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Polish War PoetryKrzysztof Kamil Baczynski |
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Polish War Poetry Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski (1921-1944)
Translated by Alex Kurczaba
Holiness ("Swietosc")
O you my inscrutable river, I conceived you in marble slabs of light And in the wood of fragrant pines, With the chisels of oars.
I led you from the mighty mountains From spaces full of voices Where cataracts' knives shred snow And songs rang forth like brass.
I peeled you off the portly apples And with the hail's seed from clouds I led you from plant stalks by a move of hand Like skeins of glare.
I chiseled you out, I prayed you out My heart crushing the chisel, The chisel the rock, and now I possess you, power! I possess you, penance!
Wherever I step, you pulsate like a living stream, Vibrate like the organ, And in my sleep I often see Trees flowing through you.
But in your mane of golden sparks Bloody mugs welter at night, The ruddy jackals, manlike hammers, Swords and the stares of beasts.
From them there grow in you at night The twisted boughs of corpses' arms, Black specters and dead hearts in graves That lie to hearts.
And thus I have you, sacred river, Am like a branch that's grown into you, O soiled river, of clouds conceived, That cannot be read by an oar. November 26, 1942
Lullaby ("Kolysanka")
Fear not the night -- it locks out flying trees and bird tones in the indiscernible dusky music forged in space - golden demons who sprinkling phosphorus amid the glare rise white, azure, pink rise in funnels of yellow sand raise their heads sculpted in clouds, Fear not the night. The cosmos' drops, animal herds guard its fluff; in it open your eyes, then you'll feel beneath your palm birds and quiet horses, you'll grasp the forms that while passing unknown through you -- you will become.
Fear not the night. It's I who lead it this living stream of transformation, shining spirits, animals' processions, which I enchant by name of forms.
Lay in the cradle your welled up eyes, your body on the wings of the demons of light, then you'll swim through me like a leaf fallen into the tiger's warm purr. December 21, 1941
The Spring ("Zródlo") For Barbara Raise your head like the spring from it color will rise and the naming of things and the flow of seasons.
See, all is fulfilled, time poured to the brims and heaven sated with heat like a golden fount.
And you can fulfill all anew and conceive spectacles in clouds spouting for your eyes.
And everything you recall will be deaf as the time upon which as upon your body your spirit shall swirl.
For to love means to create to conceive in storm's hue a sculpture of bird and star in the marble of red afterblaze. March 1942
*** For you I'll open a golden heaven in which a white thread of silence like sounds' enormous kernel will burst to live with little green leaves lakes' song, dusk's play, till birds' whizz shows its milky core
For you I'll transform the solid earth into soft roe's fluid flow Out of things I'll lead shadows, that will stiffen like a cat, fur sparkling they'll furl everything into storms' color, little leaves' hearts, the rains' gray plaits.
And the air's flaying streams like smoke from an angelic thatch I'll turn for you into long alleys into the songlike fluid of translucent birches till like a cello they play sorrow -- the climbers' rose lights hymn of bees' wings.
Only take out of these my eyes the painful glass mirror -- image of days which roll white skulls through burning meadows of blood. Only alter this crippled age, cover the graves with the river's robe, wipe from hair the battle dust, The black dust of these angry years. June 15, 1943
The originals can be found in Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski, Utwory zebrane, vol. 1. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1994.
Back to the April 2004 Issue The Sarmatian Review sarmatia@rice.edu Last updated 4/23/04 |