Category: Poetry

Perspective, PNCC, Poetry, Poland - Polish - Polonia, Political,

May 29 – Into the midst of riotous squabblers by Juliusz Słowacki

Into the midst of riotous squabblers
   God sounds his gong;
Here is the Slavic Pope, your new ruler;
   Make way, applaud.
This one will not, like Italians before him,
   Flee sworded throngs;
Our world disdainer will fight like a tiger,
   Fearless like God.

Sunshine resplendent shall be his countenance,
   Light shining true,
That we may follow him into the radiance
   Where God resides.
Multitudes growing obey all his orders,
   His prayers too:
He tells the sun to stand still in the heavens,
   And it abides.

Now he approaches, the one who distributes
   Global new might,
He who can make blood circulate backwards
   Inside our veins.
Now in our hearts the pulsation starts flowing,
   Heavenly light;
Power is a spirit, turns thought into actron
   Inside his brain.

And we need power in order to carry
   This world of ours;
Here comes our Slavic Pope to the rescue,
   Brother of mankind.
Angel batallions dust off his throne with
   Whisks made of flowers,
While he pours lotion onto our bosom,
   Pontiff benign.

He will distribute love like a warlord
   Passes out arms;
His strength sacramental will gather the cosmos
   Into his palms.

Then will he send glad tidings to flutter
   Like Noah’s dove:
News that the spirit’s here and acknowledged,
   Shining alone.
And we shall see part nicely before him
   The sky above.
He’ll stand on his throne, illumined, creating
   Both world and throne.

His voice will transfrom the nations to brethren.
   Burnt offerings
Circle the spirits in their march toward
   Their final goal.
Strength sacramental of hundreds of nations
   Will help our king
See that the spirits’ work overpowers
   Death’s mournful toll.

The wounds of the world shall he cleanse, and banish
   Rot. pus and all–
He will redeem the world and bring to it
   Both health and love.
He shall sweep clean the insides of churches
   And clear the hall,
And then reveal the Lord our Creator
   Shining above.

Translated by Sandra Celt

Pośród niesnasek Pan Bóg uderza
W ogromny dzwon,
Dla słowiańskiego oto papieża
Otworzył tron.

Ten przed mieczami tak nie uciecze
Jako ten Włoch,
On śmiało, jak Bóg, pójdzie na miecze;
Świat mu to proch!

Twarz jego, słowem rozpromieniona,
Lampa dla sług,
Za nim rosnące pójdą plemiona
W światło, gdzie Bóg.

Na jego pacierz i rozkazanie
Nie tylko lud
Jeśli rozkaże, to słońce stanie,
Bo moc to cud!

On się już zbliża rozdawca nowy
Globowych sił:
Cofnie się w żyłach pod jego słowy
Krew naszych żył;

W sercach się zacznie światłości bożej
Strumienny ruch,
Co myśl pomyśli przezeń, to stworzy,
Bo moc to duch.

A trzeba mocy, byśmy ten pański
Dźwignęli świat:
Więc oto idzie papież słowiański,
Ludowy brat;

Oto już leje balsamy świata
Do naszych łon,
A chór aniołów kwiatem umiata
Dla niego tron.

On rozda miłość, jak dziś mocarze
Rozdają broń,
Sakramentalną moc on pokaże,
Świat wziąwszy w dłoń;

Gołąb mu słowa w hymnie wyleci,
Poniesie wieść,
Nowinę słodką, że duch już świeci
I ma swą cześć;

Niebo się nad nim piękne otworzy
Z obojga stron,
Bo on na świecie stanął i tworzy
I świat, i tron.

On przez narody uczyni bratnie,
Wydawszy głos,
Że duchy pójdą w cele ostatnie
Przez ofiar stos;

Moc mu pomoże sakramentalna
Narodów stu,
Moc ta przez duchy będzie widzialna
Przed trumną tu.

Takiego ducha wkrótce ujrzycie
Cień, potem twarz:
Wszelką z ran świata wyrzuci zgniłość,
Robactwo, gad,

Zdrowie przyniesie, rozpali miłość
I zbawi świat;
Wnętrze kościołów on powymiata,
Oczyści sień,
Boga pokaże w twórczości świata,
Jasno jak dzień.

My commentary:

“All Poles are…” is one of the most famous misstatements and pejoratives in the history of the world. Whether it comes from misinformation, a lack of historical study, or with an intent to defame, it none-the-less conveys stereotyping which is false at best and slanderous at worst. In that vein, it should be understood that not all Poles are Catholic, and among Polish Catholics few are Ultramontanist Roman Catholics.

Polish intellectuals, and later working class Poles did not regard the papacy as a constant, and at times they saw it as working against the interests of their country.

As far back as 1475, Jan Ostroróg wrote against papal power and church courts and advocated for a tax levy on the church for National defense in Pro Republicae OrdinationePoland, A Historical Atlas by Iwo Cyprian Pogonowski. He says in partTranslated by Michael J. Mikoś:

A painful and inhuman burden also oppresses the Kingdom of Poland, which is otherwise completely free, in another way, because we allow ourselves to be cheated and deceived to such a degree by the constant cunning of the Italians, and under the guise of piety, which is rather a falsification of teaching and a superstition: we permit big sums of money to be sent annually to the Roman court, as they call it, in the payment of a big tribute, called the bishop’s tribute or the annates … It is known that the German and Polish noblemen allowed the Apostolic See to collect the annates for only a few years in order to restrain the enemies of the Christian faith and to check the cruel Turk in his attacks. And this is certain: these few allotted years have long since passed, and the annates destined for other uses are channelled elsewhere. It is therefore necessary to stop this false piety, and the pope should not be a tyrant under the cloak of faith, but on the contrary, a benevolent father, just as merciful as the one whom he claims to represent on earth.

In The Role of Polish and American Identities in the Future of the Polish National Catholic Church, Jeffrey M. JozefskiPolish American Studies, Vol. 65, No. 2, Autumn 2008. notes:

Bishop Hodur also encouraged his followers to read the newest generation of nationalistic Polish authors, describing “messianic” writers Adam Mickiewicz, Juliusz Słowacki and Ignacy Krasiński as “great minds.” These three writers have also been described as “Bishop Hodur’s favorite literary trio.” Messianic literature was popular among the congregations of the PNCC, especially those which had come to label Poland as the “Christ of nations” that would eventually be resurrected. The first PNCC “Special Synod” in 1906 described Mickiewicz and Słowacki as heroes for their courageous literary attacks on the Pope and encouraged every Polish family to own not only the Holy Scriptures, but also the works of these three writers. The synod especially recommended Księgi Pielgryzmstwa Polskiego (Books of the Polish Pilgrimage), as well as mentioning Jan Ostroróg and Stanisław Orzechowski as Polish literary heroes who had advocated for a “national” or otherwise more autonomous Catholic Church in Poland.

Bishop Hodur obviously held Słowacki in high esteem. Słowacki’s poem, cited above, should be seen in historical context as an indictment of a papacy enamored of earthly power, a papacy that needed a change, a Pope of the Spirit. This poem supports Bishop Hodur’s stance against the papacy as it had evolved and, contrary to “popular beliefThe poem is often cited as a prophecy regarding the election of a Polish Pope. Those who cite the poem as such have no sense of Polish history, no understanding of Słowacki as a poet, nor any sense of what the poet is trying to convey.,” was not a premonition of Karol Wojtyla’sWojtyla’s work as Bishop of Rome did much to heal the the notion of Vatican ambivalence toward Poland. His leadership in the fight against Communism is of particular note. His mere election was an ego booster for many Poles at home and in the diaspora. However, his work has not been met with wholesale approval and his concentration on Polish issues has tarred him in the eyes of some Roman Catholics. See John Paul II: ‘Santo, ma non subito’ by John L. Allen Jr. of the National Catholic Reporter for instance. election to the office of Bishop of Rome. Słowacki was advocating for a leader that would be greater than a Pope of Rome, but rather a Pope of the Spirit that would free men and nations to see Christ more clearly:

He shall sweep clean the insides of churches
   And clear the hall,
And then reveal the Lord our Creator
   Shining above.

A critical analysis of Słowacki’s work and his times indicates that Słowacki was anything but an admirer of the office of the Bishop of Rome as it existed in his day.

In Chapter VI – Polonia Semper Fidelis of The Eternal Church in a Changing World: The Relationship of the Church and World in the Thought of John Paul II by Maciej Zięba, the author notes:

The constant threat to the faith, in the beginning from the anti-Catholic policies of Prussia and Russia, later from Nazi Germany and then from the communist government imposed on Poland by the USSR had the effect of making fidelity to the Church the most valued quality to Polish Catholics. In the face of a direct threat to the Faith and an official policy aiming at promoting discord among the faithful, doctrinal controversies or political disputes could have had real and dangerous consequences. Thus building up and maintaining the unity of the Church became the essential task for all Catholics.

This fidelity was not necessarily totally uncritical. The conciliatory policy of the papacy towards the tsarist regime was often criticized in Poland. In turn, when Cardinal Wyszynski was triumphantly greeted in Rome after his release from a Stalinist prison, Pius XII ostentatiously punished him for his political independence (in seeking a modus vivendi with the communist regime!) by having him wait for days for a Vatican audience. Some newer events might serve as examples of the same independence of thought. In August 1980, Cardinal Wyszynski made an appeal to abandon strikes. The workers listened to his words with obvious respect for the speaker, but then quietly ignored them. Again, in 1989, some well-known candidates, supported by the present Primate, Cardinal Glemp, were soundly defeated at the polls.

For Słowacki and other similarly situated Polish patriots the constant betrayals of Polish sovereignty at the hand of the Popes, who supported the Russian, Prussian, and Austro-Hungarian division of Poland, was proof positive that the Popes were not leaders of the Spirit nor protectors of Polish self determination or rights.

In the Review Article, After the Blank Spots Are Filled: Recent Perspectives on Modern PolandThe Journal of Modern History Vol. 79 (March 2007): pages 134—“161, The University of Chicago., Padraic Kenney writes:

Jerzy Kloczowski’s History of Polish Christianity is thus a valuable companion to any encounter with Polish history. The themes Kloczowski emphasizes will probably not surprise any student of church or religious history, but they are not always fully appreciated by other historians. In the early modern period, Kloczowski argues that a drift from rigor toward moderation in religious practice kept Poland Catholic through the Reformation, even as Orthodoxy and Calvinism continued to be part of the common environment. Polish Catholicism was deep but not strict, a folk religiosity in which adherence to ritual and fervent faith did not mean observance of church teachings.

The gap between belief and action emerged most strongly during the nineteenth—century uprisings. Famously, both the Vatican and the Polish episcopate withheld support for uprisings against the Russian tsar; the unity of church and nation is a post—uprising construct. Still, the church enjoyed two signal advantages in the era of partitions. First, it was the only institution that crossed partition borders; thus, to think of a Poland restored was to think of the Catholic Church, too. Second, individual priests—”such as those immortalized in the drawings of Artur Grottger (1837—“67)—”joined the uprisings, especially the January Uprising of 1863. Yet the powerful traditions of both popular and intellectual anticlericalism in Poland—”a legacy largely destroyed by the double blow of Nazi occupation and Communist rule—”can be found only between the lines in Kloczowski’s account. Kloczowski asserts that anticlericalism was a —marginal phenomenon,— restricted to a part of the intelligentsia and isolated pockets of industrial workers. Stauter—Halsted, in contrast, explores growing resistance to clerical authority from the 1880s onward, as peasant leaders came to value the secular schoolteacher more. The relationship of Pole to structures of authority and to cultures of tradition still needs to be examined…

Over and over betrayals came to light as ostensibly Catholic leaders, political and religious, were faced with the bitter experience of Vatican double dealing, sometimes at the hands of their fellow countrymen in the CuriaBishop Hodur met with Mieczysław Cardinal Ledochowski, Prefect of the Propaganda, who roundly rejected pleas from his fellow countrymen who were being abandoned by their bishops.. Słowacki criticized the Pope’s failure to support the insurrection against Tsarist (and Orthodox) Russia. In The Sarmatian Review’sThe Sarmatian Review, issue: 02/2002, pages: 865-869 reprint of Pan Beniowski, Final Part of Canto Five, we find:

But oh my Prophet-Bard! Where are you going?
What harbor beacon lights your way, and where?
Either you founder in the depths of Slavonic atavism
Or with your lightning mind you sweep up
The refuse and drive it at the Pontiff’s triple crown.
I know your harbors and coastlands! I shall not go
With you, or go your false way —” I shall take
Another road! —” and the nation will go with me!

The footnotes to the verse state:

Słowacki also alludes to Mickiewicz’s audience with Pope Pius IX in 1848 during which the Pope expressed disapproval of revolutionary activity. Mickiewicz allegedly grabbed the Pope’s sleeve and exclaimed that God is on the side of the Paris workers. In 1848, Pius IX secretly signed a concordat with Russia, thereby abandoning the cause of Polish Catholics in the Russian empire and joining the reactionary circle of European rulers desirous to retain at any price whatever was left of the old regimes.

From the time of Ostroróg to the First World War, when Roman Dmowski traveled to Rome to ask for assistance in gaining Poland’s independence, and was greeted with open disfavor, Poles have understood Słowacki’s famous statement: “Poland, thy doom comes from Rome (Krzyż twym papieżem jest – twa zguba w Rzymie!Pan Beniowski, Book I)” Which subsequent events proved was more than prophetic.

Poetry

May 28 – A Funeral Rhapsody in Memory of General Bem by Cyprian Kamil Norwid

Ius iurandum patri datum usque at hanc diem ita servavi… Hannibal

– Why ride away, Shadow, hands broken on the mail
Sparks of torches playing around your knees -?
The laurel-green sword is spattered with candle tears,
The falcon strains, your horse jerks its foot like a dancer.
– Pennons in the wind blow against each other
Like moving tents of nomad armies in the sky.
Long trumpets shake in sobbing and banners
Bow their wings, which droop from above
Like spear-pierced dragons, lizards and birds…
Like the many ideas you caught with your spear…

Mourning maidens go, some lifting their arms
Filled with scent-sheaves torn apart by the wind;
Some gather into shells tears breaking from the cheek,
Some still seek the road that was built centuries ago…
Others dash against the ground huge pots of clay
Whose clatter in cracking yet adds to the sorrow.

Boys strike hatchets blue against the sky,
Serving lads strike light-rusted shields,
A mighty banner sways amid the smoke, its spear-point
Leaning, as it were, against the arcs of heaven…

They enter and drown in the valley… emerge in the moonlight
Blackening the sky, an icy glare brushes them
And glimmers on blades of spears like as tar unable to fall,
The chant suddenly ceased, then splashed out like a wave…

On – on – till it’s time to roll into the grave:
We shall behold a black chasm lurking beyond the road
(And to cross it humanity will not find a way)
Over the edge we shall spear-thrust your steed
As though with a rusting spur…

And we’ll drag the procession, saddening slumber-seized cities,
Battering gates with urns, whistling on blunted hatchets,
Till the walls of Jericho tumble down like logs,
Swooned hearts revive – nations gather the must from their eyes.. .

On -on –

Translation unattributed.

…Iusiurandum patri datum
usque ad hanc-diem ita servavi…
Annibal

I
Czemu, Cieniu, odjeżdżasz, ręce złamawszy na pancerz,
Przy pochodniach, co skrami grają około twych kolan? –
Miecz wawrzynem zielony i gromnic płakaniem dziś polan;
Rwie się sokół i koń twój podrywa stopę jak tancerz.
– Wieją, wieją proporce i zawiewają na siebie,
Jak namioty ruchome wojsk koczujących po niebie.
Trąby długie we łkaniu aż się zanoszą i znaki
Pokłaniają się z góry opuszczonymi skrzydłami
Jak włóczniami przebite smoki, jaszczury i ptaki…
Jako wiele pomysłów, któreś dościgał włóczniami…

II
Idą panny żałobne: jedne, podnosząc ramiona
Ze snopami wonnymi, które wiatr w górze rozrywa,
Drugie, w konchy zbierając łzę, co się z twarzy odrywa,
Inne, drogi szukając, choć przed wiekami zrobiona…
Inne, tłukąc o ziemię wielkie gliniane naczynia,
Czego klekot w pękaniu jeszcze smętności przyczynia.

III
Chłopcy biją w topory pobłękitniałe od nieba,
W tarcze rude od świateł biją pachołki służebne;
Przeogromna chorągiew, co się wśród dymów koleba,
Włóczni ostrzem o łuki, rzekłbyś, oparta pod-niebne…

IV
Wchodzą w wąwóz i toną… wychodzą w światło księżyca
I czernieją na niebie, a blask ich zimny omusnął,
I po ostrzach, jak gwiazda spaść nie mogąca, przeświĂ٠ca,
Chorał ucichł był nagle i znów jak fala wyplusnął…

V
Dalej – dalej – aż kiedyś stoczyć się przyjdzie do grobu
I czeluście zobaczym czarne, co czyha za drogą,
Które aby przesadzić, Ludzkość nie znajdzie sposobu,
Włócznią twego rumaka zeprzem jak starą ostrogą…

VI
I powleczem korowód, smęcąc ujęte snem grody,
W bramy bijąc urnami, gwizdając w szczerby toporów,
Aż się mury Jerycha porozwalają jak kłody,
Serca zmdlałe ocucą – pleśń z oczu zgarną narody…
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dalej – dalej – –

Poetry

May 27 – Before the Chapel by Juliusz Słowacki

Before the chapel,
My little angel,
In lace,
A wife,
Sealed.

Before the organ,
My little B…gdan
Loudly
and proudly…

Before the monastery,
My little phony,
To be holy,
To be taken,
To be pompous.

Before the cross
At the capital
A fact,
In two acts…

Translation by Dcn. Jim

Przy kościołku,
Mój aniołku,
Koronka,
Żonka,
Pieczonka.

Przy organku,
Mój B…gdanku,
Szumka
I dumka…

Przy klasztorku,
Mój kaczorku,
Świętość,
Wziętość,
Nadętość.

Przy krzyżyku
Na stoliku
Fakta,
Dwa akta…

Poetry

May 26 – The Funeral Of Captain Meyzner by Juliusz Słowacki

1

We took his poor coffin from the hospital
And had to cast it into a beggar’s pit.
There was not even one maternal tear,
Nor a gravestone above a handful of ashes.
Yesterday he was full of youth and strength —
Tomorrow there will not even be a tomb.

2

If only at the singing of the war song
There were a soldier’s rifle above his head!
That same rifle, in whose pan the shot
Fired at Belvedere is still smoking,
If only a sword in heart, or a deadly ball —
But no! — a hospital bed and gown.

3

Did he ever think, on that azure night
When all Poland clattered in arms
As he, melancholy, lay in the Carmelite coffin,
And the coffin burst at the moment of the resurrection?
As he pressed his rifle to his bosom,
Did he think that he would die thus?

4

Today the greedy, alms-taking doorkeeper came,
And old women who guard the corpses,
And opened the asylum to us,
And asked: “Do you recognize your brother —
Is he the same one who yesterday knocked about
The world with you? — Can you identify him?”

5

The coarse, bloody hospital cloth was taken from his head
With the surgeon’s autopsy scalpel.
He held his open eyes to the light,
But his face was turned from his brethren.
Then we asked the ladies to close
The coffin — for he is our brother — the deceased.

6

This wretchedness appalled us all.
One of the younger asked: “Where will they bury him?”
The hospital shrew replied to him:
“In consecrated ground, where by God’s mercy
We bury them by the hoardes
In one large pit — coffin piled upon coffin.

7

Then that youth, feeling sincere grief,
Pulled out a small gold coin
And spoke: “Sing the Miserere over him.
Let him have a small garden plot and a cross of his own.”
He hushed — and we bowed our heads
As we put a coin and our tears on the tin plate.

8

Let him have a garden — and may he thank
The Lord, that a cross above his grave tells
That he was the captain of the ninth regiment,
That a gathering of knights followed his orders,
And today he has no debts to his country —
Even though he has a grave mound of his own, purchased from alms.

9

O God! Thou who from on high
Hurls thine arrows at the defenders of the nation,
We beseech Thee, through this heap of bones!
Let the sun shine on us, at least in death!
May the daylight shine forth from heaven’s bright portals! —
Let us be seen — as we die! —

Translated by Walter Whipple

Polish Officer's Funeral - September 17, 1940

Wzięliśmy biedną trumnę ze szpitalu,
Do żebrackiego mieli rzucić dołu;
Ani łzy jednej matczynego żalu,
Ani grobowca nad garstką popiołu!
Wczora był pełny młodości i siły —”
Jutro nie będzie nawet —” i mogiły.

Gdyby przynajmniej przy rycerskiej śpiewce
Karabin jemu pod głowę żołnierski!
Ten sam karabin, w którym na panewce
Kurzy się jeszcze wystrzał belwederski,
Gdyby miecz w sercu lub śmiertelna kula —”
Lecz nie! —” szpitalne łoże i koszula!

Czy on pomyślał —” tej nocy błękitów,
Gdy Polska cała w twardej zbroi szczękła,
Gdy leżał smętnie w trumnie Karmelitów,
A trumna w chwili zmartwychwstania pękła.
Gdy swój karabin przyciskał do łona —”
Czy on pomyślał wtedy, że tak skona?!

Dziś przyszedł chciwy jałmużny odźwierny
I przyszły wiedmy, które trupów strzegą,
I otworzyli nam dom miłosierny,
I rzekli: —Brata poznajcie waszego!
Czy ten sam, który wczora się po świecie
Kołatał z wami? —” czy go poznajecie?—

I płachtę z głowy mu szpitalna zdjęto,
Nożem pośmiertnych rzeźników czerwoną;
ٹrenicę trzymał na blask odemkniętą,
Ale od braci miał twarz odwróconą;
Więceśmy rzekli wiedmom,, by zawarły
Trumnę, bo to jest nasz brat —” ten umarły.

I przeraziła nas wszystkich ta nędza,
A jeden z młodszych spytał: —Gdzież go złożą?—
Odpowiedziała mu szpitalna jędza:
—W święconej ziemi gdzie przez miłość bożą
Kładziemy poczet nasz umarłych tłumny,
W jeden ogromny dół —” na trumnach trumny—.

Więc ów młodzieniec, męki czując szczere,
Wydobył złoty jeden pieniądz drobny
I rzekł: —Zaśpiewać nad nim Miserere,
Niechaj ogródek ma im krzyż osobny…—
Zamilkł: a myśmy pochylili głowy,
فzy i grosz sypiąc na talerz cynowy.

Niech ma ogródek —” i niech się przed Panem
Pochwali tym, co krzyż na grobie gada:
Że był w dziewiątym pułku kapitanem,
Że go słuchała cała rycerzy gromada,
A dziś ojczyźnie jest niczym nie dłużny,
Chociaż osobny ma kurhan —” z jałmużny.

Ale Ty, Boże! który z wysokości
Strzały Twe rzucasz na kraju obrońce,
Błagamy Ciebie przez tę garstkę kości,
Niechaj dzień wyjdzie z jasnej niebios bramy,
Niechaj nas przecie widzą —” gdy konamy!

Poetry, , , ,

May 25 – Sir Sinclair by Edvard Storm

Sir Sinclair sail’d from the Scottish ground,
To Norroway o’er he hasted;
On Guldbrand’s rocks his grave he found,
Where his corse in its gore is wasted.

Sir Sinclair sail’d o’er the blue, blue wave,
For Swedish pay he hath sold him,
God help the Scot, for the Norsemen brave
Shall biting the grass behold him.

The moon at night shed pale its light,
The billows are gently swelling;
See a mermaid merge from the briny surge,
To Sir Sinclair evil telling.

“Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot:
Thy purpose straight abandon:
To return will not be Sir Sinclair’s lot,
Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on.”

“A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main,
Who boding ill art ever!
For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach,
Thy limbs I would dissever.”

He sail’d for a day, he sail’d for three,
With all his hired legions;
On the fourth day’s morn Sir Sinclair he
Saw Norroway’s rocky regions.

On Romsdale’s sands he quickly lands,
Himself for a foe declaring;
Him follow’d then twelve hundred men
Such evil intentions bearing.

They vex’d the people, where’er they rov’d,
With pillage and conflagration;
Nor them old age’s feebleness mov’d,
Nor the widow’s lamentation.

The child was slain at the mother’s breast,
Though it smil’d on the murderous savage:
But soon went tidings, east and west,
Of all this wo and ravage.

From neighbour to neighbour the message runs,
On the mountain blaz’d the beacon;
Into lurking-holes crept not the valley’s sons,
As the Scots perchance might reckon.

“The soldiers have follow’d the King to the war,
Ourselves must arm us, brothers!
And he who here his life will spare
Shall be damn’d as a cur by the others.”

The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom,
With axes sharp and heavy,
To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come,
On the Scots fierce war to levy.

A pass, which all men Kringe call,
By the foot of the mountain goeth;
The Lauge, wherein the Scots shall fall,
Close, close beside it floweth.

The aged shooters are taking aim,
Each gun has been call’d into duty;
The Naik his wet beard uplifts from the stream,
And with longing expects his booty.

Sir Sinclair fell the first, with a yell
His soul escap’d him for ever,
Each Scot loud cried when his leader died;
“May the Lord-God us deliver!”

“Now fierce on the dogs, ye jolly Norse-men,
To the chine strike down and cleave them!”
Then the Scots would fain be at home again,
Their vaunty spirits leave them.

Filling their craws to their hearts content
‘Midst carnage the ravens wander’d;
The Scottish maids shall long lament
The young blood on the Kringe squander’d.

Not a single man escap’d, not one,
To his landsmen to tell the story;
‘Tis a perilous thing to invade who wone
On Norroway’s mountains hoary.

A pillar still towers on that self-same spot,
Which Norraway’s foes defyeth;
To the Norman wo, whose heart glows not
When he that pillar eyeth.

Translation from Targum – Or Metrical Translations From Thirty Languages And Dialects by George Borrow. Provided under a Project Gutenberg license.

Herr Zinklar drog over salten Hav,
Til Norrig hans Cours monne stande;
Blant Gudbrands Klipper han fant sin Grav,
der vanked sí¥ blodig en Pande.
– Vel op fí¸r Dag,
de kommer vel over den Hede.

Herr Zinklar drog over Bí¸lgen blaa
For Svenske Penge at stride;
Hielpe dig Gud du visselig maa
I Gresset for Nordmanden bide.

Maanen skinner om Natten bleg,
De Vover saa sagtelig trille:
En Havfrue op av Vandet steeg
Hun spaaede Herr Zinklar ilde.

Vend om, vend om, du Skotske Mand!
Det gielder dit Liv saa fage,
Kommer du til Norrig, jeg siger for sand,
Ret aldrig du kommer tilbage.

Leed er din Sang, du giftige Trold!
Altidens du spaaer om Ulykker,
Fanger jeg dig en gang i Vold
Jeg lader dig hugge i Stykker.

Han seiled i Dage, han seiled i tre
Med alt sit hyrede Fí¸lge,
Den fierde Morgen han Norrig mon see,
Jeg vil det ikke fordí¸lge.

Ved Romsdals Kyster han styred til Land
Erklærede sig for en Fiende;
Ham fulgte fiorten hundrede Mand
Som alle havde ondt i Sinde.

De skiendte og brændte hvor de drog frem,
Al Folket monne de krænke,
Oldingens Afmakt rí¸rte ei dem,
De spottet den grædende Enke.

Barnet blev dræbt i Moderens Skií¸d,
Saa mildelig det end smiled;
Men Rygtet om denne Jammer og Ní¸d
Til Kiernen af Landet iled.

Baunen lyste og Budstikken lí¸b
Fra Grande til nærmeste Grande,
Dalens sí¸nner i skjiul ei krí¸b
Det mí¥tte Hr. Zinklar sande.

Soldaten er ude paa Kongens Tog,
Vi maae selv Landet forsvare;
Forbandet være det Niddings Drog,
Som nu sit Blod vil spare!

De Bí¸nder av Vaage, Lessí¸e og Lom,
Med skarpe í˜xer paa Nakke
I Bredebí¸igd til sammen kom,
Med Skotten vilde de snakke.

Tæt under Lide der lí¸ber en Stie,
Som man monne Kringen kalde,
Laugen skynder sig der forbi,
I den skal Fienderne falde.

Riflen hænger ei meer paa Væg,
Hist sigter graahærdede Skytte,
Ní¸kken oplí¸fter sit vaade Skiæg,
Og venter med Længsel sit Bytte.

Det fí¸rste Skud Hr. Zinklar gialdt,
Han brí¸led og opgav sin Aande;
Hver Skotte raabte, da Obersten faldt:
Gud frie os af denne Vaande!

Frem Bí¸nder! Frem I Norske Mænd!
Slaa ned, slaa ned for Fode!
Da í¸nsked sig Skotten hjem igien,
Han var ei ret lystig til Mode.

Med dí¸de Kroppe blev Kringen strí¸ed,
De Ravne fik nok at æde;
Det Ungdoms Blod, som her udflí¸d,
De Skotske Piger begræde.

Ei nogen levende Siel kom hjem,
Som kunde sin Landsmand fortælle,
Hvor farligt det er at besí¸ge dem
Der boe blandt Norriges Fielde.

End kneiser en Stí¸tte pí¥ samme Sted,
Som Norges Uvennner mon true.
Vee hver en Nordmand, som ei bliver heed,
Saa tit hans í˜ine den skue!

Poetry,

May 24 – A Prayer by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov

Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling,
Image miraculous and merciful — of thee
Not for my soul’s health nor battles waged, beseeching,
Nor yet with thanks or penitence o’erwhelming me!

Not for myself,– my heart with guilt o’erflowing —
Who in my home land e’er a stranger has remained,
No, a sinless child upon thy mercy throwing,
That thou protect her innocence unstained!

Worthy the highest bliss, with happiness O bless her!
Grant her a friend to stand unchanging at her side,
A youth of sunshine and an old age tranquil,
A spirit where together peace and hope abide.

Then, when strikes the hour her way from earth for wending,
Let her heart break at dawning or at dead of night —
From out thy highest heaven thy fairest angel sending
The fairest of all souls sustain in heavenward flight!

Russian Lyrics: Songs of Cossack, Lover, Patriot, and Peasant by Martha Dickinson Bianchi

Я, матерь божия, ныне с молитвою
Пред твоим образом, ярким сиянием,
Не о спасении, не перед битвою,
Не с благодарностью иль покаянием,

Не за свою молю душу пустынную,
За душу странника в мире безродного;
Но я вручить хочу деву невинную
Теплой заступнице мира холодного.

Окружи счастием душу достойную;
Дай ей сопутников, полных внимания,
Молодость светлую, старость покойную,
Сердцу незлобному мир упования.

Срок ли приблизится часу прощальному
Ð’ утро ли шумное, в ночь ли безгласную –
Ты восприять пошли к ложу печальному
Лучшего ангела душу прекрасную.

Poetry

May 23 – untitled by Juozas Macevičius

Airports. Hotels.
Stations. Motels.
I’m sick of searching;
Like spinning tyres,
Repetition tires.
The night’s like a huge closed cage.
Insomnia saps my nerves.
     Crazy age!
Mad rhythms!
A desperate cry tears the world,
A desperate cry:
“Enough of this whirl!” –
Somewhere between the sky
And the earth by somebody hurled.
On my lips is the bitter, stale taste of steel.
Someone still begs for love
As if for bread – still!
That begging burns mind and soul –
What you used to have – you’ve given it all,
Though maybe not quite in time.
Maybe sometimes it was out of place.
You gave it away like small change,
Scattered through space.
You look at the night;
It doesn’t get light.
Something like bell-chimes around you sounds;
In the night something pounds and pounds and pounds.
Alas! The bell doesn’t yet chime for you.
Tortured, you’ll have to search,
To repeat it all anew.
Again hotels,
Airports, motels.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

St Louis Airport

VieŁ¡bučiai. Aerouostai.
Ir stotys.
Nusibodo ie١koti.
Nusibodo kartotis.
Naktis kaip didپiulis uپdaras narvas.
Nualino nemiga ١irdĝ ir nervus.
Beproti١kas amپius. Beproti١kas ritmas.
Plė١o pasaulĝ bevilti١kas riksmas:
– Tylos ir ramybÄ—s! –
Kaپkur tarp dangaus
Ir tarp پemÄ—s pakibęs.
Ant lŁ«pٳ sustingęs aitrus plieno skonis.
Kaپkas dar maldauja
MeilÄ—s kaip duonos.
Maldavimai degina Ł¡irdį ir protą, –
Tai, ką turÄ—jai – seniai atiduota.
Galb٫t ne laiku,
Gal kartais ne vietoj
Atidavei viską
Kaip smulkią monetą.
Spoksai į naktį.
Aplinkui ne١vinta.
Kaپkur tarsi varpo skambėjimas sklinda.
Nakty aidi d٫پiai skard٫s ir skvarb٫s.
Deja,
Tai ne tau dar skambina varpas.
Reikės vėl ie١koti,
Kankintis, kartotis.
VÄ—l vieŁ¡bučiai.
Aerouostai. Ir stotys.

Poetry

May 22 – To write poetry inspired by the poetry of Jan Rybowicz

To write poetry, to know how to cry.
Crying internally – no tears, no tears.
Without angry gestures, sighing.
To cry under your smile like a sad clown.

To write poetry, to know how to die.
Imperceptibly – no complaints, no complaints.
Without angry gestures, nobly like a tree.
To vanish like a smile as peaceful as God.

To write poetry, to rise again.
As every new day to constantly rise.
As every night to persistently rise.
To write poetry – to live without end.

To live here and now, before and after.
To live before life, and after life to live.
To live while dying, and to die living.
To cry under your smile, laughing between tears.

Translation by Dcn. Jim

Pisać poezję, to znaczy płakać.
Płakać wewnętrznie – bez łez, bez łez.
Bez gniewnych gestów, pociągania nosem.
Płakać z uśmiechem tak smutnym jak klown.

Pisać poezję, to znaczy umierać.
Niepostrzeżenie – bez skarg, bez skarg.
Bez gniewnych gestów, dostojnie jak drzewo.
Niknąć z uśmiechem spokojnym jak Bóg.

Pisać poezję, to zmartwychwstawać.
Jak zmartwychwstaje nieustannie dzień.
Jak zmartwychwstaje uporczywie noc.
Pisać poezję – to bez końca żyć.

Żyć tu i teraz, i przedtem i potem.
Żyć już przed życiem, i po życiu żyć.
Żyć umierając, i umierać żyjąc.
Płakać z uśmiechem, śmiejąc się przez łzy.

Poetry

May 21 – Triolet by Tomasz Zan

XII

For whom do you wreathe the nuptial wreath
Of roses, lilies, and thyme?
Whose radiant brow shall lie beneath
The blossoms wreathed in this nuptial wreath,
Woven in Love’s warm clime?
Tears and blushes from them outbreathe.
For whom do you weave the nuptial wreath
Of roses, lilies, and thyme.

XIII

You can only bestow the wreath on one
Of roses, lilies, and thyme.
And what though another’s heart be won?
You can only bestow the wreath on one,
Can only give tears to the heart undone
That will throb to your marriage chime
When the wreath is given to the happier one
Of roses lilies and thyme.

XIV

We can love but once in life,
Once only and sincerely;
And but once feel Love’s sweet strife;
We can love but once in life.
No words with wisdom rife
Can change the matter; clearly
We can love but once in life,
Once only, and sincerely.

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

XII

Komu ślubny splatasz wieniec
Z róż, lilii i tymianka?
Ach, jak szczęśliwy młodzieniec,
Komu ślubny splatasz wieniec!
Pewnie dla twego kochanka?
Wydają łzy i rumieniec,
Komu ślubny splatasz wieniec
Z róż, lilii i tymianka.

XIII

Jednemu oddajesz wieniec
Z róż, lilii i tymianka;
Kocha cię drugi młodzieniec:
Ty jednemu oddasz wieniec;
Zostawże łzy i rumieniec
Dla nieszczęsnego kochanka,
Gdy szczęśliwy bierze wieniec
Z róż, lilii i tymianka.

XIV

Kto kocha, ten nic nie traci,
ٹle, kto się miłości wzbrania —”
Miłość słodko gorycz płaci;
Kto kocha, ten nic nie traci;
Miłość twój wdzięk ubogaci,
Będziesz godniejszą kochania —”
Kto kocha, ten nic nie traci,
ٹle, kto się miłości wzbrania.

Poetry

May 20 – An excerpt from Creation, Man and the Messiah by Henrik Wergeland

Heaven shall no more be split
after the quadrants of altars,
the earth no more be sundered and plundered
by tyrant’s sceptres.
Bloodstained crowns, executioner’s steel
torches of thralldom and pyres of sacrifice
no more shall gleam over earth.
Through the gloom of priests, through the thunder of kings,
the dawn of freedom,
bright day of truth
shines over the sky, now the roof of a temple,
and descends on earth,
who now turns into an altar
for brotherly love.
The spirits of the earth now glow
in freshened hearts.
Freedom is the heart of the spirit, Truth the spirit’s desire.
earthly spirits all
to the soil will fall
to the eternal call:
Each in own brow wears his heavenly throne.
Each in own heart wears his altar and sacrificial vessel.
Lords are all on earth, priests are all for God.

Translation from Wikipedia and unattributed.

Udvandrer over Jorden, at dyrke i Muld
     en Himmels fulde Grí¸de.
   Naar Jorden fí¸rst er í¸de, da Himmelen er fuld!
   Udvandrer over Jorden, thi Friheds Morgenrí¸de
     og Sandheds lyse Dag,
     et evigt Gjenskin af
     vor Frelsers sidste Vingeslag,
     udstrí¸mmer fra hans Grav,
   og straaler under Himlen, nu eet Tempeltag,
     neddaler over Jorden,
     nu eet, eet Altar vorden
     for Brí¸drekjærlighed.
     Aljordens Aander glí¸de
     i friske Hjerter nu:
   Frihed er Aandens Hjerte, Sandhed Aandens Hu.
     Jordens Aander alle
     ned i Stí¸vet falde,
     den Evige paakalde:
   “Hver sin Thronehimmel i egen Pande har;
   “Hver i eget Hjerte har Altar og Offerkar:
   “Drot er hver for Jorden, Præst er hver for Gud!”