Post by Bonobo on Oct 10, 2010 8:57:00 GMT 1
Czechowicz was born, created his works and died in Lublin. His tragic death is reminded by the statue of the poet in Plac Czechowicza. The poet is seen as a nostalgic and catastrophic writer, nevertheless, he was also the leader of Lublin avantgarde and bohemia. The author of Poemat o mieście Lublinie (A Poem about Lublin) was a modern poet, whose works had strong influence on the next generations. So far, his output in the fields of drama, journalism, translation, photography and pedagogy has remained unnoticed. Czechowicz - regionalist has also been forgotten. Above all, this underestimated mistifier, genius and visioner, who lived a short but fascinating life, left - despite his early death - a very rich collection of works.
The ‘Grodzka Gate - NN Theatre’ Centre organises events to commemorate Józef Czechowicz’s birth and death, every year there is also a public reading of Poemat o mieście Lublinie (A Poem about Lublin) combined with a walk around the places described in it. Special papers contributed to the poet’s work are issued here as well.
Tragic Death
When the war broke out Czechowicz left Warsaw and returned to Lublin. He died in his hometown bombardment on 9th September 1939 between 9 a.m. and 10 a.m. It happened at Ostrowska barber’s shop which was situated in a house at Krakowskie Przedmieście 46 St.
Read more:
tnn.pl/J%C3%B3zef_Czechowicz,2829.html
Józef Czechowicz
(1903 - 1939)
Żal
głowę która siwieje a świeci jak świecznik
kiedy srebrne pasemka wiatrów przefruwają
niosę po dnach uliczek
jaskółki nadrzeczne
świergoczą to mało idźże
tak chodzić tak oglądać sceny festyny
roztrzaskane szybki synagog
płomień połykający grube statków liny
płomień miłości
nagość
tak wysłuchiwać ryku głodnych ludów
a to jest inny głos niż ludzi głodnych płacz
zniża się wieczór świata tego
nozdrza wietrzą czerwony udój
z potopu gorącego
zapytamy się wzajem ktoś zacz
rozmnożony cudownie na wszystkich nas
będę strzelał do siebie i marł wielokrotnie
ja gdym z pługiem do bruzdy przywarł
ja przy foliach jurysta
zakrztuszony wołaniem gaz
ja śpiąca pośród jaskrów
i dziecko w żywej pochodni
i bombą trafiony w stallach
i powieszony podpalacz
ja czarny krzyżyk na listach
o żniwa żniwa huku i blasków
czy zdąży kręta rzeka z braterskiej krwi odrdzawieć
nim się kolumny stolic znów podźwigną nade mną
naleci wtedy jaskółek zamieć
świśnie u głowy skrzydło przez ptasią ciemność
idźże idź dalej
1938
Sorrow
my head greying and glowing like a candle
when silver streaks of clouds pass floating over
I carry along the floors of streets
the riverbank swallows
twitter this is not much go there
thus walking and observing the scene the dreams the funfairs
the shattered windows of synagogues
the flame swallowing thick halyards of ships
the flame of love
nakedness
thus listening to the roar of hungry peoples
which is quite different from hungry people’s crying
descends now the dusk of this world
nostrils scent the red milky
and hot inundation
we shall ask each other and who are you
magically multiplied into us all
I shall shoot at myself and die repeatedly
I with my plough at the furrow
I the lawyer at my folios
choking with the cry of gas
I girl asleep mid the buttercups
and the child a living torch
and hit by a bomb in the choir
and the incendiary on the gallows
I the black cross on the lists
o harvest harvest of rubble and blaze
will the winding river manage to lose the rust of fraternal blood
before the columns of the capitals again rise above me
then will swoosh down the blizzard of swallows
a wing whiz by the head through bird-filled darkness
move on keep going
Źródło: The Word; Słowo
Two hundred years of Polish poetry,
Dwieście lat poezji polskiej.
Blackheath NSW, Australia, 2010 (za zgodą)
translated by:
Marcel Weyland (Sydney)
marcel.weyland@bigpond.com