Rosina, while dancing, an orange convey’d,
And promised the garland that circled her head;
I gave her my hand and with love and desire
The orange was turn’d to a ball of bright fire.
It burnt like a coal from the furnace, and made
Its way to my heart, while it fever’d my head.
Rosina, my flame! that fair orange of gold
Has kindled a passion which may not be told.
I have learnt what love is; not Venus the fair,
But the whelp of a lioness fierce in her lair;
She-tiger of Caucasus nurtured to scorn
The hearts that are broken, and souls that are torn.
Translation from Poets and Poetry of Poland A Collection of Polish Verse, Including a Short Account of the History of Polish Poetry, with Sixty Biographical Sketches of Poland’s Poets and Specimens of Their Composition by Paul Soboleski
Rozyna mi w taneczku pomarańczę dała,
A potem i wianeczek dać przyobiecała,
Ale gdym jej pomagał wesołego tańca,
W ogień się obróciła ona pomarańcza,
Ono jabłko żarzystym węglem mi się stało,
Spaliwszy duszę nędzną, spaliło i ciało.
Ogniu mój, o Rozyno! Prędkom cię zachwycił,
Prędko mi cię na sercu złoty owoc wzniecił.
Teraz wiem, co jest miłość; nie Wenus łaskawa
Spłodziła ją, lecz lwica na pustyni krwawa,
Tygrys, niemiłosierna nad błędnym człowiekiem,
Na Kaukazie szalonym karmiła ją mlekiem.
I am too near to be dreamt of by him.
I do not fly over him, do not escape from him
under the roots of a tree. I am too near.
Not in my voice sings the fish in the net,
not from my finger rolls the ring.
I am too near. A big house is on fire
without me, calling for help. Too near
for a bell dangling from my hair to chime.
Too near to enter as a guest
before whom walls glide apart by themselves.
Never again will I die so lightly,
so much beyond my flesh, so inadvertently
as once in his dream. Too near.
I taste the sound, I see the glittering husk of this word
as I lie immobile in his embrace. He sleeps,
more accessible now to her, seen but once
a cashier of a wandering circus with one lion,
than to me, who am at his side.
For her now in him a valley grows,
russet-leaved, closed by a snowy mountain
in the bright blue air. I am too near
to fall to him from the sky. My scream
could wake him up. Poor thing
I am, limited to my shape,
I who was a birch, who was a lizard,
who would come out of my cocoons
shimmering the colors of my skins. Who possessed
the grace of disappearing from astonished eyes,
which is a wealth of wealths. I am near,
too near for him to dream of me.
I slide my arm from under the sleeper’s head
and it is numb, full of swarming pins,
on the tip of each, waiting to be counted,
the fallen angels sit.
Translation is unattributed
Jestem za blisko, żeby mu się śnić.
Nie fruwam nad nim, nie uciekam mu
pod korzeniami drzew. Jestem za blisko.
Nie moim głosem śpiewa ryba w sieci.
Nie z mego palca toczy się pierścionek.
Jestem za blisko. Wielki dom się pali
beze mnie wołającej ratunku. Za blisko,
żeby na moim włosie dzwonił dzwon.
Za blisko, żebym mogła wejść jak gość,
przed którym rozsuwają się ściany.
Już nigdy po raz drugi nie umrę tak lekko,
tak bardzo poza ciałem, tak bezwiednie,
jak niegdyś w jego śnie. Jestem za blisko,
za blisko. Słyszę syk
i widzę połyskliwą łuskę tego słowa,
znieruchomiała w objęciu. On śpi,
w tej chwili dostępniejszy widzianej raz w życiu
kasjerce wędrownego cyrku z jednym lwem
niż mnie leżącej obok.
Teraz dla niej rośnie w nim dolina
rudolistna, zamknięta ośnieżoną górą
w lazurowym powietrzu. Ja jestem za blisko,
żeby mu z nieba spaść. Mój krzyk
mógłby go tylko zbudzić. Biedna,
ograniczona do własnej postaci,
a byłam brzozą, a byłam jaszczurką,
a wychodziłam z czasów i atłasów
mieniąc się kolorami skór. A miałam
łaskę znikania sprzed zdumionych oczu,
co jest bogactwem bogactw. Jestem blisko,
za blisko, żeby mu się śnić.
Wysuwam ramię spod głowy śpiącego,
zdrętwiałe, pełne wyrojonych szpilek.
Na czubku każdej z nich, do przeliczenia,
strąceni siedli anieli.
I work with a lot of very reasonable, hard working, excellent folks. They put their heart and soul into their work and are not beholden to the political elite. It is one wonderful aspect of the civil service merit system (there’s a lot of bad too), i.e., a glaring lack of hacks. The same is true of the people at the top, while appointed politically, they generally serve with dignity and do so responsibly, carrying out the mission of the agency.
In studying the sociology of bureaucracy you learn that those at the top can do little to change the bureaucracy, and what they can do is often on the fringes, externals as it were. The best leaders enable the workers in the bureaucracy, providing them with the means to carry out the mission more efficiently and effectively. They don’t shy away from change, but make change organic. The bad leaders are the ones who take advantage or who actually think they can rule with an iron fist.
Interestingly, the bureaucratic system often changes the leader to a far greater extent than the bureaucracy is changed by them. The leaders take an ownership interest, and the best leaders meld in, adopt the bureaucracy, because the bureaucracy adopted them.
All that being said, somewhere near the top lie the “true believers,” the hacks, political mercy hires, and other assorted hangers on. If you want to have fun with these folks, tell them what you believe. The true believers proudly carry the “conservative” or the “egalitarian” card with honor (their brand). It is their badge of courage.
When engaged in conversation I love to mention my libertarian streak. This sort of pronouncement takes folks completely off guard because they either don’t know what it means, or they only know it as a caricature. The twisted facial expressions are priceless. It’s really great with the egalitarian crowd because they so believe that they know what’s best for each person and culture. That comes with so much baggage, so many preconceived notions (prejudice really), that their heads practically explode when you say that people are best off when left to determine their own fate.
Lesson One: Begin your adventures in New York’s political lunacy by telling everyone you’re a libertarian.
Lunacy 101b — Use the bigotry of power.
As you may know, New York’s Senate is split with 51 Republican/Republican sympathizer votes and 51 Democrats. Both sides are vying to control the Senate floor. There is no tie breaking vote because we do not have a lieutenant governor. He became governor when the last one resigned, and New York’s Constitution make no provision for replacing the lieutenant governor.
The struggle for control is best exemplified in the fight over the Speaker’s Chair. In the past few days the Democrats snuck in and took control before the Republicans could get there. The reverse happened in the days prior. The Democrats made a big show of placing females in the Speaker’s chair, they being guarded in their position by the Sergeant-At-Arms.
I don’t think anyone noticed this angle, or at least I haven’t read it anywhere, but isn’t that simple bigotry and prejudice on display. They placed women in the spot because the other side wouldn’t dare to physically push them out of their position at the rostrum. They basically determined that “traditional” deference to a woman (and aren’t the Democrats supposed to be the party of equal rights and so forth) would win the day. So to Senators Andrea Stewart-Cousins and Diane Savino, thank you for your portrayal of the “weaker-sex” and for allowing the nice burly Sergeant-At-Arms to protect you.
Lesson Two: Enhance New York’s political lunacy through the exploitation of a person’s sex for political gain.
Lunacy 101c — Agree that you’re a libertarian too.
I actually love what’s happening in the State Senate for several reasons. First, it has created a lot of rubrical fun in relation to parliamentary procedure. The geeky parliamentarians (or here) among us are in heaven and have been weighing the relative merits of Mason’s Manual of Legislative Procedure versus Robert’s Rules of Order. Second, and most importantly, nothing is getting done.
I kept waiting for some distinguished veteran lawmaker — somebody who knows that this will be his or her final term in the chamber — to burst into tears, collapse to the floor and call out for heaven’s punishment to fall on the chamber immediately.
I include that for the sheer humor, and because it would be interesting to see (both the call and the actual punishment), but more to the point:
So that was bad. But what happened in Thursday’s faux session was even worse — rock bottom.
Instead of a procedural rugby match, we witnessed a much more genteel flouting of the governor’s renewed call for a productive special session. The Democrats gaveled in and gaveled out in three minutes, and then left the chamber. Then the Republicans and breakaway Democrat Pedro Espada Jr. arrived, and repeated the exercise in about 150 seconds. Amazingly, no legislation was passed.
It wasn’t “A Chorus Line” or “Cats,” but it was a carefully choreographed show designed not for value or entertainment but to allow both sides to avoid another car-crash spectacle. This elaborate gavotte was obviously worked out in advance by both parties, who have otherwise failed to agree on anything in two and a half weeks.
To be clear: As time-sensitive legislation languishes, the only matter that both sides can find common ground onNot necessarily true. Both sides signed the necessary paperwork to assure that legislators continue to get paid. Priorities you know. is that they don’t want to look like bozos. When their collective vanity is at stake, they’re willing to take immediate and decisive action.
That’s really the best part in all of this. Not “Amazingly, no legislation was passed,” but ‘Thankfully, no legislation was passed.’ Nothing is happening. No more freedoms are being taken away and the so called “time-sensitive legislation,” which is merely authorization for local tax increases (because in New York the State has to grant authority to local governments to do local business), isn’t getting passed.
The euphemisms for authorizing tax increases is wonderful. They call it “home rule messages” or “noncontroversial pieces of legislation.” It should be controversial and failure to do these things means that hard choices will have to be made. I hope they argue forever, and in true New York form are returned to office to keep arguing. Government would do nothing, no tax increases, no more invasive legislation for the common good, and then…
Lesson Three: New York’s political lunacy would be best enhanced through the forcible conversion of everyone into libertarians.
The Polish musical group Dżem as a song from their album Lunatics entitled “Lunatics All around Me” which I have translated for you. Enjoy….
Evil dreams have no illusions
The dreams all men fear
Blackest night, the city sleeps
No one can wake up
A cat on the roof, a rat in the gutter
The moon tempting in a white garment
No green light
Ref: The lunatics surround me Ooo!
Apartment buildings casting black shadows
and like a white tear, an empty open window
The Lunatics flee
The Lunatics flee
In love with you
From around that same window
I see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing
Translated by Dcn. Jim
Sen to zło, nie ma złudzeń
Sen ogarnął wszystkich ludzi
Czarno wokół, miasto śpi
Nikt nie może się obudzić
Kot na dachu, szczur w kanale
Księżyc kusi mundurki białe
Zielonego światła brak
Ref: Lunatycy otaczają mnie O, o, o !
Bloki czarne cień rzucają
A z otwartych, ślepych okien jak łzy białe
Lunatycy uciekają
Lunatycy uciekają
Zakochani w sobie
Wokół same lustra otaczają ich
Nie widzą nic nie, nie słyszą nic, nic nie czują
It was a typically gray day,
The children crying loudly
My husband says: “Smile!”
So I obediently twist my face.
And suddenly someone’s knocking,
Obtrusively, loud, alarmingly;
Yes, it can only be you,
But how did you find your way into my thoughts?
I wasn’t with you long,
I thought you wouldn’t return.
This is my world
I cannot leave this now!
Better for you to go away until time passes,
Hidden away until the end of the world,
Today — no longer the time for us,
Today — too late, well you know!
Don’t knock loudly, the children are asleep
They depend on my concern;
The head of the house after all,
And life like a bitter tear.
I wasn’t with you long…
It was a typically gray day
With the voices of children crying loudly
My husband says: “Smile!”
So I obediently twist my face.
To był zwyczajny, szary dzień,
Za ścianą dzieci głośny płacz
I męża głos – uśmiechnij się!
Więc ja posłusznie krzywię twarz.
I nagle stuka ktoś do drzwi,
Natrętnie, głośno, że aż strach;
Tak pukać możesz tylko ty,
Lecz jak strafiłeś pod mój dach?
Nie było ciebie tyle lat,
Myślałam, że nie wrcisz tu,
Poukładałam sobie świat
I nie zostawię tego już!
Najlepiej odejdź póki czas,
Na końcu świata schowaj się,
Dziś już nie pora szukać nas,
Dziś już za późno – dobrze wiesz.
Nie stukaj dłużej, dzieci śpią
I na mnie czeka tyle spraw;
Na głowie przecież cały dom,
A życie gorzkie jest jak łza.
Nie było ciebie tyle lat…
To był zwyczajny szary dzień,
Za ścianą dzieci głośny płacz.
I męża głos: “Uśmiechnij się!”
Więc ja posłusznie krzywię twarz.
What is this nature’s delightful display
Which with a graceful step sets out to dance?
Who is this goddess that began to play
And charm the world with her fine appearance?
People draw around, all of them wide-eyed,
Seeing the wonders of beauty and charm,
While Cupid, sighing silently aside,
Tightens his strings, unable to do harm.
Of beautiful figure, quick as a doe,
Her eyes like the dawn, lips of ruby red,
She is running along the swift wind’s flow,
She captures each heart that passes ahead.
From here her fine legs can barely be spied
And only at times they’re touching the ground,
All her limbs at play in harmony glide
And Zephyr frolics with soft robes around.
Zephyr who himself is deserving spite,
For all his desires met with full success,
Can see the places hidden out of sight,
Kissing her lips in a gentle caress.
When during a turn to some small extent
Her light apron or skirt will get askew,
The greedy eye will suffer a torment
In its attempt to spy at least a shoe.
Your glory, Graces, is truly in vain,
When you amaze Olympus with your dance,
For our Kossowska can well entertain
Mortals of this world in their existence.
To paint with skill the picture truly grand
Of beauty and charm of her countenance,
I pass the pen into Krasicki’s hand,
Leave the brush for Smuglewicz’s talents.
But in doing so, I feel a great fear;
Before this work is brought to conclusion,
I have to give an early warning here:
Beware the destiny of Pygmalion.
Translated by Michal J. Mikos
Cóż to za lube natury dzieło
Wdzięcznym się zrywa w tany podskokiem?
Cóż to za bóstwo igrać zaczęło
I świat czarownym bawi widokiem?
Lud się zgromadza, cały w zdumieniu,
Widząc piękności i wdzięków dziwy,
Kupid, wzdychając z dala w milczeniu,
Próżnie zaostrza swoje cięciwy.
Śliczna z postaci, żywa jak łania,
Oczki jak zorza, usta w rubinie,
Z rączym się wiatrem w tańcu ugania.
Chwyta za serce, kto się nawinie.
Nóżki się ledwo widzieć pozwolą
I tylko czasem tykają ziemi,
Wszystkie w niej członki razem swawolą,
A zefir igra z szaty wiotkiemi.
Zefir, który sam godzień zazdrości,
Bo wszystkie jego chęci spełnione,
Najtajemniejsze widzi skrytości,
Całując zawsze usta pieszczone.
Gdy się na zwrocie nieco zawinie
Lotny fartuszek albo spódniczka,
Ledwo z chciwości oko nie zginie,
Żeby obaczyć chociaż trzewiczka.
Daremna chluba, Gracyje, wasza,
Że Olimp swymi pląsy dziwicie,
Ta to na ziemi Kossowska nasza
Umie śmiertelnych zabawić życie.
Do malowania widoku tego,
Jaka jest kształtność i wdzięk oblicza,
Pióro zostawiam dla Krasickiego,
Pędzel malarski dla Szmuglewicza.
Lecz to im zdając, słuszną mam trwogę,
I ta robota nim jest skończona,
Uczynić muszę wczesną przestrogę:
Bójcie sią losu Pigmalijona!
I think that I shall never see
