Iotas/ Pandemoniada
Iotas
Mind, atomsMotes of dust set in motion by sunlight, streaming into a room, more than two thousand years ago. Leucippus saw and was moved across spaces and dreams. Warm silence - the Earth’s iotas - wrapped up in a shell of a story (Sheffield, 2019)
Packing upLoose ends of the world flutter, do not meet. Peopled by mystics: the passersby. Fishes and men. On a day like this, one almost can think of lifting the ocean from the aquarium. (Barnard Castle, 2019)
The mapI supped with the kings of Nomansland. I used to be a Rover. Long ago, when Midas was just A man. Then he died, dried up. His golden body sprouted an Abundance of wastelands We now live in. Even back then, He was convulsing With sandstorms. When the last drop Of morning dew transmuted The sun dried up. We had to go back To autumn, The truth. And so We may yet find what was left behind. The map of the worlds. I dreamed, then, that my true name Will be revealed. Tell me, you who are Always new, every Low tide. (Warszawa, 2019)
After the floodWalking in the footsteps of the flooding, on my right the river still digesting, round bellied. Banks adorned with garlands of weeds, small uprooted trees, a dismembered bench, a multitude of white plastic flags. This is what it must have felt like for those following Moses across the Red Sea, long ago: pulse racing, even though the voice has been stilled. Or are we still crossing (Sheffield, 2019)
På luffen i StockholmStockholmsluft, Stockholmslukt av klippor och ström, av eld i berget, av tummel, av tunnlar med drag och med flykt Stockholm pa rymmen i himmelskt blatt rymdskepp vi flyger, vi himlar med ögonen och nu! lyfter vi Det brummar i Bromma, det landas i Arlanda, det ropas och dansas, det trallas under tallarna med ren och skär Stockholmslust (Stockholm, 2019)
Det pratas om kärlek pa Stockholms gatorDet pratas om kärlek pa Stockholms gator, ord yttras: högmod, förväntningar, svek. Men inget av dem nar ända fram. Man gar runt, runt i cirklar som aldrig kan slutas, fast de är cirkulära som blodomlopp. Vi människor vet, egentligen, varifran vi kommer. Det är bara sa svart att medge att likväl si muove (Stockholm, 2019)
Bade - och.Adjö, svenskheten. Om det är nagot man föds med sa föddes jag strax intill, men utan egen. Om det är nagot som maste förtjänas sa har jag inte lyckats, utom da jag latsades att vara en annan, lite mindre vild, inte sa kantig, gärna lite osvensk, men aldrig - aldrig bade och. För det är för rysligt. Drömmen om att fa va med stannar kvar, mens jag själv Vi kommer att aterses. En plats kan lämnas, ibland, men drömmar har sin egen dragningskraft. En san raket är ännu inte uppfunnen. Dels mörkerpassgerare, dels älskare av broar. Hon sover. (Stockholm, 2019)
Il faut aimer les nuagesIl faut aimer les nuages. Quand ils flottent - ils flottent, et quand ils grondent, la mer se met en rage. Ils sont si charmants, les nuages, mais ils ne n’attendent rien, de personne. Ouais, ils s’en moquent; ils manquent d’ambition. Un nuage fonctionne pas comme une marque. Pas de diplômes de nuage. Un nuage de media ? Main non. Oui, ils le savent aussi. (Montlhéry, 2020)
The old manHe never was a friend of the old man. They met a few times, drank some wine, that is all. But he never invited him to his home. So when they asked him, he walked in, confident and said: yes, the old man corrupted the local youth. He does not know what happened next, he left the city to travel and study. When he came back he was made magistrate. He did well. (Paris, 2020)
KrystynaMy mother loved the cinema, I prefer music. Since always. She would have none of it. My mother cherished tea. Shortly before she died she said: "Now that I can't have tea, I have nothing to look forward to". And here I sit in Warsaw's splendid tea salon, over coffee. Thinking of her. My mother liked prose. That and that only. I prefer poetry. Even though prose - yes, that too. My mother dressed in browns and in beiges - Earth's colours. I detest them. But give me the blues, any day, please. My mother honestly did not know why I write these things. Why I would not climb mountains. My mother abhorred swearing. Did not care for silver. In today's terms she was probably on the autism spectrum. Whereas I agonize when somebody frowns. My mother and I, we are so much like each other, like two conflicting bloodtypes, like north and south, like two peas too strange for a pod. (Warszawa, 2020)
The list of longing(transl. from Polish by Jerzy Kociatkiewicz) When they let us out I will walk straight ahead And then I will scrape the skin on my heels, so I will sit down, and then, I will get up and go farther, because, in time, all will heal, and then I will go smell the trees, because something will be flowering, perhaps the lime trees, perhaps elderflowers, and then I will board a train crossing the fields perhaps I will meet the same storks perhaps I will see a deer, because nature does not abhor a train. And then I will eat ice cream on Starowi¶lna even if there is a queue, all the way to Kazimierz, and then I will sit in De Revolutionibus with a book and a coffee and then I will talk with students they are so great this year from the same stuff as dreams and then I will touch my hand to a stone bench hot from the sun, and then I will breathe in the afternoon, and then I will catch, and then.
Breathless, againFlowers everywhere. The spring began with a checkmate. Max von Sydow died. A saint set out rambling - she who died horribly for companionship’s sake. The year came undone. No shoes, no regrets, elders leaving. We drown in our heartblood yet forgot how to breathe. This is not a mantra. This is the broken way back to the gardens. (Warszawa, 2020) published in: Stephen Linstead (2020). Viral Verses: Art in exceptional times. ? Borthwick Institute Publications.
Elegies for the livingWe did not fare so badly after all, Not as poorly as The things around us: Cities, trees, hints, trivialities We loved so much, The kindness of strange places. The blessed hormones And the songs, the songs, All the elegies for the living. We did not fare as badly as so many things That mattered, the giant shoulders, We still keep handsome, where we stand. We can do no other. (Warszawa, 2020)
Prospero's bookI never aimed this high, never aspired to anything more than a room full of books. It was you who drove me, with your relentless competitive urge, out and towards greater heights I would ever had dreamed of. I was fleeing from you. So if I forgave you so readily, it was not out of pity, not even by virtue of my generous mind, nor out of gratitude: for that you have forced me out, into glory. Why would I? you wished me dead, not glorious. No, it wasn’t because of all that. I pardoned you since this story is ending. Now the ship’s waiting, sails are set. I am not taking this diary with me (Paris, 2020)
L'apprentissageTrouver un travail, ranger la rocaille, voler la volaille - je veux apprendre. Franchir, Réussir Bleuir - je veux apprendre, Parler français pour que je puisse faire ça. Voila. (Montpellier, 2020)
Je parleJe parle français Lentement. Je cherche des mots comme des lambeaux d'un reve évasif. Je les vois nager en bancs, ensemble et lointains. Les dernieres lettres improbables qui deviennent résonnantes devant une voyelle m’aident a faire une pause. Je me plonge dans le rythme mais je reste maladroite. Les mots-poissons nagent et brillent tout autour de moi. (Viry-Châtillon, 2020)
LockdownThe slow descent down the hill, feet moving step by step, dust to dust. But the slope (look at your hands) shifted here. A sudden discontinuity of asphalt. Something did not wait for feet and gravity. Does it mean you dream of flying or does Earth dream of sudden stillness. So improbable. Like immortality, and death. (Viry-Châtillon, 2020)
The new train is not blueNot everything that glitters is rain but most often it is, and especially in the morning on the way to the train. Somehow the day yet may catch up with itself The relentless multiple worlds we inhabit may fall into step Vault after vault Or it may end as it started: full of promises no one believes. (Le Mans, 2020)
City kidsThe lesser kings of big urban plains, Never meant to be stately, As honest as a bus ride down the street. We grew up to believe in the city trees And bushes, as firmly as in the busses and trams. There were too many paths in one place, always, To lose oneself in, to disentangle. There were stories to find in the streets. We were the rightful owners, the great adventurers And there was always music Under the flagstones and under the skin. (Viry-Châtillon, 2021)
Having timeTo have time is to look up at the sky at night, to the stars. The light up there is millions years old. The stars, the darkness, myself, all strung on the string of very old light. It may go on for millions more years and even forever. (Viry-Châtillon, 2021)
GloriaAnd they shall be seen to fall one after one like droplets of rain from a stark stillborn cloud. For what goes up must go down. Sic transit. What remains are the swift earthly things: the chthonic creatures that breathe at our heels, the worms, dust-eaters, the healers of industrial plains, of soil strewn with salt by the winners, of light absorbed out of season (Viry-Châtillon, 2021)
Job's secretJob knew things Too many to become wise The world, if seen just once without the sheath of kindness remains leaky (Viry-Châtillon/ Juvisy, 2021/2023)
There -(for Anke Strauss) It is said that God created everything by speaking But humans soon took to the written word as to prevent a world where things do not exist, only happen Then they took God and safely placed Him at the beginning, just after chaos There He stands, and hums (Brunoy, 2021)
Heroes no moreThere was a time I believed in the strong and steady the good sheriff, the selfless hero Then I hoped for the Zen master to come down from the mountain, reluctant but calm Now I only trust the ones with a low pain threshold, with a pulse prone to racing, with stomachs too weak to play by the rules with breath too short to break them. I came to rely on the escape artists, more likely to lose the shirt or a limb than keep a stiff upper lip. If there is any hope left it lies not in the brain, in the heart, the face, but in the stomach. Turning. Revolting. ( Savigny-le-Temple, 2021)
Just beforejust before the wave comes things lie flat on the ground, and flutter. Some bored, many restless; one by one by one, they do not make up a whole. (Warszawa, 2021)
Cesspool daysSo maybe you feel rather sorry that you have banished the poets and all the ones you insisted to call immature. Now they are gone from your land. Maybe the blood your drew was meant to be wine. It is not. Maybe it was justice you called upon. But there was no one else left, just the Kindly Ones. And what you miss now is something - anything but this. (Warszawa, 2021)
A recipe to survive work alienationAlways wear something Swedish. Don't let things cross the threshold. Alienation spills over. Coming home from work, leave polluted things: bags, trousers, jacket, and wash your face under clear running water. Forget the names they keep shooting at us. Their guns are relentless, so be scatterbrained. Inhale the sunshine. Walk barefoot on grass. Plot to overthrow innovative excellence. Breathe. Write a poem. Hug an honest man. And if you run think of dandelions. Do not forget heartfelt sorrow; we are all brothers and sisters in the sadness of heart. Kings never get it. (Oslo, 2017/ Viry-Châtillon, 2021)
Impossible symmetryMaybe we all become someone's somnambulist twin. A troubling double: the one who did not divorce - - move house - - say no - - change jobs Who fails to throw out the keys to the old flat in dreams, Who keeps on taking exams, missing trains one step ahead and one leap behind. What the right hand writes the left has already erased. (Dax, 2022)
Message in a bottleToo fast, too intense, too frantic. Even for the old weathered fisherman. Too much too fast. A fucking Molotov of attention There, I've had my three minutes I should have used them to do a nice shapely haiku or just to bloody breathe (Victoria Gasteiz, 2022)
DesertersAn indoor comet caught by the tail. I see in the window vis-a-vis, bleeding a fluttering pulse, captive distress signals. It is dark outside. Dark inside the shining city. Something like an embrace of mild, celestial body, fluttering. The night is croaking it is not here we rest. (Warszawa, 2023)
WordsJust like light, words never go out but once spoken they go on, and on until the beginning. Between the streets, the trees, the stars, into the darkness of Cosmos, the black holes. A Greek chorus endless (Edale, 2019/ Juvisy, 2023)
Ad astraDet är inte stjärnornas fel att människorna gatt vilse de gar runt, runt i cirklar kring ingenting alls Men vi har ju börjat att se stjärnorna pa Van Goghs vis det kommer norrsken, snöbagar, meteorregn star som spön i backen För visst finns det samspel at var och en efter behov (Stockholm, 2023)
CV30 years and counting I have been the captain of each sinking ship I have eaten with friends who left me with enemies who hated me to the moon and back, and with some who tried to eat me instead. My compass is broken or it abounds in legends and songs; I have always suspected there is more to it than meets the eye, dear Polyphemus. My name is Outis. (Le Havre, 2024)
L'hirondelle(a Rene Fregni) Je suis déserteur de chaque armée je suis a côté de chaque plaque je suis la petite bete un soulier blessé un château en Espagne l'hirondelle qui jamais ne fait le printemps Je ne récolterai ce que je seme main non plus la tempete, Je cherche, je trouve, je perds avec un sage toujours la banane, je dis merde (Warszawa, 2024)
Free fallingOne spring, I fell down the stairs like one falls in love. Gravity, love, rejection are all alike: it is something that first happens to the ankles, a sensation of flutter and you don't know if you are to alight, or if you are being pulled down. A tickle where the wings of Hermes were attached, or around the tipping point of Achilles. A movement of phantom wings. You walk on, straight ahead, then, now and always too young to know the difference; for a moment, you float in the air. And then you fall. (Warszawa, 2024)
Be passersbyAll these things you do in order to belong And then it turns out you shouldn’t have bothered You could walk on you could sit down with a book in a sunny cafe look up at the sky because it is what it is It takes courage or suffering to see: so are we. When one is young one thinks - all we don’t get to do - we will regret. However - No. Only that which is in between, matters (Warszawa, (2020/ English transl. 2024)
Interregnum 1It's hard to breathe in deep space You have to hold your breath a very long time No indecision, no cause worth voicing, no secret risking to come out Colonel Chris Hadfield says space smells like gunpowder Now, that's a very long shot (Foix, 2024)
BackpackerMan talks to his backpack In tone full of reproach Backpack is laid back (Toulouse, 2024)
ImpactLove is the only impact that is worth an effort (Shellefield, 2013/Foix, 2024)
Riddle of the SphinxThe Sphinx said: what is this? (Juvisy, 2024)
Prometheus
After they drove me out of the land, and out of context And when they tied me, made me watch the airs And I was their scapegoat to help them to keep making good of the making of sense I became the gatekeeper on the other side. Ready to embrace all who come, who carry the fire. (Warszawa, 2024)
FeuAllez, vite ! appelez les sapeurs-pompiers pour sauver la flamme de l'incendie On n'entre pas deux fois dans le meme feu (Stockholm, 2024)
Water PilgrimageThe things I've been working hard to attain cannot be earned The things I've been looking for, seeking cannot be found Escaped, each time they gave me a snake and asked for my soul in exchange all along the way But I always stopped short of accepting Now, I see that the question is: how did I know, in the end that this was not it? and from how close was it visible? (Warszawa, 2024)
Anthropos
I go out on the balcony A star twinkles at me from the sky -370.45 degrees Celsius, 2.7 Kelvin between us, I blink back Consciousness freezes in 15 seconds (50 blinks) the body, more or less, within 24 hours Nothing conducts heat In space there are no floating bodies Earthly beings always return to die on Earth Every 10 seconds we blink our eyes If only we could light up their darkness from time to time (Juvisy, 2025)
The last letter from AriadneCursed is he who squanders a well-wishing person For profit or glory or from a want for success. The moment he leaves Naxos he is Like the very gods: Bereft of conscience. We spin yarn for one another This limits us, slows us down, makes us Unsuitable as candidates for kingship. He who ruptures the thread needs never more fear doubt, but no one ever again will wait for him on the quayside, in the middle of day, for no reason (Bezeirs, 2020/ Warszawa, 2025)
“The meaning of human life, and whether that lifeis a person or a piece of property.”
In 1964, the Rand Corporation saw that by 2020, well trained apes would perform simple work such as household tasks and the driving of cars. In the early 2000s the new posthuman era was heralded soon cloned human beings would work for close to nothing Some of them, though, would ensure immortality to the few that deserve it. In 2024 Artificial Intelligence is the certain path of humankind, and in particular it will work long hours for free, think for us, write poems for us, and love us, for us, it will perform assisted immortality (Warszawa, 2025)
*
The pizza(z) at the end of the wordThe pizza of mass education is being delivered, it enthuses us; Jolly good time, we are to be crowned with a wreath of bananas with garlands of status; we! deliver sustainable sussy good time with banana futures onion rings ringing ringlets of cringe We havin’! an entreprolly good time all ‘round the world! Pizzazz upon them holly holy hills. Warszawa, 2025)
* MetamorphosesFor Reuben Woolley A poet never speaks to people, he said, or else he is a bard, a salesman, or, if he is fortunate, a lover. Poets are always exiles, he said, They live transmutations of the unrecognised, They speak right into the edge. / And the emptiness answered; she said: but, my friend, exiles, and lovers unite. (Villers-Cotterets, 2025) * Blues river
Rivers of the world, unite; That is how music happens Blessed is he who stands by the river hat grabbed by the wind carried downstream Blessed is she who walks by the river in serious dispute with umbrella; The river takes all in stride; There is some blues about to get born (Juvisy, 2025)
*
ClytemnestraThe moment of choice: whether to call the Erynies, or to become the saint not quite on hand in the story whichever she choses the word is, anyway, too grand for its meaning and, anyway, Athena Apatouria ends up acquitting the murderer Yet, still, in the deepest shade of Arcadia, the snake waits. (Juvisy, 2025)
RienPoete a court de mots. Ni chiasme ni métaphore pas meme une litote a portée de main Sans lecteurs et sans éditeur. Sur quoi accrocher le verset ? Me voila en train d'écrire en ma quatrieme langue, pendant que la vie est vécue avec les trois autres Donc, voila, il ne reste donc plus rien entre moi et Orphée (Juvisy, 2025)
Crossings
Some folks meet the devil at the crossroads, get to play the guitar sinking down Some marry Alcestis, in the land of Enodia, including snakes in the bedroom; One thing leads to another. Except broken world is no longer a stage, And we squeeze all we can out of fellowships to pay in hopes that we make an income, The name of the deluge is Gabriel. I wish I were someone else. Doing something else, somewhere else. (Nicosia, 2025)
Et tu...Sun set, empire made very beautiful ruins; so where did the spectres of the caesars go? Maybe they roam the sad stories of the death of kings; Maybe they serve as trophies for the stars of cinema. Perhaps they wander aimlessly: ghosts in the visions of the unpoetic - kingdoms of the force of will. Maybe, they get reborn as cats at Largo di Torre Argentina. Sic transit; but dreaming (Juvisy, 2025)
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