Saturday, November 04, 2006

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. Awakening consciousness.

Hello Everybody!

Finally I managed, to translate those poems I've been promising earlier into English. There are about two dozens and only chosen ones, so I must publish in footage, though they form a certain story, that I wanted to tell you. It is a story of an inspiration of unknown source, and of insatiable desire for creation. It is a story of the Self-Claimed Poet. But first, who is a self-claimed poet? Lets define the frames of this idea. It is a person who without any plan or outside persuasion, starts a long-going process of creation of an artistic (ideological) kind, making progress and aknowledging self, who's unique fuel is the fire that burns within, the unknown source of inspiration. Being this a talent, a gift, an alien radiation from outa space? Whatever...

It has all begun at 08-03-1996, with a philosophical motto, and a poem named "The Rose". Was that march or august? I don't remember today... Then it was dozens of poems. I still have them all stored but, they are not too interesting. First one which riveted my attention, while revising the notebook in search of candidates for the translation, was the one below. It is interesting. Althought a cripple from the technical point of view, it contains those germs of awakening self-consciousness, which is one of the most important features in telling a self-claimed poet from a versemonger. Suprisingly, this one has a title (most of the later poems does not).

"A Fairtale about an old man", 22-12-1996

on one sunny day
i came along a little stream
and i glanced at my reflection
carried with the lively current
in milions o copies
like a warrant of caption
which the live has sent after me

painted with watercolour
on a lacklustre canvas
an old grey-haired man wearing rags looked at me
you could tell he knows about life
but a little’s what he lives
curved around with his own beard
like with chain of past expierience and nightmares
which constrains him
suffocating eyes it steals his breath
he looked just puny

fed two times a day with daily handful of illusions
he have barely had the force to think
therefore the thoughts of his
sailing high like kites on the wind
dirty they were and exhausted
like himself he was
and their weight didn’t ever let any of them climb high enough
to flash in the sun for the solace of an old heart

i took out a small copper box
and i scarfed the old man straight in his face

perfect rings have spread effulgent on the surface of the water
tearing it to hundred pieces
and the current duplicated in milions of copies
the message about the birth of a new man

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 25.11.2006

If you wonder what was inside the small cooper box, it was the one in which i stored my weed. And of course it was pathetic, but i still think it is pretty Buddhist like. Don't you think?

This other one tells a little bit about the way that this strange poetical inspiration worked. That's why I consider it important. And, of course, it has no title.

* * * (18-12-1996)

it usully acts at night
when i lay quietly
and think
and the words flutter around like little birds
sometimes one of them knuckles down
and begins to peck his name
with white syllables
in the navyblue mistness of my mind
they knuckle down a few
and then emerges a poem

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 26-10-2006

This one that I present below, is a characteristic piece of something that I would call a separate stream in this early output. It was connected with some psychological expieriences concerning females. None of flash, just the hadache. This one is, I think, the most elaborated.

* * * (30-12-1996)

prostrated in half
and the strenght sets off me
like from a broken bottle
it is berely enough
to write down incrimination
against myself
formerly the owner
today i only rent
this house
set upside down
paying a steep price
in tears
which flow like waterfalls
inside my head
spreading havoc
and tearing out all
priorly planted trees
along with their roots

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 26-10-2006

This one has no date (another exception), and it is preety pathetic too. But it reflects again that element of will and conciousness, which emerges slowly from within the other, not important works, and is so important for a self-claimed poet.

* * *

i am looking straight
my eyes are horizontaly
it is me who burns
it is not the shrubbery
i stand and brace myself
i’ve chosen
certain standpoint
i’ll be whom I want to be
the world is changing
when we are missing

Tłum. Rafał Gadomski, 26-10-2006

In the poem below, we can observe another interesting process in the work of a self-claimed poet. His technique is improving. Nobody is reading his poems, and he barely receives any feedback. But he reads himself. That's how he improves his outcome and, at the same time, he improves himself. He is the writer, but he is also the reader. He can improve what he does not like in what he reads. This influence that he has over his creation makes him improve, and eventually, develope satisfaction.

* * * (11-02-1998)

i’m a drop in the ocean of needs
a drop of insatiable desire
to be
a drop which could appease
somebody’s else desire
a drop of chance
within chance
and by chance
in the chance ocean of another
an ocean which parry
by chance…

trans. Rafał Gadomski,

And the last example. Take notice at the elements of humour.

* * * (27-06-1999)

first star
what am i about to ask you for first star?
first star
don’t fulfill my desires, please
(they tend to be to greedy)
let me know you
point direction south
let me love you
first star
perhaps you’re just a communication satellite
signed with a serial number?
it is so hard to tell you both these days…
first star first satellite
on the road…

trans. Rafał Gadomski,

Awakening consciousness of self, through writing, and reading, and writing again, and reading...
It is a very long process. But it is worth. Eventually, from the mess, a new beauty is about to be born. But this I will tell you about next week...

See you friends


For continuation see:

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. The emerging beauty.

1 comment:

DragonRaid said...

when no one reads, the author reads himself. to improve himself to oneday share with another or others. i like the one created on 11-02-1998. oh to be a drop in an ocean...