Poems Written in San Francisco and California

 BETWEEN    1982-1991 by Adam Lizakowski

All poems are translated from Polish  by Adrian Wisnicki.

Adrian S. Wisnicki is Assistant Professor of Nineteenth-Century British Literature at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and directs The David Livingstone Spectral Imaging Project, an international effort to use spectral imaging technology to make available faded, illegible texts produced by the Victorian explorer of Africa. Specialties are nineteenth-century British literature, colonial and postcolonial literature, and the digital humanities. Wisnicki’s publications include a monograph, Conspiracy, Revolution, and Terrorism from Victorian Fiction to the Modern Novel (2008), published by Routledge, and articles in Victorian Studies, Victorian Literature and Culture, Studies in Travel Writing, History in Africa, and the Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History. Research projects have been funded by grants from the U.S. National Endowment for the Humanities and the British Academy. The poems here were translated by Wisnicki in 2000 and come from an unpublished collection titled “Adam Lizakowski, Selected Poems 1982-1999.”

 

Table of contents

1.      My Poems

2.      San Francisco

3.      Who Wake Me Up this Morning

4.      American Poets

5.      Z Pieszyc do San Francisco

6.      Elegy for a Car

7.      Arriving in San Francisco

8.      Baja California

9.      Tijuana

10.    Charles Bukowski

11.    Milosz

12.    Joseph Brodsky

My Poems

My poems are born

inside of me,

beneath my liver, heart, lungs.

I let strangers peek

beneath the skin of my thoughts, dreams,

poetic integrity and pride.

It is neither comfortable nor ethical,

but shameful and embarrassing; I yell, Look!

It hurts right here, give me medicine!

My poems are a suicide

cyanide tablet,

formula for perfect tragedy,

I hate them because they’re so close to me

inside me, I can’t pounce on them,

break their neck.

San Francisco

San Francisco, sly fox

hidden behind the corner of the bay

with its extended paw of the peninsula.

Had there been a cherry orchard here

surrounded by the biggest fence, patrolled by dogs

the aroma of ripening cherry trees

would fill the air

a bumblebee weaving among them with its

bzz . . . bzz . . . bzz. . . .

But there is no cherry orchard, just hills, foothills

overgrown with wooden houses,

streets arranged both parallel and perpendicular

to the horizon’s line, to the ocean’s edge.

The dome of the Civic Center recalls

an elegant pastry, cherry-topped

the Modern Museum, the Public Library

Roman baths,

the Symphony and Opera halls

take the shape of cosmic pigeon cages.

Neither the cliffs nor the water,

neither the Pacific-pounded shores

nor the beautiful Victorian houses,

not even the Golden Gate Park

where now a hummingbird flits among the flowers,

the unemployed cricket gives free concerts-

neither the grass chanting ancient Indian songs

like a chorus,

nothing

nothing here reminds me of the aroma

of cherry trees in bloom.

The tourists pass by oblivious

(along Powell Street and Market Street or Union Square)

as their eyes count their vanishing dollars;

the dozing vagrants take little interest.

Five black men with cubist faces

as in a Picasso painting

strain over exotic drums and congas

(whose names I never learned) and sing the blues. . . .

To love you, baby, is like smoking two packs a day,

That is to say, I hate myself because I love you, baby,

It’s the end of November, I’m off to New Orleans, baby

I’m gonna find another baby, baby . . . O baby!

How did I ever get here?

There, in just a few weeks, the cherry trees will bloom,

April and May quickly pass, June’s coming to an end

and the sun blackens the cherries, spills their violet juice

as the best and sweetest cherries drop to the earth

where pale, swollen bugs assail them, drain them-

ideal vision of the universe

armies of ants attacking the sweet pulp

discarding only the pits-the spirits of the cherries

which just next spring will plunge, unravel their roots-

a machinery so precise

that no wire can melt,

no system malfunction or short-circuit.

Who Woke Me Up This Morning?

not the idea of revolution or anarchy

not an earthquake or fire

not a nightmare or return to the old country

not my drunken roommate from Warsaw

but the garbage men

three young Italians shouting to each other

in their sonorous tongue

three boys (arrows in the girls heart)

from Palermo, Naples or Venice

who came to San Francisco to earn a few dollars

born in the Republic of Dreams

imagined by poets and painters

architects and sculptors

opera singers

clamorously they drag the shiny dumpsters

full of garbage

towards the dump truck

which awaits them with the patience of a mother

here by the curb

the whole street awakes

the Irish brothers cursing because they were up till two

drinking beer in a bar

the Asians furious because they work two jobs

and need their sleep

and I promise myself

never again to rent a room with windows

facing the street-

in short, we all envy those Italians

their well-paying job

American Poets

The American poets I know

remind me of a giant

prehistoric bird

who still has claws and scales

is too heavy to get off the ground

or perch on a branch

but stubbornly gazes into the sky

and studies his reflection in the stars.

The American poets I know

like music from the 60s and 70s

Bob Dylan, the Beatles, the Stones, Joplin

Hendrix, Led Zeppelin,

smoke marijuana, drink beer

write poems about Vietnam

use titles like “‘67,” “‘68”

despise politicians

and can’t stand New-Age music.

The American poets I know

read French poetry

nineteenth-century poets, Whitman

Dostoyevsky, Albert Camus

Poe, Ginsberg

letters to the young Rilke

Blake, Eliot, etc.

The American poets I know

can’t tell me

why there’s no poetry, any poetry

in Newsweek, Time, People, the New York Times

Washington Post, Playboy, San Francisco Examiner

USA today, Penthouse, etc.

The American poets I know

won’t tell me

why their pictures aren’t

on the front pages, or any of the pages

of the above-named newspapers

though there’s pictures of the Pope

politicians, presidents, naked women

sports stars, spies, astronauts

rock and movie stars

communists, murderers

Pepsi cola and hamburgers.

The American poets I know

live in San Francisco

a city where there’s 4.5 poets per square yard,

when these poets write

they paint their faces in bright colors

wear leather, carry mace

and charge out for the hunt:

the poetry they hunt is a wild animal

which you never feed or even touch

but which has lived in America

since the end of the third ice-age.

From Pieszyc to San Francisco

The rhyme “quite close” jumps to my lips.

The rhyme and the truth.

It depends on what end of the bed I’m sitting on.

>From the left end (near the window)

            I see the tree-tops in the park

and the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge.

At the right end  (near the closet)

            I keep my personal belongings:

I’m in Pieszyce-

it takes no imagination or great effort,

I just need to remember which end of the bed it is.

When I sleep my feet are in San Francisco (reality),

my head in Pieszyce (dreams).

I never write home (I’ve nothing to write about),

I don’t send money (I don’t have any)

for tractors, cars, houses, building materials, etc.

I can’t imagine what it’s like

to have a video tape of your family,

or to call them on the phone twice a month-

what kind of immigration is that, what kind of immigrant?

I take little interest in my family, i.e.

who died, who was born, who’s sleeping with whom,

is there a child, etc.

who’s arguing with whom, who likes whom, etc.

I’m an old-fashioned immigrant. I suffer alone,

I don’t complain, sometimes the old country’s my “beloved,”

sometimes a ”slut.” I prefer books over other immigrants,

I love poetry more than myself.

My room is small, if I have company they sit

on the 21 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica,

7 volumes per behind (I never have over three guests)

and besides, you learn the most

when you’re sitting down.

But I never let anyone sit on my bed-

my bed’s the meeting place of two Caesars,

two ideas, two continents, two cultures,

two religions, two borders, two civilizations,

water and earth, reality and dreams.

Elegy for a Car

You’ve passed away!

you who were my friend for so long.

You’ve passed away!

and the thought that you’re not among the living

draws my tears.

Once more I repeat-you’ve passed away,

as if I didn’t believe it.

I knew so little about you,

about your heart, your desires.

Men created the pain of the soul, of the body-

            but what pain did you feel?

Now, when I think of how you coughed, how you strained

just to bring me happiness,

I imagine the love you must have had;

I, of course, fell in love with you at first sight,

you were the source of my wild ideas of freedom,

in you I placed my hopes as I drove to work late at night,

you alone knew my thoughts,

remembered our talks in San Francisco

so marked by fervor and love,

and to me you were the last token of those

California days filled with pride and promise.

With you I slept beneath the dark sky of Nevada

in the desert thinking of Jesus,

you were the companion of my meditations

on the meaning of man’s life here on Earth

at the shores of Utah’s salt lake,

you were the witness at my wedding,

and I loved you with my purest and deepest self,

believe me, I loved you,

on vacation in Poland

I thought of you, I needed you

my beloved car, dearest friend.

Today is your funeral. . . .

I valued your intelligence,

your knack for silence, for filling your mouth with water,

for leading me to hiding places known only to you

and me, your unique attachment to me.

I never gave you flowers

though I loved you-what do these words mean now

in the face of death? Those were carefree years

of laughter, of breakneck speeds

down Highway 101 to Santa Cruz;

inside your hull I felt safe

though I myself was formed of bones and flimsy skin,

of eyes blue like the sky-

I put two fingers on the steering wheel

and the aroma of blooming eucalyptus flowers filled our bodies . . .

You’ve passed away!

May the vultures hands of men-of mechanics

ripping your body to pieces, be gentle with you.

Believe me, I regret

that I didn’t spend more time with you.

Sleep well-some day we’ll meet again

in a better world, only you and I

on the celestial highway

in a kingdom of God free from traffic fines.

Arriving in San Francisco

for the author of “Sailing to Byzantium”

This is the country for the young. Immigrants from the world over

crammed into small rooms, surviving only on what is still to come

like a bird set upon a bough, they chant songs of the sunrise

praising what has already begun, but hasn’t yet become.

San Francisco needs hands for labor, the hands need work

the stomachs food, the capitalists capital, the banks money,

the thirsty water, the unlucky luck, the singers songs-

every hour California yearns to grant your wishes.

Through the Rocky Mountains, across the oceans

            of grass and water it hears

the heartbeats, the sighs of lovers, of the brave,

it sees shriveled hands reaching for what is most in abundance,

it hears the sad, needy voices that call its name.

Arriving in San Francisco is a glimpse (easy on the eyes)

of hills, of the fragrant ocean of women’s hair, sweet bodies-

in your mouth another taste, in your eyes another view,

but your heart isn’t fooled: this country is for the beautiful, the young.

Like dreams near the morning, the echo among the hills repeats

the words of your predecessors, they greet you vigorously,

you’re convinced that you too deserve something, of course,

an empty apartment, a shield from the blows of a life all too eager . . .

In four colors: green for hope, red for love,

black for the chance to hide in solitude from the world,

gold for gold, as well as envy for everyone

that reads the future in seaweed, in ocean waves.


Baja California

The long-awaited trip south to Mexico

to Ensenada through Los Angeles, San Diego, Tijuana

came true like a long-awaited prophesy

the color of the sky merged with the color of the ocean,

the wind with desert sand, English with Spanish

the granite cliffs of the shore broke

the foaming manes of ocean waves, the water nestling

on the rocky shelves like delicacies saved for winter

giant gulls soared across the azure plunging

their wings into my imagination,

nature, swaying in the sighs of the wind

restored a dream long-ago forgotten

we scaled the cliffs like fish
discarded by the ocean’s powerful fantasies

walked the flat open spaces like proud dancers

along sumptuously adorned tables,

the ocean whispered, the wind chanted, we ate sandwiches,

I dreamed of vanished Indian civilizations, saw that nothing

had changed since the Spanish invasions,

            not even the color of the grass . . .

my muses yet live in the heights of Helikon,

Parnassus, Pindus, still enjoy mountains, streams, history,

gaze into the sky, adore music, sing:

I didn’t expect anything, didn’t count on anything

knowing how brittle are man’s bones

how little his brain matters like credit card

numbers, passport numbers, license plates, the address

of the house where you live-here but the ocean, the beach,

high rocky cliffs teach man humility,

the water and the rock beauty, the sky and the bird dreams,

a few hours away from home, a few hours in the car

were enough to understand that all we achieved

was but a lonely shell on a beach, that a crab hidden

in a rocky gulf, swaying with the water,

could asses the strength of our bodies.

Baja California, kingdom of Poseidon,

a name unknown to the Indians,

striking terror with the sea and the earth,

rain-giver to the plants and animals

swam to me then in a dolphin’s silence

struck my heart with his trident, evoking song.

Tijuana

A girl’s name, name of a city or river

yet an army of soldiers camped at the border,

Tijuana appears like a rock basking its face

in the Mexican sun, aimed towards the States

great city of a million inhabitants, their legs of rock

ready each moment to hit the road north . . .

faces of rock, chiseled Aztec, Mayan, Tarachuman

televisions, big water-filled plastic containers at their feet

they sit on the cement bank, gaze towards the border

beyond which lies San Diego,

nourishing mother-goat of the hungry,

animal who’s ravished their hopes but still offers some sustenance

poised in the valley and on the hills, a step from paradise . . .

it takes but a moment of luck to sail

the great concrete channel of the Tijuana river

(another Berlin Wall between the poor and the rich,

navigable only by night) and fulfill their dreams,

pass unnoticed-non-existent-into bliss,

be night or fog, cross the border

in the wind’s disguise, as desert sand,

become everything-or at least no more a Mexican,

chiseled face that the American guards fish at ease

from the tourist river flowing north along the highway . . .

they camp on the cement bank, await their chance

as the Greek army at Troy they have time-a year, five, ten

something must come as long ago the gods foretold;

tense and eager for war, a better life

they bask in the sun, faces growing even more brown

eyes olive in color, wings sprouting at their feet

slowly from men, conquered people, prisoners, nomads

they become soldiers of hope

to whom indifference and insomnia are sisters,

recall the crafty Odysseus

in beggar’s rags, set to fool the Americans

play the trick and inside the Trojan horse

(a big truck bound for Chicago) pass

to the other side of the city’s, the country’s wall

now under attack for so many years,

Troy still defending itself . . . a big wooden horse.

Charles Bukowski

The man, enigmatic descendant of Silenius

rode the donkey of poetry through the gorges of Los Angeles

was often detained by Satyrs

at the time of the war with the Giants of the Everyday,

fought for the victory of Bacchus

his resonant voice verging towards war-cry,

after the war moved to San Pedro

eagerly smoked cigarettes for many years

at times became quite restless

felt fear, intense loneliness, started to travel

through the ravines and valleys of Los Angeles,

among the howling of the winds and people, the ocean’s singing

he never heard the voice of an angel,

saw only donkey-eared men, hearts like Silenius

an ocean vast as the sky and Los Angeles angel-filled,

understood that man is but a small casket stuffed

with various things, one shake and you’ll hear

the music of bones, murmur of blood,

grinding of thoughts, the color of hope

dropping to the ground, mixing with ashes . . .

what happened to those times, Charles, when gorged with desire

you raced to the ocean, that great kingdom

one plunge, one moment beneath the water sufficing

to merge yourself with it forever

though, of course, once there you couldn’t smoke

turned instead to harbor bars and hookers

goddesses of life spawned not from ocean foam, but beer?

Now, my life careening between two rails at the California

shore, I salute you from the place where I too

have turned up chasing my Medusas, that is, my Perseus.

Milosz

He could be a mountain waterfall, or ocean

never a desert nor waste land

a giant Jagiello oak* in whose shade

the tired traveler will always find rest,

seize bubbles of life-giving oxygen from the air

and breathe poetry in their place-his words are seeds

which grow inside the reader, mature, bloom . . .

the corn-fields sway awaiting the reaper’s hand,

he is the moon which turns the tides

as beautiful women toss in restless sleep,

the angel with large bushy eyebrows

shaped like the wings of a bird, frightened

at mid-night from its nest, to which it will never again

return, though he still remembers the aroma of the grass,

apples, the pale-white of rooms, shapes of houses, lakes, rivers . . .

he is the Lithuanian bear, half his life spent

as a resident in the beautiful city of Berkeley

in wondrous California, on Grizzly Bear Hill

where he never growls but sings

that no one has earned our envy, sings of hummingbirds,

of honeysuckle, women’s bottoms,

poor Christians watching the ghetto in flames,

of cities where he’ll never return, sings to you and to me.

But what does Milosz mean to me?

a thousand times I’ve asked myself-

a mother who feeds me, a bright shapely breast

streaked by thin blue veins,

whose life-giving milk I drink in the Chicago heat.

And what does his poetry signify in my life?

Is it a round-trip ticket for distant countries,

for tropical rain forests, northern woods where

a flamboyant, colorful singer jumps from branch to branch,

chanting a song of ancient forests, rivers

whose sands grow warm in the sun

as boulders, with the ease of a butterfly, soar

into the distant galaxies where time flows vertically?

Milosz-muse living in the shade of the Eucalyptus trees

with a view of the San Francisco Bay,
in a city the size of an ant

whose lights reflect in the water like clouds,

a poet true to the ideals of his youth,

straining to hear the sounds of the cricket, looking

into the brightly-burning eyes of the cars . . .

            what is he thinking about?

In 1990 I asked him, at a dinner of vodka and herrings,

the sun had already drowned in the Bay, and night

painted the tips of the Golden Gate Bridge ink black;

“Oh, Mr Adam,” he sighed, “if I could only live to be

a hundred, then once more turn the meter back to zero.”

 Jagiello oak. Wladyslaw Jagiello (1351-1434), a king of Poland,
was famous for  planting oaks throughout the country.

Joseph Brodsky returns to Russia

In the span of one day

I sold two books of Brodski’s poems

which had been on my store’s shelf for many months,

yet I never realized

that the poet’s death had helped me sell the books.

                              The Russian poet and immigrant, who for many years had lived

                               in that hub of freedom, Greenwich Village,

                              among artists and homosexuals, has passed away-

the old rabbit who once fled the ubiquitous

hunting dogs of the worker’s union

from the statue of Peter I in Leningrad

to the Jefferson Market Courthouse in New York.

As a boy of seven, he already knew many of life’s truths-

that deceit is more useful than algebra,

that even three brilliant communists really aren’t so smart,

that poetic talent is a gift from God.

Since the old days, his life at stake,
he’d played chess against Death

yet Death caught him off-guard,

sent an icy telegram to Russia

where, in short, the after-life is beautiful;

the homeland is the homeland (even when not beloved)

and now, with obituaries written in Roman type,

America bids him farewell

while Russia greets the poet in Cyrillic:

Joseph Brodsky returns to Russia, his true home. . . .

words uttered by the lips of young poets-

in the midst of political upheaval

the black notices appearing in the most popular newspapers;

the immigrant’s journey has come full circle,

and in Saint Petersburg someone with a beautiful name

goes out for a walk, wanting to reminisce a little

to consider the future:

now it’s certain, Joseph will stay here forever,

never again able to leave.
 I have met Joseph Brodsky a few times in San Francisco
and Berkeley at the poetry readings and literary events.