Read Online new poems by Tadeusz Rozewicz - Free Book Online Page A

leaves
    Â 
    I had
a green ballpoint pen
and a blue crayon
the flower is blue
and the leaves are green
    Â 
    on July 1 2004 in the newspaper
I had seen blue roses
(along with a caption)
    Â 
    â€œthe Japanese scientists’ success
is the fruit of 14 years’ work
at a cost of 28 million dollars”
    Â 
    the green leaves surround
both the flowers and the smiling
face of a young woman
a gene from pansies
gave the petals their hue
    Â 
    did those worthy Japanese researchers
with their 28 million “greenbacks”
make something beautiful and useful?
my rose was created from want
theirs from excess and a desire for profit
    Â 
    Such things should not be done
to roses in the land of cherry blossoms . . .
    Â 
    render unto the pansy that which is the pansy’s
and to the rose (that) which is the rose’s
you are requested to do so
by Tadeusz Rose-wicz poet of Poland
    Â 
    As he walks through the Japanese garden
in the city of Wrocław
he dreams he is in Kyoto
he’s done so for half a century
    Â 
    as a young man
he longed to lay a red rose
on the white bosom
of a Japanese woman
at the rising of the sun

before an unknown woman
    what extraordinary eyes
enwrapped in shadow
far-away
wide-awake alert
enwrapped in sleep
everything in that gaze is
secret the dusk and the mystery
of her gender and stifled
cries and sighs throbbing
in her white neck
    Â 
    we sit side by side
distance grows and a smile
that fades on its way to me
he’s a bit scruffy (funny old man)
absent-minded (he’s lost his glasses)
he writes poems
but I’m an old
catcher of butterflies
and of those whose name is frailty
even as a child and a youth
on my fingertips I had
dust from the blue wings
of the eternally feminine
    Â 
    I caught your somewhat
amused smile

and your glance
like a chip of ice
like white-hot
iron
    Â 
    I know
you’re like the wildflowers
of my idyllic youth
cornflowers poppies
the distant field
floats away with us
eyes closed

in a guesthouse
    a church tower rising
against a clear sky
    Â 
    beyond it a dark blue mountain
woven with the white of birches
    Â 
    today there’s not a cloud
to be seen
said Mrs. Jadzia
in a voice that rang
like an invocation
to life
the night phantom melted away
(was that you calling out
in your sleep sir?)
    Â 
    I ate breakfast
signed two books
for some young people
from Krotoszyn
shouted “thank you”
toward the kitchen
locked myself in “my” room
took Geriavit
Concor Proscar Horzol
Rutinoscorbin
primrose extract Bilobil

Vitamin A + E
Espumisan etc
    Â 
    â€œdon’t forget your medications”
    Â 
    I sat down at the table
    Â 
    on it (covered
with a newspaper just in case)
lay a long poem
or rather the ghost of one
“gray zone”
    Â 
    I raised my eyes to heaven
saw the ceiling
remembered
the Lacrimal
    Â 
    on the windowsill
were yellow buttercups
or maybe marsh marigolds
Butterblumen
(butter flowers?
or flowers of butter?)
    Â 
    the news
in the papers was filled with blood
everything had become
dark fragile

once again
in the eyes of women
there was fear
    Â 
    the next day I left

letter in green ink
    letters arrive
    Â 
    I’m leaving today
(not on Friday)
    Â 
    sending you kisses
thinking of you
missing you
yearning for you
    Â 
    The end of “Operations”
the end of the stay
the end of the innocent
and not-so-innocent flirtations
of the “rut”
under the benches
empty liquor bottles
colored and clear
cheerful blown-up
condoms floating off
balloons balloons
cries the hawker
    Â 
    â€œthrow that in the trash”
I can’t throw “that” away
it’s your letter
written

in green ink
I can’t throw love
in the trash
    Â 
    the sadness of departures
packing the suitcase
the last walk
the last sip of mineral water
    Â 
    I take a souvenir picture
by the old pump room
    Â 
    I pass elderly ladies
three of them
their thinning hair
purple silver red
the last the most fashionable