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PERIPHERY , Journal of Polish Affairs, Volume 8/9, 2002/03
St. Mary's College of Ave Maria University, Orchard Lake MI

    O Torch, O Rose

Who are you, o torch, o rose,
wreath of thorns, spur and mare, djigit
a blind mule at night, daybreak, the trumpet of Jericho?
Weren't you the toppled wall that crumbles

and throws the fear of restraint into our eyes?

Were you Miss Capulet, holy adulteress Hester Prynne,
the almost tamed shrew, seductive Mrs. Robinson, or maybe
Cleopatra's enticing eye on the steps above the walls for your divine feet?
Bloody Lady Macbeth or hemlock itself?

Or maybe you're life itself, its shiver, its prayer in clenched fingers?
Maybe for you armies advance in alluring formations,
ecstatic trumpets sound,
for you cloaks are lined with opulent fabric
and faithful praetorians bend the mountain shadow
to make your forehead glow in the saddle?

O torch, o rose! Unveil the next scarlet letter
of the era of the alphabet, let us read
in what language we'll have to live and grow silent together
to be ready again.

    A Man Wearing a Cap

A man wearing a cap
slowly killed a goose.
He held it between
his legs as if it were
a tongue-lashed
child or a woman
who'd drunk
hemlock and then
been forced to vomit.

A cat sensually
watched
the ritual.
Nearby people
busy with life
were passing.

Only the sound of the forest
and my heart
could be heard.
The silence of that picture
hit me
in the face.

Oh, well.
The millennium goose, the cat, and us.
All cannon
fodder.




    Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough