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
Comments