Rafał Nowakowski

Biography

Rafał Nowakowski (Warsaw, Poland, 1972) poet, writer, journalist, performer, cultural worker. After finish Polish Philology at Warsaw University, he had worked in many polish culture institutions (museums, galleries, editorial offices). He had take part in many artistic live acts, like spoken word concerts, performances, street theatres. He published science-fiction novel “Rdza” (“The Rust “, Warsaw 2008) and poetry book “Z dystansu” (“From distance”, Warsaw 2011)

Samples

THAT THIRD ONE That third being between us. Like a mutual shadow. Awakes us from sleep with a gentle touch of light, a breath of reality. Bites us, when we’re too sluggish; dances around us, when we embrace each other. We get lost in the wilderness of its fur, like children, pugnacious, fussy and nosy… That third, Being between us. Sometimes like a tender cloud, surrounds us with petals of silence; Sometimes its skin turns rough and stings, like thistle and couch-grass Sometimes becomes a smooth and shiny, dark blue fabric, That blankets us when we lie naked in bed That third being. Between us. With one springy jump transports us over the coarse turmoil of life; We circle its savage heart, like a ruined stadium overgrown with weed. Haughty and majestic, like a incarnated vision of glimmering truth, Freezes above us in an intimate concavity of the nighttime sky. Bleeds and whines humiliated, when we grow apart… That third being between us. Its song flowing above the world, Its song is the source of words. It still gives birth to our own language. The only possible one – the language of difference and love. (Trans.: Marcin Mieluch) * * * WARM MOISTURE Bodies flowing in a stream. A stream of flowing bodies. Bodies dreaming, bodies dazed, unaware of each other. They brush against each other, push aside, bend and deform. Press gently on each other. Some have squinted eyes, some - completely closed, others – wide open and gazing into space. Together they form a living, moving mosaic, organic caleidoscope. Pink cube, beige oval, brown triangle. Softly pushing, pulling gently. Flowing down.Flowing up. Drifting, whirling, turning. They are surrounded by warm moisture: sweat, spit, body fluids. Washed in warm moisture, bodies joined with warm moisture. Some cling onto it, others radiate with it. Dissolve in it. Breaths merge into one wave of warm moisture, that flows between the bodies - up, down, right, left. Consciousness dissolves, descents into an abyss, disappears. (Trans.: Marcin Mieluch) * * * FOGGING Knee-deep in the clouds Braided legs of a girl are twining around my hips, we are swaying. Swinging pastel room, Afterimages on cool, white tiles in the kitchen, Distant close, almond apples of the eye of intimate sky. Yes, close, here predicted, brought, found under the skin, Surprise, adroit situation, they’ve met each other among smells, What’s up? How are you? Where are you going? Maybe we will go together? And maybe we will go to your place? What turns you on? Do I embarrass you? Can we try this? Do you know him? How do you know it takes from? Do you feel that? And one in here and one in there here and there deeper coming in, flowing in and out Inside side psss! Pleasure straight (outright On the lips triturated lemon flavor of red wine, almond mouth, walnut skin, springy ass and thighs, let’s hide in the shade, moisture thirsty, suspended in perpetual movement slip secretly pleasantly capacious smooth slender and firm, sweating moanings and screamings, cat tails, streak of smoke, laughter and whispers, slip In messy bed, panties on the glass, some book, some disc, it wanders... intricate sound of trumpet, tangles odors, simultaneity, stray connections, tattoos and earrings weave... This is not a tale not one story, but multi-threaded stream of velvet-fig letter from afar I don’t wonder I don’t remember I do not think I do not know where, I miss your breath (trans. Joanna Ziolkowska) * * * IN THE MEANTIME Metaphysics of pheromones 1. And we are disappearing in the morning; we are coming back to streets and corridors tumult, and our smells are staying in bedding and twining, loving each other instead of us. They are clinging, kissing, murmuring magic words without sense, Gorging themselves with sweet moments and making fun of life, finally they fuck Screaming and groaning… Meanwhile our bodies are dancing in the trance of every-day life, supposedly- Talking, supposedly-doing, supposedly-considering, supposedly-thinking, In a fact they are following their smells, ethereal track of soul, Seduced and attracted. In the end we are liquefying to pure presence: blue sky Behind the window, light wall, levitation in the bed, even afterwards, now… Broken wine glass, dirty plates, stained sheet, Scattered records – signs of love which crossed the room, Intimate space between us, a secret path through creased Bedding, overturned glasses, heaps of books and ribbons of sounds, Sleeping mood, snowy view behind the window and above lily Dusk, faded leaves behind the window, and bright sun, A journey to the edge of time, travels through other worlds hidden In nooks of other body and soul, cocaine ecstasy of reminiscences. 2. Let’s say, it was just like that and it couldn’t be different, I open my eyes and J. is laying next to me, body well-fitting to body, in Soft-warm flexibility, cavity-salience, softness-hardness, Arm-nape. In half sleep we are squinting our eyes… Here is the real world, in this soft hazy air, Illuminated with liquid silver and copper, closed in the capsule Of crystalline off-time… We are meeting each other and disappearing in the meantime, exactly there Unexpectedly the biggest discoveries are accomplishing, And the deepest journeys happens – deep into second heart… Meantime, sexy fold, which hides meander Of pleasure, abandoned plans, meditations and unbridled conversations, In half-light, words which do not fit to any dictionary, Uncontrolled skids, broken glasses… Here appears trembling phenomenon of existence, in defiance of Diagrams and statistics, growing depths and contamination, Doesn’t limit anything, doesn’t require anything, and doesn’t plan. Only Laugh, and is angry when somebody is trying to take from him what he loves, Doesn’t want to wait. Doesn’t want to understand. He wants to be here with you. To extract and to give. 3. Life is much more flexible, when we are holding each other, Time around us is folding. Life is flexible and floppy, sticking to this or that, here or there, Here – hand, there- leg, calf to calf, hand to heaps, here pineal gland, There pituitary gland. Even fluids are mixed – in some moment I clearly feel that my sweat smells her… There is no road, path or tunnel, but subtle, promiscuous thread of Indian summer, we saw this falling asleep, Braided our bodies so strong, that you don’t know which leg is her, Which hand is mine, is that my breath or hers, am I still inside her, or We’ve already splinted… New us, new consciousness, beyond Divisions, beyond good and evil. Meantime, a fold, through which flying feathered, ravels of thoughts, Somewhere before day-light 120 floors above the city, Never seen and never existing, the whole multiversum of Improbabilities and possibilities, Lanes of time, from which we are appearing, genius dilettantes, Brilliant maniacs, mismatched and impetuous prophets. Usual a little bit dazed and clumsy, followed by sunny wind of Imagination and inspiration, We are coming in and coming out in the moment of award ceremony, Pulling out crackled chairs, through the rotary doors to Alternative worlds, instantaneous visions, We are coming in and coming out smoothly molten with our Reflection-shade. (trans. Joanna Ziolkowska) * * * BEFORE DAWN As usual this winter, We were laying in the bed and warming the trickle of time Flowing timidly under insensibility of ice with sex and caress. At that time, My dear friend, you were telling me various stories, vivid Memories, sensual adventures, weird impressions, which You have experienced somewhere else, some other time, with somebody else. I always liked to listen to you. You were saying: All night, till dawn I was driving alone through desolate state of America, in my imagination I saw this unreal no man’s land, straight line of road, your car. Then before daylight I saw desolated simple house – you were continuing – it was such amazing and such obvious, in the same time real and visionary. Early mornings are always Unrepeatable – you said – thinking probably About last night spent with other man. All objects Have this rough massiveness and symbolic elusiveness… Yes, I know well those moments, I said, getting lost in a journey, Wandering at daybreak along cities of this world, waiting On stations. Faint view behind the window, house, street, hill or tracks Appearing from the darkness, deceptive and material in the same time, Swollen by some elusive, initial sense. Dawn, this moment, when the world is appearing from the dusk, and Matter has been divided on particular beings, which do not have Names yet, names didn’t get possession of things, didn’t override them. Unnamed and mute objects just emerged on the world, Confused and distrustful like illegal emigrants. Dear friend, I thought, whenever you go, the mind is already There, arranging its flags and measuring tapes all around. Collecting and marking, determining hierarchy and giving the sense, catching Unique moments and disposing them into glass-case. Preparing the holy book of incomes and outcomes, judging Defending and embedding itself. Playing with itself in aseptic Emptiness of crystalline structures. Maybe, then, on your way, on daylight, for a short moment, you caught The edge of your own mind and you saw the world Which was nearest to that innocent anonymity and to the difference of the beginning? Poetry is like a dawn: leads you to the edge of language, where Things received self-contained existence but they were not captive in the names catalogue. They appeared from the undifferentiated abyss but they were not arranged in the glaring light of the distinguishing consciousness, they were not given destiny, they were not braided into the plot of narration. And still I see you here, standing in the ashen twilight of a dawn, Dressed up, made up, perfumed, holding in your hands Glasses, cigarettes, bag with laptop, yoga mat And in a paper bag a box with dietetic breakfast. Modern Diana, half-virgin, half-harlot, Flexes yourself, ready for fight with another day, surrounded By pack of objects which are escaping from you into the darkness, Like wild cats… And among them there is one rough, dark and violent heart, which Observes you with a fascination and fear; modern Akteon, Hiding in the bedding still smelling with sex… Leave, dear friend, leave, get out of me, and get outside of You. Go to travel, to the light of knowledge, eloquence and honors, And maybe walking straight ahead, you will come here again Into the ashes of twilight poetry. (trans. Joanna Ziolkowska) * * *

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Rafał Nowakowski

THAT THIRD ONE (30/04/2012)

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/rafałnowakowski