Tag Archives: writing

Oh, Passion – where are thou?

Where is that deadly enemy,
that incurable insanity,
that curse, fire, Devil, power, tempest…
All forces of Nature and Man,
untameable, devouring, eternal…
Oh, Passion – where are thou?

They feed you with milk of their tenderness,
these civilised ones of this very polite world,
they know no life or death, love or hate,
dried leaves of expired flowers exist more than them…
Religions, indifference and cruelty as opiums,
Philosophy and Art as a moral ladder and a smoke-screen…

Has any human creature ever existed,
at least the way a rose or a horse happens,
or the way angels struggle to come to being?
It seems that by inventing God, Hell, Vacuum
and all these creations of genius and power,
that creature remains unborn for itself…

So, where is that fearless energy,
that audacious manifest of freedom,
that Heathcliff and Catherine, Faust, Hamlet,
that inhuman and real because of that,
degrading, devastating and redeeming,
Oh, Passion – where are thou?

This poem I wrote today (27/04) with a dedication to all these fighting to become less politely (read: cowardly, spiritlessly) ‘human’ and more authentically alive by finding and cultivating true passions.


Blame me, if you have never been melancholic…

Yes, do blame me… If only words and expressions like ‘blue is my favourite colour’, ‘hey, all of you, just leave me alone (and I mean it)’, ‘every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence (Beckett)’ etc. – do not ring any bell, and never did – it’s OK… Just leave now and enjoy yourself somewhere else (there are thousands of places!) where sanguine, talkative, easy-going guys entertain visitors with fascinating stories about Obama, how to save this planet or how a baby can be born with two faces… Here is a sophomoric, flamboyant, esoteric and just sooo boring space of a pathetic, self-absorbed little bastard with artistic ambitions. Whatever I do, I do it for myself and you are a senseless, petty prick if you think otherwise. You are coming here thinking that you’ve just made me jumping up to the stars by your silent, ignorant, shallow presence… That I should treat you like a half-god grabbing your attention with attractively-written, stimulating posts and flirting with you by colourful images and stupidly smiling little yellow fellows… Just forget, this is an abuse post and it’s you who should be grateful that I devote my priceless time, energy and a skill to you – you anonymous, spongy, wooden-headed brat.

Here is Ewa Demarczyk (‘eva demartchik’, called ‘Polish Piaf’) signing a poignant to insanity poem by Julian Tuwim (‘tuvim) to the music by Z. Konieczny, translation mine (sorry master Tuwim):

Julian Tuwim ‘At the round table’

Would you consider, my darling
To go to Tomaszow for a day?
Maybe that very same September silence,
Still can be found there, in the golden dusk…
In that white house, in that room,
Which strangers filled up with their furniture,
We have to finish our conversation,
That from the past, sadly uncompleted…

It’s there where at the round table, still
We are sitting very still, like bewitched!
Who will rescue us from that spell?
Who will shake us awake out of cruel oblivion?

The salty little drop is still flowing
To my lips from my fair eyes,
And you answering me nothing
And you are eating white grapes…

And yet, my eyes are signing to you:
‘Du holde Kunst…’, and my heart is cracking!
And I have to go, so you are saying goodbye,
But your hand doesn’t tremble in mine…

And I went, I left
That conversation broke like a dream,
And I blessed and cursed you:
‘Du holde Kunst! So – without a word?’

That white house, that dead room
Even today is surprised, doesn’t believe…
The strangers had put their furniture there,
And they were leaving it in thoughtful sadness…

But – everything has been left there!
Even that very same September silence…
So, would you consider, my dearest,
To go to Tomaszow for a day again?


Uploaded to Youtube by abudab – thank you.

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