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Jensuis's/Victoria'spolish poetry translation blog.

There will be no word-to-word translations. I prefer preserving the meaning, interpretation, feeling to the poem, rhythm, if possible, not the exact vocabulary. So if anyone Polish happens to stumble across my things- please, I know that the translations aren't crib. But this is not my purpose.

All translations found on this blog are amateur. But it doesn't mean they're bad ;)

If you find any grammar/ortography mistakes or clumsy idioms etc, please let me know!!



  1. Name: Sail / Everybody Wants to Rule the World
    Artist: AWOLNATION and Lorde
    Album: Song-Masher



    Mash-up of 

    • AWOLNATION Sail (Feed Me Remix)
    • Lorde Everybody Wants to Rule the World

    By Song-Masher - Downloads - Donate - Request a Mash-up!

    Sail © 2011 Red Bull RecordsEverybody Wants to Rule the World © 1985 Phonogram (UK), Mercury (US), Vertigo (CA); The Hunger Games: Catching Fire - Original Motion Picture Soundtrack © 2013 Republic Records, Mercury Records. My mash-ups are transformative works and are protected by the DMCA’s fair-use doctrine.

    Download here!

    (via dalektea)


  3. "Paramecium" by A.Bursa
(b.1932, died 1957 in Cracow) His poetry was naturalistic and really cynica.

    "Paramecium" by A.Bursa

    (b.1932, died 1957 in Cracow) His poetry was naturalistic and really cynica.

  4. Z.Herbert “Apollo i Marsjasz”/”Apollo and Marsyas”

    the proper duel between Apollo

    and Marsyas

    (perfect pitch vs

    enormous range)

    takes place just before the evening

    when as we all already know

    the judges

    awarded the god

    he is tied tightly to the tree

    precisely skinned



    before it reaches

    his high ears

    he relaxes in the shadow of that cry

    shivering with repulsion

    Apollo cleans his instrument

    only on the surface

    Maryas’ voice

    is monotonous

    and consists of only one vowel


    in fact



    countless treasures

    of his body

    bold mountais of his liver

    white gorges of nourishent

    humming woods of the lungs

    sweet hills of muscles

    joints bile blood and shivers

    winter bones wind

    over the salt of memories

    shivering with repulsion

    Apollo cleans his instrument

    now to the choirs

    joins spinal column

    basically the same A

    just deeper with a bit of rust

    this is the end of endurance

    of the god with nerves of plastics

    the winner walks away

    on the gravel alley

    boxtree on each side

    he wonders

    whether Marsyas’screams

    won’t inspire

    a new art trend

    -let’s say- a defined one


    on his feet


    a petrified nightingale

    he turns around

    and notices

    that the tree, the one Marsyas was tied to

    is gray


  5. Z.Herbert “U wrót doliny”/”at the valley’s gates”

    After the rain of stars

    on the field of ashes

    everyone gathered under the angel’s guard

    from the hill that lasted

    you could’ve watched

    bleating stocks of bipedals

    there aren’t many of them

    even when you count those who will arrive

    from cronicles fairy tales and life of saints

    but enough of pondering

    we should focus on

    the valley’s throat

    from which a scream ascends

    aftera a swish of explosion

    after a swish of silence

    this voice like spring of fresh water, beats

    this is, they explain us,

    mothers screaming when their child is separated

    cause it turned out

    we’re going to be redeemed individually

    guardian angels are ruthless

    and it has to be said, their job is hard

    she pleads-

    hide me in your eye

    in your hand in your arms

    we were together forever

    you can’t leave me right now

    when I died and need affection

    the elder angel

    explains this misunderstanding with a smile 

    an old lady carries

    a cold body of a canary

    (all the animals died earlier)

    he was so nice- she says, crying

    he understood everything

    when I was saying-

    her voice is lost in the sea of screams

    even the lubemrjack

    you wouldn’t suspect him of it

    an old hunched fellow

    presses an axe to his chest

    -the whole life she was mine

    now she will be mine, too

    she’s been feeding me there

    she will feed me here

    none has the right to

    -he says-

    I won’t give her away

    even those who at first seemed as

    without any thoughts followed the orders

    walk with their heads lowered in reconcilation

    though in squeezed hands they hold

    fragments of letters ribbons cut locks

    and photographies

    that, as they presume naively,

    won’t be taken from them

    this is how they look

    one moment before

    the ever lasting division

    into those grinding their teets

    and those praising the Lord

  6. Z.Herbert “Prometeusz”/”Prometheus”

    The old Prometheus writes diaries. 

    He tries to explain in them place of a hero in the system of necessity, 

    reconcile contradictory notions of fate and existence.

    Flames happily crack in the fireplace,

    in the kitchen his wife hustles- she’s an exalted girl

    who couldn’t give birth to a son, though she comforts herself

    she will go down in history.

    Preparations for a dinner attended by the 

    town’s rector and the pharmacist,

    closest friend of Prometheus.

    Fire in the fireplace,

    on the wall a stuffed eagle and letter of thanks from a tyrant from Caucasus

    who thanks to Prometheus’ invention

    was able to burn down a rebellious city.

    Prometheus laughs silently.

    Now it’s the only way 

    he shows disagreeent with the world.

  7. Z.Herbert “Kaligula”/”Caligula”

    While reading older cronicles, poems and bios, Mr Cogito experients

    feeling of physical presence of people who died long ago

    Says Caligula:

    from all the Rome’s citizens

    there was only one I loved

    Incitatus- a horse

    when he entered senate

    a spotless toga on his fur

    shone immaculatedly among the cowardly murderers covered in purple

    Incitatus was full of merits

    never spoke

    a stoic’s nature

    I think he read the philosophers at night at the stables

    I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him

    but his noble anatomy opposed this idea

    he indifferently accepted consul’s office

    he ruled in the best way

    meaning he didn’t rule at all

    I couldn’t persuade him into continous love affair

    with my lovely wife, Caesonia

    so the centaur line of ceasars wasn’t born

    this is why Rome had fallen

    I decided to designate him as a god

    though at the nine day before the February calends

    Cherea Cornelius Sabinus and other fools interrupted these godly intentions

    he calmly accepted my death as a fact

    they threw him out the palace and banished

    he bore this blow with dignity

    he died childless

    stabbed by a harsh butcher from a town called Anzio

    Tacitus remains silent

    about the posthumous lot of his meat

  8. Z.Herbert “Deszcz”.”rain”


    When my older brother 

    came back from the war

    he wore a silver star on his forehead

    and under the star


    a fragment of a bomshell

    hit him at Verdun

    or Grunwald

    (he can’t exactly remember)

    he talked much

    in many languages

    though the one he liked the most

    was the language of the history

    until breathless moments

    he raised fallen comrades from the ground

    his friends- Rolland Feliksiak Hannibal

    he cried

    that this is the last crusade

    that soon Carthage will fall

    and then between sobs he confessed

    that Napoleon doesn’t like him

    we watched

    as he paled

    senses lost to him

    he slowly turned into statue

    into musical shells of ears

    spread stony forest

    skin of his face

    was fastened

    with two blind and dry

    buttons of his eyes

    the only thing left was the

    sense of touch

    and what stories

    he told with his hands

    in the right one he had romances

    in the left memories of a soldier

    they took my brother

    and removed him outside of a city

    he comes back every fall

    thin and silent

    he doesn’t want to go inside

    knocks on my window so I go out

    we walk on the streets

    and he tells me 

    tall stories

    touching the face

    with blind fingers of tears

  9. Z.Herbert “Przesłuchanie anioła”/ Angel’s interrogation

    Zbigniew Herbert 

    Angel’s interrogation

    When he stands before them

    in the shadow of suspicion

    he is still weaved

    from the matter of light

    eons of his hair

    are pinned into 

    a curl of innocence

    after the first question

    his cheeks fill with blood

    tools and interrogation

    distribute the blood

    with iron with cane

    with fire so hot

    they define the border

    of his body

    blows on his back

    strenghten his spine

    between the cloud and a puddle

    after few nights

    their work is done

    angel’s throat

    is full of wet agreement

    and how beautiful is this moment

    when he falls onto his knees

    embodiment of guild

    saturated with meaning

    his tongue falters 

    between knocked out teeth

    and the confession

    they hang him his head to the floor

    from angel’s hair

    drops of wax drip down

    creating on the ground

    a simple prophecy

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