(Today childhood came to me unraveling)
There used to be drawers full of grandma’s keys –
rusty and shiny –
thick, thin –
you could whistle all kinds of songs on them.
Some had the din of heavy bumblebees
some the rumble of a mermaid’s throat,
but most were ones that whissstled high
finnnely – slighttttly
in sillllence,
like mice.
Quick, steely, sonorous, they beat against one another,
the keys to nonexistent, lost, non-doors;
sometimes red from rust,
sometimes mildew green.
(Today childhood came to me in the impossibility of dreaming in sleep)
And then I found the door for the lost key,
because every hour of life had a heavy latch,
and every day had its unlocked intricacy –
lost somewhere a bunch
of mystical keys
upon which I whistled naive ditties –
tiny, maudlin songs – –
(Today childhood came to me unraveling,
(Today childhood came to me in the impossibility of dreaming in sleep)
2 March 1933
Translated from the Polish by Alex Braslavsky
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.