#milosz

[arsanimarum]

As long as the sun and the moon are above, / as long as the bumblebee visits a rose, / as long as rosy infants are born / no one believes it is happening now

[A Song on the End of the World – Czeslaw Milosz]

[cosmic-crows]

finished ver. of the prior post!! my little au ra 💕

[strangemonochromes]

Monster (モンスター) // Naoki Urasawa

[noa-de-cajou]

Zuza and Idalia belong to @soupedepates

Louis belongs to @corneille-but-not-the-author

______

Mom never told me who my father was. Apparently, she doesn't remember. I believed her. She tried to raise me alone, as best as she could, but she came from Poland with nothing but a base level in english, a vague understanding of french and a graphist degree. She was alone, she fell in love with Christian and they got married when I was three.

I couldn't do this alone, Misiu, do you understand?

Mom never told me Christian was beating her. I started talking really late, my first word was blue for the bruises he left on her cheeks and the next one was bitch because I just repeated what I heard from him. Mom tried to overwrite it by speaking to me in polish. It worked, for a time.

To nie twoja wina, she said.

It's not your fault.

The teachers never told me what was wrong with me, or why the letters would jumble and the words undo themselves in front of my eyes. I wasn’t putting in enough effort. I wasn’t academically smart. I listened. They knew better, after all, didn't they? I couldn’t even translate documents for Mom.

The other kids never told me why they’d call me names or mock my accent. I never understood why they liked to do that. And I could never defend myself with my words.

But I never hit.

Because mom told me I was a good kid and good kids don’t hit people. Even when they're mean. Good kids don’t hurt people.

But she never told me why Christian was allowed to hurt us.

Bronya, Bazyli and Simowiet were the first to tell me it was okay to cry. They never hit me when I did. I felt good. I felt safe.

Bronya and Bazyli always told people what they thought, gave them a piece of their mind, they were always good with words. Even though they had been to the hospital for so long everybody else thought they were weird. And Simowiet always talked calmly, never yelled.

Never hit.

So I never hit either.

They were my very first friends.

Yet they took forever to tell me where Simowiet went after what happened to his stepmom. About what happened to Jacek after that.

Misiu, everyone here knew about the mister Adamski, you know, Mom said. Bad man, that one.

Yeah. Just like everyone knows about Christian. But I never know anything. And no one who knows things is doing anything.

No one told me anything, so I tried to get stronger on my own. No one told me I wasn't supposed to start this early. No one told me I wasn't supposed to stop eating. Bronya yelled at me for it when she learned.

No one told me how to defend myself. So when Christian hit me one too many times, I retaliated.

I hit.

It worked.

He bled.

Mom cried.

He never hit me again and neither did I.

But I knew I crossed a line. I knew I was just as bad. How could I do otherwise? No one ever told me how to help.

Hanko never told us that his parents were beating him either, but I knew. I guessed. He had the same bruises that I used to wear on my wrists.

Even so, I couldn't do anything when they pushed Bazyli down the stairs. Couldn't do anything to save them afterwards.

It's not your fault, their eyes said.

Bazyli told us to keep it a secret. So I did. I don’t mind that much. I understand why he doesn't want to say it. But it hurts to be lying to Bronya and Tonia.

Then we enter uni.

Bazyli never tells me why he looks more and more tired with each day or why he hides his neck.

Bronya never tells me why she looks at me the way she does. I think I might know. But I don’t dare to hope.

Simowiet never tells me about his problems, or his life, or his family, even though we live together.

Zuza never tells us about the pills in her cabinet. She never tells us about the arguments with Idalia either.

I can take a lot of things. I can take a punch or two. I can keep secrets. I can nod along. I can deal with being stupid. I can carry everyone on my back.

But I can't help if no one ever tells me anything.

Maybe no one ever wants me to help, but they need help. And they tell me that me being around is more than enough, but it isn't.

But I can't force anything out of anyone.

You’re a good kid, Misiu.

You’re a good guy, Milosz.

It's not your fault.

I get it. I get it, alright? It’s never my fault. It's never under my control.

But what’s the point of being good when everyone around you consider themselves bad?

So I smile and say nothing and I go to the gym and I run and I push and I grit my teeth and I hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit

And I won't tell them about how I feel

Because

No one

Ever

Tells me

Anything –

“Your stance is wrong! You need to put your shoulder into it.”

It was just two sentences, thrown around at the gym, and then he was gone. I don’t think he remembers it at all.

But Louis tells me things.

Louis told me about the bet. Louis told me Bronya likes me. Louis told me that I look handsome. Louis told me that he didn't start working out for good reasons. Louis told me not every part of himself deserves to be known and I don’t agree. Louis told us he loved us.

He doesn't know how much it means to me.

All I ever wanted was just to feel

Like I'm worth sharing things to.

It feels possible now.

…

I didn’t know it could be that easy to breathe before.

[virgin-martyr]

Gaston Bachelard quoting Milosz, excerpt from The Poetics of Space

[good-wine-and-cheese]

Grimmer in the dilf shirt

[we503]

Good Night

No duties. I don’t have to be profound. I don’t have to be artistically perfect. Or sublime.  Or edifying. I just wander.  I say: “You were running, That’s fine.  It was the thing to do.” And now the music of the worlds transforms me. My planet enters a different house. Trees and lawns become more distinct. Philosophies one after another go out. Everything is lighter yet not less odd. Sauces, wine vintages, dishes of meat. We talk a little of district fairs, Of travels in a covered wagon with a cloud of dust behind, Of how rivers once were, what the scent of calamus is. That’s better than examining one’s private dreams. And meanwhile it has arrived.  It’s here, invisible. Who can guess how it got here, everywhere. Let others take care of it.  Time for me to play hooky. Buena notte. Ciao. Farewell.

-from Provinces by Czeslaw Milosz

[blrandav]

Sempre ho desiderato una forma più capiente,

che non fosse troppo poesia né troppo prosa

e permettesse di capirsi senza esporre nessuno,

né autore né lettore, a pene di più alto grado.

In sé la poesia è qualcosa di sconveniente:

esce da noi e non sapevamo che ci fosse,

dunque sbattiamo le palpebre, come se da noi fosse balzata

fuori una tigre, e stesse nella luce,

colpendosi i fianchi con la coda.

Perciò si dice giustamente che un dàimon detta la poesia,

pur se è eccessivo ritenere che sia di certo un angelo.

Difficile capire donde venga l’orgoglio dei poeti

se si vergognano quando traspare la loro debolezza.

Quale uomo assennato vorrà darsi in balìa dei dèmoni

che si muovono in lui liberamente, parlando mille lingue,

e non paghi di rubargli labbra e mano

tentano di mutare a proprio vantaggio il suo destino?

Poiché ciò ch’è morboso è oggi stimato,

qualcuno penserà che scherzo solamente

o che ho scoperto un altro modo

per lodare l’Arte tramite l’ironia.

Un tempo si leggevano soltanto saggi libri

che aiutavano a sopportare il dolore e la sventura.

Non è lo stesso, certo, sfogliare mille opere

provenienti da una clinica psichiatrica.

Ma il mondo è altro da come a noi appare

e noi non siamo come nel nostro farneticare.

La gente dunque conserva una tacita onestà,

acquisendo così la stima di parenti e vicini.

È questa l’utilità della poesia, che ci ricorda

com’è difficile restar sempre gli stessi,

perché la nostra casa è aperta, non c’è chiave alla porta

ed entrano ed escono ospiti invisibili.

D’accordo, quello che scrivo qui non è poesia.

Poiché poesia si può scrivere di rado, e non di propria voglia,

per coercizione intollerabile, e con la sola speranza

che buoni, non cattivi spiriti ci abbiano come strumento.

Czesław Miłosz, La fodera del mondo (Fondazione Piazzolla, 1966), trad. it V. Rosselli