Following the heart
Wydawnictwo Biblioteka Tematu,
Autor rysunku na okładce: Wojciech Górka
Redaktor: Dariusz Tomasz Lebioda
Przekład na j. angielski Alina Jelińska-Żelazny
Warszawa 2011
Wybrane wiersze
The message
If we blight the SPIRIT OF CHILDHOOD inside, which enriches us and adorns,
a time will be that, with our unfeeling bodies,
we`ll become mechanical robots.
Anthropoidal creatures,
with no human faces.
With a heart that cannot feel.
And no brain`s imaginings.
Remember ,please, these words.
They weigh more than this book`s content.
A way
-Which way to take my steps,
when a foggy screen falls and the eyes can see:
into those high-rise buildings of concrete,
or, into the sun-painted cottages?
-Lay your hand on your heart.
Make it vibrate with the most sensitive string.
And take the steps of your life-
where the heart tenderly sounds.
Childhood
Open- like holding a book of fables
with bright colours.
Legible- like capital letters before your eyes.
It is a fleeting butterfly which skimmed with its wing
the rim of a rose petal of poetry,
unaware of life as grey
prose in hard cover.
Friends from the garden
There were three of us growing up in grandparents` garden:
Azorek of the years as a puppy,
Me of young child time,
and Sprucie of sapling springs.
A barking Azorek pranced about, chasing me
round Sprucie. And Sprucie rustled happily
shaking some dewdrops on our heads.
But soon afterwards, as we circled the tree
with our traces,
Azorek - after an accident-had to stay in the
garden ring for ever.
I placed a stone in the centre.
I remember the moment so well.
Then my eyes filled with a river of tears,
Sprucie leaned over the dog, and ….down
at the roots, Azorek was heard barking.
In our hearts his heart revived.
A neighbour`s dog`s monologue
Bow-wow….a dog barked.
I want nothing of you, master,
just some shelter, some meal and…
treating me well,
like only humans will.
As I am not merely a guard of the house,
but a friend of yours, and your pal.
To you I became so closely attached,
and you-
kennelled me up.
A drama of bees
-I will myself fill up a barrel of honey,
said a bee, buzzing.
And man who is tempted by honey,
will die as a punishment.
- A bee –keeper said to a worker bee,
The whole hive has to plod over filling
a barrel. And if you sting a human being,
you will yourself be trapped in a death-ring.
The end of the World ?
- Man ,as you all know,
not always sculptures the earth`s effigy
according to the minds of wisemen
and the eyes of an artist-
Granddad says,
trying to give some examples.
They prove that very soon from out of a bald head of earth,
there will emerge an earth`s skull of stone
with dried up sockets of rivers,
without a single bird`s voice…
And man…
-Granddad- What`s that nonsense?- I cried out. Shake off this nightmare from your eyelids.
And paint the earth with the colours of flowers.
And sing up the world with a skylark…
There will be summer on earth for ever.
-But it`s autumn with me– granddaddy said.
Thus, there`s a downpour of doldrums.
Athletes
The neighbours
do not call granny – a caryatid
or granddad- atlantes.
They call them a neighbour buttress.
I call them just… in Greek.
Because they hold the sky on their shoulders
for me. And when I break down with such fragility
of mine,
they lift my spirits and stand by my side.
A holiday friend
-He surpasses everybody in conversation-
that`s what his father says.
He could surely make it as a defence lawyer.
-And mother jokes that if his son begins
to crumble the Court of Justice walls,
Themis will clap her ears…
with her eye-band.
A girl`s portrait
-A wonder of nature- sighed an old painter,
looking at a laughing girl
with a bluebottle in her hand.
And he hastened to the brush,
and dipped it in a paint
and…
upon a grey canvas
shed a blue tear of marvel.
Tight-fitting trousers
My brother insisted on having them…
He set off on the way to his friends, dressed
in the tight-fitting trousers, and boasted about
how much granny paid.
Suddenly he saw granddad
standing at a glass bottle bank,
holding a full plastic sack,
with bottles`necks coming out.
This sight confused him for a while.
I myself quickly passed by
not to look granddad in the eyes.
A ladybird
- If, by mistake, you step on a ladybird-
granny is warning me,
Don`t say it`s such a NOTHING,
neither having tears in the pupils,
nor blood in the veins;
with such a faint sparkle of life.
Lean over a ladybird and cry,
so that your heart is not petrified.
A cow
It`s as colourful here as some wonderland.
A meadow in flowers.
What a shame that our cow, here,
won`t graze.
Not long but last summer,
she went straight through a poplar way.
With milk in her udders.
With a dandelion on horn.
Not long but last summer,
we drank foamed milk.
Now the cow-shed`s empty,
in the manger, a red wisp of hay.
A meadow in flowers.
Before you see dry stacks of hay,
on the road of poplars, I`ll show you
the prints
of heart-shaped hoofs left.
A greyhorse
A greyhorse never stamped on a ladybird.
Never kicked a cow, when got horned.
Never neighed away a swallow from its eggs.
Such a horse he was. He gave way to a passing ant,
and stepped carefully the white canes of his legs
when his eyes were dim as a candle-end.
He could feel with his hoofs the finest sand.
And recognise us as if
with spectacles` help.
We loved riding, at a walking pace,
on this jade of granddad`s,
no good for a plough or a coach…
But loving kids with a true heart.
Two mothers
A hen is sitting eggs for chicks.
A potatoe shoot - for tuberies.
Both the vegetable and
the bird have the same joy of
motherhood.
A hen is preening itself
cackling.
A potatoe shoot-
pleats a violet flower into a plait.
But not one life power
both mothers have.
A hen breathes deeply-
after chicks are hatched.
A potatoe shoot- withers after that.
Rain-clouds
Rain-clouds - like homeless roams.
Not on good terms with blue weather.
Conquering the sky.
All the roads lead them nowhere.
Chased away from place to place by the wind,
never sleep a wink.
But when they are bored with this constant roaming-
They trickle down raindrops into all puddles.
A rainbow
I stare at a rainbow.
Not a big thing…just what eyes can see.
Seven coloured beams.
Seven water colours,
nothing else and that`s it.
But still…
It`s one of the works of art`s marvels
painted in a cloud with a brush
of sunrays.
Storks
I look at the blue sky.
Storks are there.
Such a drawing.
such a painting,
like that by…CHEŁMOŃSKY.
He comes to mind.
Our eyes link these birds
only with this painter`s works.
No other artist. And nobody else.
Just like the sunflowers-
to VAN GOGH are wed.
A grey hare
A hare is eating a cabbage,
and a greyhound pretends not to see.
-Who the hell can`t see! –
growled a hunter at the hound.
What`s this sympathy for
a grey hare?
And the dog barked back:
-Don`t you see that the hare
is the only grey brain cell
in all the patch of cabbage-pates.
A bird
Neither ploughs
nor sows…
Yet it is no loafer.
It`s a singing artist.
A song of our fields,
and its embellishing asset.
It sends golden notes from out of his beak.
And from a bird`s gamut he pleats a melody…
No matter
whether you hold a grain,
or…a stone at him aimed.
Harvest fields
Fields…harvest fields…
All of them my eyes can`t reach…
When Zephyr rippled the corn,
with bluebottle`s colour bestrewn-
a whiff of the sea to senses he brought.
I saw Neptune,
stabbing his trident into amber sheaves,
and throwing them,with a flourish, into flames…
of the sunset`s crimson feast.
The end of summer
Summer holiday is over.
Time, little poet, to stand on your own feet.
In the world,
where you have a cloud overhead and- concrete beneath.
Time to say goodbye to grandparents!
To wave to them with a butterfly wing over meadows. And when the wind buffets you most,
cover their frailty
with your body`s overcoat.
With poetry you can embellish life,
and make the two worlds come to one.
For when the sky is covered with autumnal clouds –
the blossoming flowers of childhood, among paving-stones,
will grow out.
A farewell to grandparents
I`ve said goodbye to granddad…
They dwelled in my eyes.
Not knowing if from the earth,
or, from underneath a cloud they flew down?
So flaxen blue.
Granddad resembled a tall windmill,
woven up of a spool of wheat`s spikes.
Granny seemed small standing by
and fragile as a daisy bunch.
Behind them trailed their veil of time.
I said to them: - Sleep serene,
under this starry halo.
We`ll meet next summer.
This place.
This field.
And they smiled to me in a dream.