A FRAGMENT OF A PLAY
EUGENIUSZ TKACZYSZYN-DYCKI TRANSLATED FROM POLISH BY JACOB MIKANOWSKI
ART BY FAINA YUNUSOVA
The action takes place in a summer kitchen.
I. I wrote so many poems
in which my mother appears
so many bad poems
just to show her loneliness
we were sitting in the summer kitchen
with the clay floor
in which I always felt the best
especially if I could eat
pickled cabbages or blind fish with roux
II. in truth I didn’t have friends
I had to sit by my mother
keeping watch and so we sat
with Hrudnycha in silence
I spread out bound volumes
of Bluszcz huge tomes
of Bluszcz left by old Ilnicka they say
whose family took her
to Przemyśl I don’t remember her given name
let us be content with the surname bare
III. so we sit with Hrudnycha
silently because mother
was the silent type closed in on herself
and absent so very
absent that one could not
run out into the yard
one could not leave her
though I was drawn
to Bybek games with Bybek
who knew about poetry
IV. from the issues of Bluszcz left by Ilnicka
I cut out poems
gathered them apart in little piles
stanzas fascinated me
(“verse-ions, diversions”) I hunted
for poems from issue
to issue page after page
ignoring everything else
including Bybek who was getting impatient
and calling me out to the yard
V. the volumes of Bluszcz stayed at home
tomes inherited from the Ilnickis
grandma Hrudniowa said
of these volumes
that they were the certain property
of the Kubiszyn-Ilnickis
who having gotten rich in tobacco
left for Krakow
after which all trace of them vanished
VI. and so we sat in silence
mother sunk
in her distant world but I
needing nothing more cut out
poems (“verse-ions, diversions”) from Bluszcz
arranged them in piles smaller
or bigger sometimes asking Hrudnycha
about an author (who is
Zofia Nałkowska?) I asked as well for a close reading
my mother came alive in the summer
kitchen with the clay floor in which I always
felt the best where the spectacle played
VII. I wrote so many poems
in which my mother appears
so many bad poems
that I would like to change something
get out of the trap
(I’d like for instance to show
her loneliness) the spectacle
ended abruptly broke off
when Dycio came into the hut
father didn’t hide his displeasure
sonofabitch sonofabitch he yelled
and cursed the theater which
had not escaped his notice just as later
he would yell and curse at Norwid
VIII. mother bent over hunched her back
muttered a bit to herself
a bit to me sang some
fragment of text (la la la la
la la la la) returned to certain
places accenting
and underlining often improvising
adding for some reason another line
or another stanza (“verse-ion
diversion”) the spectacle ended
abruptly broke off when into the hut
came father sonofabitch
IX. no matter that my mother
Hrudnycha’s Polish was thick
with weeds (“ludyna,” “chustyna,”
“kotyna,” “chwyłyna,” “detyna”)
and at the same time it was a Polish
where out of the blue (probably
after a meeting with Mrs. Bolechowska)
there could appear a “morsel”
or “imminently, inconspicuously” no one
expected from my mother such a “morsel”
About the Work by Jacob Mikanowski
Origins matter to Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki. One of the leading Polish poets of his generation, his work juxtaposes bare emotional intimacy with a remarkable linguistic precision, and summons the rustle of centuries. A single poem will intermingle the formal concerns of the Baroque, the emotional tenor of the Romantics and the fractured, alienated self of the present. The result of this melding, however, is neither pastiche nor any kind of postmodern game. Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s work is anchored in a very specific time and place, and galvanized by a restless need to understand the sources and instruments of his own creativity.
The nine poems I’ve translated here belong to a single cycle, which first appeared in the journal Mały Format in 2021. Tkaczyszyn-Dycki calls the group “a fragment of a play.” It could be considered an addendum to Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s collection Kochanka Norwida (Norwid’s Lover), selections of which I translated for the previous issue of Turkoslavia. It shares many of that book’s concerns, but instead of ranging across the whole of the poet’s life, it narrows the frame to a single afternoon. The action takes place in the summer kitchen of a village home. We are east of Przemyśl, very close to Poland’s border with Soviet Ukraine. The year is sometime in the mid-to-late 1960s. The company consists of the poet, his Ukrainian mother (Hrudnycha), and his Polish grandmother (Hrudniowa).
This mixed heritage matters a great deal to Tkaczyszyn-Dycki, and forms a major motif of his work. The border between the two languages (Polish and Ukrainian) and faiths (Catholic and Uniate) runs right through his family. This divide, cutting across East Europe’s borderlands, has been a source of much personal and political strife. Before World War II, Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s Polish grandmother married a Ukrainian man. During the war, the husband was a member of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA), and participated in an attack on his grandmother’s village. In a comment to a 2020 collection Gdyby ktoś o mnie pytał (“If someone were to ask about me”), Tkaczyszyn-Dycki wrote that his grandmother was never able to come to terms with this tragedy. For most of her life, she was castigated as the wife of a “rezun,” or killer. Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s mother, who suffered from mental illness, was likewise treated as an outcast in their village community.
This double exclusion complicated childhood and language for Tkaczyszyn-Dycki. His mother and grandmother mostly spoke Ukrainian with each other and, until the age of fifteen, Tkaczyszyn-Dycki himself spoke a mixture of Polish and Ukrainian, pejoratively known as “język chachłacki,” or the chochoł tongue. Despite their status as linguistic outsiders, his mother and grandmother were the ones who charted his course into Polish poetry. His grandmother inspired his early love for the Polish language, and taught him that any experience, any tragedy, could be turned into a story, and therefore into literature. His mother, whose Polish, in the words of poem IX in this cycle, was “thick with Ukrainian weeds” had a rare sense for the sound and texture of language, and a lexophile’s appreciation for singular words.
The nine poems that make up Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s “fragment of a play” trace the poet’s path through these formative influences. Cutting across multiple languages and registers, the collection presents many challenges for the translator. I have tried to signal the multiplicity of languages at play by leaving Ukrainian words in the original. I also sought to highlight Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s gift for unearthing the odd and unusual in Polish itself. In terms of context, beside the poet’s family background, it helps to know a few things about the history of Polish literature, for instance that Cyprian Norwid was one of the great Romantic poets of the 19th century, and that Zofia Nałkowska was a leading social novelist of the interwar and early postwar years. Beyond these few facts, Tkaczyszyn-Dycki’s work should be legible to any reader blessed with empathy and an appreciation for the infinite paths leading from life into poetry and back.
* *
EUGENIUSZ TKACZYSZYN-DYCKI is one of contemporary Poland’s most celebrated poets. Born in 1962, he is the author of fourteen poetry collections, and the subject of at least four scholarly monographs. He is the recipient of most of Poland's highest awards for literature, including the Gdynia Literary Prize (twice), the Kazimiera Iłłakowiczówna Award, the Barbara Sadowska Award, the Polish-German Days of Literature Award, the Paszport Polityki Award, and the Nike Literary Award.
JACOB MIKANOWSKI is a writer, historian and journalist. He received his Ph.D. in history from the University of California, Berkeley, with a dissertation on literature and the performance of self in Stalinist Poland. He is the author of Goodbye Eastern Europe: An Intimate History of a Divided Land (Pantheon, 2023).
Source Text by Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki
Fragment widowiska. Rzecz dzieje się w kuchni letniej.
I.
napisałem tyle wierszy
w których pojawia się matka
tyle niedobrych wierszy
po to by ukazać jej samotność
siedzieliśmy w kuchni letniej
o glinianej polepie
w której zawsze było mi najlepiej
zwłaszcza gdy mogłem zjeść
kryżałki lub pyrki z myrdyrdą
II.
właściwie nie miałem przyjaciół
musiałem siedzieć przy matce
i jej pilnować siedzieliśmy więc
z Hrudnychą i milczeliśmy
rozkładałem przed sobą roczniki
„Bluszczu” wielkie tomiszcze
„Bluszczu” ponoć po starej Ilnickiej
którą krewni zabrali
do Przemyśla nie pamiętam jej imienia
niech nam wystarczy gołe nazwisko
III.
siedzimy więc z Hrudnychą
i milczymy bo matka
była milczkiem zamknięta w sobie
i nieobecna tak bardzo
nieobecna że nie można
wybiec na podwórko
nie można jej zostawić
choć ciągnie mnie
do Bybka do zabaw z Bybkiem
który znał się na poezji
IV.
z „Bluszczu” po Ilnickiej
wycinałem wiersze
gromadziłem je osobno w kupki
fascynowały mnie strofy
(„zwrotki, nicotki”) polowałem
na wiersze z numeru
na numer strona po stronie
ignorując wszystko inne
w tym Bybka który się niecierpliwił
wywoływał mnie na podwórko
V.
w domu zachowały się roczniki
„Bluszczu” po Ilnickich
babcia Hrudniowa opowiadała
o tych egzemplarzach
że stanowiły niechybną własność
Kubiszynów-Ilnickich
którzy wzbogaciwszy się na tytoniu
wyjechali do Krakowa
i wszelki ślad po nich zaginął
VI.
siedzieliśmy więc i milczeliśmy
matka zapadała się
w swoim odległym świecie mnie zaś
niczego nie brakowało wycinałem
z „Bluszczu” wiersze („zwrotki, nicotki”)
układałem je w kupki mniejsze
lub większe niekiedy zagadnąłem Hrudnychę
o nazwisko autora (kim jest
Zofia Nałkowska?) prosiłem także o lekturę
tekstu matka ożywiała się w kuchni
letniej o glinianej polepie w której zawsze
było mi najlepiej rozgrywał się spektakl
VII.
napisałem tyle wierszy
w których pojawia się matka
tyle niedobrych wierszy
że chciałbym coś zmienić
wybrnąć z pułapki
(chciałbym na przykład ukazać
jej samotność) spektakl
gwałtownie urywał się gasł
kiedy do chaty wchodził Dycio
ojciec nie krył swojego niezadowolenia
ociepierun ociepierun wykrzykiwał
i pomstował na teatr który nie uszedł
jego uwadze tak samo później
wykrzykiwał i pomstował na Norwida
VIII.
matka pochylała się garbiła
mamrotała ni to do siebie
ni to do mnie śpiewała jakiś
fragment tekstu (la la la la
la la la la) wracała do poszczególnych
miejsc w wierszu akcentując je
i podkręcając bardzo często improwizując
dorzuciwszy po coś kolejny wers
lub kolejną strofę („zwrotkę,
nicotkę”) spektakl gwałtownie
urywał się gasł kiedy do chaty
wchodził ojciec ociepierun
IX.
to nic że polszczyzna mojej matki
Hrudnychy była dziko
zachwaszczona („ludyna”, „chustyna”,
„kotyna”, „chwyłyna”, „detyna”)
ale jednocześnie była to polszczyzna
w której ni stąd ni zowąd (pewnie
po spotkaniu z panią Bolechowską)
mogło się pojawić „ździebko”
lub „niebawem, niebaczkiem” nikt się
tego „ździebka” po matce nie spodziewał