5 Poems
by Marcin Świetlicki
translated by Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese

Copyright © Marcin Świetlicki, translation copyright © Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese, reproduced by kind permission of the author

April 1, Wągrowiec, Poland

Woken up. At once entangled
in the business of the lake. A few hours before
dawn. Most probably. And the lake already
lives, breathes, sends off the swans
to eye him: a shadow
in the darkness seeking the path
to the human terminal. Awake. At a loss.
First shoots of grass take off from the dark ground.
Blindly. What for? Without himself, without time.
Time has grown so spatial that it is
invisible. Lost in the darkness.
Woken up. What for? If only he still had
the watch he was given for his First Communion,
if, at a suitable moment, he'd become a scout
and had a compass, if he knew how to rightly
use the compass

– he wouldn't be here.

'95

Six Times Coltrane

To whom do I speak? Since I speak – and I do
speak in Polish--------. Soon the sun will fall
beyond the edge. Soon, with a cold finger,
the run across the throat. Soon the run across
a cold city. To Nowhere. Settled in Nowhere
never will I be in Elsewhere. And to whom do I speak?
– in Polish, in the margins
of the light. An angel
unexpectedly speaks: 'Now I want to strip for you, Mr.'
(To whom does he speak?)

Photograph

In the corner of the street an apparition – as if
a small fraction of blizzard – as if
miseries went astray – went searching for someone
I opened the window – and so it remains
in the corner of the street a still flurry
me leaning forward and anticipating
and the harsh features of a winter sun

Tuesday, March

here
we'll be lovers, in a peeling house
at the crossroads, we'll cross with each other,
peeling, right through

mattress? sure, a mattress, only the mattress,
and ashtray? an ashtray, two
cups and mugs, a kettle, a plate, two,
and music? music, music without end

slowly the layers, more and more layers,
the layer of shadow, the hand above the body, slowly
the texture, slowly the roughness

the sky unveils itself,
separates, like a curtain,
there appears a clear-lit cave.

M – Black Monday

The moment when all the town's streetlamps light up
simultaneously. The moment when you say
your incredible 'no,' and suddenly I don't know what
to do next: die? go away? not respond?
The moment in the sunshine when I watch you from the bus,
your face different from when you know I'm looking
– and now you can't see me, you're looking into nothing, into the glassy
sheen in front of me. Not me anymore, not with me,
not in this way, not here. Anything can
happen, since everything happens. Everything is defined
by three basic positions: man on top of woman,
woman on top of man, or the one right now
– woman and man divided by the light.