Written by
Marcin Malek |
What if God has not created us
and we just traverse the earth
fearing of burden of our words
we lay into it weary
wiping the sweat of terror
knowing nothing about ourselves
we take nothing
except bitter dreams
and the sweet illusion
of favorable fate
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
I'll never be a king of the brave
The vain poet - I lied, forgive me if you care
I went calmly through all the stages of madness
The last it's the tongue on a stranger face
And believe that man can turn in to a bird
To look at people and things
Without the need of rising the gaze
What a disruptive and ugly input
- Acquired romanticism
To have eyes placed on occiput
And after all, to see against the stiff neck
How veils of the wild cranes are waving
Across the sunset fires and dense shades
I'll never be a king of the brave
Timorous rhymer - I laughed, who cares
That I went through all the stages of foolishness
The last it's the thought that anyone chased
Man, dog or a worm
Will find an asylum
Somewhere in between the strophes
Copyright ©: Marcin Malek
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Forgive me little spider
I tore your web
I'm not a monster
But you probably sense
That such things
Lies in our nature
It is true - every subject
Touched by human hand
Suddenly ends
Forgive us little spider
That at this point
Destruction is the best
On what we can afford
Copyright ©: Marcin Malek
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Poets
In literal meaning
Are not responsive
To normative rules of dying
Moreover
Just like the Saints
They do not fit into a
Written conventions
Of the existence
Of the survival
At all costs
At the cost of their own greatness
They rather resemble
Orphaned fortresses
Which has to be taken
Meter by meter - as in the past
With the severe blood loss
Or permanently straining
Among the yellow fields
Mossy towers with no vaults
But with the ever-vigilant gaze
Poet as gaper
- Windblown
- Caressed by storms
Until he not falls
Never measures
Himself as the one
- And then all fading behind
For life and death of a Poet
There is no proper time
He lives in himself
Stirring up higher and higher
By the abandoned fortification
Of horror of consequences
To the moment in which
He is taken - far far away
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Maybe you know
that Heaven
has its own circles
and also
as Dante's Hell
is a raw land
jealously defending
its obsolete secrets
So if that is your need
— pray the gods
of which
wise men are saying
that were once like we
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Two hundred white-winged
were thrown on a Hermon Mount
they sinned with a free will
not such made them Lord
whoever was.
.
.
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Some events tend to be unreal
a specially —
from the perspective of bended knees
and they do not require a sounds
They live in memory of sights
beyond the realm of words
arranged in colors
torn out of rainbow gleam
Do not leave – hear!
Against the will of wind
underground streams roar
enchanted knights live in stones
there is no death to them
there is no subsistence dread
What shall we do
with all this iron
when call from undergrounds
will rise them up
against the world
What shall we do
with legend storm
kept under glass dome
as in Parisian “Invalides”
where living are trying
to convince those who died
that the world
is no longer divided
into the bad and the worse
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Deep on a forest path
young girl with cherry lips
emerge like glossy nymph
There among the soaked green
old alders seems to be higher
and no one had heard
about the dialectic of being
On top of tallest tree
bird has sung a song
that somewhere near
time froze as someone's spirit
Hope does not exist
under the wild mauve –
aged oak sheds its husk
everything that came before
is fading as an eye
gazed into the dusk
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
We are the anthems trumpets
long-maned waves and roaring seas
we are the heavy columns of clouds
and eager sharp granite fangs
we are the yellow sands
that marble moon grey dust
a stone’s shadow as hard as tears
of river streams and famine time
we boundless days empty nights
blood on the threshold iris of guns
hangman's ropes and trenches –
of gaping hollow graves
We are life itself – heathers
of dreams woven by mist
enchanted in pearls of rain
that sleep on top of Carrantuohill
We are among the songs and poems
beneath the dreams and fairytales
we are struggling blizzards and showers
under the wing of the black prophetess
We are the notes of songs
music was born from us –
we are the rays of the beginning
and shadows of the past –
the memory of ancient times
so distant but close to every heart
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Written by
Marcin Malek |
Long stalks of rain
are growing from the skies
down towards ash-black soil,
softer than deer hearts
frozen in concentration
at river banks
Everything that is not here
lies beyond these waters – more effusive
than a fisherman’s song,
when come evening time
they sail back to theirs rocky homes
settled at Shannon’s ridges
winding like a maggot in a downpour
and greener still
than eyes of women
that bear the same name
Wise men of Cuilcagh –
the orchard’s guardians
they knew the danger,
sowing the seeds of forbidden fruits
That she will come – an innocent girl
Who’d turn her lips and then flow
like morning dew into the world
of underground streams
And when September fog will fall
her ghost will rise up through the night
and like a sea gull at open sea
hanging in midair, once more,
she will look
into the depths of Lough Allen
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