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Yalta

Versions: #1
Like new - residence of Tsars,
their duties servants know

Punishment of Barabbas

In an inn overlooking Golgote
You can drink with the lottery today
Blood is poured, golden wine,
The tables and the mouths of a candle are wet.
This tightness is a profit for the host,
Wandering around the city spreads chyza,
That a criminal can be seen here,
What has just emerged from the cross.
 
We live! Good ours!
What do you want from life, take for life!
Let us drink to Barabbas!
Barabbas drinks too!
 
He drinks but he has not regained his speech,
He has not yet realized that he is saved.
The hand that squeezes the cup of wine -
As if she was squeezing Bretnal's head
The feet under the table are crying in dance
Szalenc, who asks about the path:
Each of them is a convict,
And free! Alive! Impenetrable!
 
We live! Good ours!
What do you want from life, take for life!
Let us drink to Barabbas!
Barabbas drinks too!
 
The townspeople and the crowds are drinking,
The Zoldats put aside by the lance
And also drinks after hard work,
The whole city is having fun.
The viceroy gave evidence of a grace!
Without a cane - what would life be?
Toasts, chants and applause
- There is justice in this world!
 
We live! Good ours!
What do you want from life, take for life!
Let us drink to Barabbas!
Barabbas drinks too!
 
Barabbas roared with a laugh at last,
Rece spread wide -
And a new message went around the city:
- Lives! Just kidding, the beast is healthy!
In the palace you can hear what's shining
It is in vain to Pilat to sleep old,
He dances idly in his memory
Words - politics, crowd and faith ...
 
We live! Good ours!
What do you want from life, take for life!
Let us drink to Barabbas!
Barabbas drinks too!
 
In an inn overlooking Golgote
The light of dawn jumps over the shells,
The landlord ran the holote away
And he counts the profit. Barabbas is crying.
 
We live! Good ours!
What do you want from life, take for life!
Let us drink to Barabbas!
Barabbas, man too!
 

Fast and carnival war

Unusual assemblage on the midtown market
In the windows, gates and near the well, in church and in the tavern.
Market traders, monks, jugglers and dwarfs
Colorful swarm swarms, swarms around fuss.
Work has become fun and fun has become work.
Dices are rolling on the ground, playing cards are being teared,
Those who don’t play are unimportant, those who play – lose
But among rabble you can’t distinguish who is who.
 
In the doors of temples, on tray cloths – crosses for three bobs
Absolved are pouring out form the side doors.
Almoners are kneeling in ashes between monks,
You can’t tell who is saint and who is prude.
 
Whole town has gone insane,
None of graybeards or striplings knows
If the fast is carnival,
Or carnival is fast!
 
Patron of juggles has backed a hundred-liter barrel
Gut – shield, helmet – guffaw on the fat face.
He speared baked pig’s head on his lance
There will be chow, will be drinking, will be loot to grab
 
Against him – wooden throne harnessed by priests,
And on the throne sits skinny apostle of fast.
He’s already apologizing God, for his victory,
And instead of lance, he got hold of Peter’s Paddle.
 
Backers are excelling in slogans and devotions,
Minstrel sings how brother turned against brother.
In overcrowded tavern rabble waits for the outcome,
Child waves a pennant – a great battle is coming.
 
Whole town has gone insane,
None of graybeards or striplings knows
If the fast is carnival,
Or carnival is fast!
 
I’m sitting by the window looking from above, I have whole world in my eye
I see who steals what, loses, what for they look for in the jam.
When the dusk comes, I’ll go to church and confess sins,
During night I will go through the market and gather up leftovers.
 
From them I’ll prepare great carnival-fast feast
To amuse near and dear beggar folks.
So to understand all the truth in your company:
My soul desires fast, my body – carnival!
 

May I be wrong

Cassandra I’ve been, I am, and will be,
in optimism the intellect tries staying strong.
Prognostication next I, by the morning
conclude on thought, committed not to ink:
‘May I be wrong’.
 
Foretelling the evil in the age of madness
historic satiating need, and to scrape along.
Yet dreaming of being erroneous
as times’ cogwheel inertly turns:
‘May I be wrong’.
 
So far, grim omens rises heap,
as those - behind it covered throng -
a new they ready plan: “Democratorship”,
and raise hands in duplicitous worship.
May I be wrong.
 
So far, grim omens rises heap,
as those - behind it covered throng -
a new they ready plan: “Democratorship”,
and raise hands in duplicitous worship.
May I be wrong.
 

Parable for own ??? birthday

Pioneer of gutters, gutterings, cornices, rooftops
Well travelled in palaces, fluffy beds
To myself a secret, pride, and terror
To nobody owing mercy or respect
I step thoroughly through shadowy troughs of night
I look through windows, into the glass books of light
I comprehend insomnia – bastard of insomnia's
when – like it or not – someone else's takes me for a witness
No use out of me here: I’m battling through the night
I – Le Diable boiteux, I – a March raunchy tomcat
 
behind his desk, a politician’s blacking out the papers
so thickly, he can’t even tell when he lies
into ecstasy turned agony, with mere words
insomnia of ambition lulling his memories
the window suggests an elevated reflection
In halo of fur glowing eyes’ fountain
'Look at me! I don't sleep so you may lie in lethargy.
‘without me, ye ungrateful, meet the bottom line!'
No use for me here: I have pride of my own
and conceited passion at odds with reason
 
A banker sic —ing cigar's smoke against slumber
He's planning tomorrow's merciful cut
that will let all the blood out of a partner
bringing a mutually beneficial venture to its extent
He sights the lame creature in the window
and teases old unused conscience:
'Victory likes silence. Failure likes the crowd.
Herring likes onion, and money – wordlessness'
No use for me here: I have my own turf
where the world is all viscera and graft
 
Sleepless author longing hugs a phial
As if the spirits could lend him spirit
Words once great became trivial
even yelled out fall completely mute
Pigeons sleep in nests made of their own soil
moonlike reflection of swaying head of a cat
he dreamed of freedom and he is given leeway
so as to take away remnats of faith and prospect
No use for me here: I have my own glooms
and my own loneliness that never adjourns
 
Behind this window, a pair is mating furiously.
gasping silence not to disturb children’s sleep
just behind the door - a litter of four sleeping cuddly
She's determined to last, he's enduring the lust
And they pray, they pray to be more wealthy
Trusting shadows more than they trust each other
They're praying to God, so he pulls them out of poverty
For misery lives off lust, like life lives off love
No use for me here: when I get horny
I think of nothing, I care for no deities
 
And here! This window – Death lives all alone
feeding on remnants of joys and guilt
Noiselessly past this one I shamble
before merciful oblivion embraces [me]
 
First day of Spring spewed me in convulsion
writhing in instincts and senses
To catress I annouce my yowling proclaimation
I warn a cat with hateful hiss
Myself I was a god! The oracle to mankind
Envoy of witches, clever cat Behemoth
now – lines of my borders – I mark with nasty broth
for my existences so many, for the score I care not
 
what, when, why, where, how much and what for
uncessant battles of inedaquacies spectator
 

Crappy shanty on europe-ness of the Pole

This writing rather numbing
but how can I not get writing
in spite of all the numbing dumbing
everyone’s not giving a damn
so as I actually do give one
I have got to write some --- anyhow
anyway --- anywhat
just to get it done somehow
just to have it in the back
anywhere for anywhom
anyhow
who's effortin – he's tormentin
moanin bendin and kneelin
waste of life for this dealin
none will heal you from the reelin
none will raise from your knees
unnoticed among the cubicles – anyhow..!
aint worth your sweat
what demands breaking sweat
life of wingin and half-assin
turns a martyr way more classy
just kick back and stop whinin
chill and stop being such a Lassie
anywho --- anyhow
anywhat any which way
just to get it done somehow
just to have it in the back
just to chill and get off
anyway
life's such a beach
that all good comes with bills
so you lookin at the posters:
better world, dough, cheerful rags
“choose the mill, take the whips” -
we give no flying craps--- anyway..!
whole craft in making do
cut the corners and build a cocoon
dont let twinges move from fringes
world not flower, fate not cocoa
dont go crazy, live on pringles
and stuff all else down the oh no! kek
anywhere – anyway
where there ain't no hooks
far from the ticks
that got under your skin
how can they still win...
no two way – i'm a Pole
free spirit and free will
Milano, Paris und Berlin
got naught on me
I am Polish! Ich bin Pole!
I'm making my own history ---anyway!
Any how! Any way!
Just to elbow my own way
just for the will to take off
and also make it pay off
anyway..
Вот Поляк!
 

Treatise on imagination

Life has states variation:
overdoing, cessation, hunger, satiation
quality, blandness, change and being
blossoming as well as expiring
Truly too many experiences
mistaken paths and makeovers
happiness saves mentalisation
blessed withering of imagination
 
So there are those for whom it’s nothing
understanding limits trespassing
they know exactly what’s happening
why God’s silent, Oblivion - calling
those, once they get hands trembling
count on priests or seek doctoring
They live happily in subordination
blessed withering of imagination
 
Others, albeit satiated with nothingness
trust in every of vain promises
spells, lotteries and incantations
with ritual and deadly serious
oh well, every single day they’re hurting
-for opposite things they are hoping
greatest absurd and no rumination
blessed withering of imagination
 
others still - players of semantics
gaming with reversing meanings
and belying countless pages
erect houses of marked cards
Joy it is fleeting, life-consuming
rules-free so without siding
win at it - mental assassination
blessed withering of imagination
 
There’s still a few, completely lost
among columns, forgotten meadows
where from ruins, frescos, stained glass
They stutter on what will happen
they know what they don’t know - idiots!
suffering proudly, living cloudly
burnt in frost, frozen in perspiration
ever-free captives of imagination
 
those who fear, those who medicate
who spooks and reasons stand opposite
those who juggling make a living
who through glass in hearts are peering
 
they will all come together…
to witness their own decapitation
blessed withering of imagination
 

Tank

Tracks buried in Vistulan sands
I watch through the river with empty periscope
the city in battle, so close that
Vistula's current turns into a front-line trench
Stuffy armour in September heat
twinges for attack and burns the touch,
But cool engine sleeps under clotted oil
and for a month nobody sat- behind the sights
 
Throat of the barrel craves flavour of shells
but swallows only smoke – from the other side!
In headphones unused – scream of Poles
and I wonder why I haven't taken the river – running
Let me bite the waves with my tracks
and with fire prop barricades
so the city in battle which is so close
won’t call my inaction: treason!
 
But HQ is silent as silent reeds
that cover me from those who wait
Ruski tank won't fight for the Pole!
Ruski tank will wait until they’re all killed!
 
When the uprising burns out with dark shine
they'll start the engine and revive machine blood
so I can see the city which is so close
without a fight taking rubble and ruin!
 

Litany

More mature than our fathers, when they were our age
hopeless their path we walk in spite
at times weaker than dust we hold storms
and raise statues to forgotten culture
at times tougher than rock and like rock unfeeling
we avoid looking at pavement ripped for throwing
broader than sages we hide thought for later
We call orders – mercy and enlightenment – darkness
More worthy than kings from low mud
we challenge blind forces of history
but wiser than chiefs, with faces hung
we hand them daily their rusted stirrup
More mortal than flowers, we raise for harvest
as scythes moves in, and gleanings sell out
More just than judges in high tribunal
with learned calm we take judgment
More ruthless than executioners, at last great and singular
we talk on scaffold with heads cut off
 

Chastushki for perestroika

Nation's rebirth on its way!
No longer threatened by agony!
Collectively joyous hysteria
in Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia.
 
Ой ра! Ой ра! Родина Советская!
Oj ra! Oj ra! Rodina Sowieckaja!
 
Perestroika blazes trails
to achievement and honours!
Can't contain all the smiles
in Ukraine and Belarus.
 
Ой ра! Ой ра! Родина Советская!
Oj ra! Oj ra! Rodina Sowieckaja!
 
Economy progressively moves
to fix the face of life for millennia!
with enthusiasm in strong voices
sings Georgia and Armenia.
 
Ой ра! Ой ра! Родина Советская!
Oj ra! Oj ra! Rodina Sowieckaja!
 
Transparency removes blindfolds
and works miracles in the minds!
See how to the ground bowed
are Azerbaijan and Moldavia.
 
Ой ра! Ой ра! Родина Советская!
Oj ra! Oj ra! Rodina Sowieckaja!
 
Shared effort, joint achievement!
To particularisms we say basta!
Marching towards betterment
Tajikistan and Kazachstan.
 
Ой ра! Ой ра! Родина Советская!
Oj ra! Oj ra! Rodina Sowieckaja!
 
We'll build a country above countries!
You just need to want the want – and make it so!
Like under tzar Nicholas!
Like under tzar Peter!
 
Ой ра! Ой ра! Родина Советская!
Oj ra! Oj ra! Rodina Sowieckaja!
 

Witkacy's auto-portrait

I look at the world – one of habits
so far away from the narcotics
I have the red eyes of experimental rabbits
 
I'm sat up from the tables
so not from pangs
I have the Mongolian lips clenched hungrily
 
I listen to words, not the sounds
So not from bloated thoughts
I have the ears of naïve collaborators
 
I keep smelling bastards
so not for tale's colours
I have the typical nose's shape of victimised Semites
 
I see the form of things in their being existential
and that makes me great as well as singular
in contrast to you, my lordships, who must forgive me but
you are an idiot verse's facsimile copied over and over
 
I have a neck quite stiff
's why I still live
that politics is hogwash in a dish of crystal
 
I have a mind as tough as elbows
so don't kick me, lords
that revolution, for me, is red nails
 
Responsive as a membrane
therefore in the morn and eve
I tremble like the spleen – ripped out of an eel
 
I fear the world's doom
so to lift the mood
I scream! Like a child in a completely dark room
 
I, more than any of you, choke and suffocate
I, more than any of you, don’t wanna live but must
But I am untouchable and that is why
when the time comes I will deprive the world of
Witkacy
 

Breakfast with God

My God leans over me.
'Rise' he says, despite darkness out of window
while a dream demands a conclusion.
He knows no sleep, so He's hasting
to brush teeth, to fast breaking,
with all His strength and sweetness.
 
My God did not make the world in a week
at work – he's rather meek
making mistakes and swearing,
lost in detail loses plot
doesn't know where to start and to end
and fusses it's all my fault.
 
He can't get enough
of wrong turns -
stubborn guy
My Lord
 
more often helpless than helpful
won't let go a chance
to interject into another soul's pain
with reason he’s always at odds
but can't waive away
he can't shrug it off
 
Wherever in the world something's up
there, like thorn in heel, He'll slide in
perpetual emergency
He gives away eternity for that moment
when He leans over someone caringly
Despite his sore back
 
He hears a knock
Whoever he could
invite he would
My Lord.
 
He's grieving his heavenly Brethren,
because they ask a high price
for their readiness to grace and punish
but He admires them as well
for potence, for certainty
and for inhuman resourcefulness
 
Himself He struggles to count
he can't count other's virtues
nor harvest fruit of sin
a bit flashy, a bit vain
always feels he owes
so any pig can screw Him over
 
and each debt
knocks Him out
His own enemy
My Lord.
 
No wonder he can't take it sometimes
starts drinking like He'd live in a tavern
and loses mind in carnalisations
I search for Him then in booze-dens
and offer a wedge in the morning
for He goes crazy – I’m hungover
 
So He's nodding over breakfast
silent like shame, like a comma
that can't handle simplest truths
That darkness awaits outside
That He's got to die when I die
But He wants to live so bad
 
He never wastes tears
on the threshold of gloom
So powerful He is
My Lord.
 

Witkacy's coming home

Such is life after life, as is life from birth,
the suicidal ones are restless – they say.
Near half-century been eaten at by Soviet ground,
Despite my veins opening to Polish Polesie.
We all meet the devil that we're scared of -
my bones ploughed by a hardworking kolkhoznik,
And the world discovers my dramas again
Laughing their sides off, instead of trying to read
 
I lay myself shallowly
so feel how aroundly
Unrestfully wiggle
red worms
'till there were corpses
they all had their feasts
but the mundane hunger is
a real pain
 
Something tells me they'll unearth me from this hole
and celebrate my burying somewhere else.
I hear National Commission of Culture
talked about it in Moscow.
So when a red sells me to another red
and will zap me back to life for the nation's amusement-
I will never speak again,
so no nobody can wipe his face with the name Witkacy.
 
Yet in Zakopane
with goral at morgen
off my tits
I'm out in Tatras
and in entrails of my mind
I'll say it right
And send the thought straight
on all four winds
 

The Walls en

Versions: #3
He, inspired and young was, they, could be counted by none.
He gave them strength by song, he sang that the dawn was near.
Candles in thousands they burned for him, smoke raised over their heads.
He sang that the time for the wall to fall has come, and they sang it with him.
 
Pull the bars from the walls
Tear the chains, break the whip
and the walls will fall, fall fall
and bury the old world!X2
 
Soon, by heart they knew the song
And lone music without the words
Carried with it the old meaning, shivers through and through the hearts and souls
They sang and clapped like a shot to the rhythm
And the chain burdened them, kept back the dawn, and he sang and played still.
 
Pull the bars from the walls
Tear the chains, break the whip
and the walls will fall, fall fall
and bury the old world!X2
 
Then they saw their numbers and felt power and time
And with the song on the lips that dawn is near they marched on the streets of the town
They toppled the statues, teared up the street and cried out- This is one with us! That one is against us!
Who’s alone is our greatest enemy! Though the singer was also alone
 
He watched their steady march
In silence listened to their stepping sound
And the walls grew, grew, grew
The chain dangled by their legs. X2