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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

A może, dla odmiany, Erica Jong?

Autobiographical

The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears
as husband, lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.
This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
as if
they might then
hide it from themselves.
I will not hide.
I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.Witold T. edytował(a) ten post dnia 08.03.08 o godzinie 18:56
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Witold T.:
A może, dla odmiany, Erica Jong?

ohhhh yeeees :)

After the Earthquake

After the first astounding rush,
after the weeks at the lake,
the crystal, the clouds, the water lapping the rocks,
the snow breaking under our boots like skin,
& the long mornings in bed. . .

After the tangos in the kitchen,
& our eyes fixed on each other at dinner,
as if we would eat with our lids,
as if we would swallow each other. . .

I find you still
here beside me in bed,
(while my pen scratches the pad
& your skin glows as you read)
& my whole life so mellowed & changed

that at times I cannot remember
the crimp in my heart that brought me to you,
the pain of a marriage like an old ache,
a husband like an arthritic knuckle.

Here, living with you,
love is still the only subject that matters.
I open to you like a flowering wound,
or a trough in the sea filled with dreaming fish,
or a steaming chasm of earth
split by a major quake.

You changed the topography.
Where valleys were,
there are now mountains.
Where deserts were,
there now are seas.

We rub each other,
but we do not wear away.
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Może się zrobić gorąco...

The Long Tunnel of Wanting You
From How to Save Your Own Life

This is the long tunnel of wanting you.
Its walls are lined with remembered kisses
wet & red as the inside of your mouth,
full & juicy as your probing tongue,
warm as your belly against mine,
deep as your navel leading home,
soft as your sleeping cock beginning to stir,
tight as your legs wrapped around mine,
straight as your toes pointing toward the bed
as you roll over & thrust your hardness
into the long tunnel of my wanting,
seeding it with dreams & unbearable hope,
making memories of the future,
straightening out my crooked past,
teaching me to live in the present present tense
with the past perfect and the uncertain future
suddenly certain for certain
in the long tunnel of my old wanting
which before always had an ending
but now begins & begins again
with you, with you, with you.

by Erica Jong
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Ten jest po prostu powalający...

My Love is Too Much

My love is too much--
it embarrasses you--
blood, poems, babies,
red needs that telephone
from foreign countries,
black needs that spatter
the pages
of your white papery heart.

You would rather have a girl
with simpler needs:
lunch, sex, undemanding
loving,
dinner, wine, bed,
the occasional blow-job
& needs that are never
red as gaping wounds
but cool & blue
as television screens
in tract houses.

Oh my love,
those simple girls
with simple needs
read my books too.

They tell me they feel
the same as I do.

They tell me I transcribe
the language of their hearts.
They tell me I translate
their mute, unspoken pain
into the white light
of language.

Oh love,
no love
is ever wholly undemanding.
It can pretend coolness
until the pain comes,
until the first baby comes,
howling her own infant need
into a universe
that never summoned her.

The love you seek
cannot be found
except in the white pages
of recipe books.

It is cooking you seek,
not love,
cooking with sex coming after,
cool sex
that speaks to the penis alone,
& not the howling chaos
of the heart.

by Erica Jong
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Hmmm...

Paper Chains
From Half-Lives

The first snow of the year
& you lying between my breasts
in my husband's house
& the snow gently rising in my throat
like guilt,
& the windows frosted over
as if etched by acid.

You have come from the desert
& have left a little sand
between my legs
where it rubs & rubs
& secretes a milky fluid,
finally a poem
or a pearl.

I am your oyster shell,
your mother of pearl
gleaming like oil on water
for two hours on a snowy day.

"Poets fall in love to write about it!"
I said in my brittle way,
& told you about other loves to tempt you
& heard your siren songs of old affairs.

I fall in love as a kind of research project.
You fall in love as some men go to war.

What tanks!
What bombs!
What storms of index cards!

I am binding up your legs with carbon ribbon.
I tied you to the bed with paper chains.

by Erica Jong
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

gramy dalej:

Beast, Book, Body

I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of sex,
my own concavity
uselessly hungering
and emptier whenever it was filled,
and filled finally
by its own emptiness,
seeking the garden of solitude
instead of men.
The white bed
in the green garden--
I looked forward
to sleeping alone
the way some long
for a lover.
Even when you arrived,
I tried to beat you
away with my sadness,
my cynical seductions,
and my trick of
turning a slave
into a master.
And all because
you made
my fingertips ache
and my eyes cross
in passion
that did not know its own name.
Bear, beast, lover
of the book of my body,
you turned my pages
and discovered
what was there
to be written
on the other side.
And now
I am blank
for you,
a tabula rasa
ready to be printed
with letters
in an undiscovered language
by the great press
of our love.

Erica Jong
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

i dalej:

Catching Up

We sit on a rock
to allow our souls
to catch up with us.
We have been traveling
a long time.
Behind us are forests of books
with pages green as leaves.
A blood sun stares
over the horizon.
Our souls are slow.
They walk miles behind
our long shadows.
They do not dance.
They need all their strength
merely to follow us.
Sometimes we run too fast
or trip climbing
the rotten rungs
in fame's ladder.
Our souls know
it leads nowhere.
They are not afraid
of losing us.

by Erica Jong
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

i jeszcze może jeden klejnot:

Driving Me Away

From Becoming Light
Driving me away
is easier
than saying
goodbye--
kissing the air,
the last syllable
of truth
being always
two lips compressed
around
emptiness--
the emptiness
you dread
yet return to
as just punishment,
just reward.
Who
loved you
so relentlessly?
Who lost you
in that howling void
between infancy
and death?
It is punctuated
by the warm bodies
of women,
who hold you for a while
then run
down that echoing corridor
doing
as they are told.

by Erica JongWitold T. edytował(a) ten post dnia 10.03.08 o godzinie 18:36
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Nie mogłem się oprzeć:

I Try to Keep

From Ordinary Miracles
I try to keep
falling in love
if only to keep
death
at bay.
I know
that the burned
witches,
that the seared flesh
of the enemy--
O we are all
each other's
enemies,
even sometimes those
who lately
were
lovers--
are not
to be reconstituted
nor healed
by my
falling
in love;
& yet
here is
the paradox:
love drives
the poem--
& the poem
is
hope.

by Erica JongWitold T. edytował(a) ten post dnia 10.03.08 o godzinie 18:43
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

ten wiersz tak bardzo lubię... so restless

The Fork to Take

I had pegged you as
protégé, adoptee,
someone I could save.

The last thing
I needed
was
another lover.

You call yourself
"an accident
looking
for a place
to happen."
I call you
my sweet, my love,
not only
because you carry knives
for me
& want to beat up
all my
ex-husbands--
but because
you can laugh
at yourself
for wanting to.

We dream
of the baby
we will never have.
The little Jewish WASP
with golden blue eyes,
poems on the tip of his tongue.
your height, my hair,
& jokes that hit
their targets
on a slant.

He will never be
in the Social Register.
But will he know
which fork to take--
as you did
when you drove
off my road,
slyly taking the wrong fork
in order to stay
the night?

O you are sly,
my sweet wheat
looking for
a harvest.

Shall I reap you?
Shall I do to you
what the hurricane
does with the waving
grain?
Shall I thresh & bind you,
run barefoot
through your body
trying to stamp out
death?

Or shall I merely
let you
lift me up
like the wind spinning
an errant seed,

& let it
take me
where it will,
right fork,
wrong fork,
no fork
at all,
since we will take
the same path
through
the air
after all?

by Erica Jong
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

wiersz w sam raz na przedwiośnie...

Sleep

I love to go to sleep,
When bed takes me like a lover
wrapping my limbs in
cool linen, soothing
the fretfulness
of day glaring like
the Cyclops' eye
in a forehead
of furrows.

But I wake
always reluctantly, brushing
the dreamcrumbs
from my lids,
walking sideways underwater
like a crab
spilling coffee,
knocking the mug
to the floor
where it shatters
in a muddy river
to my continuo of
"Shit, shit, shit!"

What if death
is only a forgetting
to wake in the morning,
a dream that goes on
into other corridors,
other chambers
draped with other silks,
libraries of unwritten books
whose caleidoscopic pages
can be read
only by the pinneal eye,
music that can only be heard
by the seventh sense
or the eighth or ninth,
until we possess
an infinity of senses--
none of them
dependent on flesh?

What if our love of sleep
is only a foretaste
of the bliss that awaits us
when we do not have to wake again?

What frightens us so
about falling?
To drop the body and fly
should be as natural
as drifting into a dream.
But we are insomniacs
tossing on soaked sheets,
hanging on
to our intricate pain
while God with her sweet
Mona Lisa smile
sings lullabyes
the ears of the living
cannot hear.

by Erica Jong
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Taki żart:

There Is Only One Story

There is only one story:
he loved her,
then stopped loving her,
while she did not
stop loving him.
There is only one story:
she loved him,
then stopped loving him,
while he did not
stop loving her.
The truth is simple:
you do not die
from love.
You only wish
you did.

by Erica Jong
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Aleśmy pobiegli... Może jeszcze coś z małych, wspaniałych liter?

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

by e.e. cummingsWitold Tegnerowicz edytował(a) ten post dnia 12.03.08 o godzinie 22:50
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Witold Tegnerowicz:
Taki żart:

There Is Only One Story
The truth is simple:
you do not die
from love.
You only wish
you did.

by Erica Jong

Ten wiersz jest mi bardzo bliski... niestety.
A może na szczęście :)
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Witold Tegnerowicz:
Aleśmy pobiegli... Może jeszcze coś z małych, wspaniałych liter?

Erica nas poniosła :)
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Wendy Tweed:
Gratuluję fantastycznego wątku i bardzo się cieszę, że go w końcu odkryłam.
>

Wendy, fajnie że trafiłaś :)

Dzięki za zamieszczenie Szekspira - faktycznie trochę wstyd, że o Nim jako pierwszym nie pomyślałam :)

a dziś "chodził mi po głowie" - jak to On potrafi -

Wystan Hugh Auden

If I Could Tell You
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Gdzież się wszyscy podziali?

Stillborn


These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

Sylvia Plath
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Witold T.

Witold T. Manager/Advisor

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

i jeszcze:

Cinderella


The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.

Sylvia Plath
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

A ja ciągle jestem lekko oszołomiona filmem Control, o Ianie Curtisie - wokaliście Joy Division.

love will tear us apart

When the routine bites hard
And ambitions are low
And the resentment rides high
But emotions wont grow
And were changing our ways,
Taking different roads
Then love, love will tear us apart again

Why is the bedroom so cold
Turned away on your side?
Is my timing that flawed,
Our respect run so dry?
Yet theres still this appeal
That weve kept through our lives
Love, love will tear us apart again

Do you cry out in your sleep
All my failings expose?
Get a taste in my mouth
As desperation takes hold
Is it something so good
Just cant function no more?
When love, love will tear us apart again

by Ian Curtis
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Paulina Filipek

Paulina Filipek radca prawny

Temat: ...a może w języku Szekspira...?

Remember
by Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
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