Column_GERMAN POET FROM GERMANY, POLISH POET FROM SAUDI ARABIA
I'm travelling with a van to Wroclaw as I have been invited to some poetical event. To my surprise, I can hear the piece from the record Stephanie Grapelli Plays Jerome Kern blaring out from the radio (no, don't mistake him for the double Jerome of three men in a boat, excluding the dog). Each time I listen to the record, I do feel peculiarly optimistic. What, I guess, can be read from the dopey facial expression, in which I preen myself for this circumstance. Each of us disguises oneself in the metaphors she/he can afford, thus, I indulge myself as well. "When a metaphor has been created, it doesn't express anything that existed earlier, though obviously, it arises from something that existed earlier". Well, let Rorty say whatever he wants, however, the metaphor being my facial expression at the moment when Stephanie Grapelli plays Jerome Kern, doesn't stem from anything that did exist, do exist or will exist. That's my opinion. And I agree with it entirely. And, as it seems to me, the pretty girl sitting in the front, little bit on the left, would agree with that as well. At first, she cast furtive glances at me, but now her glances seems to be quite fearful. People are afraid of what they don't understand. And who understands metaphors nowadays! And, in addition, the one I have here, my face! The face that came from nothing and nothing expresses. Who wouldn't be scared of it? Moreover, if they would know that I'm a writer and music lover, they would kick me out from the van and abandon me wherever, maybe even here, just on the A4 motorway, in the middle of the route from Legnica to Wrocław, or the other way, it's all the same, though. But they don't know, that's why, it's better to mix lime than waste time for reflection on such concerns.
What I think about poetical events is just what I think. As Ph.D. Kukurowski says: "I earn a shitload of money, with the indication of shit", as a teacher. Here alike. Always more event than poetry. Well, you can always throw a party, but why among poets? What else, among candidates for poets? And candidates for candidates? Among ex-poets, would-be-poets, competitive poets, inspired, invited (me alike), turned out, hermetic, heretical, frail, faraway etc.? Risky dalliance!
Anyway, they haven't kicked me out from the van, so I get out in Wrock, as students are used to call it, but not me, and at the drop of a hat I can see hordes of Wroclaw's inhabitants, the majority not really of these parts, as the city is just so. As far as I'm concerned, the city should be destroyed, but well, I'll neither do it myself nor incite others to do that. Let it stay, so that I would have a place to come for poetical events, or maybe rather for money. For the fact that since Fort-Port was taken out from Legnica, and earlier even Russians, nothing has been left and for nothing can our town be famous. Sad is the history of Legnica. Nondescriptive in some way. And I would say, non-existent. And I did.
Meanwhile, at the party, some German poet from Germany read in German his edgy German poems, then some Polish poet from Poland translated them, what actually, didn't help a lot, and later on we had an opportunity to listen to engineer Miłosz Biedrzycki, Polish poet from Saudi Arabia, passing through and enjoying Wrocław. The poet Miłosz (but not the one you think about, no, no, not Miłosz Hamkało, the son of Marcin) grumbled at first about the tough life of poet being continuously asked for recitations what was always unfamiliar to him, or even unpleasant, and I do understand him and the fact, that a poet isn't a trouper, but an ordinary artist, rank and file, not a senior doctor lecturer, not for show or held up to ridicule and not for God's playground, although I wouldn't insist on the last one, as by what right ? – therewith the poet stood up and staged the show as befits the true trouper from Arabia, passing through and enjoying Poland. Stamping, chanting and spreading poems as if they were confetti – what actually looked as if confetti was spread out like poems. Nevermind, at least for the rabble, as the rabble is the rabble; the half being amused and smitten, the half confused and surprised. As the rabble is like that Orłoś' ear, “as you know, you can never be sure: will it be tasty or not?”1. Notably when some drunken rooster want to taste it.
So, that's more or less, how a poetical event looks alike. Little bit cool, little bit carefree, little bit out of topic. In Wrocław not different surely than not in Wrocław, but somewhere else. It's probably time we beat our breasts and knocked our heads – as I was there as well, not a drop of a vodka drank, the beer vouchers I got, which I gave back to guys, as I just didn't have time to use them.
But even if I had, how could I go back home by van with a bladder filled with beer. I have already tried it and do dissuade anyone from the idea. Otherwise, it's quite non-poetical journey and thoughts aren't really occupied with some thing, but with anything. I ensure. So, maybe it's even better that I have dealt with these vouchers in such way, not in a different, and much more stupid way, as it happens to me occasionally.
And at my piece of confetti is still to be read: "hurtling, curving (at parting) hurtling, curving / bending, denting // ending // came to an end the week We-ek / from now on : Me-ek // and the Mole is riding our horse." Miraculously I have come up with that piece, don't you think? It's little bit by the way.
Each quotation appearing in the article has been translated on my own.
Grzegorz Tomicki
Translated by Klaudia Brejecka