new poems

new poems Read Free

Book: new poems Read Free
Author: Tadeusz Rozewicz
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knife in the camp
cutting bread dividing it up
saving every crumb
he did not peel potatoes
(but did not throw away peelings

as they could save someone
from starvation)
    Â 
    years passed
we count up
together we are
a hundred and sixty years old
    Â 
    the 20th century is over . . .
    Â 
    the Professor lives alone works does not sleep
listens to music
I came to Ustroń
from Radomsko
from memory from the past
    Â 
    I came to Ustroń
in July 2000 from Wrocław
and Kraków via Wadowice
I wanted to see the hometown of the poet Jawień
I was moved to see his hills his clouds
his family home the school the modest church

Dawn Day and Night with a Red Rose
    you gave me a rose
red
almost black inside
autumnal
    Â 
    it stands out sharply
in the empty white
room
as if carved
with a lancet
by Doctor
Gottfried Benn
    Â 
    at night the rose
describes its shape and weight
in fragrance
    Â 
    it rouses me
with its thorns
    Â 
    cast
from sleep to a waking
that is still tremulous fluid
    Â 
    I see it

basking in the sun
unfolding
predatory
    Â 
    in its vicinity
it tolerates
neither nightingales
nor poetry
    Â 
    Hafis umdichtend hat Goethe gedichtet
“unmöglich scheint immer die Rose
unbegreiflich die Nachtigall”
    Â 
    with my eyes I touched
the compact
places
between the petals
    Â 
    the next day
at dawn
I took the rose
into the other room
    Â 
    at last I could get down
to my poem
    Â 
    in the presence of the rose
it had been fading away
before my eyes

secure now it took on
color
perked up
    Â 
    I’d realized that poetry
is jealous of the rose
the rose jealous of poetry
    Â 
    after a few hours
with the muse
I opened the door
    Â 
    I saw a black rose
gazing at itself in the mirror
    Â 
    it had lost none of its dignity
or significance
    Â 
    I took from the rose
its reflection in the mirror
and turned it into words
    Â 
    and in this way
I completed
the deed
    Â 
    [2001]

gateway
    Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi ch’entrate
    Â 
    all hope abandon
ye who enter here
    Â 
    the inscription at the entrance to hell
in Dante’s Divine Comedy
    Â 
    take heart!
    Â 
    beyond that gateway
there is no hell
    Â 
    hell has been dismantled
by theologists
and psychoanalysts
    Â 
    has been turned into an allegory
for reasons humanitarian
and educational
    Â 
    take heart!
beyond the gateway
there is more of the same

two drunken gravediggers
sit by a hole
they’re drinking non-alcoholic beer
snacking on sausage
winking at us
playing soccer
with Adam’s skull
beneath the cross
    Â 
    the hole waits
for tomorrow’s deceased
the stiff is on its way
    Â 
    take heart!
    Â 
    here we will wait for the final
judgment
    Â 
    the pit fills with water
cigarette butts float there
    Â 
    take heart!
    Â 
    beyond the gateway
there will be no history
no goodness no poetry
    Â 
    and what will there be
stranger?

there will be stones
    Â 
    stone
upon stone
upon stone a stone
and on that stone
another
stone
    Â 
    [2000]

Ghost Ship
    the days are shorter
the sundial stands
hourless in the rain
    Â 
    the sanatorium emerges
from clouds
like a vast passenger liner
    Â 
    columns of black trees
drip with water and moonlight
    Â 
    the sanatorium sails away
in the November mists
    Â 
    it rocks
its windows darkening one after another
plunges into shadow
into sleep
    Â 
    while below
underground
the devil has lit the old stove
in “Little Hell”
    Â 
    don’t be afraid
it’s only a late-night spot
a café

the saved and the condemned
cheeks flushed
lap up what’s left of life
    Â 
    the temperature rises
and everything whirls
in a dance of death
um die dunklen Stellen der Frau
    Â 
    the ghost ship
runs aground

the mystery of the poem
    once somewhere
long ago
I read a poem
by Eminowicz
whose first name
I subsequently forgot
    Â 
    this was before the war
    Â 
    then
    Â 
    for half a century
I never encountered
his poetry
    Â 
    he would come to mind
every few years
then return to

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