Saturday, December 06, 2008

Pale Fragrance

It wasn't enough to just talk to her. I had to know her, but I couldn't. It was one of those immutable ironies that leaves the heart heavy, and a feeling of such vast emptiness that one feels as if they could hold eternity within the confines of their chest.

With a cool breeze biting the skin, her cheeks were red as roses…my gift of flowers with the same name became less than she deserved if such beauty could be generated in her flesh from something as simple as a cold wisp of air.

And yet I stood there. I could not move. She was gravity, and yet I wanted to run. Despite her confidence I could not help but to think her lonely…or perhaps it was just her singular beauty. It was a cruel spirit that tormented me with a suggestion of enormity that nature had not afforded to me.

It was her hands, the way they caressed her hair as she flipped it from one side to the other…it called out to the universe with desperation…almost as if they felt that there was no other presence in all of creation. The longing for the touch of some other soul emanated from her skin and fresh scent of her personal fragrances…it left a trail for me to follow.

Everything about her was so potent that a man absent of the blessings of sight and smell could find her purely by the beating of his heart. So it is for me. I have wandered in the dark for the duration of an eternity, only to be at once brought into the burning sunlight of her presence.

I have spent every waking moment of my life reaching for her with a passion that is near obsession. I cannot help but wonder…

Would she dare to think of me?

Sunday, November 30, 2008

A Day's Work

This is one of my short stories. I hope you enjoy...

By Ernest Maestas (Crime Analyst)

Maximilian wiped the sweat off his brow. His work was harder than he had imagined it would be; but that’s ok, it’s good for the soul. He looked over his table at his project and measured his progress. Can’t take a break yet he told himself. He wiped his hands on his work apron and considered his project with near confusion. He was unsure on just how to proceed from this point- it took all day for him to get his project from its point of origin to his workshop.

He was proud of his workshop. It wasn’t fancy but it was effective. He had ample room to conduct his tasks while still having room to hang all his tools. He even had room for a cleaning station. Here he could, not only wash himself off, but clean his tools and dispose of the left over materials.

He gently stroked the project with his hands; it was more anticipation than anything else. But it was also calculation. What shall I use to begin? While mulling this over his project stirred a little, as if coming to…

Maximilian took back out his ether and his handy-dandy handkerchief (his father always told him to have one) and placed it over the face of his project. The stirring stopped. Can’t have that…no, no, not yet…Max said to himself with a business-like jubilee. He had worked long and hard to get his project to where it is today and he wasn’t going to let things fall apart now.

Maximilian wasn’t using names but his project did in fact have one. The project’s name is Jim. Max fingered his tools and selected a hack saw, a meat cleaver, a knife, and a meat tenderizer as his tools for today. He liked the tenderizer. As he rubbed his hands over the tools with an intimate admiration, he considered Jim.

Jim was an asshole; make that a self-centered, pretentious asshole. Jim had made trouble for Max- he liked being called Max because his friends always called him that- for nothing more than holding him to regulations. These regulations weren’t particularly troubling, they were just fair. And Jim didn’t want to play fair; he just wanted to promote himself.

When Max had blocked Jim from using his volunteer status for the promotion of his personal business, Jim turned the situation around and went to the Mayor’s Office and complained. He stated that Max was making trouble for him because another volunteer owned a business and was trying to squeeze him out through unethical and illegal practices. Max knew this wasn’t true and found this accusation to be the last straw in an ongoing problem with Jim.

Max walked over to his trunk and opened it. Max liked his trunk; it had all kinds of goodies and surprises. Max called it his Community Chest, like the Community Chest in Monopoly. When he was a kid he would play this game with his Mom. He always liked landing on the square marked Community Chest because when it was opened you got something good.

With both hands and wide, excited eyes Max took out a fish bowl. But this was no ordinary fish bowl; it was designed, not for fish, but for humans. Extending from the top of the fish bowl was a hose that ran to a water tank. He then took out a harness that would clamp around the fish bowl and around Jim’s neck. Once the clamp was locked in place it would form a near water-tight seal. It didn’t matter if the seal was less than perfect because the moderate amount of water leaking from the fish bowl made the process more menacing for the project.

He slipped the fish bowl over the head of his project. The clamp was fastened; right side first (doing the left first is bad luck) and then the left side. With everything ready Max was giddy…time to wake up!

Max walked over to his water tank and turned the nozzle. A slow and quiet shuuuuurr emanated from the tank as it transferred air pressure from the fish bowl and replaced it with water. The water was up to the project’s ears when it began to stir. It was trying to move but hadn’t fully comprehended that it was fastened to the work table.

The water had covered the cheeks and was beginning to obstruct the air flow when it would turn its head. It was fully awake now and Max stepped back into the darkness, slipped on his mask, and watched as the project moved from confusion to fear, then to panic as it realized its situation.
This was Max’s favorite part.

This project wasn’t like other projects. Don’t misunderstand, he was still a dirt bag; but he was better dressed, better educated, and had a higher level of motivation than his usual work subjects. This project had an extensive background in the Air Force and spent some time doing disaster planning for the City. Max bet that he would struggle longer than the others, calm down, then try to reason his way out of this trap. Only as a last resort will he call for help. He wouldn’t be like the others…

Jim was screaming…he hadn’t even tried to assess how he was fastened. Pussy, he thought. Max walked over to the little chalk board mounted on the wall. Picked up the pink chalk and placed a single tally mark under “wrong.” It was the third tally here; under “right” there were forty-one. Damn, I owe myself lunch now…Max didn’t like to lose. This made him unhappy.

The project had heard the chalk tally and stopped screaming. He tried to position himself to see but every time he moved his head the water went up his nose and he couldn’t breathe, so he was forced to keep his head straight. Max let the water fill the fish tank only to the point where the project’s nose was protruding. The water was interfering with the project’s vision, and it would also have to be selective about speaking because the water would rush in from the sides of its mouth.

The water was entering the fish bowl at a slow, steady, pace; just enough to replace the water that was leaking from around the seal. The project’s arms and legs were struggling against the restraints in a calm and steady fashion while it waited for its captor to formally announce himself.
Max considered the situation. He decided that the project didn’t yet deserve the honor of meeting his very own, personal craftsman. Max was going to make Jim better; the way he should be that is. Max would create Jim wholly anew, and Jim would be better for it. Well…maybe better is too strong a term. More accurately, Max would create a more correct version of Jim. Of course the old Jim would have to go. That was always messy.

Project (Jim): Hey!

Max: (silence)

Project: Hey...w-what are you doing?!?

Max: (silence)

Project: Why aren’t you talking to me? What are you doing? Why am I here?

This last question got Max’s attention. Does this idiot really not get why he’s here? He’s strapped to a table with a fish tank full of water over his head, and he’s confused? The project kept trying to talk while looking for Max. The result was always the same: he would try to talk and begin choking from the water. Max made another bet with himself and began counting how many times the project would choke and nearly drown before figuring out he should shut up and be still.

Twenty seven times later the idiot finally stopped. Max got up and went over to his tool bench drawer and pulled out a pencil and a pad. He made a note to himself, “lost again.” Max thought it would take less than twenty attempts before the project realized he was drowning. Apparently this project was thick skulled. A well applied grinder could fix that.

Max looked at the note on his paper…the words “lost again” rolled around in his mind. He looked up from his pad at the chalk board with the new tally under the “wrong” column. He lost twice today- in one session with this pathetic project; one the most pathetic projects ever to have the pleasure of being in his workshop. This was intolerable.

Max walked over to the table grabbed the project's right hand, and pushed the pencil through the back of the project’s hand, not stopping until the pencil completely penetrated the hand and broke its lead on the table. Of course, the project was screaming.

Again, this idiot wanted to know why he is in his current location and wanted to know what he had done.

Max: You are here to be tortured and killed.

Project: (exasperated whisper) What???!

Max: Yes Jim- You think that you are strong. So I’m going to remove much of your muscle tissue to demonstrate that you are weak. You think that you have vision, so I am going to remove your eyes. You think that you have command presence, so I am going to carve out you spine to prove you’re- well, do I need to explain that one? And finally, you think that you are smart- so I am going to cut a hole in your head and scramble your brains with a cake mixer.

Project: (weeping) I’m sorry…

Max: For?


Max: We’ll discuss it while I cut off your legs…

The project started to scream and protest but Max put on his Bose personal sound system headphones and returned to his bench to talk with his tools. So, which of you desires to go first? In his mind all his tools began jumping saying Pick me! Pick me! He would tell them what he needed- some heavy cutting. And while he loved all his tools, the first up would be his hack-saw. The other tools would sound in disappointment, but he would assure them that they would get to play.

Now, for the music. Max chose an array of music including Black Sabbath- with Ozzy, Jimmi Hendrix, Pink Floyd and ZZ Top. That should keep Max happy.

Max approached the project’s right leg and gently squeezed it, as if he was squeezing fruit at the store to see if it’s fresh. He then squeezed the left. He stepped back and with one hand to his mouth he studied both legs until he reached a decision. He walked over to the left leg and grabbed just above the knee and pressed down with his weight. With his saw in his left hand- he could work well with his left hand even though he is right handed- and began to saw.

The leg of the project began to tremble and shake. He was trying hard to get free, but the moving would cease in a few moments when he cut deep enough. He had difficulty getting started because the project’s knee cap kept sliding. Finally, he got a rhythm going and with enough force and enough tissue damage the knee cap flew onto the floor anyway.

As expected the moving of the leg subsided. He was always surprised at how hard it was to cut through live bone because the bones were wet and somewhat spongy making it tough to get through.

There was a lot of blood. Luckily for the project Max had a soldering gun, and in no time his wounds would be cauterized. Max took the project’s leg and placed it in his cleaning drain. He would dispose of it tomorrow.

Max then went to work on the project’s muscle tissue. With the project still attempting to resist Max wasn’t able to be as precise as he would like. It was going to take some real concentration to get the muscle tissue without severing the arteries. Max made a quick, deep slice across the project’s right arm. Unlike the movies which show a neat cut, real flesh flays open when such wounds are made…as if the skin wanted to cooperate by pulling itself apart.

So far Max had spent five hours on his project. It took such careful work to extract the muscle in the thigh region and then cauterize the wounds that he hadn’t noticed how silent it had become. He again wiped his brow. Max looked at the project only to see that his eyes were wide open and his breathing was very rapid. He was in shock.

Max had tuned out the screaming, literally and figuratively, so he couldn’t be sure as to when his project psychologically imploded. Max pulled up a chair next to the project and began to speak to him very gently.

Max: Jim, you don’t know how important it is for you to live.

Project (Jim): (swift, labored breathing)

Max: I guess I should tell you a few details since this was so important to you when we started our work. (Removing mask) It’s me Jim, Max. I know you’re surprised but you should know that I have never forgotten your behavior. You left an impression on me, and I came to realize that you were not in your correct state. You should be honored…I am correcting you.

Project: (breathing slowing)


Project: (breathing stops)

Max threw his tools across the room. He was really looking forward to grinding his skull while he was alive. Jim should have lived. He did far worse to the last low-life he brought into his workshop. He actually had to drown that person.

Max very frustratingly began his dismemberment and clean-up procedures. This was very anticlimactic for him…it was like getting a really pretty woman in bed only to find out she can’t get you to orgasm to save her life (that’s why she died). As Max finished and turned out the lights he wondered what the world was coming to.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008


It is ironic that I spend so much time thinking of death only to be surprised by it. There we were, a conspicuous group, planning as we do...for mounds of wrecked humanity no longer discernible through oblivion and carnage. I was in a hospital.

We discussed as we always did, preparing for the inevitable- reveling in our planned ability to react with a measure of courage above our fellow man...and then at once there it was...

A shriek of pain...

It was so close...and yet I had no connection to her...and yet I could not pull my heart from hers.

From deep within her this pain was the kind of pain only a woman can feel...her cry was that which finds its birth only in the heart of a woman.

I could not see her- we were separated by a soup of cement and steel and glass...and yet at once her cry of sorrow called the entire universe to her side and I was among it.

No, I could not see her but I could see her legs give way...demanding the very presence of the ground to her side.

Her shriek of pain was so pure that at once it penetrated my consciousness and separated my soul from this world...if only for a moment- and pulled me into the Divine.

This divinity was generated by her pain- its power called to angels who, in their infinite compassion and generosity, afforded her their loving caress...

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Does our blog have any future?

Dear (invisible) friends. I write this post to share a thought with you. As you probably observed, our blog, (which indeed was supposed to be a community), is suffering a long season of stagnation. I wonder what is the problem? At the beggining there were five people to write posts. We were supposed to be more each year - instead, the blog shrinked. We got one new member for the one that was out, but he haven't posted once. The actual member greenthumb haven't posted for a year. Is it that csometimes doesn't care for her own child? Or maybe c is no longer "csometimes" but "cinthepast"? If it is so than I have to state, that starting January 1 2009, if nothing will change, I will stop posting on this blog, which for me is no longer an artistic community, but a blog of two guys, (that makes me and Crime Analyst). And I'm sorry Crime Analyst, that you have to read this.

With best regards,
Raphael Gadomski

Friday, October 31, 2008

Happy Halloween...

We come to it at last...

The great night of the dead...

It is in this day that I play...

In this day that I swim in the social inversions...and the many perversions...

of my fellow man.

That is not to say that I conduct myself improperly,

Or that my celebration of social ironies ventures into the criminal...

No, but I do enjoy getting closer to the darkness than normal.

In the spirit of this great night I will share a story.

It is a true tale- as I remember it- of a shadow...

Whispering in the dark...

What feels like many moons ago, when I was a boy, there was a house.

There are many houses in New Mexico but this one was unique to me.

It was unique because it scared scared me from the moment I saw it as my parents drove over the hill along the long dirt roads on the mountainous outskirts of Santa Fe.

New Mexico is large...we have counties that are bigger than states...this emptiness can be a can be lonely. This house was lonely...

A night with no moon could mean a night so dark you would have difficulty making your own outline.

My Aunt, Uncle and cousin lived there. We would often go and visit- but even during the daytime if I found myself alone the hair on the back of my neck would begin to stand...there was something not at rest in this house.

The house sat on a couple of acres of land and consisted of the house, a barn, and stables all connected in one structure.

One night my sister, my cousin, and I decided to spend the night in the stables. There was a large open area in the center of the stables, surrounded by the pens for the horses. It was dark, and there was no moon.

Even with our flash lights the dark seemed to if trying to push the light from existence. We set up a tent and began the usual discussions of children in their early adolescence. Above the laughter there was a sound...ever so subtle at first...but became undeniable. Someone was in the stables with us.

We could hear the footsteps on the thin layer of hay on the ground. At first we thought it was our Uncle because he was a bit of a prankster, but it was not him.

The steps began to circle our tent. Slow at first, then faster and faster...until it was running...then running so fast the it would take two or three steps to completely go around us. I unzipped the front of the tent a couple of inches but did not see even a shadow moving...but I heard it.

We put up our lights on the side of the tent but did not get a shadow cast...

Finally my cousin screamed at the top of her lungs causing the running noise to stop...instantly...

A person would have to take a couple of steps to slow down from that kind of pace...but it just stopped...and all was silence...a loud silence that suggested you weren't alone.

After a few just walked away. Not long after that my relatives moved, and I never saw the house again.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008


At night, with all the lights out, the lights of the City illuminate my room...It's not my City but its familiar to you...I look everywhere, hoping see a magical trail of where you walked. I want to walk there too- so I can smell your perfume mixed with the pleasant scent of your skin...

But you are not here...but the mere proximity of our journey to this place makes me tingle...

You could be here with me...I could have you against the window...with the room completely dark no one would notice your nude body pressed against the glass on the sixth floor...

They wouldn't see my hands all over you or me pulling your head back, sucking on your neck.

No, they wouldn't see me turn you around, prop you up on the ledge, and run my mouth all over you...

They wouldn't see because the lights would be off...and we would be in the sky...

I would take you to my bed and perform feats of agility and endurance...

You would have me push into you...and you would thrust yourself on me repeatedly until you overflowed with ecstasy...

I would then bathe your body, and underneath the water I would enter you again...and again...and again...

And only when you couldn't take anymore would I let myself go inside you...and fill you up...

I can hear your exhausted breath in my ear...your nails squeezing my flesh in satisfaction...I remember our labored silence...I wake up in a deep sweat...on fire for you...

Monday, September 22, 2008

Video clip that promotes our new book.

Hello friends. Here goes a video which promotes our translation of H.D. Coulter's "Anatomy of Hatha Yoga" on Polish market. I think that it is really cool and that's why I decided to show it to you.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Polish Poets - Juliusz Słowacki

There he goes! The Polish Sheakespeare! The Chopin of Polish Literature! The Romantic genius, the one and only - Juliusz Słowacki.

It is not a surprise that I sing Slowacki's praises so loud. No more than a hundred meters from where I live there is a monumental monument of Juliusz Słowacki, (who dethroned on this pedestal the former comunist leader - Dzierżyński).

Not that easy it was to find some works of his in English - first of all, because he wrote in the romantic era (19th century), and then he wrote most of all large pieces (which i really love, as an indefatgable devotee of Polish romanticism) - more like Sheakespeare like I said before. Nevertheles there goes some of his, enjoy! As you will certainly notice with the last poem exposed, a real prophet he was...



by Juliusz Slowacki

O Poland ! As long as you imprison
An angelic soul in a boorish skull,
So long your flesh will be hacked by a headsman,
So long your revenge sword will remain dull,
So long a hyena will lie over you
And a grave – your eyes opened in the grave too.

Throw off completely those hideous tatters,
First – that Deianira’s burning attire :
And then arise like great shameless sculptures,
Naked – and bathed up in die Stygian mire,
New – brazen in your iron nakedness –
Not embarrassed by anything – deathless.

Let the people arise at the dead of night
From the quiet grave and frighten the others,
It’s such a big statue – from one block cast tight,
And so hardened, it won’t break under thunders.
But with thunderbolts its hands and wreath are rife,
The eyes that disdain death – the flush of life.

Poland ! You are still deceived with baubles ;
You were the nations’ peacock and parrot,
Now you are a handmaid of other peoples.
Though I know these words won’t quaver a minute
In your heart – where thought doesn’t long remain :
I speak – for I am sad – and full of blame.

Ay, curse me – yet my soul will make you run
Like Eumenides – through the snaky canes,
For you are Prometheus’s only son :
The vulture doesn’t eat your heart – but your brains.
Although in your blood my Muse I will stain,
I’ll reach to your bowels’ core – and pull with a strain.

Put a curse on your son and howl in torment,
But be aware – the hand of the curser
Stretched over me – will coil like a serpent
And snap off, withered away from your shoulder,
Black satans will snatch up the bits of dust then ;
For you have no power to curse – bondwoman !


Song VIII from "Journey to the Holy Land from Naples".


by Juliusz Slowacki

I am sad, Savior ! For me in western skies
You poured out a radiant rainbow array ;
In azure waters you quench before my eyes
The fiery star of day...
Though You gild the sky and sea for me yonder,
I am sad, Savior !

Like empty ears of corn, their heads erect,
I stand bereft of surfeit and of pleasure...
To strangers my face has the same aspect,
The silence of azure :
But to You my heart’s core I’Il uncover,
I am sad, Savior !

Like an infant who cries for his mother
When left atone, so am I close to tears,
Looking at the sun that throws from the water
Its last flashing spears...
Though I know tomorrow new dawn with gtitter,
I am sad, Savior !

Today when lost in the wide sweep of the sea,
One hundred miles away from either shore,
The flying storks above me I could see
In a stretched out skein soar.
That once I knew them on a Polish pasture,
I am sad, Savior !

That I’ve often brooded over catacombs,
That I have barely known my native home,
That I was like a weary pilgrim who roams
When lightning sears the sky’s dome,
That I don’t know in what grave I’ll linger,
I am sad, Savior !

You will behold my whitened skeleton,
No brow of a column stands guard over it;
Yet I’m like a man who enviously looks on
The ashes in their pit...
And that my bed will be restless forever,
I am sad, Savior !

They told an innocent child in my land
To say a prayer for me each day... and yet
I know my ship doesn’t sail to my home strand,
When it sails straight ahead...
And that the child’s prayer will not help ever,
I am sad, Savior !

The rainbow of lights which in sky’s canopy
Your angels have spread in an enormous string,
Some other people hundred years after me
Will look upon - dying.
Ere to my nothingness I humbly surrender,
I am sad, Savior !

Written at sunset, at sea off Alexandria.


by Juliusz Slowacki

I have lived with you, suffered and shed tears with you.
No noble person have I ever passed aside.
Today I leave you, ghosts in shadows to pursue,
And if happiness were here – in sorrow I stride.

I have not left behind me a single offspring
Either to play my lute or to carry my name ;
My name has passed away like a flash of lightning,
And will last for generations like an empty strain.

But you that have known me, pass to all in legend
That I wore out my youth for the land of my fathers ;
When the ship struggled – I stood at the mast to the end,
And when she was sinking – I too drowned in deep waters...

Yet some day, pondering about the destined lot
Of my poor homeland, any noble man will consent
That my spirit’s cloak was not by begging begot,
But as my ancestors’ glories shines resplendent.

Let my faithful friends at night gather together
And burn up my poor heart in die leaves of aloe,
Return it to die one who gave it to me later :
So the world pays mothers – giving them ashes to stow...

Let my friends sit down, each one holding a goblet,
And drown in wine my burial – and their own despair...
If I am a spirit, I’ll appear to them yet,
If God frees me from torment, I will not come there...

But I beg you – let the living not lose hope ever
And bear the torch of learning before their compatriots ;
And when called, go to their death one after another,
Like the stones tossed by die Lord onto the ramparts...

As for me – I am leaving a small group of friends,
Those who were able to love my haughty spirit ;
One can see I have fulfilled God’s hard assignments
And assented to have here – an unwept casket...

Who else would go on without the world’s accolades,
Such indifference to the world as I display ?
To be the helmsman of a boat that’s filled with shades,
And fly off as quietly as the shade flies away ?

And yet I leave behind me this fateful power,
Useless while I live... it just graces my temples ;
But when I die, it will, unseen, press you ever,
Till it remakes you, bread eaters – into angels.

all translated by Michael MIKOS


God’s bell the Conclave's petty strife has stilled :
Its mighty tone
Brings news of Slavic hope fulfilled –
The Papal Throne !
Pope who will not – Italian-like – take fright
At sabre-thrust
But, brave as God himself, stand and give fight :
His world – but dust !

Made radiant by the Word, the Pontiff's face –
A torch that guides
The faithful swarming towards that lighted place
Where God resides.
Obedient to his prayer and his command,
Not only men,
But, if he wills, the sun itself will stand :
Power beyond ken !

Now he approaches, he whose hand constrains
Globe – spanning forces –
He whose word turns back along our veins
The blood that courses.
Divine enlightenment, a mounting spate
Informs mankind ;
To think a thought therein is to create –
Power of the mind !

To bear our load – this world by God designed –
That power we need :
Our Slavic Pope, brother to all mankind,
Is there to lead !

With balm from all the world, our souls’ torment
Is soothed by him ;
About his flower-decked throne a regiment
Of cherubim.
Love he dispenses as great powers today
Distribute arms ;
With sacramental power, his sole array,
The world he charms !

His word, like dove set free, takes instant flight,
The news proclaims :
That yet the Holy Spirit sheds its light,
Devotion claims !
The heavens above him open wide their gates,
While he, alone,
Sits on his throne and humbly re-creates
Both Earth and Throne !

Among the nations, with a brother’s love,
He spreads the word :
Man must, to reach his final goal above,
Brave fire and sword.
The sacramental power of realms untold
His willing slave ;
Power that the soul of man may yet behold
Before the grave !

From the world’s wounds he laves corruption’s blight,
The maggots teeming ;
Health he restores, fanning our love alight,
The world redeeming.
Sweeps out our churches, makes the portals gleam –
So that each one
May see his God within Creation’s scheme,
Bright as the sun !

Written in 1848.

translated by Noel Clark.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Man on Fire

Pain is Purity...

So say the beloved Christians...through blood and suffering is salvation.

But what of fire...?

Fire is alive- it jumps and moved-dances in the dark.
It devours all it touches...needs air to breath...
How do we feed it...this burning thing, alive?

Deep in the desert you will find my home...It is a rugged place that, paradoxically, brings tranquility and calm...
We do not fear the fire for it bathes our skin-lights our way...We learn to respect it as ruler of the sky...

It is no wonder that we use fire to purge our sorrows...

We set our man -Zozobra- as the great sacrifice...

He carries our sorrows to oblivion...

He carries our worries to the void...

He brings joy and cheer with the burning...

In fire- it dances- and so do we...

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Polish Poets - Zbigniew Herbert

Second poet from my beloved country will, maybe surprisingly, be my favorite polish male-poet, thinker and philosopher Zbigniew Herbert . Someone might say that it definitely should be Czeslaw Milosz, another of the polish Nobel Prize Winners in Literature, but first, he would not look too good as a second, and then, I still feel to young to read his stuff, so I know his works only a little.

So here he goes Mr. Cogito - Zbigniew Herbert:

Report from the Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -

they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege

I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time

all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left

I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks
monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency
tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants
wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers
we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture
thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected
the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender
friday: the beginning of the plague s
aturday: our invincible defender
N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back
an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance

all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone

I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts
only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets
yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world
that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children
our children don't like fairy tales they play at killing
awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones
just like dogs and cats

in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city
along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.
I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights
I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks
truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself
the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns
nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination
Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration
who can count them
the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon
from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to winter's black

and so in the evening released from facts I can think
about distant ancient matters for example our
friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize
they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice
they don't even know their fathers betrayed us
our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse
their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful
they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity
those struck by misfortune are always alone
the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers

now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation
have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles
a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance

cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller
yet the defence continues it will continue to the end
and if the City falls but a single man escapes
he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile
he will be the City

we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death
worst of all - the face of betrayal
and only our dreams have not been humiliated

The Envoy of Mr Cogito

Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever your hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let you sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards - they will win
they will go to your funeral with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror
repeat: I was called - weren't there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splendour of the sky
they don't need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you

be vigilant - when the light on the mountains gives the sign- arise and go
as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star

repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go because only in this way you will be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

A Description of the King

The king's beard on which sauces and ovations
fell until it became heavy as an axe
appears suddenly in a dream to a man condemned to die
and on a candlestick of flesh shines alone in the dark.

One hand for tearing meat is huge as a whole province
through which a ploughman inches forward a corvette lingers
The hand wielding the sceptre has withered from distinction
has grown grey from old age like an ancient coin

In the hour-glass of the heart sand trickles lazily
Feet taken off with boots stand in a corner
on guard when at night stiiffening on the throne
the king heirlessly forfeits his third dimension

The Trial

During his great speech the prosecutor
kept piercing me with his yellow index finger
I'm afraid I didn't appear self-assured
unintentionally I put on a mask of fear and depravity
like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide
the reporters were dancing a war dance
slowly I burned at a stake of magnesia

all of this took place in a small stifling room
the floor creaked plaster fell from the ceiling
I counted knots in the boards holes in the wall faces
the faces were alike almost identical
policemen the tribunal witnesses the audience
they belonged to the party of those without any pity
and even my defender smiling pleasantly
was an honorary member of the firing squad

in the first row sat an old fat woman
dressed up as my mother with a theatrical gesture she raised
a handkerchief to her dirty eyes but didn't cry
it must have lasted a long time I don't know even how long
the red blood of the sunset was rising in the gowns of the judges

the real trial went on in my cells
they certainly knew the verdict earlier
after a short rebellion they capitulated and started to die one after the other
I looked in amazement at my wax fingers

I didn't speak the last word and yet
for so many years I was composing the final speech
to God to the court of the world to the conscience
to the dead rather than the living
roused to my feet by the guards
I managed only to blink and then
the room burst out in healthy laughter
my atoptive mother laughed also
the gavel banged and this really was the end

but what happened after that – death by a noose
or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon
I’m afraid there is a third dark solution
beyond the limits of time the senses and reason

therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes
I clench my fingers don't lift my head
breathe lightly because truly I don't know
how many minutes of air I still have left

Saturday, August 16, 2008


The world is near fire,
On the brink I dare say.
And yet,
All I can think of is her...

She moved towards me with deliberation.
And deliberately I took her...
Our bodies moved together,
As one.

At once I see it,
The full moon.
It beacons me,
Calls me back...
To her...

Her skin was perfect.
She felt good on my hands,
Like a dream.

Her hands on my flesh,
All over my body.
Not hurried or frenzied,
but slow and deliberate.

But that was her.
She was practiced and steady.
And yet she was accidental.
A paradox of passion and meaning...

Every move screamed passion...
And she ignited mine.
The last time we met, those many years ago,
She burned her place in my mind...

Here, in the full moon,
My body screams for her presence...
Her passion...

The wind blowing in her hair,
Her deliberate passion...
It moves me,
And wounds me...

Perhaps its the moon,
The wolves howl,
Yet all I hear is the crickets...
And the sound of urbanization...

She is out there...
Her body calls me...

Wednesday, August 13, 2008


I am afraid...

For the Darkman cometh...

Across the sea his winds carry the forces of war.

All will rise and despair.

I am afraid,

For the Darkman sings.

It is a tune of pied piper...

Where all dance and follow...

They do not see the cliff.

I am afraid.

It is the Darkman's hour.

His bells ring and the masses panic.

His grasp is far reaching and wields great power.

I am afraid,

For the masses will starve but will not eat.

They will thirst, but will not drink.

They will fatigue, but find no rest.

They will suffer, but find no quarter.

I afraid.

Mostly because he brings death and woe to mankind...

Your hand in mine, we will stand,

And say "no more."

Sunday, July 27, 2008


First let me thank RG for keeping our blog going- his dedication is the fire of survival for our expressions...

This poem, which I will add to RG's new series, is one I read when very young. It's tone translated it's meaning for me- as I didn't fully comprehend its words. And my mother's emotional reaction to this poem said the rest. As I have grown into a man with a family- its meaning has found new relevance in my life...


Should you go first and I remain to walk the road alone,
I'll live in memory's garden, dear, with happy days we've known.
In Spring I'll wait for roses red, when fades the lilac blue,
In early fall, when brown leaves call I'll catch a glimpse of you.

Should you go first and I remain for battles to be fought,
Each thing you've touched along the way will be a hallowed spot.
I'll hear your voice, I'll see your smile, though blindly I may grope,
The memory of your helping hand will buoy me on with hope.

Should you go first and I remain to finish with the scroll,
No lenght'ning shadows shall creep in to make this life seem droll,
We've known so much of happiness, we've had our cup of joy,
And memory is one gift of God that death cannot destroy.

Should you go first and I remain, one thing I'd have you do:
Walk slowly down that long, long path, for soon I'll follow you.
I'll want to know each step you take that I may walk the same,

For some day down that long, long road you'll hear me call your name.

-A.K. Rowswell

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Polish Poets - Wisława Szymborska

Hello there. Yet it is hot as it does in july, still our blog somehow escapes the silent mutilation of a paralyzed member...

I open this new series about Poetry, because it is one thing, that I really enjoy reading, and I wanted to share this joy with you - my invisible friends.

First of all - a women of a nation, someone who does not need any further introduction, namely - Wisława Szymborska - the Nobel Laureate in literature.

The Turn of the Century

It was supposed to be better than the others, our 20th century,

But it won't have time to prove it.

Its years are numbered,

its step unsteady,

its breath short.

Already too much has happened

that was not supposed to happen.

What was to come about

has not.

Spring was to be on its way,

and happiness, among other things.

Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.

The truth was supposed to finish before the lie.

Certain misfortunes

were never to happen again

such as war and hunger and so forth.

These were to be respected:

the defenselessness of the defenseless,

trust and the like.

Whoever wanted to enjoy the world

faces an impossible task.

Stupidity is not funny.

Wisdom isn't jolly.


Is no longer the same young girl

et cetera. Alas.

God was at last to believe in man:

good and strong,

but good and strong

are still two different people.

How to live--someone asked me this in a letter,

someone I had wanted

to ask that very thing.

Again and as always,

and as seen above

there are no questions more urgent

than the naive ones.

Cat in an empty apartment

Dying--you wouldn't do that to a cat.

For what is a cat to do

in an empty apartment?

Climb up the walls?

Brush up against the furniture?

Nothing here seems changed,

and yet something has changed.

Nothing has been moved,

and yet there's more room.

And in the evenings the lamp is not on.

One hears footsteps on the stairs,

but they're not the same.

Neither is the hand

that puts a fish on the plate.

Something here isn't starting

at its usual time.

Something here isn't happening

as it should.

Somebody has been here and has been,

and then has suddenly disappeared

and now is stubbornly absent.

All the closets have been scanned

and all the shelves run through.

Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.

The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.

What else is there to do?

Sleep and wait.

Just let him come back,

let him show up.

Then he'll find out

that you don't do that to a cat.

Going toward him

faking reluctance,


on very offended paws.

And no jumping, purring at first.

translation: Joanna Maria Trzeciak

Love at First Sight

They both thought
that a sudden feeling had united them
This certainty is beautiful,
Even more beautiful than uncertainty.

They thought they didn't know each other,
nothing had ever happened between them,
These streets, these stairs, this corridors,
Where they could have met so long ago?

I would like to ask them,
if they can remember -
perhaps in a revolving door
face to face one day?
A "sorry" in the crowd?
"Wrong number" on the 'phone?
- but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.

How surprised they would be
For such a long time already
Fate has been playing with them.

Not quite yet ready
to change into destiny,
which brings them nearer and yet further,
cutting their path
and stifling a laugh,
escaping ever further;
There were sings, indications,
undecipherable, what does in matter.
Three years ago, perhaps
or even last Tuesday,
this leaf flying
from one shoulder to another?
Something lost and gathered.
Who knows, perhaps a ball already
in the bushes, in childhood?

There were handles, door bells,
where, on the trace of a hand,
another hand was placed;
suitcases next to one another in the
left luggage.
And maybe one night the same dream
forgotten on walking;

But every beginning
is only a continuation
and the book of fate is
always open in the middle.

translation: Roman Gren, Sarah Hardenberg

Hitler's first photograph

And who's this little fellow in his itty-bitty robe?
That's tiny baby Adolf, the Hittler's little boy!
Will he grow up to be an LL.D.?
Or a tenor in Vienna's Opera House?
Whose teensy hand is this, whose little ear and eye and nose?
Whose tummy full of milk, we just don't know:
printer's, doctor's, merchant's, priest's?
Where will those tootsy-wootsies finally wander?
To garden, to school, to an office, to a bride,
maybe to the Burgermeister's daughter?

Precious little angel, mommy's sunshine, honeybun,
while he was being born a year ago,
there was no death of signs on the earth and in the sky:
spring sun, geraniums in windows,
the organ-grinder's music in the yard,
a lucky fortune wrapped in rosy paper,
then just before the labor his mother's fateful dream:
a dove seen in dream means joyful news,
if it is caught, a long-awaited guest will come.
Knock knock, who's there, it's Adolf's heartchen knocking.

A little pacifier, diaper, rattle, bib,
our bouncing boy, thank God and knock on wood, is well,
looks just like his folks, like a kitten in a basket,
like the tots in every other family album.
Shush, let's not start crying, sugar,
the camera will click from under that black hood.

The Klinger Atelier, Grabenstrasse, Braunau,
and Braunau is small but worthy town,
honest businesses, obliging neighbors,
smell of yeast dough, of gray soap.
No one hears howling dogs, or fate's footsteps.
A history teacher loosens his collar
and yawns over homework.

translation: Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh

Sunday, June 08, 2008

June Bug

There he is crawling across the floor...

Curios little bug- where are you going?

You move with such purpose and yet I get the impression that you have no destination.

As I study you I find it hard to keep are so very energetic...

You seem oblivious to my presence despite my efforts to keep you from harm.

I make sure that the giants around you don't step on you, or that you don't fall victim to the world that was built prior to your arrival...the machines of men can be cruel.

You sample everything imaginable in your environment- even those things I rather you didn't.

Yes, you are a curious little creature with an unending thirst for mental acquisition; and more energy that I could possibly hope for...

Then again, you are my Son...I should expect nothing less.

Sunday, May 11, 2008


I met her at work...quite incidentally...
We exchanged emails...then talked on line...
It became immediately apparent that she was full of passion...

Its 5 in the morning, and I’m up taking dirty to you, and now I’m on the hotline over here lusting for you. Let’s talk about sex baby, let’s talk about you and me, let’s talk about bubbles in the tub, let’s talk about making' love, let’s talk about you on top, while its going down. I wanna talk dirty to you baby, on the hotline.

I spoke to her on the phone...
It was one of those conversations where turned off the lights and spoke with a calm passion...
A passion that was deliberately calm so as to not betray the deep burning desire to connect...

The sun’s not up but, I had to call you cause I’m home alone lusting' for you. I’m in my room nothing' but a towel on, take them granny panties off put a thong on. I love it when I hear you moan, you got the sexy tone that turns your boy on. You’re in a completely different city, on the fan line, with nothing but a baby tee on. You’re the kind of girl that’s sexy in some boxer shorts; I’m that kind of guy that’ll make you ride it like Porsche. Yeah, I met you on MySpace, now I’m about to fly you out to my place, in the morning.

I invited her over...I didn't think she would accept...
To my surprise there was a knock at my door...
It was her...

Its 5:30 in the morning' I’m lonely, my lovely. We’ll be touching and rubbing…call me, please call me, called you seven times, baby girl don’t stall me. I want to kiss you from your temple to your feet, to the dimples in your cheek, to your tattoo and your belly ring. Conversations underneath the sheets…know me RED BULL like an energy I'm a freak...

She was relentless...
She moved me to the couch and undressed me...
She was all over me...her lust was intoxicating...
Her sweat a drug...

Baby girl you know I’ll put it down like a vet, you say the sound of my deep voice make you sweat. You call me 5 am on the dot, now I’m thinking about you from the bottom to the top. Picture this you say your coming over, 30 minutes later you were parking the rover. You jumped out the car and I met you at the door; 3 seconds in the house and you were begging me for more. Kiss you in the mouth, lay your hands on my cheeks; great action on the carpet rug burns on my knees. Overdose on this lust-scratch marks on my chest. Satisfaction guaranteed by this playboy’s rep…

I can still feel her skin on my hands...
Her breath on my neck...
Her nails in my flesh...
Her on my body...

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Finger Yoga

If you sometimes feel, that your hands and fingers miss the exercise I strongly recommend the site Finger Yoga by Tim Tyler. I have checked those exercises on myself and can say, that they contributed a lot to my health, by eliminating some terrible pains in the knuckles of some of my fingers, which I didn't expect to exist in the first place...

Saturday, March 08, 2008

The Task of Writing

I have been writing a Star Trek story for some time now; about 2 years. The story comprises 4 "books"- each with 3-5 parts. By my estimates, it will comprise 17 parts and approximately 3000 pages. I have completed part 1 of book 1 and have completed about a third of part 2.

The story is about the Federation take over of their region of space which eventually leads to the take over of our galaxy. It's a huge story...going to take a while to write.

This effort has been a challenge as I have three "stories" to keep track of. First, I must keep focus of the story line of each part I'm writing. Then I must tell the story of each developing piece and characters. For instance I am using an intelligence organization as the main antagonists/protagonists of the entire story line...I can only tell a little bit about them at a time to keep their development moving throughout the entire series. Finally, I develop the Federation from part to part, book to book...not to mention all the character development that I have to over see.

I figure that it will take me years to finish. You can find part on the Star Trek Fan Fiction website at

If you get a chance to peek at it please do so and tell me what you think. Don't worry I can handle criticism...just be gentle...LOL

Saturday, February 23, 2008

The longest books I have ever red: "Anatomy of Hatha Yoga" - the emerging hope

In this last entry of the series about long and tricky books that engage your time in such a degree, that it changes the course of your life, I wanted to tell about my recently finished translating project.

The book "Anatomy of Hatha Yoga" by H. David Coulter, was one of the positions, that I got interested in during the four years in which I visited several times (staying for longer or shorter periods) the Finnish capital Helsinki. As you can probably imagine, at that time I was already acknowledged to a large degree with the practices of hatha yoga, so I decided to check for myself how is the yoga in this small but interesting city. I was not at all disappointed, I got to admit. And I discovered a tiny shop with yoga books and artifacts. There it was, when I bought some missing books by B.K.S. Iyengar, and there was when my attention was drowned by this one written by dr Coulter. Of course, I havn't got any idea about how difficult it was to read...

And so it was how it started: when I showed this book to my old friend - also a yoga passionate - he, almost at once, proposed me to translate the book into Polish. I thought - why not? After all, it was an opportunity to better understand this extremely difficult, but also very important book. Today, when even the book's cover is done, and we are all waiting for the last few amends to take it to the printing house, I don't regret any second spent on translating it, but it took me an entire year and a month of work (starting January the 1st 2007, until the end of January 2008) , day by day, more than 10 hours a day, on weekends, with no vacation, to turn this:

into this:

Now that everything is ready and heating the engines at the printing house, we just start to feel how important is this project for us, and for the whole yoga in Poland. We hope that it's power will enable a new point of view on the old problems, and turn many new faces to the light of yoga..

Thursday, February 14, 2008


a poem by Sylvanus Felix

Take mine, though it is not thine
Your steady eyes traveling both road
Of then and now stoke the fire of youth
And I may say it is not a familiar one
But it’s too late, I can not now return for another

I want yours too, but take your time
You know it is dark we must not rush
Lets we would not cover distance from here

But being you, and I as I am
At dawn we would come down to a temperate end
Both wet, and smelling good, you will look good too
Your smile would resemble mine

And then
In each, we would find a road
To travel again, and forever

Saturday, February 09, 2008


She was there inexplicably...

Her quiet, soft, stand-offish demeanor betrayed her true least to everyone except me...

She was full of passion...

I could tell in the way she gently sucked the minute drops of her beverage from her lips...

Even though it wasn't meant to be, it was so soft and was just in her nature...

She sat on the couch across from me, she drew her knee up so she could rub her leg...

Her hand slowly traced the exterior of her high black boots...then to her skin...

It was just a glimpse, but her skin was beautiful, I could tell her legs were shapely and smooth...

She touched herself as if her skin was a child, begging to be caressed...

I was begging, screaming, in my mind...touch me...caress me...

I had to feel her...

She didn't know it, but at that moment I was her slave...

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Dark, but art nevertheless

The above pics are from two of my favorite artists: Giger and Beksinski

Giger' pic is on the left.

Giger's work, as I understand it, finds its inspiration in his religious practices...troubling and nightmarish...but it works. He often depicts the female image in an erotic position; and yet simultaneously this female does not seem to be in control of herself.

Quite the contrary...she is a slave to herself and her surroundings...maybe a punishment for her transgressions in should not assume Giger's work relates to our plane of existence...

On the right we see Beksinski. His work finds heavy influences in World War II. He was young during the Nazi occupation and had the very rare opportunity to stare evil...true the face.

He was murdered not too long ago...I don't know the particulars of course but I cannot help but think it was a fan...maybe his work drove someone to I said I do not know and I could be very wrong.
There are other works of the abyss...Barlowe's Inferno, the Dore`, The Witches Hammer, and others...but these two are my favorite.

Why would I choose such artists? In my line of work I am often asked to predict and mitigate really bad behavior...I try not to look into the abyss because, as Nietzsche said, it looks back into you. By studying the work of these men I can look into the abyss through their acts as a filter and helps me to keep my sanity...

Saturday, January 19, 2008

The longest books I have ever red: "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" - a life written by a book

Hi. It is a long time ever since I have posted my latest post, and it is also a long time since I have red the book, that I wanted to write about today. More than 15 years have passed already, since I have taken the thin, inconspicuous book from a shelf in our living room. I do not remember now, what was my main interest in it at the beginning, I think that it belonged to some series of books, that I wanted to read all...


was quite a different book than any other that I have red before. I decided to include it into this series not because it took me years before I have finished it. Not at all. The reading was quite fast, as expected from the book's slim body... The reason is, that I still see this book as one which time lies "on the other side", within myself - just like if it related my own story; at least that was the impression that I still guard within my memory, after all those years after reading it. Let me explain. Usually, when you read a book, the action (time) of the story is taking part in the outside world; if it is quite interesting and absorbing, you can engage your imagination, and even forget for a while about the reality of the world surrounding you, and dissolve your mind into the action. It is sometimes more like watching a movie than reading. But when I was reading "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" I rather felt like it was the book that was reading me. I managed to identify so strongly with the main character (Stephen Dedalus), that I came to believe, that what I lived and experienced as a child and a youngster was very similar if sometimes not the same as his. Now I can wonder, if there is really something, which you could call "a pattern of personality", or if it was just the magic of this man:

Mr. James Joyce, which made me interpret my recollections in such a way, that I believed that they made a similar path, that this of the Joyce's hero? Anyway, it was an amazing experience, and I still can feel a trace of that past enchantment deep within.

Raphael Gadomski