THE FINAL FETCH



He broadened the borders of my playground,
conquered all and all of them, even the bad’uns
from the bad ends, which served as conkers
in times when games were still just games –
needing no rules or playfulness.


I only ever cried when
we buried our first dog,
at my grandparents’ allotment,
which burnt down soon after -

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NARRATION


tsui pen believed in many

parallel time lines, but this too was too little.

silver believes in those low-rider bendy buses

and that as soon as we get asses in gear we will make it.

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Six poems by Agnieszka Mirahina translated for the first time into English for the 3:AM Maintenant series by Maciek Markowski and SJ Fowler.



Agnieszka Mirahina is a Polish poet, born in 1985. Her collections include the critically-acclaimed Radiowidmo (Radiophantom) (2009). She lives in Wroclaw where she studied Russian and Polish philology.


First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, June 13th, 2010.- click on image to read them…


What is the future of poetry?


What is poetry for? Who is it for? And can it really be on the ascendant? Stephen Moss (who has, sadly, not become the next Oxford professor of poetry) reports from the front line…


click on image to go the Guardian article…



5 poems



I.

give me the words to name limits
as accurately as limits
and let me dance within them (so
I may joyously turn circles

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ref.
this must be my day of birth
eyes wide open nanny get gone
no more suckling at any breast
no chance for taking backwards steps

and so I snatch at my pen so fragile
the one always needs tying down with chains
else it’ll tear it’ll kick and it’ll howl
though I am a poet please live and let live

for God for me for you
why muddy the self struggle in the dirt
why hike cross town on a bus in the freezing cold
when a friendly hand will help you just write

ref.
this must be my day of birth
a wild cur chasing me through town
no more clutching at stones
my fault in it somewhere too

I see Cerberus approaching
his mouth watering gnawing consuming
he who guards the border between men and beasts
the Styx runs with water, the world just full of itself

a cover and a title and a font
we play chess though you know nothing of the throne
you wanted to dance, and have danced, and now need to shut your mouth
this train rides on, its wheels blazing, smoke and sparks

ref.
this must be my day of birth
a cricket playing his fiddle for an age now
the shadow of melody swaying slow
hanging as if it were a stolen verse

weaving and cutting and pasting
after all, even a toy can be the form in question
all we have in anthologies every single friend and foe
we’re in charge while you only have your God

you only have silence on your side
so don’t dither round yourself up in unions
and pay dues and clap hands emigrate form a club
it wasn’t poetry the poet married today

and so to live and labour and lounge
yet all I have to do – is write
you can take rob hide or simply burn to the ground
though no one can strip the poet’s taste in rhymes.



check out the video in our MULTIMEDIA section



translated by Marek Kazmierski




download the text in English and Polish original pdf here





Paweł Gawroński Born in 1982. Following a quiet childhood, in a village near Włocławek, the capital of the Kujawy region, Pawel has always been busy writing, both poetry and prose. First published in May 2005, though in June of same year unfortunately had to leave Poland. His current residence is in the UK, where he struggles to continue his literary existence.

Paweł Gawroński

Paweł Gawroński Urodziłem się 5 października 1982 roku. Dzieciństwo spędzałem spokojnie, na wsi polskiej położonej niedaleko stolicy Kujaw-Włocławka. Od najmłodszych lat wiązałem swoje życie z pisaniem, czy to prozy, czy poezji. Zaowocowało to debiutem w maju 2005 roku. W czerwcu tej samej wiosny musiałem musiałem niestety opuścić kraj, stąd moja obecność na wyspie, gdzie staram się kontynuować zamiłowania literackie.






Impressions from a reading



in an old bookshop, I bought
a collection of Szymborska’s poems from 1972
in any case
between pages eight and nine
between error and impressions from a play
I found
a grey label
torn
from a cotton shirt
made in england
St. Michael
for a child up to 10 years old
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Threnody IX. Account




Reistych


Exporting: 80 zl


Refrigeration: 4 days at 25 zl each
making 100.


Transit: 180 + 240.
Total: 420  zl


Wreath, veiled: 250 zl
Floral arrangement: 170.


Coffin (pine): 740 zl
Coffin fittings: nil.


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  • Prace prosimy nadsyłać w terminie od 1 kwietnia do 1 maja 2010.
  • Każdy uczestnik może zgłaszać nie mniej niż trzy, nie więcej niż pięc utwórów.
  • Udział w konkursie nie wymaga opłat.
  • Zgłoszenia, zawierające informacje kontaktowe uczestników (adres, email lub telefon), powinny być nadsyłane na adres: konkursOFF@zeszytypoetyckie.pl
  • Informacje osobowe uczestników chronione będą ustawą o ochronie danych osobowych.
  • W konkursie nie mogą brać udziału osoby bezpośrednio związane z OFF_PRESS, Apart Arts ani Zeszyty Poetyckie, oceniający ani osoby z nimi spokrewnione.
  • Nadesłane zestawy wierszy oceni jury w składzie: Dawid Jung i Marcin Orliński.
  • Poszczególne teksty mogą być publikowane w OFF_PRESS/Zeszytach Poetyckich przy zachowaniu pełnych praw autorskich twórców.
  • Spośród poetów wyróżnionych w pierwszym etapie konkursu, przyznamy nagrodę główną jednej osobie.
  • Nagrodą główną jest publikacja zbioru wierszy w jednym tomie, również w obu wersjach językowych.
  • Wyróżnionych autorów opublikujemy w antologii, każdego po przetłumaczeniu w obu wersjach językowych.
  • Autorzy tekstów otrzymają po dwa egzemplarze antologii/filmu.
  • Zgłoszenie tekstu w konkursie oznacza całkowite przyjęcie powyższych warunków.

Kontakt

Marek Kazmierski (OFF_PRESS) info@off-press.org
Dawid Jung (Zeszyty Poetyckie) dawidjung@zeszytypoetyckie.pl
Marcin Orliński (Zeszyty Poetyckie) marcinorlinski@zeszytypoetyckie.pl


Konkurs OFF_ZP ’10
ul. Gdańska 77,
62-200,
Gniezno

Polska





A step or two east, or west, and all you see changes…

Lawrence Durrell



Who can, resting, slowly turn their confusion to clarity?
Tao-Te-King



2006 -10 -01

Slowly, I am learning the streets of Ryde by heart. The nooks and the crannies of this town creep beneath my skin and into my irises. Some days, I wake at midnight and could swear voices speaking Polish are floating up from the street.

I was joking when I said that, in my altered state, I feel like Emanuel Swedenborg. I feel closer to ghosts than to the living. Daily thoughts escape me of late, same as my breasts evade my bra: engorged and pregnant with possibility. My dreams peopled with the dead. They come in the form of sedum shrubs, flower-people in stiff suits speckled with wax, wearing linen robes. Hanging  above, trying to enter me, root by root. I recall other fragments of dream: indigo light from a gas lamp, a wooden tub filled with suds.


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WEAVER



Twin layers on the edge of pattern
past and present.


Empties, fulls, fulls, empties

Granny Sania whispers.


Granny Sania lost her senses
last year.


Recalling Granny Sania
I feel my own senses loosening, or
my senses losing me
(the order is inconsequential).
The air turning thick
enters the mouth like a gag, one
you want to light and hear explode.


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FAREWELL TO POETRY




Here I am. Seeking love and peace.
For many years, I have been wandering dug up streets
and that which I see as the world probably is my world,
that which I feel as life – life is
though that’s nothing certain.
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Today is the 21st of April. One month until the opening of the FESTA FATUORUM festival in Gniezno. Over 140 poets have already sent in work for the competition which closes on the 1st of May. More is to come.


The jurors from Zeszyty Poetyckie will then then have seven days in which to choose the list of finalists. On the 7th of May, they will send me the best 20-30 entries. They will also invite the short-listed poets to be at the FESTA FATUORUM festival in Gniezno, opening on the 21st of May, where the ultimate winner will be announced.


On the 8th of May, I will set off on a two week journey around Poland (plane tickets already booked). Just me, my video camera and a bag of poems. As I travel around, I will film everything I see and translate the poems. I will also try and visit as many Polish poets as I can.


Muses willing, I will arrive in Gniezno for the opening of FESTA FATUORUM, where I will film the festival, interview the poets I will have been translating, then head back to London to edit the film and finalise the translations.


The translations will then appear in two separate volumes of poetry – the collected anthology of 20-30 poets (3-5 poems each) and the winning poet’s own individual collection. The film of my  trip of discovery will then be given away free on DVD with every copy of the two books (which will be available separately or as a twin set).


marek kazmierski, OFF_PRESS londyn



SCREW POET



what is it you do that they gnaw their own veins
cut wrists with fingernails in toilets too shallowly to kill


(though some wish they could)


smearing shoe polish on their hands faces crotches
letting it all go to hell and burn no good to anyone now


prison games last
(outside of greenery outside of the poet sipping his beer)

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OF OWN ACCORD



Only for a moment did I forget
that it’s now. My station of honest memory.


Hiatus of moments worn like satin.
Mistaken leads followed. Of own accord. You can


miss scabs, the grazing of cuticles.
The patina of silvery blood. Let’s revisit those


Conversations. The stucco of dried branches, leaves
of flint. These etchings, left over from childhood.

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i laze



in fly-like sticky tango of sweet trickles
I sieve chitinous light through the slits of hundreds of eyes
lightly ever so lightly I am taken by persistent buzzing
is it only with me after all ah all right I will bring you breakfast

(not that I would go blindly into the fire. but his
ratio of muscle to hair is quite so so) I think


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BEEN BORN



they wanted to get away from paying taxes
the dreadful chore of applying for passports and ID cards
and scraping ice off frozen windscreens


and they did get away from it all

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Homing                                     instincts



Ornithologists say white-feathered pigeons are masters of survival
While I was giving a reading in Chicago, Jan 28th at 5 pm, the roof
of the pigeon exhibit in Chorzów, Poland collapsed under the weight
of snow.  63 people died. Słowo nie zagruchotało.  To tylko dach
gruchnął. An iridescent audience on air.  Archangels Barbs Homers
Frillbacks Laughers Modenas Nuns Orliks. Read the rest of this entry »



Danes complaining IKEA are degrading theirs



The names of Danish towns now names of carpets, rugs,
and what’s worse the joint (Swedish) ØRESUND strait
is now a toilet seat. Your blackmail cost me three Swedish
bowls at Sunday discount, two sleepless nights on the
four-post OSLO. Did they name their floor coverings

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***




What will you tell me oh Highgate cemetery
through vine-wrapped stones
and you tall Englishwoman riding the Tube
(I would so like to come all over your chest)


what do you really want to know
Chinese chap and you two German girls
when asking for directions to Marx’s tomb
is it not you who should be leading me there
through decaying leaves


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