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  • Ewa Lipska: A Selection of Poems
  • Translated by Robin Davidson (bio) and Ewa Elżbieta Nowakowska (bio)

From 1999

The Smells of Evil

Let them hate, as long as they fear. — from the tragedy Atreus, by Lucius Accius

The secret agent of order. He would like most to sue the chaos of uncertainty.

He places a teaspoon of obligatory jam into the mouth of a child. The assimilated taste is passed from mouth to mouth.

The univocal believer has mastered to perfection the smells of evil. [End Page 569] The valedictorian of the unenlightened star gazing at the sky of hypocrisy.

Bound, however, to the black sect of night when he is haunted by the widow of good deeds who treacherously offers him a sensual coup d’état. [End Page 570]

From Pet Shops (2001)

Calvin

A slim one. And shy. Little sleep. Headaches. He was afraid of fear.

He lived in an age of crime tourism. Letters of suspects. Arrests. Executions.

A good time for pyromaniacs. During processions on six sites of meditation stakes of burning convicts.

Inexhaustible avenues of treason.

The year 1535. In Paris. His room was meticulously searched. Papers confiscated. Correspondence.

He’s the author of a treatise on the dream of the soul.

In Catholics he discerns Satan’s audacity. To top it all bubonic plague. Famine.

The year 1541. Return to Geneva. Mutual provocations. Fanatical hatred.

Terror yapping in the streets.

Religion doesn’t save him. A utopian vision of eternity. He weakens. Weakens more and more.

A dry landscape. A red trickle of light. Echo of evil.

He weakens. Weakens more and more. He dies. Converted into sin. [End Page 571]

From Elsewhere (2005)

Monument

A monument. Sympathy on sale. Memory stoned to death on which children on a school trip sit pulling out hunger sandwiches.

A minute’s cooing of lurking pigeons.

The fear of concrete the kitsch of death and the loneliness of victims. [End Page 572]

From Newton’s Orange (2007)

Newton’s Orange

1. I marvel at the debut of new political systems. The casual elegance of Armani.

Pneumonia wrapped in a shawl of grass. The latest thing in democracy.

A line of red mouths. Love cheering.

On the catwalk dead models. Railroad tracks of makeup smudged by the impressionists.

Now everything has become clearer. God has admitted to being only human.

Under the gray slice of a cloud a dud bill of exchanges.

On the screen the unimpeded motion of the centuries.

They already were. We are now. You are yet to be.

We are now.

In the place of Eden stands a city. A cluster of blocks of flats graze on stony meadows.

A yellow tennis ball hits its mark at the light’s center.

You are yet to be.

We will make room for you in the orphaned future.

We leave behind a moderately healthy garden. Caravaggio’s The Supper at Emmaus. [End Page 573]

Take note of the figure of the innkeeper. Of rotten apples. Figs. Pomegranates.

They already were. We are now. You are yet to be.

2. I open the door to my books. Leaves fall out.

On this billiard ball of earth so much has happened.

The novel of humanity swells. Bloated chapters of streets by Giorgio de Chirico. The imagination’s tireless engine.

MacHamlet’s onstage. Self-service theater. “Poor Yorick.” Monosodium glutamate.

Witnesses of history from a nearby fast food joint. Farewell to Ophelias made of preservatives. Chips of fear carried by a gust of wind.

3. Everything was supposed to be different. Then on the bridge you swore on a rainbow. The future had an eternity’s guarantee.

We planned life bent over a topographical map. Breath to breath. Green dust the color of passion.

At this time an illiterate was already reading Mein Kampf. Sparks flew with a scream.

Now everything has become clearer.

God has admitted to being only human. [End Page 574]

On billboards the hunt for miracles. Jesus del Pozo perfume flowing into the sea.

I read my lover carefully. I recall a memory with its finest details.

A dream did not wait for us. We forget that there is no us.

I go out...

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