Mother Poems

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Mother (Poems Dedicated To Poet's Mother 4)

Talking At Night

Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

Tell me, Mother, do, at least in a dream
And I'll believe you that it's so up there,
So still and windlessly as it might seem
For when I put my ear unto the bare
And frozen ground, with a reunion theme
The ground comes up, that we should join forever
In a union that no contretemps will sever
And that, transformed, we'll take the likeness of
A philosophical and wordless love,
But you won't tell the things I can't infer
Or maybe you are not exactly sure
I think that, as if lyrics immature,
You tease me like a Christmas caroler.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 3/8/2007

Within The Bounds With No Bounds

Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

Hear what I'm thinking Mother for it weighs so much -
I'm trying still although the written scrolls are not
Entirely legible and leave me out of touch:
So many street wars that are lost that have been fought
So many lies that fragrance has concealed from view
But after working with manure, I sometime thought,
They'd wash their hands - someday - with Marseille soap anew
Or with a piece of pumice scrape the time of crust
In tattered coat no fright shall frighten me or you
When bosom filled with emptiness blown in with dust
When it lies down inside and haggles naught for naught
Till it breaks free right through a pocket hole, with gust
Fly and sow! they say we're waiting for the summer hot
To reap the harvest form the grain: for our good will
For the right to doff our caps to you upon this spot
In my naďvety my faith evades me still
And jumps so ludicrously among the potholes there,
Goes quite for a moment rambling with no skill.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 4/5/2007


Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/13/2018

Tomorrow is All Saints' Day again - I'll light a candle on your grave
just like that, because I remember that I am a temporary nothingness.

Tomorrow? - or a multitude of events? - I do not believe it could be
- but on my clock, death weaves a spider's thread.

She sneaks quietly at night and squeezes behind the chest:
the vestibules in the eyes flicker, the house, the stairs and so many years.

Now I will trudge to you - carelessly, disabled old man,
carrying the torch of experience and everything that fate stole from me.

I will ask - was it worth it? - when you'll come as a shadow in a dream,
because I have cards marked to win another day.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 5/15/2016

For You

Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

Don't you regret, Mother, affectionate lovers
So dear to your heart those idyll fiancés
Of the countryside's most peculiar arrays
From tilling the fields all the way to the love for cooking.
Don't you regret the first erring gleam
That out of the shutters of your hearts
Into the darkness of the room did stream
And there upon a chest of drawers acted as a clock supreme:
Neither had you a loaf of abundance from the bread-stove
Placed upon the table there nor sanctified it with the sign of the Cross commending to God's care.
I'm telling you, Mother - you've done the wrong thing
Your patches are all in dismay overtaken by bentgrass and pastures Ravaged by sedge every day…
While you are asleep on your mattress of clay.
Countrywoman, with gnarled hands,
So well-fitted for the hoe
With a wooden handle, which for the sake
Of your convenience were put together
In the sunny rays of a bad and salty weather.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 3/12/2003

The Land Beyond

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/16/2018

To catch the sun when it's impossible,
because it disappears behind the peaks in the darkness of the night.
And the candle flame? - it will flash before it goes out,
I know, because I saw in the hands of my Mother,
when she was departing, and in the last drop
remained sadness and joy that now
I see friends, but looking in the eyes
I think if this could make them indifferent?
No, I have no right to such a riddle,
as long as I - like they - won't fall asleep forever.

When we'll meet in the distant beyond,
and yet close, because I dreamed about it
many times, and more often
I have meetings too, but it's not ghosts,
but my real friends from flesh and blood:
I must drink with them and stop lying
that in my life vodka I didn't like,
that everything was beautiful and festive,
that I was suffering in the time of drought,
that I've made my bed, so now I must sleep in it?

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski

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6/25/2021 2:04:12 AM #