POLONIA I.

Når nu verden står i flammer og krig og lemlæstelser er daglige foreteelser for det gode menneske kan det virke formålsløst at foretage sig andet end et hurtigt snit langs begge underarme. Fortvivl dog ikke. Der er andre muligheder. I en sådan situation hvor alt virker håbløst og verden helt tydeligt er blevet både blind og alvorligt mentalforstyrret må man gribe til yderligheder.

   Vi undskylder vores historiske fejhed og banker på den store port ind til det polske rige, hvor frihedskæmpere og poeter sidder i de underjordiske udskænkningssteder og deler vodka og betændt blod.

   I en tid hvor det politiske hukommelsestab synes at være fuldstændigt må vi gribe tilbage til skrifter hvor menneskets sande væsen træder frem – de tekster der husker – de tekster der ånder selve den menneskelige erfaring.

Vi lægger ud med en just afdød, tager det hele på engelsk og efterspørger i samme ombæring en dansk polskåndende digter der vil agere oversætter fremover. Kotos tam?

SOLILOQUY FOR CASSANDRA

Here I am, Cassandra

And this is my city under ashes.

And these are my prophet’s staff and ribbons.

And this is my head full of doubts.

It´s true, I am triumphant.

My prophetic words burn like fire in the sky.

Only unacknowledged prophets

are privy to such prospects.

Only those who got off on the wrong foot,

whose predictions turned to fact so quickly –

it’s as if they’d never lived.

I remember it so clearly –

how people, seeing me, would break off in mid-word.

Laughter died.

Lovers´ hands unclasped.

Children ran to their mothers.

I didn’t even know their short-lived names.

And that song about a little green leaf –

no one ever finished it near me.

I loved them

But I loved them haughtily.

From heights beyond life.

From the future. Where it’s always empty

and nothing is easier than seeing death.

I’m sorry that my voice was hard.

Look down on yourselves from the stars, I cried,

look down on yourselves from the stars.

They heard me and lowered their eyes.

They lived within life.

Pierced by that great wind.

Condemned.

trapped from birth in departing bodies.

But in them they bore a moist hope,

a flame fuelled by it’s own flickering.

They really knew what a moment means,

oh any moment, any one at all

before –

It turns out I was right.

But nothing has come of it.

And this is my robe, slightly singed.

And this is my prophet’s junk.

And this is my twisted face.

A face that didn’t know it could be beautiful.

COULD HAVE

It could have happened.

It had to happen.

It happened earlier. Later.

Nearer. Farther off.

It happened, but not to you.

You were saved because you were the first.

You were saved because you were the last.

Alone. With others.

On the right. The left.

Because it was raining. Because of the shade.

Because the day was sunny.

You were in luck – there was a forest.

You were in luck – there were no trees.

You were in luck – a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,

a jamb, a turn, a quarter inch, an instant.

You were in luck – just then a straw went floating by.

As a result, because, although, despite.

What would have happened if a hand, a foot,

within an inch, a hairbreadth from

an unfortunate coincidence.

So you’re here? Still dizzy from another dodge,

   close shave, reprieve?

One hole in the net and you slipped through?

I couldn’t be more shocked or speechless.

Listen,

how your heart pounds inside me.

ADVERTISEMENT

I’m a tranquillizer

I’m effective at home.

I work in the office.

I can take exams

or the witness stand.

I mend broken cups with care.

All you have to do is take me,

just gulp me

with a glass of water.

I know how to handle misfortune,

how to take bad news.

I can minimize injustice,

lighten up God’s absence,

or pick the widow’s veil that suits your face.

What are you waiting for –

have faith in my chemical compassion.

You’re still a young man/woman.

It’s not too late to learn how to unwind.

Who said

you have to take it on the chin?

Let me have your abyss.

I’ll cushion it with sleep.

You’ll thank med for giving you

four paws to fall on.

Sell me your soul.

there are no other takers.

There is no other devil anymore.

THE CENTURY´S DECLINE

Our twentieth century was going to improve on the others.

It will never prove it now,

now that its years are numbered,

its gait is shaky,

its breath is short.

To many things have happened

that weren’t supposed to happen,

and what was supposed to come about

has not.

Happiness and spring, among other things,

were supposed to be getting closer.

Fear was expected to leave the mountains and the valleys.

Truth was supposed to hit home

before a lie.

A couple of problems weren’t going

to come up anymore:

hunger, for example,

and war, and so forth.

There was going to be respect

for helpless people’s helplessness,

trust, that kind of trust.

Anyone who planned to enjoy the world

is now faced

with a hopeless task.

Stupidity isn’t funny.

Wisdom isn’t gay.

Hope

isn’t that young girl anymore,

et cetera, alas.

God was finally going to believe

in a man both good and strong,

but good and strong

are still two different men.

“How should we live?” someone asked me in a letter.

I had meant to ask him

the same question.

Again, and as ever

as may be seen above,

the most pressing questions

are naïve ones.

WE´RE EXTREMELY FORTUNATE

We’re extremely fortunate

not to know precisely

the kind of world we live in.

One would have

to live a long, long time,

unquestionable longer

than the world itself.

Get to know other worlds,

if only for comparison.

Rise above the flesh,

which only really knows

how to obstruct

and make trouble.

For the sake of research,

the big picture,

and definitive conclusions,

one would have to transcend time,

in which everything scurries and whirls.

From that perspective,

one might as well bid farewell

to incidents and details.

The counting of weekdays

would inevitable seem to be

a senseless activity;

dropping letters in the mailbox

a whim of foolish youth;

the sign “No Walking On The Grass”

a symptom of lunacy.

                                                  (Wislawa Szymborska. View with a Grain of Sand. Selected Poems. Faber and Faber. 1996)

Og vi kunne fortsætte gennem dette visonære forfatterskab og ikke støde på et eneste ikke-nødvendigt digt. Se, det er verdenslitteratur – se, det er ånd – se, det er Wislawa Szymborska, mine Damer og Herrer, Wislawa Szymborska!

KH

Thomas

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