FATIMA THERAPY
FATIMA THERAPY
I`m trying to understand the phenomenon of addiction
To describe the disease with simple words
Someone in my poems will feel the swamp
Someone will want compassion someone will cry
For me this poem is therapy
To throw it out of myself clean the liver
I also want loudly to thank heaven
For a special gift: SICK DAD
He said that someday I would understand everything
I will not blame him or judge
Yes, he had great remorse
And many wrinkles especially on the forehead
Now when I look in the mirror covertly
I see that I am very similar
When I anger sometimes rebuke parishioners
I see that I have a character after him
So I dedicated a handful of “Fatima poems”
For families with various addictions problem
From the swamp you can pull away and worth
The first important step: CONVERSATION WITH GOD
COME BACK CARDINAL STEFAN
Pope Francisco doesn`t like Bishops
Those very rich and know-all
He chose to him Cardinals
From small countries from the end of the world
Very Bishops don`t like Francisco
“Is He a Catholic?” – ask often
And Adventists know the answer
“HE IS THE ANTICHRIST” – they sing in circles
In Garabandal The Virgin Mary
In the small Parish of St. Michael
That the hierarchs would leave God
50 years ago predicted this
It cannot believe to everything
Today many doubt Medjugorie
Someone doesn`t know what Fatima is
Someone has never been to Częstochowa
Someone at Wojtyła`s funeral didn`t cry
And someone stubbornly read Michnik
I trust that will live on the faith of Poles
As in the times of The Primate from Andrzejewo
OLD PHOTOS
In childhood I was searching in drawers
In them a few my mama`s albums
She was wonderful in her youth
Dad fell in love with her
On one beautiful photo
From high school – dressed in pants
On another – among the kids…
With a bun like a film star
I also like photos from kindergarten
My brother Caesar – a mystical photo
A “double figure” of a child
Photos in “uniforms” are sad
We were not taught to laugh
A testimony from the “Gierek era”
Grave faces of students
Seminar photos
Have probably disappeared
To fill this gap
I write – draw sometimes…
MYSTICAL FROG
Pious people in childhood
Had inspirations from God
Faustina talked with Jesus
Max got two crowns
I only saw a “great toad”
Among the night
She was green
Walked in a blue scarf
I yelled loudly in fear
My dad felt a feather
Didn`t find anything unfortunately
I felt like a liar before him
Only later on remand
When I was in “blue berets”
Albert Chmielowski visited me
And encouraged to a seminary
“I got a knuckle” in higher education
During The Way of the Cross
Blessed Michael also
Like was sitting in the room…
GREAT BROTHERS
I can whistle on the gap
Between the front teeth
My dad taught me this
And his younger brother Ian
They knew everything about motorcycles
Were riding me on a bike
Ian had long hair
A spiral Jewish side curls
They knew everything about the guitar
They could play the mouth - organ
They had hunchbacked noses
And “long foreheads” after Grandfather
My father was not tall
Jan reached to the ceiling
My father was warlike
Jan “put on the wound”
They both make whistles
Of willow fresh twigs
They also “to whistle on the grass”
“The lightning hit both”
EARTH DOWN
To dig potatoes with hoe
My grandmother taught me
She also liked at work
To chat about old history
However, for the first time
I collected potatoes at the priest
Dad forbade me this
But I escaped with my basket
I remember how soft the ground
Is in these areas
That earth can be down
Is talked…at funerals
When they drove us “to collect”
Four times in autumn
From our high school
To the village to the State Farm (in Polish PE-GE-ER)…
This land there was other peoples
Muddy and unfriendly
Full of stones was there
And at work sneers
ELECTRICIAN
Dad wanted to be an electrician
He still rummaged in the sockets with no purpose
He could “outwit” the electricity meter
That it would go back like a cancer
He tied knots on traffic jams
When the current went out unexpectedly
Even he taught me this
When I was quite small
I heard the story from my godparent
That he went to the exam
To the electric school in Bydgoszcz
But he failed this exam
He was so terrified of this defeat
That 3 days he lived in the barn
He hid from parents
He was afraid “What will grandfather say”
Such Dad I got
Potential like a power station
But hypersensitive like a child
I`m like him
BACKYARD LATIN
“Cannot be cut with an ax”
My dad was talking about my mum
Among “Latin” words
The most frequent: “whore” “franca”
He could say “niusia”
However, I don`t know fatherly
Hugs and kisses
I only know from the stories
That they were a beautiful couple
A difficult question arises:
And what happened?
Alcohol rumors and jealousy
Enemies of every family
Curses and scuffles
In front of small children
Are they needed any
More “Exquisite” crimes
To hurt feelings in a child
And close forever the heart
A DELICATE MIRACLE
In Fatima you don`t see miracles
The monk of Verse was talking
Because they are conversions
Difficult to describe
Alcoholics are praying
Divorcees pray
After many years they miraculously
Returned to the abandoned family…
For the conversion of Russia
The world is waiting – this the most difficult
Riots in the Crimea in Donbas
Chemical weapon in Syria…
Putin resuscitates
The Soviet empire of horror
For us is difficult to take in hands a rosary
Morally defeat the satrap
I thought I would convert Russia
I was ready to die
Dad visited me in Russia
He converted in this Russia
A CHARMING FOREST
The forest was a paradise for my father
Good as a “village charlatan”
He could talk with trees
He taught me to talk to myself
He walked around the house like a wild
In hanging shorts
Teeth destroyed from smoke
Age and decay
When he ate his ears were shaking
He drank water with soda and belched
He had nasty vomiting
He was a jaded man
He could croak loudly
Alone to the television
He cursed during match transmission
When the footballer not exactly kicked
He rode a bicycle through the village
Constantly he was repairing it
He humped riding on this
In such a pose he had a stroke
FOREST –II
One our tutor
Took us on the hunt
We drove off hares like fishes
To the net
The eye hung on the edge
Of the eye socket of one
This view disgusted me with joy
Of this winter adventure
Another time with this Master
We planted a forest next to the road
That goes to the lake
It was supposed to be about us a “memory”
We were in the last grade
We liked to break off the lesson
So were popular
So-called “social works”
This educator taught us also
To build bird boxes
Place bacon in them
“Save tits from ruin”…
CABBAGE FULL OF CURE
That my grandparents
Quarreled heavily sometimes
I know it from when I was child
From my mum`s interesting stories
She told me namely
That she didn`t want to hear it
That she was hiding in the cabbage
That she plugged your ears
I also didn`t like these quarrels
In the family
I was hiding in the church
I was sitting for days
I have been so successful in life
That among many priests
I didn`t encounter perverts
Every was normal
Dad from a thick pipe
Was expressing that they “curators”
I with this “strange diagnosis”
Absolutely disagree
CARMELITE WOMAN
My great-grandmother Helen
Was a village midwife
She knew all the prayers
She was a pious matron
When my mum was 10 years
Helena “appointed” her
To go to the monastery
Mama agreed to this
She walked in tight shoes
Ten kilometers every day
To the high school in Rypin
My grandfather moved her to Lipno
She lived with the Romanowsky family
And she didn`t have to wander
However, she fell ill
The crafty tumor grow in the head
In the famous Bydgoszcz clinic
A ear was operated
After operation followed paralysis
Ruined the monastic plans…
NECROLOGY
Frequent funerals in the family
Fate sent me not by accident
I went with my mom to all of them
She also liked things clearly
She had a good taste
She dreamed of resting in a cave
She was afraid to rest in the sand
Why…Because she was afraid of bugs…
That`s how she drew me from my childhood
That I was not really afraid of the dead
One night I went
To our cemetery
However, I turned on my heel
In front of closed gates
Through the cemetery fence to jump
I didn`t want at all
I liked to carry in my pocket
Fragments of obituaries
The time of martial law
I have broken from the church pillars
JAN FROM ŁUBIANKI
Uncle Jan was playful
He liked to croak and scream
From grandfather he inherited
Seven hectares in Łubianki
He got married late, drank
The family didn`t go together
When he buried grandfather
Raved that they would meet soon
He had a long leg in a cast
Because he fell “drunk”
The leg didn`t grow up
He limped on the crutches
He tied the reins in the barn
Hung on the low bum
I saw this beautiful body
As if he peacefully was sleeping
Uncle had appearance noble
As little when before
One and a half cubits
Jan had in his blood this night…
PRAYER
I have the youngest aunt in Łódź
She taught me the Russian
When she visited in my childhood
My “teacher”
She helped for some time
The old men in the Red Cross
She married a divorced man
They both started to drink
Face especially pretty
You could fall in love
Alcohol is the enemy of man
Has taken her beauty away
I have been in Łódź many times
I asked for a meeting
Aunt avoids meeting
Doesn`t want to scare me
We are peers
I have no right to judge
This poem is my prayer
For my beautiful aunt
THE CYCLIST WAS HURT
Uncle Cassie was famous in the family
He worked in embassies
He could be haughty
With youngsters he didn`t talk
When I visited my aunt
He locked in another room
Read himself the newspapers
Waited for me to get out
He suffered from diabetes
Was brave didn`t give up
Wanted to ride on his bike
A professional route
He ran out of a few meters
To the final finish line
A car full of drunkards
Crushed the cyclist to death
He was not haughty in his old age
He chatted with me humanly
He was victim of drunks
Though he didn`t like drinking
BEAUTIFUL VILLAGE
I didn`t like to sleep on the straw
Because it stung my body
However, I liked immensely
The smell of fresh hay
A few nights only
I spent at my grandparents in the barn
When were more guests
Than beds at home
On the hay or on the straw
It`s nice to talk at night
You can better to know the family
When the crowds and small huts
I remember village threshers
And grandparents` stories
That if someone slips
Will cut off his hands
Earlier I learned
To run horses and a tractor
I also played with a scythe
In the summer I was tying the sheaves…
SAINT FROM THE BIEBRZA
In my youth in the village on the Biebrza
My first priesthood steps
The Parish Priest was Władek “abstinent”
The Resident drank constantly
Both very pious
Glorifying God in his own way
I was overawed
Such different attitude of priests…
The Parish tolerated this
Though they both were strange
Bronisław was a great vicar
In his old age addiction destroyed him
The Masses on rubber legs
The Resident celebrated daily
The Priest Parish tacitly forgave
Until Bronek didn`t come to Mass
We found him in bedding
Cool but beautiful body
“The drunk died like a Saint”
Flew through my head