”, „Odra”, Twórczość”, „Res Publica Nowa”, „Fronda”, „Czas Kultury” and abroad: in England, Czech Rep., USA, Canada, Serbia, France and Croatia. He has been translated into numerous languages, including Croat, German, English, French and Serb. He lives in Świdnica in the Silesian region of Poland.

Tomasz Hrynacz ur. się w 1971 roku. Poeta. Debiutował w 1997 roku tomem wierszy „Zwrot o bliskość” ( Biblioteka „Studium”, Kraków 1997). Autor siedmiu zbiorów wierszy. Ostatni wydał “Prędka przędza” (Wydawnictwo “Forma”, Szczecin- Bezrzecze 2010). Swoje wiersze drukował w wielu pismach literackich w Polsce m.in. w „brulionie”, „Kresach”, „Odrze”, Twórczości”, „Res Publice Nowej”, „Frondzie”, „Czasie Kultury” i za granicą: w Anglii, Czechach, Stanach Zjednoczonych, Kanadzie, Serbii, Francji i Chorwacji. Tłumaczony był na kilka języków m.in. na chorwacki, czeski, niemiecki, angielski, francuski i serbski.  Mieszka w Świdnicy Śl.