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one more poem by Leśmian
one more painting by Nowosielski
a sip of red wine
another encounter with Hamlet
I first met him
sixty years ago
he’s not changed a bit
I on the other hand
    Â 
    midnight
I read Chekhov smile at him
what a kind good man
he must have loved people . . .
“ich sterbe” he said and passed away
    Â 
    here I have a letter to
Bujnowski
I’ll never finish it
because his wife wrote to say
Józek had died
“it’s so hard to bid farewell to life” he said
before dying . . .
    Â 
    â€œAdamaszek” leaves his house
smiles at me
his wife buttons his coat
from his eyes I can tell
he’s no idea who I am

though we’ve known each other fifty years
I can see he doesn’t see me
yesterday Mietek called
“Adamaszek died you know”
    Â 
    this morning
I met a mongrel
that I know
sometimes I talk to it
it used to bark at me
it lies in the sun ignoring people
its little muzzle
completely gray
    Â 
    where are you doggy
I know I know you have your own affairs
by the post by the tree
round the corner

The Mystery of the Poetry Reading
    From Aristotle
Omne animal post coitum
triste est
praeter gallum, qui post coitum
cantat
    Â 
    at the reading
the poet
rises
and falls with the audience
levitates
drinks water
takes wing
    Â 
    after the reading
by candlelight
or without candles
he takes questions
signs books
writes in journals
receives flowers
kisses a beautiful young lady
on the cheek
    Â 
    flowers ribbons
tied in hair

murmur of voices
the candles are put out
silence
    Â 
    give me your shadow
and your supple neck
no
I don’t want shadow
    Â 
    alone in the hotel room
    Â 
    nur narr
nur dichter
    Â 
    throat dry
heart pounding
    Â 
    beneath the candelabras of chestnuts
male and female students
laughing shouting kissing
drinking beer from bottles
standing still
in the moonlight
    Â 
    he hears footsteps
in the hallway
a woman is coming
he hears
another door
closing
the tap of heels

now everything starts again
from the beginning
in a dream
the door opens
he sees
a dress falling
from shoulders
breasts
knees
he wakes
turns on the light
opens Faust
    Â 
    I was a man. Then, one dark day I hurled
Blasphemies to myself and to the world.
Today are voices everywhere, such a din
That I no longer know where I can run.
    Â 
    Heart in my mouth, I stand alone in fear.
The door creaks loud, but no one enters here.
    Â 
    after a reading
the poet is sad
    Â 
    [2001]

Too Bad
    I never finished reading
the “Paradiso” mea culpa
I got bored in the “Purgatorio”
mea culpa
the “Inferno” alone I read
with flushed face
mea maxima culpa
    Â 
    Ezra Pound read not only all of
Dante and Confucius
but also the poet from Predappio
(la Clara a Milano!)
whom he adored
    Â 
    Pound was a madman a genius
and a martyr
His favorite student
Possum
wrote beautiful poems about cats
wore tasteful neckties
and was more temperate in speech
than his master
for which he received the Nobel Prize
    Â 
    Pound
was right
not to be fond
of capitalists and moneylenders

he sought to drive the merchants
from the temple
he was put
in a straightjacket
in this outfit
he roams Parnassus
conversing with the admirer
of Dante Ariosto Schiller
Klopstock Platen
and Weiblinger . . .
with the poet composer leader
translator and author of the poem
Die Worte vom Brot
with Benito Mussolini himself!
(serves you right! you foolish poet)
    Â 
    PS
too bad Pound never finished
Mein Kampf
before he started extolling
the Führer

Done In
    Done in
by a plank
on a trash heap Pier Paolo
tries to rise from the dead
crawls
    Â 
    enclosed in his hands he bears
bloody human
genitals like a chick
in the nest
up to the Lord’s throne
    Â 
    and this divine earth
with its unearthly beauty
this lesion in the universe
this canker in the loins
of the milky way
spits blood and sperm
    Â 
    it was you Pier Paolo
who said
“Far off a person sees someone
who is killing another