Emmanuel Mifsud o Polsce.
Wczoraj Immanuel Mifsud
obchodził 50 te urodziny. Jest on maltańskim poetą, autorem prozy
oraz wykładowcą literatury na
uniwerku. Napisał min. zbiór pt. 'km' gdzie przelał na papier
uczucia po podróży w Europie. Był też i w Polsce; odwiedził
Kraków, Auschwitz oraz Warszawę. Tak pisze :
IN THE CAFE` OF KRAKOVJA'S TRAIN
STATION
Then sorrow overcomes you, holds
you close
Laughing the laugh you've heard
so often now
right at the point when the
ground starts to shudder
beneath the ruthless steel of an
incoming train
which comes to take you back
from where you came.
Then sorrow overcomes you, makes
you his own
With the same fervour he
reserves for you.
In the same way the stall—girl
glances,
Her eyes expressionless upon you
Despite the black strips of her
make—up
Sorrow overcomes with kisses
As treacherous as it has always
been.
W 2011 roku
otrzymał w Brukseli European
Union Prize for Literature za prozę “ W imieniu ojca ( i syna)”
[Fl-Isem
tal-Missier (tal-iben)]
. Nagrodę wręczał – uwaga : Bogdan Zdrojewski, ówczas Minister
Kultury a Polska szefowała rotacyjną Prezydencja
Rady Unii Europejskiej.
Cruel Steel
(new pictures from Poland)
KRAKOVJA
The train goes by, swiftly, to
catch the cry
Of the old crow which watches
over Florianska.
Beware, crow! I have
returned to rob you
Of this old city which
refuses to age.
RETURN TO NOWA HUTA
It seems it takes you some time
to learn.
We told you this place is not
for you.
It seems you like what's grey,
what's brown,
You like to read Death turning
round corners,
And you like shooting your
digital photos
Of a sorrow which only we can
understand.
We thought you'd learned, that
you had learned the lesson.
But look, you've caught Tram No
Four again,
You've climbed again up to the
city of scorching steel
You've walked here again with
eyes wide open
Just to record the history of
others
Raped by the Party's mortal
faith.
And what did you get out of it
then, stranger?
Go back to those who wait on the
moon's moods
And write a poem about the sea,
Write about rocks, write of the
sand.
After all not even Spring visits
this place —
It's April— but the sleet is
falling still.
AUSCHWITZ
The second time
The grass at Auschwitz is soft
and green
Inviting you to kneel and kiss
it.
It no longer smells of gas and
neither
is it flecked with grey by
chimneys...
It is as green as breath
emerging through the soil.
NINA CZERKIES
Nina Czerkies sings like a
wounded bird.
Her hands too: as soon as they
alight on her guitar
Turn into wings dripping blood.
Or it might be the vodka
scribbling pictures
I gathered at the corners of
Varsavja
Which have nothing in common
with this night
In this apartment overflowing
with the music
Which only solitude can
register.
FI PLAC ZAMKOWY
Dakinar tal—Ġimgħa l—Kbira
f'Varsavja
Good Friday in Varsavja
They're gahered peacefully
together in the square
Holding small candles smoking
grief
Under a crucifix solemnely
carried.
Jolanta tells her beads
remembering
The words of Pope John Paul,
remembering
The country's horrendous night.
Her hair hangs more than halfway
down her back,
Her legs move to the pace of
Christ's calvary.
She still dreams of the sickle
and the hammer.
At every dark stage of the
fourteen stations
The age—old memory starts to
sprout –
History doesn't need books to be
recorded,
History lives on even in the
sagging
Of Jesus' body, eternally naked
Of Jesus' body, eternally dead.
Translated by Maria Grech Ganado
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