Category: wiersz

Krople słów

Krople słów

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Perhaps two words in English first: I just noticed myself that my post recently are all (or predominantly) in Polish. Have no idea why. Usually I use Polish when the subject matter is specifically about Poland or Polish people. The truth is I really don’t make a conscious choice about the language I’m using – when I think about it in Polish – I write in Polish; when I think about the subject in English, I write in English. So I have I become more Polish than Canadian suddenly, LOL? I don’t think it is possible. Maybe because of my recent accident I have become by necessity bound to the space of my apartment and most things in it are ‘Polish’: books on shelfs, paintings and photographs on the wall? For some reasons I was also listening to old Polish pop music from the (sic!). Does it mean that when I will go to Poland most of my sentimental stuff of walls and shelfs will be Canadian-English? Perhaps. After all- Canadian English was my language for a big majority of my life, entire adulthood.

But, be it what it is – next post is in Polish, too. For no other reasons but the fact that I thought of it in … Polish, LOL.

Gdy wstajesz tuż przed świtem, świat ledwie budzący się z tobą jest inny. Mów językiem poezji, zapomina o potocznym języku świata praktycznego. Wychodzisz na balkon i gapisz się w ten półsenny budzący się świat. Moment krótki to trwa tylko, ale w tym momencie gadasz, jak ten półsenny wróżbita jakieś wiersze pozbawione formy lub tą formę odrzuciwszy kompletnie. No, bo w takim świecie akcenty, sylaby, podział wersyfikacyjny – jest kompletnie bezużyteczny, nie pasuje w tym świecie półsennym. Świecie przed pierwszą ranną kawą.

Przedświt

Słowa, słowa, słowa;

zdania, jak pytania

kryją się za oknem

w mokrej deszczu mgle.

A ja jeszcze, jeszcze, jeszcze

szukam odpowiedzi na nie.

Znależć chcę te zdanie,

co odpowie na pytanie,

którego nie znam ciągle.

Tylko deszcze, tylko mgły.

słowa, jak ptaki wirujące

w tunelach strumieni kropli

wody, kropli słów niepewnych

świata, siebie wystraszonych.

A ja jeszcze, jeszcze, jeszcze

stoję w oknie mokrym

za firanką mgły, zapłakaną

szybą słów szukających domu.

Słowa bezdomne,

domy milczące,

deszcze zapłakane.

A ja jestem jeszcze

w drodze na łąki,

brzegiem biegu rzek

i ścieżkami strumieni.

Jeszcze tańczę wokół dębu,

jak kapłan Peruna,

jak wróżbita z Wolina

w świątyni Światowida.

Jestem jeszcze.

Jeszcze, jeszcze.

/B. Pacak-Gamalski, 26.04.25/

Central Park w Burnaby

Central Park w Burnaby

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Urokliwe miejsce. Rozległa, z szerokimi alejkami, wąskimi ścieżkami w ramionach dwóch ruchliwych arterii ( Boundary i Kingsway), przestrzeń szerokiego oddechu, ucieczki. Odpowiednik słynnego Stanley Parku w Vancouverze u brzegów Pacyfiku. Sosny i tuje równie potężne, jak w Stanley. I masa kwitnących krzewów czarnych i czerwonych jeżyn (salmon berries), które czepiają się nogawek i rękawów, gdy wejdziesz w zarośla. Zdarza się ponoć i niedźwiedź, ale nigdy takiego tu nie spotkałem choć ostrzegające tablice były i wtedy i teraz widziałem.

Więc pojechałem wystukiwać laską echa starych spacerów…

Central Park

P-A Renoire

Pozostałeś ten sam, niezmieniony.

To ja się postrzałem, zwolniłem bieg,

nie ty Parku cudowny, stary, młody,

z legendą, wysokimi drzewami otoczony.

Nocą parną od spotkań pasji,

za dnia, jak w Lasku Bulońskim

na polankach zielonych z Renoira,

karminowe wino pragnienia gasi.

Młody mężczyzna przechodzi obok,

uśmiecha się oczami, wargami,

tańczącymi, jak gałęzie wierzb biodrami.

Bezgłośne szepty, spojrzenia, mowa bez słów –

Zmrok za chwilę cicho nadejdzie,

pochylą się, jak szyja Ledy, zielone gałęzie …    

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Zaśpiewam ci piosenkę wędrowca. Zwykłą, prostą

Zaśpiewam ci piosenkę wędrowca. Zwykłą, prostą

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Piosenka na drogę

Nasza droga mój miły,

nasze chmury nad nami

wzdłuż będą nam się wiły,

jak rzeki zakolami.

Nasza droga przez życie,

nasze życie w tej drodze,

i kochanie w niebycie!

Nasza droga kochany,

świtaniem i zachodem

szczodrze podarowanym

beztrosko, mimochodem.

Nasza droga przez życie,

nasze życie w tej drodze,

i kochanie w niebycie!

Nasza droga przez lasy,

dolinami przez łąki.

Darowane nam czasy,

noce gwiezdne i dzionki.

Nasza droga przez życie,

nasze życie w tej drodze,

i kochanie w niebycie!

Nasze droga wyśniona,

nasze ścieżki czułości.

niczym fala szalona.

Nasz gościniec miłości.

Nasza droga przez życie

i kochanie w niebycie!

(B. Pacak-Gamalski, 26.02.25)

Chalice

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski-Graham

I have missed you still

I have missed you by

empty night and by

colorless daytime

I have missed you

yesterday on my walk

I have missed you today

when I got up from bed

I have missed you last year

and I’m missing you

this year the same

I have missed you

three years ago

the day you were

gone

I do get up in the morning; get dressed, have breakfast; clean the dishes afterwards and watch some news. I don’t go to concerts anymore or much less than I did in Halifax. It was terrible there, where every street, every park, every store reminded me of us being there together.  It is terrible here, where everywhere I go, I remember when younger us walked together. You are everywhere, and yet I know that you are nowhere. You are gone. Forever.

It was going to be easier they said, and I thought it would. It is not, or it is by the virtue that you can get used to even chronic pain. But the pain is not lesser and it is tiring all the same. After a while you are just tired of that chronic pain. You have had enough and you want to be gone, too. What is the point of maintaining that, which will never ease, never go away?

Oh, I know that mine is not special or rare and distinct. But suffering of others does not ease your pain. That would be a sick perversion. I know that you are no longer have any worries, unhappy days or sadness. You can’t ‘cause you are gone, nonexistent anymore. But it is the memory of you that pains me so much. I am the only holder, only chalice where you exist. For as long as I live, I will be that chalice containing you, and the pain.

Right now I am in the process or refurbishing my life again. Moving to place where we used have our happiest days, decades actually. No, not some sort idyllic frolicking in flowery meadow. A life with its bad days, but live full of love, nonetheless. It did exited me, when I got that idea, and I got struck with realization that I will be walking these trails, street, places as alone, as every day I did since you were gone. Yet, I’m looking forward to it. Strange. Somehow, can’t explain logically how it works, that chalice full of pain will not be as heavy? Or I will understand perhaps better why it is so heavy. Understanding a process might make it easier to go through it.

Yes, there is also that element of egoistic pleasure of ‘coming back home’. Sort of making it the full circle. Of course big part of that circle would be reconnecting with my old friends. Very dear people: older, younger, my age. Somehow our life and love did not preclude both of us from pursuing our own interests and social circles.  Much more on my part perhaps, not by design though or special privileges. I just did.

It will not make me happy in a conventional meaning of the world. It will however (or not?) allow me to live again, smile at times. Smile honestly, not politely.  

I will miss you

tomorrow again

I will miss you

as I did yesterday

I will miss you

till there is no longer

either night or day

in places we have lived

and places we have

never together been

until the chalice will

be broken and the wine

of life will be spilled

Escaping words and worlds

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

I have been silenced, my words escaped me. For the first time in a long while I have that strange feeling. Are there subjects not worthy a comment, an opinion? Gosh, no! Climate catastrophe with 2024 declared the warmest since temperatures were recorded; Trump and his enormous threat to peace and world stability; Ukraine failing under the yoke of huge armies and armaments of Russia, and as a side reflection of that – posing a growing threat to the safety of Polish borders. Perhaps European war is inevitable? War in Europe would be catastrophic beyond comprehension.

But I don’t have to add anything to these subjects. They only captivate my interest, worries for a moment. Like some side show on the peripheries of reality. My reality.

Ensuing grief? I’m not sure if this is just grief anymore. I am gradually loosing an interest in all of it, and I do mean: in all of it, the world around me. It is, I’m in it, but I’m outside of it.

Poetry still has some weight, some meaning, but even that meaning changed.

Our time

Do I write words or

do I write meanings?

What else is there more

in search of  being?

To look outward to

world and it’s people

or inward for you?

Meadow, church steeple?

But,  if I gaze to

stars, then Venus I

choose in hue of blue!

For yours, our divine

time we had for us,

when the world was mine.

(by B. Pacak_Gamalski, 2025)

Does that sonnet tell of me, does it fill me still to the brim of my soul and heart? It does in some way. But in some, I still yearn the company of friends. Of faces dear and voices warm. Still want to care about them, the dear ones, even if they don’t really need to be taken care of. It is often that the ‘caretaker’ of people needs to give that care more than those, who receive it.

As for the rest of the world outside of my inner one, it seems to be diminishing ever more. Objectively speaking that world is in great need of care – it just doesn’t hold any sway over me anymore or less and less.  Is it right to feel like that? I don’t know. I try to avoid passing judgment.  They say that you should never represent yourself in court of justice; you should have an advocate to do that. But who are ‘they’, anyway? And if they do pass a judgment – do I really care? Or will I remain silent, without words that used to be plentiful?

But when I will start write just words without meanings – someone please let me know and silence me.

An exercise in futility or search of meaning? A battle with a microphone and poetry.

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

How do you write a poem? Where is it borne? I mean –  how the simple act of poetic writing occurs, how is it borne?

Of course, there are poets, who simply give themselves a task of writing a poem or three per day, or per week. When you do have a career as a poet, you are expected to keep writing. You need to publish here and there in a literary paper, every so often to publish a full new book of poetry. It is a job after all to maintain a name in circulation.

On the other hand, there are these impossible poets, who simply don’t give a damn about the business of being a poet. They just write when they feel like. Maybe once a day, or once a week, a month per chance?  And some might even get silent for extended period of time.  Free spirits.

What interest me in the original question is not how often or how rarely they write, but how the poem, the words are borne. Do you say them aloud? Is it possible that you think: I will write a poem about this or that? Do you seat yourself and start saying that poem aloud and copy it on paper (keyboard)? To be precise – is a poem borne in your soul or in your brain? Is it possible to use a verbatim form of recording a poem?

The other day I used a microphone that ‘types’ the words into a computer by itself (what will they think of next, LOL!).  Therefore the poem was deliberately born in the brain. It had no form or ‘sketch’ that I ‘copy’ on paper. It was becoming as I was saying it to the mike. I knew therefore what I was saying but had no idea what the next stanza will be. In a way it turned out to be …a discourse with the microphone. And the microphone was trying to correct my trail of thought, LOL, which I resisted angrily. It became almost a battle of wills. Very amusing. Decided to keep it, as a reminder that it definitely is not my way of writing poetry.  It felt almost Kantor-esque, if I can use the workings of great Polish and international theater stages by Tadeusz Kantor.

Here it is, cacophonic, almost angry, but somehow makes (maybe only to myself?) sense.

Verbatim

the day is done when

 the night is bright

 nothing is the same

 mornings are late

nights are brighter

by Moon’s shine

flowers are not done

flowering again

 birds are  not singing

 I think it’s harder

 to listen  exactly

 to what I’m saying

 do not correct me

 do not embellish

my words I am

 the poet nor are you

 my angel my fan

 my listener it

  takes too much time for

 you to understand

 what I need from you

  but we will  get  there

 a day at a time

 an hour after hour

 a year after year

 bye bye now

 time to go to bed

when we will talk again

 it should be easier

 I am going to

 a new day good night

 my lover per chance

Wystukiwanie liter laską

Wystukiwanie liter laską

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski-Graham

Bez Ciebie nie byłoby nas, bez nas nie byłoby mnie. Twój pełen dobroci uśmiech był jak wiosenny bez. Cichy, zwykły, nie pretensjonalny, nie sceniczny – a pełen wiosennej woni życia. Moja Primavera.

Primavera

Chodzę i wystukuję laską na

ulicy litery, potem składam

je w słowa i jak w kostce Rubika

buduję z nich zdania o nas, o mnie.

Dotyki, spojrzenia, uśmiechy,

bez ważenia, bez znaczenia, jak

zwyczajny wiosenny bez przy drodze.

Niepotrzebny i niezbędny, gdy jest.

(B. Pacak-Gamalski, 25.12.24)

Poeci nie giną. Unoszą się w płomieniach pamięci. Lub odlatują na latawcach

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Rok temu zginął w Gazie wybitny talent literacki Palestyny – Refaat Alareer. Był znawcą historii i literatury islamskiej, arabskiej, palestyńskiej i angielskiej. Ukończył Uniwersytet Islamski w Gazie i brytyjski London University w Anglii.

W dniu swej śmierci z rąk izraelskich żołnierzy Alareer miał ledwie 43 lata. Wraz z nim zginął jego brat, siostra i ich dzieci. Nigdy już nie napisze kolejnego wiersza – ale też jego wiersze nigdy nie zamilkną. Paradoks wojny i zbrodni wojennych – oprawców po latach nikt nie pamięta, ale poetów i ich wiersze się nie zapomina.

Poniższe tłumaczenie jest ze zbioru “If I must die” opracowanego przez Jousefa Aljamala.

Jeśli muszę zginąć,

ty musisz przetrwać

by opowiedzieć o mnie

sprzedać moje rzeczy

kupić jakiś całun

z wiązadełkami,

(aby był biały z długim ogonem)

i niech dziecko, gdzieś w Gazie

patrząc niebu w oczy

oczekując swego ojca znikającego w wybuchu –

a nie żegnał nikogo

nawet własnego ciała

nawet siebie –

ujrzy latawiec, mój który zrobiłeś, szybujący wysoko

i niech pomyśli przez chwilę, że jest tam anioł

przynoszący miłość ponownie

Jeżeli muszę zginąć

niech to przyniesie nadzieję.

niech to będzie opowieścią

(tłumaczenie @Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski, grudzień 2024)

A walk with a notebook

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Circle of Life

You walk through

the green and brown

maze of moss,

moisture hanging

in the air like

heavy breath

of decaying youth,

skin and yellowed

fingernails and eyes.

Walkways with names

of those, who can’t

walk anymore but

left a sign that they

were here, lurking

in the shadows

of moonlight,

made love at evening

between the fallen

giants of dense forest.

Who danced with

the Seven Sisters by

the Lovers pathway

to temporary heaven

of passion, sweat

and desire to live,

if only for a day.

Did they die

like the fireflies

of night pretending

to be butterflies?

Or did they whitter

to be old like

crumbled leaf of life

to remember those,

who died in a flash

of wondrous thunder?

Old lovers carrying

brown carton boxes

with the ashes

of their young lovers

to spread them

under the heavy

branches of the

sleeping giants

of Stanley Park.

Dec.01.2024, Vancouver