strona główna
Agnieszka Kuciak, despite the appearances and already since quite a few years, exists. Rumours that she might be a linguist and a lecturer at the University of Poznan in Poland and that she has published her work in several literary periodicals (CZAS KULTURY included, of course) are entirely substantiated. It is also quite justified to hold an opinion that she has published two books of her own poetry ("Retardacje" in 2001 and "Dalekie Kraje" in 2005) as well as translations from Dante, Petrarch and Umberto Eco. In fact in some circles there circulates a not unfounded gossip that she actually made her debut on the pages of CZAS KULTURY with her excellent translations of Dante. Here we present some clues that seem to prove the aforementioned rumours. Their Polish originals have been published in the books of poems mentioned above.
* * *To every something long long knocks the rainAnd asks me: "Are you?", and I answer: "No, I'm not at all" Rain: master of Zen Chucked out from heaven. Maybe he has clapped with his hand too transparent? Please sit down. (Because who doesn't cultivate his garden, Overgrown will be by a wild, wild god) Listen, pointlessly, to his charge-free lesson. Repeat, just like him, little quiet "Yes"; it will destroy you. (Drop by drop, like once in the evening When a street vendor came to sell us roses, we didn't want them, because what we wanted was the whole life) Nobody. |
BELATEDNESSOdis dressed as a vendor, Achilles as a woman,Will they recognise each other on the market place? Among trinkets and veils, mirrors, little nothings Which cunning Odis lays out on his stall? Achilles, however, stands aside. Softness of fabrics is not what he looks for. Because Achilles is a man And there are no swords here on sale, Only cheap fabrics. But why is he waiting so long? If Odis knows his art If Homer knows it just as well? Nothing will happen without great Achilles. Without Achilles the Greeks cannot win. Shores of Ithaca will never be reached, Odis, though cunning, will not leave without him. Achilles, however, waits aside. He hesitates in his long robe. Whoever needs this delay? Who wants it? Who will by it profit? Only the tale itself. Because the tale is a woman. Because the tale must be waved. Slowly, with a faithful hand, like a shroud, As many years as Odis is travelling Maybe it was she who hid the sword? 1997 |
* * *Who does not touch things, who won't touch a handwill touch soul's bottom. And the world says - there are seeds of meanings. Seeds from which will grow absynth and abyss. Only surfaces can bring us salvation, no one who's drawning tries to grab the bottom. The Sun Stone and the Sanguine Truth of wine; Only in them there is salvation. The skin of the world is also its heart it's a mediaeval definition. God is like that cat, which purrs the forgiveness of loneliness. A hand is immersed in the fur of heart. 1997 |
WE AND PEBBLESThe middle ages knew: within us mortals there is hard bottom of the soul - pure existence. Just like the pebbles, which are in the garden they are - and nothing more. When I don't breathe, when I don't love, I am as they are. I will be like that in the shell of death. To accept the sun, to cool down from the day without waiting to raise from existence. Throughout the ages. Just think - what god will come to save pebbles; anyway - from what? Yes, you can have faith, but each one of us must have their hardness, each one must be ready. The pebbles look at us with a bright eye all made of eyelid. All made of existence. 1997 |
FAITHThere is in wheat fields such unreal light as if an ear of gold had exploded There is a landscape: a road between hills And pines above it, as if hiding fairies The air is heavy, as if it was gilded With a touch of byzantine wings, in silence Cicadas quote an eternal poem. From a bottom of a well dug in the sky A bell brings out a long addio You cannot enter, only peep in sometimes Over the mirror's shoulder, through dreams left ajar But all that exists is from there. From there are aromas, from there the spells, Unicorns of language. From there that something That exists so much, that it doesn't need to exist. 1997 |