Aleksandra Szymanska

Aleksandra Szymanska Poems

Aleksandra Szymanska Biography

When I was eight years old I wrote few very first poems. I grew up in poetic surroundings of a historical, post-German castle at the west part of Poland which had imbued my imagination with its mystery and had tailored my personality. I started writing in English, the international language, in 2006 when I won one of third rewards in an international poetry contest organised by The International Library of Poetry based in U.S.A. I discovered Poem Hunter in November 2006 when poets(dot) com, the International Library of Poetry website (where I existed under 'aleks75') , was about to close down. I started sharing my writes under the following pseudonyms: a) previous account (2006-2011) : 'olablue', 'Mars', 'Spring is here...', 'I love my soldier...', and 'quercus...' (I have re-posted some poems from quercus... collection under current profile name) . b) 'Audrey Heart' (2008) , which had been created in order to hide my identity; I lost the access to this account when my e-mail had been compromised in 2008. c) 'leprous', my genuine name, Aleksandra Szymanska (2012 - present) . Please forgive me the foot in my mouth: since summer 2008 my identity has been compromised - I've been having a huge problem with an entourage who have been trying to steal and exploit my intellectual property. For more information and recently written poems, please visit: a) my website: myidentitydimension(dot) com (PC/laptop only, no social media, please) b) Twitter: (at) pola_drus (for security reasons I can not connect my Twitter account to Poem Hunter) . Please do not break into my account and attach your pictures to my profile on this website; please do not edit anything, leaving deliberate mistakes... This account is the way I look, walk, think, frown, laugh. This account is my age, my face features, my finger prints...my hands and feet... I am the 'alien'. Please do not share my poems on www(dot) worldofpoets(dot) com or any other website...)

The Best Poem Of Aleksandra Szymanska

My Tribute To Adam Mickiewicz...

Reduta Ordona (opowiadanie ajutanta, fragment) ...

Nam strzelać nie kazano - wstąpiłem na działo
I spojrzałem na pole dwieście armat grzmiało
Artyleryi ruskiej ciągną się szeregi
Prosto, długo, daleko, jako morza brzegi
I widziałem ich wodza przybiegł, mieczem skinął
I jak ptak jedno skrzydło wojska swego zwinął
Wylewa się spod skrzydła ściśniona piechota
Długą czarną kolumną, jako lawa błota
Nasypana iskrami bagnetów jak sępy
Czarne chorągwie na śmierć prowadzą zastępy
Przeciw nim sterczy biała, wąska, zaostrzona
Jak głaz bodzący morze, reduta Ordona
Sześć tylko miała armat wciąż dymią i świecą
I nie tyle prędkich słów gniewne usta miecą
Nie tyle przejdzie uczuć przez duszę w rozpaczy
Ile z tych dział leciało bomb, kul i kartaczy
Patrz, tam granat w sam środek kolumny się nurza
Jak w fale bryła lawy, pułk dymem zachmurza
Pęka śród dymu granat, szyk
pod niebo leci
I ogromna łysina śród kolumny świeci

Tam kula, lecąc, z dala grozi, szumi, wyje
Ryczy jak byk przed bitwą, miota się, grunt ryje
Już dopadła jak boa śród kolumn się zwija
Pali piersią, rwie zębem, oddechem zabija
Najstraszniejszej nie widać, lecz słychać po dźwięku
Po waleniu się trupów, po ranionych jęku
Gdy kolumnę od końca do końca przewierci
Jak gdyby środkiem wojska przeszedł anioł śmierci

Gdzież jest król, co na rzezie tłumy te wyprawia?
Czy dzieli ich odwagę, czy pierś sam nadstawia?
Nie, on siedzi o pięćset mil na swej stolicy
Król wielki, samowładnik świata połowicy
Zmarszczył brwi i tysiące kibitek wnet leci
Podpisał, tysiące matek opłakuje dzieci
Skinął, padają knuty od Niemna do Chiwy
Mocarzu, jak Bóg silny, jak szatan złośliwy
Gdy Turków za Bałkanem twoje straszą spiże
Gdy poselstwo paryskie twoje stopy liże
Warszawa jedna twojej mocy się urąga
Podnosi na cię rękę i koronę ściąga
Koronę Kazimierzów, Chrobrych z twojej głowy
Boś ją ukradł i skrwawił, synu Wasilowy

Car dziwi się ze strachu, drzą Petersburczany
Car gniewa się ze strachu, mrą jego dworzany
Ale sypią się wojska, których Bóg i wiara
Jest Car, Car gniewny, umrzem, rozweselim Cara
Posłany wódz kaukaski z siłami pół-świata
Wierny, czynny i sprawny jak knut w ręku kata.
(…)
Spojrzałem na redutę; - wały, palisady,
Działa i naszych garstka, i wrogów gromady;
Wszystko jako sen znikło. - Tylko czarna bryła
Ziemi niekształtnej leży - rozjemcza mogiła.
Tam i ci, co bronili, -i ci, co się wdarli,
Pierwszy raz pokój szczery i wieczny zawarli.
Choćby cesarz Moskalom kazał wstać, już dusza
Moskiewska. tam raz pierwszy, cesarza nie słusza.
Tam zagrzebane tylu set ciała, imiona:
Dusze gdzie? nie wiem; lecz wiem, gdzie dusza Ordona.
On będzie Patron szańców! - Bo dzieło zniszczenia
W dobrej sprawie jest święte, Jak dzieło tworzenia;
Bóg wyrzekł słowo stań się, Bóg i zgiń wyrzecze.
Kiedy od ludzi wiara i wolność uciecze,
Kiedy ziemię despotyzm i duma szalona
Obleją, jak Moskale redutę Ordona -
Karząc plemię zwyciężców zbrodniami zatrute,
Bóg wysadzi tę ziemię, jak on swą redutę.

Adam Mickewicz,1832 rok.


Ordon's redoubt (the story of an adjutant - fragment) ...

We weren't allowed to shoot. - I joined the gun team
I looked at the field; two hundreds of cannons were thundering.
Lines of Russian artillery are stretching, making their way,
Like the sea shores; straight, long, far away;
And I saw their leader; he arrived, beaconed with his sword
And like a bird one wing of his army he did fold;
The confined infantry spills the wing beneath
Like an avalanche of mud, as a long black column it is spread,
Piled up by sparks of bayonets. Like vultures, hovering
Black flags to death regiments lead.

Against them a white, narrow, sharpen, sticks out,
Like a stone holding back the sea, Ordon's redoubt.
It had only six cannons; they're still full of light and smoke
And not so many hasty words the angered lips throw,
Not so many feelings will pass through a soul in despair,
How many these guns threw bombs, cannons, grape-shots into the air.
Look, there in the middle of the column a grenade sinks
Like a lump of lava in waves, with smoke the regiment it dims;
In the smoke cracks the grenade, the array flies to the sky
And a huge boldness among the column shines.

There a cannon, flying, hisses, howls, threatens from afar
Bellows like a bull before the battle, runs around, nuzzles the ground; -
It has already reached; like boa among columns it twists,
It burns with its chest, it tears with its teeth, with its breath it kills.
The most horrid you can't see, but recognize it by its sound,
By falling down of the death, by the wounded groan loud;
When the column from the end to the end it drills,
It looks as if through the army's middle walked the angel that kills.

Where is the king who crowds slaughter arranges for?
Does he share their bravery, or risk his neck of his own?
No, he sits in his capitol five hundred miles away
The half of the world's self crowned ruler, the king, so great.
He's frowned, - and arrive suddenly thousands of kibitka wagons;
He's signed, - for their children weep thousands of mothers;
He's nodded, - falls whipping from Chiwa to Niemen.
As God great, as satan sinister, the strong man,
When Turks beyond the Balkans are threatened by your bronze,
When the Paris legation lick the feet of yours, -
Warsaw alone your power hurls abuse at,
Raises its hand on you and takes off the ‘hat',
The crown of Kazimierz, Chrobry Dynasty of your head,
Because you son of Wasil, have stolen it and with blood stained!

The tsar is surprised - the Petersburg men shiver in fear,
The tsar gets angry - out of fear die his courtiers;
But the armies pour, who's God and faith
The tsar is - angry tsar: we die, we'll amuse him.
The Caucasian leader is sent with the forces of the half of the world,
Like a whip in the executor's hand, fervent and capable.
(...)

I've looked at the redoubt; - stockades and embankments,
Cannons and our army's handful and the enemy's bunches;
Everything like a dream has disappeared. - Only a black solid's stayed
Of the unshaped soil - the collective grave.
And there are both those who've defended; - and those who've broken into,
For the first time to sincere and eternal peace have come to.
Even if the Cesar told the Moskals to get up, the soul already has been
Moscow. there for the first time, the Cesar it can't hear.
There are buried so many hundreds of bodies, names:
Where are the souls? I don't know; but I know where Ordon's soul lays.
He'll be the protector of trenches! - the destroying work of arts
In good matter is holy, like the creation's artwork part;
God said ‘become', God ‘die' will say.
When from humans faith and freedom run away,
When the earth tyranny and insane pride
Flood like Moskals do Ordon's redoubt -
Punishing the tribe of winners poisoned by crime,
God will blow up this earth, like him his own redoubt.

Written by Adam Mickiewicz,1832.
interpreted by Aleksandra Szymanska

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