17th - 22nd October 2013

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Bartłomiej Majzel

 

Bartek Majzel
Bartłomiej Majzel was born in 1974 and lives in Katowice, where he works as an organizer of the annual arts and literature festival. He is a world traveller of some renown and has traversed on foot much of the Gobi desert. A bench in his honour is to be erected somewhere in the Sahara.

His publications include:

Zabraknie nam krwi (We'll be Short of Blood) 1992
Robaczywošć (Vermination) (Bydgoszcz: Šwiadectwo, 1997)
Bieg zjazdowy (Downhill Race) (Kraków: Studium,2001)
Biała Afryka (White Africa) 2006
Doba Hotelowa (Staying in a Hotel for a Day) 2009
His new book called Terror will be published next year.
He received the Literature AwardNagroda IV Kolum Poetyckich for transgressing the horizons in poetry.
His poems have been translated into English, German, Swedish, Czech, Slovenian, Slovakian, Bulgarian, Spanish, Serbian.

He works as an organizer of the annual arts and literature festival as well as being a presenter of radio programmes about music and culture. He is a world traveller of some renown and has traversed on foot much of the Gobi desert. A bench in his honour is to be erected somewhere in the Sahara.

 

 

Wyprawa po jabłka

prosto w mur. dwieście na godzinę. 
to będzie gwiazda polarna. może katastrofa. 
różowa skóra potrzaska się jak rozsypane szkiełka. 
a skrawek materiału zatrzepocze jak motyl.
nad głowami zawiśnie jaskrawa poświata. 
łuna tak czysta że pewnie nie dla nas. 
lecz jak już iść to biec. prosto 
bo w murze zrobiłem anioła.
ty jesteś moim przezroczystym tłem 
uderzę w nie jak w źrenicę uderzają oświetlone 
miasta. kiedy radość umiera nikt nie przynosi 
krewnym czarnych kwiatów. źrenica otwarta jak
brama jest niewrażliwa jak guzik. 
to był ciężki dzień. zacisnę powieki aby 
odpocząć. trzeba wreszcie zrobić coś dla życia. 
w to wielobarwne święto 
w dzień powszedni albo ostateczny.


 
 

Scrumping

straight into the wall, at 125 mph.
this will be the pole star, maybe a collision,
pink skin will be ground up like spilled crystals,
and one scrap of cloth will dance like a butterfly.

a bright glow will hang overhead,
a luminosity too much for us to bear,
if it fades we should run straight ahead
creating angels in the wall like me.

you are my see-through background,
which I'll hit as the pupil is hit by cities
alight, when joy dies no one gives
the family black flowers, the pupil open as

a gate is unfeeling as a button.
it's been a hard day. I'll screw my eyes up tight
to rest, in the end, we have to find a way to live.
on polychromatic feast days.
or weekdays, or the Last Days.


Translated by Piotr Szymor and Rod Mengham.

 


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