Tell Me A Tragic Love Story

Poem By Roxanne Dubarry

Of A Golden Bird With Black Wings

Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

Time to sing here
in the valleys your tunes now long unsung, oh oriole,
for over there evening frost has to the tree tops
clung and a chilly ray sleeps tired after so long winter.
So, you must wake it up now
with a serenade, so that from the fringes of the sky
it can rebound at the hour of dawn.
Sing of yourself! And I?
I will listen, when you have begun, how a nest of avian love is spun
how my homeland to admire in every season and how to enjoy
the sunset and the sunrise on the following day and praise the weather.
Rain in full sun? - for a rainbow to show up it is a reason.
And how am I? Oh, oriole…
As before - an idyll you might say. Only the graves are more.
So sing a lullaby into the sky and keep to the tune
- with firsthand notes. And I?
I will weep like a man - soundlessly, so as not to suppress
The mothers who caress…

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 3/26/2003

Oriole's Songs

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/19/2019

Darkness has swept, under the wings of harps,
beautiful oriole's singing
- letting into the hall of belated complaints
affectionate goodbyes,
to dash through the night as an echo - till dawn:
making a magic circle,
to climb the leaves of the trees to the very top
And bringing down idyllic
courtship singing into the fir-tree shade
- to hit with the sun's beam
waking up both song and day.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001

Praise And Eternal Glory Be To Thee, O Great Poland!

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 6/19/2019

Winter will go away, though it is beautiful
And dreadful in her white robe,
Like death on a face that has turned white
Like the roar of a stream when the ice cracks,
And the rapids of the water are penetrating the rock
- Drop after drop creates veins,
So that post-hibernation survivors
could return with spring:
Hedgehogs, hamsters, bats
And the most beautiful of Polish plants
- Willow from the pond so that from the offshoots
to be able to carry in sacrifice for the Easter.
And the weeping one, growing somewhere
on the big city boulevards,
And the one where the river is barely flowing
Under which the love of the first confessions
Nightingale on the second - night shift
confesses in the songs to his beloved lady,
And this everlasting affection
compels me to write for them
that Poland is Great!
And praise and eternal
glory be to Thee, O Great Poland!

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 1/23/2019

Pinus Silvestris

Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

If rescued be from the seclusion of the wood
Or from their crown as if upon the scaffold cut
The boughs now in the kitchen burn as burn they should
One of the many kids dream-rocking in the hut.
Conjoined in unity behind the wooden fence
Helipterum roseum in a carved-out vase
And resin that on a balmy petal does condense
And a nomad that returns stooped in a bow so base.
Over the fields the sound of Easter rattles flows
As if all needles started suddenly to chime
Those storms and havens this here wanderer well knows
And will recall to mend his wind-torn sails on time.
And so the common one in a common state does serve
From birth until the day it dies and loses verve.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 12/28/2005

Question Unanswered

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 2/10/2019

Sir, I don't want to live in a big city,
I don't want noise and crowds, I prefer by the stream
to look for measures where water flows down these stairs,
where the end meets the end, where it is so quiet in the forest
that you can understand wordlessness literally:
what the beech trees rustle about that is God's will,
what is complex and what for, when they travel at night,
star luminous swarms towards foggy mornings,
the smell of flowers in the breeze flies into the horizon,
although it's far to the sea, but on the wave
to swim like a leaf, to search and to find - unreachable distances,
and to reach this Treasury to be able to count
what is concealed in Faith - Man - will I believe
when deaf to warnings imperfection he'll find?
It is not for me to judge, after all, I'm with a human chain
attached, powerless and I am also often wrong,
although I wish I could know - if I certainly cut my coat
according to my cloth - and how to roll a block,
which from clay will change into dust, becoming Existence?

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 12/4/2018

Rainbow Of Tomorrow

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/4/2019

It's mushrooms time - boatloads in the meadows,
So let's take the baskets and go.
The effort will not be in vain...
But let one remain

And grows big like a house
Protecting his children,
so that they could live through darker times
- Before the sun shines again

And it'll carry a miracle in its arms
Collected along with rain's drops,
And the mycelium will scatter a new breed,
into the grass' velvet soft.

And when the arch crowns the horizons
- a semicircle of rainbow shall rise
and will turn rain into a colorful column,
From Heaven down to distant earth!

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001


Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 5/30/2019

And here's the photo: a willow that does not cry
a pond in which poverty is looking at herself like a man
hair like thatch on this tawny-colored head
and a grasshopper that does not jump anymore

because everything seems dead but I have the key
for opening the world of old photographs
and I know that it could have been or have happened
and the truth about this photo will also not be wandering

a small boy walked down a country road
he looked into the empty windows of the taciturn earthworms
he talked about himself but did not ask about anything
and he probably wanted to know how they can live here this way

or maybe he wanted to understand as they
that a fieldfare can be waiting just above their home
that one must pass away one day or to die like an animal
that there will be only unknowns along the way

on one side rye higher by two inches
on the other reddish-gold wheat from the heat
bent into a funny bow a caterpillar with no legs
toward her destiny is moving stubbornly

and when he outgrew the grains he went amongst people
and he talked about this nearby land
and they replied that this tale
they know from the cinema
and such a story is just boring,

so he returned to the roots. And he said: "Mother,
I've lost my happiness and would like to find it anew."
And mother, as mothers do, advised him to knock
on wood, so that things wouldn't be too easy.

Copyright © by Wieslaw Musialowski 6/9/2008

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