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oblivion
    Â 
    Chess?
    Â 
    yes I read the poem
in “Pion” magazine
    Â 
    chess? not chess
chess
I think it was chess the poem

rattled about in my head
like a death-watch beetle
(that was all I needed!)
    Â 
    two years ago
I found myself in Kraków
with Czesław Miłosz
in Ludwik Solski’s Dressing Room
    Â 
    Mrs. Renata (this was her idea)
was asking us questions
about poetry youth the occupation
and women (laughter)
the topic was our love poetry
    Â 
    all at once I digressed and asked
do you remember the poet Eminowicz
    Â 
    Miłosz did
    Â 
    â€œEminowicz? his first name was Ludwik”
    Â 
    later we talked about Staff and Fik
Czechowicz Przyboś Ważyk
    Â 
    a year passed
I was looking through Extracts from Useful Books
and on page 207 I found a poem
by Ludwik Eminowicz “At Noon”
strange poet

strange poem neither good nor bad
the vanishing poet
lived 1880–1946
I rush headlong . . . the roiling water golden
the sky suspended from a burning frame . . .
    Â 
    I rush headlong
    Â 
    Mr. Ludwik Mr. Eminowicz
wait up
don’t hurry so
don’t run away
from us
into a fragile immortality
in some reference book
or anthology
    Â 
    in October 2000
I was at the Frankfurt Book Fair
(Frankfurt am Main)
eight hundred publishers
or maybe eight thousand publishers
were exhibiting a hundred thousand new titles
a million books
“the pope of German literature and criticism”
put in an appearance
five hundred poets (of both sexes)
read their poems
ja ja lesen macht schön
(schreiben macht häßlich)

but the greatest success
was Boris Yeltsin with his bestseller
and with champagne vodka and caviar
    Â 
    I was there too with a small volume
    Â 
    I drank a glass of red wine
with Leszek Kołakowski
    Â 
    I read poems with Miłosz
Nike sprinting before us
    Â 
    suddenly Eminowicz
popped into my head
“I rush headlong . . . the roiling water golden
the sky suspended from a burning frame”
I smiled to myself
Nike running behind us
cheeks unhealthily flushed
and I was thinking about Eminowicz’s poem
in “Pion” ( Chess? )
    Â 
    somewhere once
long long ago
I had read that poem
    Â 
    [2000–2001]

rain in Kraków
    rain in Kraków
rain
falling on the Wawel dragon
on the bones of giants
on Kościuszko Mound
on the Mickiewicz monument
on Podkowiński’s Frenzy
on Mr. Dulski
on the trumpeter from St. Mary’s tower
    Â 
    rain
rain in Kraków
dripping on the white Skałka church
on the green commons
on the Marshal’s coffin
beneath silver bells
on the gray foot soldiers
    Â 
    the clouds hunker down
settle in over Kraków
rain
rain falling
on Wyspiański’s eyes
on the unseeing stained glass
    Â 
    the mild eye of blue
a thunderbolt from a clear sky

long-legged maidens in high heels
fold colorful umbrellas
it’s growing brighter
the sun
emerges
I walk from one monastery to another
seeking the dance of death
    Â 
    in my hotel room
I attempt to hold on
to a poem that’s drifting away
    Â 
    on a sheet of paper
I have pinned a purple copper
butterfly
a patch of blue
    Â 
    rain rain rain
in Kraków
I read Norwid
it’s sweet to sleep
sweeter to be of stone
    Â 
    goodnight dear friends
goodnight
living and dead poets
goodnight poetry
    Â 
    [July 2000]

gray zone

cobweb
    four drab women
Want Hardship Worry Guilt
wait somewhere far away
    Â 
    a person is born
grows
starts a family
builds a home
    Â 
    the four specters
wait
hidden in the foundations
    Â 
    they build for the person
a second home
a labyrinth
in a blind alley
    Â 
    the person lives loves
prays and works
fills the home with hope
tears laughter
and care
    Â 
    the four drab women
play hide-and-seek with him
they lurk in chests
wardrobes bookcases

they feed on gloves dust
kerosene mud
they eat books
fade drab and quiet
by icy moonlight
they sit on paper flowers
the children clap
trying to kill moths
but the moths turn into