Poems and Translations

by Jurek Kirakowski.

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Introduction to this stuff

I've been writing verse almost as long as I can remember.  Mostly in English, but I won't inflict my forays into other languages on people whose first languages I may be mangling.  Poetry feels like an attempt to capture movement, whether physical, mental, or spiritual.  That's why I like the sonnet form, which in the hands of a master can be as fluid and dynamic as the figure of a dance.  Some people have been kind enough to say that my poems are at least interesting, and so I offer this small selection of pieces that I think have most probably worked out better than most.

When one is working with data and words there are long stretches in one's life when any form of spontaneous movement seems to have dried up.  As an alternative to becoming a literary couch potato, eventually I turn to things others have written and try to capture in my own words what I see and hear in these poems.  Working at this one begins to understand that all poetry, indeed, all writing, is most probably translation from one symbol system to another.  The search for the correct word in the correct place that will precisely serve the trajectory one is attempting to depict is as exacting for an original poem as it is for a translation or a scientific report.

There is only one onlie begetter of these poems and it is for her alone that I have written, both before and since we met.

Contents

Sonnets

Beauty should be a little sad...

Beauty should be a little sad your mother told us
and we would try but in my arms
you unfolded like a flower when you
put your arm in mine easy not

to give a damn. Those were of course,
our golden moments. We met too young
you said sadness was an instrument
we'd rarely play.

Walk deliciously sad each minute pace
the years to come. Blossoms grow
to fall fruit ripens day by day.
We met rarely once
(impossible twice) and squandered all
we were not sad enough we let it go.

Come my dear...

Come my dear and see the first
rose that bloomed this Spring
head drooping on a fragile stalk - a pretty thing
colours loud enough to burst
damned winter's monotone; quite unrehearsed
she can, in the teeth of the rough winds, sing.
Will they also shake her, fling
her down? The worst.

Those who bloom early make a charming sight
fine in their bravery; they have the right
to shrill defy the 'status ante', break new ground.
Those who come later may be not so bright
or self possessed, but still grow to light
and blossom. Perhaps with more assurance, deeper sound.

Can this be love...

Can this be love, I asked, and you and I
are always causing lovely things to happen:
so why not again right now? Already in my mind
I've met you half a dozen times today and savoured
the sound of your voice and feel of your hand
laughed and talked and drunk, late into the night.
Fantasy? Not so hard I'd say, just
a little miracle wanted for a caring home.

God knows I'm desperate enough:
seeing you today would be like a glass of lemonade with ice
on a hot summer evening or a shot of whiskey
under a full moon or like popping open tete à tete
champagne to the rare delight
of my lovely lady.

Married Life

Our passions rise and fall like the embers of
a large spent bonfire, fanned fitfully
by a breeze. Sometimes the smoke
serves only to annoy the passers-by.
Sometimes your side is at hotter glow
and your naughty sparks send me ablaze.
Very unpredictable, this wind. And sometimes
there is only dust and ashes for weeks.
And then I catch sight of a rounded thigh or
smell and see your powdered cheek my hand
may brush past silk artfully undone or you look up
& hold my gaze most steadfastly while I behold
the ruin of empires and in my blood's pounding hear
a frenzied drumming squandered in the night.

Days of the week

On Sunday night I hated you
and we slept back to back the cat delirious between
all day Monday was the same though you
were contrite I would not give in.
Tuesday too. By Wednesday
your pride had gotten the better of it and tho' I
could easily you had shut down
the lady was definitely out.
So Thursday was cat's paradise she
passed closet affection as our go-between
on Friday night we shared a bottle of wine
and tumbled in the sheets on Saturday kissed
like lovers and the cat left for a considerable period of time
and by mid-day Sunday we were ready for the week.

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Other poems

I'd measured out my muscles...

I'd measured out my muscles, hour after hour
spurning the narrow pathways on the tops I sped
feet caught in the dry heather and alert
for rabbit holes or hidden streams.
Close to a farmhouse where I saw two folk
quiet in the blustery wilderness; a sullen dog;
more from a sense of duty to ratify the bond
that should connect us than for company
paused by, and asked the road to Peebles.

He pointed me a path, winding up the steep hill-side.
Half-thinking, gaining on the brow again
- the path below - once on the windy summit I discerned
far, smaller than small, at the foot of stepwise hills descending
Peebles by the water, and the red-roofed spa.

Waiting in the rain

The rain came sleeting from the hill across the valley
hiding the heather's sulky colours and
the stand of pines with dark grey innocence.
I donned my anorak, persevering in the wind
and found a twisting pathway led me, by a brow
to a mud-married stream where cattle stood around.
Six or maybe seven steer sullen in the sog
their breathing misty through their nostrils followed me
and as my going outpaced theirs they came behind
faster, jostling huge shoulders for the pride o' place.

I left them in a small defile; a modest bank
eroded by the wind and wet of that unwelcome moor
afforded them some shelter; or perhaps my song
pleased them no more. God, you see me waiting for your guide
however callous or indifferent.
 

Half the distance covered...

Half the distance covered on the map
and here's twilight come already.
Ahead, behind, the road quite still:
fields on either side.

This is Italy in the twilight -
people here make a home, you realize,
to some these fields are not indifferent;

you shouldered your haversack and tramped into the night
passing a cafe alight with old men drinking
wished someone would give you a lift.
 

I like you best in evening...

I like you best in evening when the clouds
etch all around us in a silv'ry grey
or arm on shoulder when we walk
home; work tired.

At other times the sun betrays too much the truth
seen in colours sharp enough to catch my breath
yourself too lovely or the street too gay:

Tho' in these evenings, all else dead
your very essence still shines to -
when you left the silver I mistook for moon
was vanished too.
 

You are my sun

I am your satellite and you are my sun
I the eagle on his broody crag
and you the sun on that sea's bleakness
I the sunflower

and my seeds will scatter in the wind
love will make them soar to dizzy heights
love will seed the world with love

I am the rain from heaven and you are the sun
that danced rainbows in the children's eyes
I am the sea kissed by the sun two mysterious times a day
you are the sun I am your sun worshipper.

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Haiku and Epigrams


Zen is a sort of psychology
but without the psych-
and look, no -ology!

oOo

"The longest poem in the English langwidge"
    (EP on Wasteland)
and then proceeded to write
the shortest
                    i.e., the Cantos.
Botched musics
for a civilization "rotten in the teeth."

oOo

Trees stand on my street
Late I like them best
With rotting wet leaves
Down, littering the walk
And bidding farewell.

oOo

Wrixon, Engineer,
moved College two centuries
in as many years.

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Translations

Propertius Book I Elegy 3

See her lie heart-broken on the Cnossian shore
as Theseus' deserting ship fell below the line
Or Andromeda, Cephus' daughter, free
from hard bondage in her first gasp of rest
Or a girl laid out on the grassy Apidano, fallen
from her feet in the assiduous Edonian rites
I saw my Cynthia breathing gently in her sleep
head couched in arms still trembling
when I came in dragging drunken footsteps too much Bacchus
boys shaking out their torches it was late into the night.

...

Then the moon shone in through all those windows
that smug old moon with its crazy light
she opened her smudged eyelids to its gentle beams
rising to rest elbow on her soft pillow she began:
 

"So this is you now, crawling back to our bed
what nerve! now that some smart bitch has thrown you out!
you promised me tonight, and here you come
tail between your legs now the stars are fading out!
Oh I wish I could make you waste your nights you prick
the way you're always wasting mine!
I tried to keep awake a while minding my purple embroidery
and when that didn't work, played music, those Orphic songs
but I couldn't stop myself from crying to myself that you
were busy making love all those long hours to someone else.
At last sweet sleep carried me off gently
but that was the last image I had of you between my tears."

Petronius Arbiter

Last night, immortal Gods and Goddesses on her sweet bed
we clung afire; transfusing here and there with lips
our wandering souls. Adieu, brief care!
 

The Katha Upanishad: First Branch, the First Creeper

  1. Vagasravasa, desiring heavenly rewards, gave away at sacrifice all that he possessed. He had a son, whose name was Nakiketas.
  2. When the offerings were being given over to the priests, faith entered the heart of Nakiketas, who was still a boy, and he said:
  3. Unblessed surely are those worlds to which men go who give at sacrifice cows which have drunk the last of their water, eaten the last of their hay, given the last of their milk, and are barren.
  4. Dear father, to whom will you give me? He said it a second and a third time. The father said in anger: may Death take you!
  5. I go as the first, at the head of many who are still to die. I go in the midst of many who die now. What will be the work that Yama, ruler of the underworld, will require of me today?
  6. Look back on how it was with those who went before, and see how it will be with those that come hereafter. A mortal ripens like corn, like corn he springs up again.
  7. Fire enters the house when a holy man arrives as guest. That fire is quenched by a peace offering. Bring water quickly, Yama!
  8. A holy man who dwells in the house of a fool without receiving food to eat destroys his hopes and his expectations, his possessions and his good name, his deeds, both good and sacred, and all his sons and cattle.
  9. Yama returned and said: Most holy man and venerable guest, you dwelt within my house three nights and were not offered food. Choose now three gifts, and make me the better for it!
  10. O Yama, as the first of my three gifts I choose that Gautama my father be pacified and kind, free from anger to me, and that he may know and greet me when I shall be dismissed from your service.
  11. Through my favour, Audalaki Aruni, your father, will know you and be again towards you as he was before. He will sleep peacefully through the night; free from anger, having seen you passing through the mouth of death.
  12. In the heaven world there is no fear; you are not there, O Yama, nor is anyone afraid of growing old. They leave behind both hunger and thirst; out of reach of sorrow, all rejoice in the world of heaven.
  13. You know, O Yama, that fire sacrifice which leads to heaven; tell it to me, for I am full of faith. Those that live in the heaven world, they reach immortality; this I ask as my second gift.
  14. Hear it from me, learn it from me; and when you have understood that fire sacrifice which leads to heaven know it is the attainment of endless worlds and their firm support, hidden in darkness.
  15. Yama then told him that fire sacrifice, the beginning of the worlds: what bricks are required for the altar, and how many, and where they are to be placed. Nakiketas repeated all as had been told him. Then Yama, being pleased with him, said to him again:
  16. This, Nakiketas, is the fire that leads to heaven, which you have chosen as your second gift. That fire will all men call after you. Choose now your third.
  17. There is that doubt when a man is dead: some say he is, others say, he is not. This I should like to know from you. This will be my third gift.
  18. On this point even the Gods have debated formerly; it is not easy to understand. That subject is subtle. Choose another gift Nakiketas; do not press me to it, and release me from this gift.
  19. On this point even the Gods have doubted formerly and you, O Death, have declared that it is not easy to understand. Another teacher like you will not be found: surely there is no gift to equal it?
  20. Choose sons and grandsons who shall live a hundred years. Choose herds of cattle, elephants, gold, and horses. Choose the wide abode of Earth, and live yourself as many harvests as you wish.
  21. If you cannot think of any favour equal to it, choose wealth and a long life. Be King, Nakiketas, over the wide Earth. I make you the enjoyer of all desires.
  22. Whatever is difficult to attain among mortals, ask for them, according to your wish. Behold these fair maidens with their chariots and instruments: such indeed are not to be obtained by men. All these I give you to be served by them; but ask me not of dying.
  23. These things last till tomorrow, O Death; they wear out this vigour of the senses. The whole of life is short. Yama, keep you your horses, keep you your dance and singing for yourself!
  24. No man can be made happy by wealth. What shall we possess, when we behold you? How shall we live beneath your sway? This is the only gift I choose.
  25. What mortal, slowly rotting here below, and having seen that freedom from decay enjoyed by the immortals, would knowingly delight in long life, pleasure, love and beauty?

    26. No, on which there is this doubt, O Yama, speak. Tell us what there is hereafter. Nakiketas will take no gift but that which leads him to the hidden world.

Translations from Sappho

6 When death has laid you down among his own
And none remember you in all the years to be -
Know, grey among ghosts within the twilight world,
That offered once the roses of Pieria, you refused,
And wander now the dark lord Aida's house
Reticent as ever, and forever with the blind old dead, unknown.
17 So who is that wild girl with so much charm -
She's certainly got you under her spell!
    Always
Wearing those old rags
        Too ignorant
to fix her skirt
So that the hem is properly at the ankle.
14 Crying:
    Asia! That famous place!
The messenger emerging from his dust
Crying:
    Ektor!
The winded runner
Silver with sweat, crying,
    Ektor!
    Ektor comes from that famous Asia,
    From its strange towns! With his friends!
    They bring home a black-eyed girl!
    From Theba, from high on the Plakia,
    The graceful, the young Andromakha!

    They come in ships on the ocean!
    For gifts, wrist chains of gold,
    Purple coats and silver jars!
    Carved toys, incredibly strange,
    And all manner things of ivory!

So the runner said.
Quick with astonishment
Ektor's father shouted for his friends
And told the coming, all the city over.
Ilos' boys put wheels to the high carts,
And hitched the mules.
Wives and girls
Came to stand with Priam's daughters.
Young unmarried lads guided the chariot horses
Charioteers like gods sang their commands.

A long parade, winding from the sea.

Keen flutes, drumskins tight;
The charmed air full of young girls' singing.
And on the way the people brought them bowls
Of cassia, cups of olibanum, and of myrrh.
(Grandmothers, dancing wedding songs!)
Men, boys, march and sing to Paon,
To Apollo of the harp, the eye of archers,
And sing
    that Ektor and Andromakha
    Are like two of the gods together.
49 How do the butler's big feet go?
Fourteen yards from heel to toe!
Five red oxen gladly died,
Ten frantic cobblers stitched the hide,
Those stylish slippers trim and neat
Now favour such important feet!
70 (The scholar Aristides, weighing between spiritual and material wealth, recalls that Sappho, once, wrote in a poem:)

The Muses made me happy,
envied by the world.
Immortal! People will remember me.

Dante: Sonnet XXV: 'Ne lo man vostre...'

In your hands, sweet lady mine,
I place my dying soul:
departing so bitterly that Love
who bade me go takes pity of it.

You once bound me to you
so hard I could do little else
but cry: 'My Lady,
whatever you want of me I wish it so.'

I know botched things displease you;
I am dying here, asked not for this,
& fear my heart may flood with bitterness. Sweet
lady mine, while I remain alive
that I may die with peace in my eyes
spurn me not with your disdain.
 

George Trakl - Klage

Dreamless sleep - the dusky Eagles
nightlong rush about my head,
man's golden image drowned
in timeless icy tides.  On jagged reefs
his purpling body.  Dark
echoes sound above the seas.

Stormy sadness' sister, see
our lonely skiff sunk down
by starry skies:
the silent face of night.
 

Ungaretti - Veglia

the duration of 1 night
thrown by
my comrade he
mown down and
with his mouth
snarled open
at the moon and
with his clotted
hands touching my
silence I
wrote him letters full of love

& never been so much attached to life
 

Baczynski - Wiatr

...and see, O stranger from another strand
as you unearth these whitened bones
- with all our battles long grown cold! -
My skeleton
                    whose arms still hold
the emblem of my fatherland.
 

Borowski - Night on Birkenau

And night again.  The threatening sky
circling like a buzzard, coiled like a beast,
in dull silences a pale and corpselike moon
menaces the camp.

And high above, like a discarded shield
heavenly Orion makes his way about the stars.
A roar of engines in the deathly dark,
the crematorium lights.

Sparse and silent.  Stone like sleep.
No breath to catch.  Throats burn.
Like a shod boot in the chest
the silence of three million dead.

Night, unending dark.  No dawn.
Eyes burning dark from sleep.  Like
God's judgement on the corpse-dead world
the fog descends on Birkenau.
 

Adaptations from Han Shan, 'Master of the Cold Mountain'

Do you have jk's poems in your room?
They're the only way to pass exams!
Stick them up above your bed
and repeat them as you fall asleep.

oOo

What a splendid fellow see that fine young man
well read in classics, full of history,
known as 'doctor', respected for his brains -
he hasn't found a college job, can't fit in the 'real world',
all winter queuing for the dole
'My books have brought me to a pretty pass!'

oOo

Last night, I saw my wife in our old Northern home
baking bread, she had flour on her fingers
I have been away so long
my face and hands are grown quite thin.

oOo

In days gone by, we drank in a dozen pubs a night
and watched the go-go girls.
On clear evenings, we'd walk along the sea.
Why must I recall those ancient days
in the capital with so much heart-ache?

oOo

Resplendent in the emperor's birthday suit
my feet are wearing Puss' boots
zap gun in hand
I prepare to shoot the devil Ignorance.
 

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