by Sam Rasnake
— Dekalog 2, Krzysztof Kieślowski, dir.
The gods are broken. A tear for us all.
When the mind figures what the heart
believes — all the reason in the world
can't unspill ink from a blank page.
This frozen solitude:
~ smoke from a winter's fire
with wet eyes searching
In the glass of fruit, a bee climbs the length
of spoon out of syrup, then shakes her wings.
Drunk with not knowing, she edges along
the rim as if moving were the only absolution.
~
What remains unsaid is not the gift we dreamed —
as if other worlds were possibility. Betrayal is
a bitter cold of dull razors, empty drawers, and
lies with midnight calls. The streets are deserted.
~
In the shadow of candles as they go out,
letters from the dead can never give us truth
to hold — no matter what the body wants or
the fingers need or the eyes cannot unsee.
~
What's the measure of grit and belief — How is the love
of trees ever strong enough — When do these bits of life
happen — when was, is & will are one — so guilt is not the only
thing to feel — Why is the crease of an old photograph always
a map for hidden grace or loss — Where's the gaze, the last
hard look into my eye — Whose face sees mine
The river is cold — and
~ uncertainty, a throb
so the rains will come
Every window a story, every voice a telling.
Beauty never hides from the sharpest edge.
Only the bandaged pain of fools would think
otherwise, and if we stare into the dark long
enough, we see ourselves at some end or
beginning — moving, aching, spilling milk.
~
All life is stolen, ripped away. No face, no name, no place
to stand. And the catalogue of innocence? — an empty
merry-go-round, a thrown twig floating downriver,
the train headed for brittle fields of a restless doubt.
~
There's a life we all grow into — long stands of birches
with bird calls, talks of what is and is not, then cups
of tea while an orchestra plays, all the years dragging
at our borders. If the only thing left is nothing — what then?
The eyes appear, disappear; —
~ as if this flash
could mine a truth
Every moment is liquid, and the physics tells us
the body will lose its weight, will submerge into mirrors
& notebooks & closets. What's broken opens its fissures
so light and shadow can whisper to the troubled silence.
~
When the world screams, I scream back
in a frenzy, in a rage, a mosh — “Everything
is yours” — the growled anthem to dead fish,
lost kidneys, to the undiscovered child.
— Warsaw, 1989
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Krzysztof Kieślowski is, surely, among the greatest of filmmakers, and his Dekalog, a crowning achievement in cinema. On my short list of favorite films.
Pleased to have this piece included in The Male Muse issue of Poets Artists. Special thanks to Didi Menendez for creating and sustaining PA - a strong artistic and literary community.
https://www.poetsandartists.com/magazine/2017/1/28/the-male-muse
What we have only is our misunderstandings of the world and our tiny place within it.
Yet we keep plodding on. Hope, is it? Or inertia?
"Betrayal is / a bitter cold of dull razors, empty drawers, and / lies with midnight calls."
This. And much more.
*
"letters from the dead can never give us truth / to hold —"
*
Fabulous poem. I love Dekalog, too.
*
Fave parts:
n the glass of fruit, a bee climbs the length
of spoon out of syrup, then shakes her wings.
Drunk with not knowing, she edges along
the rim as if moving were the only absolution.
Every moment is liquid, and the physics tells us
the body will lose its weight, will submerge into mirrors
& notebooks & closets. What's broken opens its fissures
so light and shadow can whisper
the catalogue of innocence? — an empty
merry-go-round, a thrown twig floating downriver,
the train headed for brittle fields.
I think in some ways you were a better writer then and that in some ways you're a better writer now.
My favorite segment of Dekalog is A Short Film About Love.
Telling images that evoke the Dekalog and inspire more viewings, as this inspires re-readings. (I still wonder whether the explosive comedy of D-10 is summative of the series or reliably can be read backwards into the other pieces, since it seemed innocent of bitterness but succeeded as a great piece of dark humor.)
Wow, Sam. There are so many great lines (thoughts) in this. I felt like I fell into another world as I read it. ***
This: "All life is stolen, ripped away. No face, no name, no place
to stand. And the catalogue of innocence? — an empty
merry-go-round, a thrown twig floating downriver,
the train headed for brittle fields of a restless doubt."
A poem in itself ****
Wonderful, Sam.
*, Sam. Superb poetry. You've gathered Kieslowski's work so well. Yes,to Dekalog. I'm a big Three Colours fan, too. I haven't seen all 10 of his films, but I want to. He's the master. Your work here is simply excellent.
***Drunk with not knowing, she edges along
the rim as if moving were the only absolution. (This is what I do.)
"In the glass of fruit, a bee climbs the length
of spoon out of syrup, then shakes her wings.
Drunk with not knowing, she edges along
the rim as if moving were the only absolution."
Amazing.
Who doesn't love them a good Polish flick and a good poem about same? Who? *
Oh, oh, oh! ***
Too many lines to mention - I just love this, Sam.
I am stunned into consciousness. This is what language does best. *
Read it again this morning. This line cut thru the sleep. Woke me up! "Beauty never hides from the sharpest edge."
Sam, this is just amazing. *
Thanks to all for reading.