top of page
Writer's pictureA Too Powerful Word

Dawid Mateusz


Dawid Mateusz (1986) is a Polish poet. Published his first collection of poems, Stacja wie¿y ciœnieñ [Water Tower Station] in 2016, which won Kazimiera I³³akowiczówna Prize for best poetic debut of the year. The book was also nominated for the 2017 Gdynia Literary Prize for best poetry collection. His poems were translated to ex. English, Romanian, Hungarian, Czech. He lives in Krakow.





Education

I saw a homeless guy on Dębnicki Bridge spread his arms

out in the orans posture, waiting for what

is yet to come. I took walks along the boulevard

and recognised the spot where the Vistula coughed up

two dead swans. Once a year,

I offered a sacrifice in the form of illness,

usually in November, for the sake of

peace. I heard a rook praying out by

Planty Park, and the spring airing of townhouses

accepted as proof of changes to come. I saw

the march of inequality and bottles upon the heads

of the Left. I saw the march of inequality and scars

upon the heads of the Right. You were all beautiful

and drunk that night, and I ate up the hate

both your hands served up, when I ran out in rapture

right into the annunciation of some suspect ladies

and among girls as sad as the Ruczaj district

to eat up

their fish with knife and fork, and the sky using fingers,

running blind.

You showed me how to love and betray,

and so I knew how to love and betray. I inhaled

sterile apartments and the stink of their bins. Carrying

across a river the carcass of an idea, I saw

a homeless guy on Dębnicki Bridge spread his arms

in the orans posture, waiting for what

is yet to come.

And I'm still looking,

as that same intense absence dictates the pulse –


translated by Marek Kazmierski


Privets

Since I’ve been living in water tower station,

I step outside just to trim the privets.

You’ll get a slap on the wrist,you nearlycut

your finger off, my father says handling sheers

sticky with resin, obedient and quiet like mother,

looking a lot better in his hands. How many times

did I get a slap on the wrist for touching or takingit

upon myself or my lips? How many times did Ihave

to return and apologize? Since

I’ve been living in water tower station, our hands

are full of resin. - How will you finish, put it back where it belongs

- my mom cuts in.

Thrice I asked about the name of the plant.


Translated by Lynn Suh





Perspectives

Who associated open fractures and high windows

like edges of a wound and broken branches

with a body that has freely fallen? More politely:

who killed himself? First of December,

I looked at water, and rotated in my mouth

the last coin, and around my line of sight

there was no side or site where I could run to.

I had a bottle cap and a lighter in my pocket,

goddamn regretting that you guys hadn’t come.

How to stay mum about thisin strange company?

How to knock on window, to make an escape?

By then, by the Vistula, I knew - there must exist

means (like from branches - arches), effective

solutions like garlic. Take a guess: who chose a death,

whose - her younger sister’s?


translated by Lynn Suh

The First Anthem

This fear - a little spider

behind the ear, which I inadvertently swallow, uttering the names

of ex-girlfriends like war,

looks at me from a nook, weaves a net.

It looks at the fly in my hand, weaves a pelt.

This fear, which I carry in my pocket,

light like a stone - like the main dish in an inexpensive eatery

(which someone else pays for),

looks at me with a stoney eye, weaves hunger.

It looks at my throat (like into a river), weaves a pelt.

And this fear - a little spider in the tummy

from now on will always weave in me

tenderness, like the malady of soft knees

and bruises on the shoulder of the one whom I won’t forget,

whose my own name I’ll give utterance to like war.

Translated by Lynn Suh


Poland

Lined up in a procession in which everyone is screaming

and jumping, I was dreaming of nipples,

let's not mention that. Lined up

in a procession wading into water, I washed

a snicker bar down with a can of black. Cooling

my little feet in the dirt of a lake, with a broken

pen I drafted statements. Getting wet

underwater in a fishy procession, I thought

about work and motivating my country. Just before a war

with another procession breaks out, I am saved by conviction

as sweet as the smile of a life coach. Swallowing

the waters of a foreign procession, they shout and jump,

me holding an empty page.


Translated by Marek Kazmierski


A Carol

When she falls asleep, snow’s falling; all the roads full of salt.

I appreciate the efforts of law enforcement, I thank them,

I take out a corkscrew,

because the girl is coming back so she could weave a pelt from

her own tresses, since they’re falling out

like a cat’s eye:

‘cause my brother had brought a cat run over,

which had broken ribs, a crushed

jaw, and an eyeball

fell out

and spilled on her snout. We wiped off the blood

as if we were licking kittens. We euthanized

an hour later.

And the girl who’s weaving a pelt from her own tresses?

She’s falling asleep

in the backseat of a minibus - indifferent

to everything of content,

everything that’s being born and dying blind.


Translated by Lynn Suh

42 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page