Krys   


 
Podgorski

"There are words after which I do not dare to put a comma.
There are falls after which I can not rise again.
These two simple facts of my life make it pound forth and back between unskilful punctuation
and awkward crawling.
".

 

           
Krys Podgorski,
born in Poland, educated there as a mathematician. Moved to the United States and received another Ph.D. in Statistics at Michigan State University.

In most recent years lived in Indianapolis and worked as a professor of mathematics at Indiana University - Purdue University Indianapolis.

He believes that being creative is the only way for any individual to escape slavery of the society, the later being the worst enemy of a true human being. Not that he thinks of him being successful in the effort.

Writes short forms for which he has a common term "stories of moments''.

_______________________

1.
There are words
2. Creation,  3. Words, tongue, autumn
4. in between,  5. Dispersed Things,  6. Medusa,
7. Dreams - something nice, 8. Two women of an unusual beauty talking softly and quietly,
9. The Eloquence of the sex, 10. Love, 11. Swirling


see shows


There are words
 

There are WORDS
 ...after which
 I do not dare to put a coma.

 There are falls
 after which I can not rise again,

 These two simple facts of my life
 make it pounding forth and back between
 unskilful punctuation and awkward
crawling
             

Creation
 


 
CREATION
 
AFTER SEVERAL CHAOTIC, SENSELESS, DISTRESSFUL ATTEMPTS OF WRITING,
 WHEN EVERY TIME THE SENTENCES WERE PLOTTING THE HORRIBLE PARABLES,
 BURNING WITH CRUELTY, DRIPPING WITH VULGARITY, RATTLING WITH IMPATIENCE,
 MORBIDLY DEVELOPING MORE AND MORE
DEGENERATING IN THEIR TANGLED COMPLEXES,

 IN ORDER TO - AT THE END  "ENOUGH", FIND ITSELF AMONG WRITTEN PAGES WAITING FOR  A TIME,
 
WHEN THE COMPOSURE WILL SUBSTITUTE MY NERVOUS ANTICIPATION,
 
AND MY PATIENCE WILL EQUAL THE  IMAGINATION,
 MUMBLING CHAOTICALLY WITHIN WRITTEN SENTENCES.

 FINALLY I STARTED  A FEARFUL DELIBERATION WHETHER  I'LL BE ABLE TO BUILD THE STORIES
 BY MEANS OF SENTENCES ... WHENEVER.


 
AFTER ALL THESE MOMENTS SPENT IN THE SPACE BETWEEN BEING,
 TOUCHING, DREAMING AND TRAVELLING,
 WHERE THE NOVELTY OF PLACES WAS CONSTANTLY DISTURBING MY EQUILIBRIUM, 
 WHICH AS A RESULT LANDED SOMEWHERE, WHERE ITS SENSE LOST THE REASON OF MEANING,
 AND AT THE END  WAS LOST FOREVER, LEAVING ME ALONE TO MYSELF,
 
STAGGERING WITH MISCONCEPTION FROM ONE EVENT TO ANOTHER.

 LUCKILY IN THE COURSE OF THIS HALF-CONSCIOUS WANDERING I HAVE MET A FEW FRIENDS,
 WHO FOR ME MERCIFULLY PUT TOGETHER SEVERAL PICTURES OF THE IMPRESSION SO HONEST,
 THAT I GOT ATTACHED TO THEM VEHEMENTLY, SEARCHING IN THEM OF THE MAINSTAY.

 ALTHOUGH THEY WERE ONLY DREAMS WITH FRAGRANCES COMING OUT OF BODIES SWEATING WITH
 THEIR RETENTION, MAY BE ALCOHOLIC, MAY BE SEXUAL, SO WHAT'S WRONG IN THE SEEMINGLY SOLID
 DREAMS, IF THE REALITY SWIRLS WITH DENSE FUMES OF UNCERTAINTY,
 WHERE THE FAMILIAR FIGURES HAVE LOST THEIR SPECIAL DIMENSIONS.

 THERE, I SEE ALSO MYSELF GROWING OLD IN ONE DIMENSIONAL PORTRAITS,
 
WHERE I AM STRINGED ON A THIN STEEL CORD, SADLY SLANTED,
 CHANGING ANY TRIALS OF FREEING ONESELF FROM SUCH OBVIOUSNESS,
 TO A SLOW, BUT RELENTLESSL DOWNFALL MOVEMENT.

 BUT I'LL EXTRICATE MYSELF, AND THEN, EVEN IF IT BE  DIFFICULT TO REMEMBER  IN NAME
 OF WHAT ALL THIS TAKES PLACE,
 I'LL SIT DOWN AND MINDFULLY  TAKE CARE OF MY BLEEDING WOUNDS.

 I SEE THIS MOMENT AS EXTREMELY PLEASURABLE, SOOTHING, EVEN NOW. 

 Therefore, noting will interfere with my aims, even the permanent barking,
 nor the persistent assails of silence, nor the enduring action of time,
 annoying with its monotony; not even you, or I,
 because the moment prompts me the stories, written down here,
 from somehow muddled beginning up till the end, unknown yet.

                                                                                                                                                 
 
tran: Sota Kurylo

 ...There I can see myself getting older in one dimensional
 portraits, while enslaved on a thin steel line
 with a sad slant that is turning any effort of escaping from
 such certainty into merciless move downward...
 


Words, tongue, autumn
 

WORDS, TONGUE, AUTUMN
A bird has fallen
Autumn lasts
Kids are crying
People are walking
Wind is freezing
Sadness is disturbing
Music is enticing
Waiting is tiring
Memory is
soothing

Self is getting lost
Alcohol is bewildering
Beggars are begging
Face is getting older
Somebody is missing
Pictures are terrifying
Words are hardening
Sins are being redeemed
Past is crystallizing
Now is becoming
Future is expecting
Leaves are falling
Darkness is coming

...and only a bird has fallen
 


in between
 

 IN BETWEEN

 And we have managed to arrive.
 Yes, we arrived at our half, half of our being,  half of
 being silent, half of our desire,
 half of removing our traces from sand.

 It would sadden around us if we would have to stop here,
 attempting with a cry  to
 accomplish what we have failed with a touch.

 Let us then turn to the other side and do not be afraid
 that there is only downward.

 Let us turn to the other side and embrace this still cold
 pillow, the only faithful.
 Maybe from this embracement there will emerge something that
 will embrace us with the equal strength.
 

Dispersed Things
 

DISPERSED THINGS
I am wandering around my own emptiness
Wondering in a sudden reflection
Stumbling over our lost things
Who could leave them here
Occasionally,

I am raising them with tremling hands over my head
and sacrificing them to the goodness of remembrance

I delicately caress them for a while
just to put them carefully back
in exactly the same place.
I am trying hard not to reconfigure anything
and indeed nothing, nothing, nothing...
nothing is changing
After a while, I am falling again in non-existence.
Will it remain like this forever
East Lansing, September 1993.
 

Dreams - something pretty
Un  rêve - queque chose de beau
 


DREAMS - SOMETHING NICE

I was pulled out of my sleep by a little girl.

She wore a wreath of wild flowers on her head,
and in her hand she was holding a ragged doll.

She was standing at the window in the full blast of the sun.
Behind the window,
the hot green was bursting through the mid of a summer day.

She was smiling to me and the dimples of her cheeks
were reminding me my own pictures from the twenty years ago.

I was running then blackish - white
with a stick and a running nose, cheerful.

Now, with the childish naiveté,
this little person was staring at my ripped out guts.

It was done to me last night by some sick whore.

Ashamed,
I was thinking: why as a matter of fact I am not dead yet?
 


Un  rêve
- queque chose de beau
Une jeune fille ma réveillé
des fleurs des champs dans les cheveux

une poupée de chiffon à la main 
 
devant la fenêtre ensoleillée, encore une journée
d’été pleine de la chaleur des verdures

Elle souriait et ses fossettes rayonnaient.
J’ai pensé à mes photos d’il y a vingt ans.
 
Je courrais joyeux une badine à la main,
la goutte au nez.

Maintenant cette enfant observait mes entrailles.

Une salope m’a réveillé et la honte s’est installée:
mais pourquoi jadis ne suis je pas mort ?

Medusa
 

MEDUSA

Probably people have not even noticed how each day they are stressfully

looking for their desires to come true in rays of sun , hiding in a sea

The weariness with sun, tiredness with people have allowed me to notice;
that moment - an instant, when her inert body covered with sand,
surrounded suddenly with the splashing foam of waves was shot up as a flight of a bird.

Later I have gathered their abandoned bodies,
while others were searching through the shells.
Touching them became to me pleasant and their deadness seemed to be a submissiveness.

And of their bodies I formed at the bank the women shapes, believing that
the wind of the night, lashing them with lakes of waves would bring them to life.

At the next sunrise I was awaken by a scent of a women, with wandering sigh on my body.

The people walking around have not noticed even this event,
still gazing at this dead red ball, which they never be allowed to touch.

Later, at the dusk, returning along the bank they were passing around these deserted medusas,
stomping from time to time onto them and winching with disgust.

 


Two women of an unusual beauty talking softly and quietly
 

TWO WOMEN OF AN UNUSUAL BEAUTY ARE TALKING SOFTLY AND QUIETLY
It looked as a storm is coming; suddenly it became dark and quiet.
He was walking the known passage along the river, where he often was looking and usually was finding a moment of rest from predatory hum-drum existence. This time, probably due to the turbulent weather the avenue was empty. Only in a distance exerting eyes one could see two persons who were walking in the same direction as he.

He was thinking of nothing special, being happy of the possibility of existing without necessity of any activity.

Two persons upfront became close enough for him to recognize that they were women.
They were walking with much slower pace, consequently and gradually he was seeing more new details of their silhouette,

He could already define: they were young, slim, well dressed.
May be beautiful.

They indeed became a centre of his attention.

In spite clouds lead-like, and the first lightening, they were walking slowly, as unwillingly taking step by step, talking, from time to time helping themselves with insignificant gestures of hands.

Between them and him a distance seemed faster to become smaller and he somehow unconsciously regretted each moment that he has spend behind their circle - a result of the gravitational power which pulls a drifting of no reason toward the existence of movements, events, actions. A while later he was close enough to hear their voices, although the meaning of words were still escaping his comprehension. They have turned briefly in his direction but then seemingly deciding dismiss reality of his distant presence.

Now he was able to say with a certainty that they both were really of an unusual beauty.
This expected confirmation troubled him beyond any reason.

He has reached proximity that allowed to pick up the meaning of some sentences.
He slowed down and stopped his breath in order to listen to their attractive discourse.
He was now following them stealing their conversation, being fascinated with their feminine details.

From time to time he sensed some sentences that were reaching him and he was admiring how carefully though with no apparent effort their words are chosen.

For a moment he was even thinking of approaching them with some kind of pretext and become a real and active part of the scene that has absorbed him so much. Suddenly braking up wind reprehended him, letting him know that his idea would be abortive. It is difficult to imagine his awkward words, their questioning eyes, the lost harmony of their conversation.
His panicking ego was shrinking to non-significance.

He was a member of a tribe of happy dark skin people, who have everything in an abundance, what in their understanding meant well being. His passion are women, he is absorbed by an unusual richness that comes from the tension between a women and a man, and he considers himself especially able to take it in full. In his vanity he thinks that he is a shaman of sex and therefore it is his duty to accept all the rituals which the deity sends to his imagination.
He does not know a women who would question his mission. The opinion of other tribesmen in this matter is unimportant.

When to the village came an abstractive expedition of light skin, light hair people and most of the tribesmen seem to be excided and full of godly admiration, he demonstrates disrespect only to the moment when he notices two women among the newcomers.

He watches from a distance how skilfully these women comb their hair during morning toiletry as well as fire their rifles when shooting the unreachable birds during the show for the tribesmen, who get speechless and frightened. For a brief moment, he is angry at the newcomers for allowing their women to do manly things. But some less under stable feelings soon take him completely over.

At that time he is standing aside following the next falling bird with his spear and this funny band around his hips which is unable to cover his erected penis while one of the women slides a little bit of her tongue and rests it on the upper lip when setting for a next shot. Stamping from one leg to another he feels a desire with a strange to him consciousness that he will never be able to fulfil it. He would not even know what to do with these strange costumes on their bodies. Besides this strange women have not even once looked at any of tribesmen the way women of his village looked at him constantly, with a look of desire and acceptance.

He does not sleep at night, during the day he wanders around them, absorbing lustfully their mysterious customs. Then the newcomers leave the village. Life returns to normal, jet he cannot accept it, thinking that it is cowardice. This what happened is uprooting the sense of their existence thus he should resist it.

He tries to hunt what was always his inspiration and a source of satisfaction. Now this activity looks miserably senseless.
He still has in memory the echo of shooting and a hum of birds falling down.

He also tries women, but their too well known chasm and the obviousness of how they open their tights fills him with disgust.

He masturbates for a few days in a presence of the of white women drawing which he engraved on the rock.
Then he impales himself on his own spear.

He passed by the chatting women. When the first large drop of rain rested on his face he thought with a sorrow that he belongs to those who after a cataclysm are capable of returning to normality.
 

The eloquence of sex
 

THE ELOQUENCE OF SEX

She was looking at him,
with an expectance bordering with an insatiable greed.

Thus, after clearing his throat he started with a certain force, hoping
that his convoluted arguments will testify the depth of his thought,
equalizing therefore her disturbing beauty.

However, after few sentences his believe in himself run away into some
unknown, when he realized that with these words he would not be able to
convince even himself.

In fact at this point,
he has become bored with this exhausting process of talking.
Nevertheless, having no courage to look into her eyes, afraid to find
there what he has been already rightly blaming himself of, he was falling
persistently further in a complicated construct of the language, hoping
that this consequence itself will prove his values.

In spite of the whole outer seriousness he was ready to weep, when
tragically searching for a way to return to her, and at that moment a
distance between them was measured with galaxies.

He became deeply disinterested in what he was talking,
and he was talking a lot.
He was thinking only whether he is now more miserable, or more farcical.

He got up and started to walk around,
constantly mumbling something and in his cowardice always avoiding her eyes.

He talked, talked and talked, evidently now hoping that only by the sheer
quantity of words, by some miraculous accident he will find a sentence for
which she was waiting impatiently.

As a result he got involved in some kind of paranoiac story about a forest
in which he was somehow lost, and where he was looking for her,
but unsuccessfully, because he got entangled in the density of green, and also
because of the darkness that just occurred but all in the end seemed to
conclude happily, although he was aware of some kind of death,
which, as he convincingly declared, was only quite loosely related to both of them,
while she was nodding soothingly and stroking his face with her palm,
when he bent lied on the floor wining of being sorrow of himself.

In the end she interrupted him: "It is enough, Sir!" and he with wide open
eyes and a half-broken sentence was gazing at her how she stands naked
above him smiling with a triumph.

And he even had nothing against the obvious irony in her voice.
 

Love
 

            
LOVE
Let's try to imagine two women, who have been both interested in the same man,
and this one consequently would have deep feeling for another woman
desiring three persons at the same time,

where only one of them would be of different sex
but incapable of not thinking about a beautiful young boy
from the other end of the street,

the same one who is secretly and up to his ears in love "
with a lady teacher of literature,
and at the end after making a huge circle all around,

however unthinkable it would be, let think that the last person,
the only one that we have not considered yet in our bold effort,
and who was found to be a young soldier,
would be crazy of the love to the two women mentioned at the very beginning.
Could it be said then the love took over the world?

Wow, probably better to have it like till now - everyone loves himself.
And maybe sometimes, in a charitable gesture of great generosity,
donating a fraction of this love to somebody else.
                         


Swirling

       
SWIRLING
Looking at portraits, lets emphasize flat portraits, I have been always
astonished, fascinated, and sometimes filled with a slightly obsessive
fear, by this strange phenomenon, an effect, illusion or whatever we will
call it, appearing whenever the portrayed one, in the process of being
immortalized, is persistently and sometimes, let Almighty generously
permit, attentively looking at the brush, the pencil or any other medium
of changing four-dimensional objects, as we would say otherwise of spatial
and passing existence, into a flat but permanent creation, although it is
so-so with the last trait, this one and I am thinking here, let say, of
the brush would pay back to this interest in itself, by making sure that
the ``portrayed'' since that moment till the eternity, of course if only
none of these regrettable and unforgettable accidents would occur as it
has happened so long ago in Alexandria, would stare in all the possible
directions simultaneously that is for us, the awkward creatures placed in
a crooked four-dimensional reality in some imaginary twist between the
time and the space, is an incredible activity, far away behind our
non-occurring possibilities, because non matter how we would try, forcing
and stretching ourselves, gazing in the most remote angles of our eyes,
still never the less we would see only blurred shapes of things, and try,
try, saying no more our irises focus completely only at the one designated
point that is just opposite in the case of the just mentioned flat
portraits where faces are looking emotionless at you wherever you would
stand, no matter how you would stand, or which way you would place the
picture, and do not event try to catch it by a surprise, pretending that
you are not paying attention to it, when suddenly trying to catch the
instant when these amazing irises are directed somewhere else, just for a
moment, it is not worth of your effort, they will be motionless gazing
straight on you and when you share this discovery with your friend who,
let suppose, is standing on his head in the opposite corner of this room,
which by the way is becoming more and more peculiar by covering its walls
with crooked portraits of persons with empty eyeholes, he will also
stubbornly way that this look is just resting on him and you have to
believe him because whom you would believe if not your own friends, but
your mind is revolting against this obvious, evidently existing
impossibility, although in fact you have nothing against it, desiring even
deeply in your heart, tired with commonality of every day, to have the
world filled with such crazy phenomena and maybe for that reason envying
the painters, probably incorrectly, because what is it - a play, a caprice
of a magician, but I can not go with these words forever, thus at the end,
I will reach for a thin, very thin brush dipped in the paint of this or
the other colour, most probably black and will lead your thought further
through a delicate line of swirling, which suddenly, in an unexpected
instant, somehow by a magnificent stroke would change into the iris of an
sharp eye that will pin this more or less miserable mind of yours adding
another madman to the collection of strange butterflies locked up in a
glass case, hanging on the wall just behind your back, just turn around
and you must admit that it is a terrifying view, thus try avoid looking at
those portraits when they can spin around, dragging your thoughts into
slow rotation, and then faster and faster winding up your sight along the
axis of these motionless eyes, your sights followed by your thoughts, and
you still watching all this but you are not sure with whose eyes, your own
or his, with a fear waiting for a moment when your thoughts will disappear
and then there will be a time for your feelings to show in this swirling
madness, but not you have managed somehow to stop spinning of the image in
hand and with astonishment you notice that it was not an extraterrestrial
force turning it but your own hands, and although everything swirls for a
while you have relaxed feeling lucky that you managed to keep feelings to
yourselves, than you give me this look of blame, unfairly thinking that it
was my fault that I have attempted to scary you, but than you are right
asking what for I am all about this, so straight, thus forgive me this too
long sentence-not-sentence, such an oddity, which, as it was not enough to
loose its motif, a thought, not mentioning pronouncements and subjects,
how many of them dispersed already along the way, and reading of which is
extremely troublesome, especially that it is only its beginning and in
fact nobody knows why you are reading it, and lets hope that you do
otherwise what sense of putting these words together in this or another
order, probably none, because you are not here anymore, who would force
you to read this word, or this one for that matter, or that and the next
one, this letter and more, why you are still doing it, stop, didn't you
notice how everything starts to swirl in an nonsense and you can not be
distinguished from me anymore, one can not tell if these words are mine or
already yours, they got lost halfway between us, no it is rather your
thinking that creates them, I do not find them in me, no, no, it is not
you who got crazy it is rather me, from where are these words,
I beg you to stop, break it at last,

I can not handle it anymore.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   
     

* translation (Zofia Borowska and Bożena Grosley)

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