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?
***
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.
***
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.
***
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. |
