Song of the Ill by Marcin Swietlicki
I slept through all the carnival, delirious.
I couldn’t bear the drums, pipes, burning puppets.
Today, the carnival’s over,
postmodernism begins.
I fiddle with the radio. This archetypal
scan of the wavelength can be performed
ad infinitum. Inside me
I have a little God, I tend
this scrap,
scab.
Translated from the Polish by Elzbieta Wojcik-Leese
Oh wow, I am woefully ignorant of translations so I can only comment on this as I would any other poem (without taking the translation into account).
I am a massive fan of short poems that pack a subtle punch, and this one does just that… a subtle kick, perhaps like that of the “little God” inside her, if I am interpreting correctly. Then I read it a second time and come away with a completely different interpretation, the “little God” being the only good part of the speaker left, a spirit that she picks at like a scab. Whether the “little God” is a baby or a reference to some spiritual/light/good side of the speaker doesn’t matter because I read the poem both ways and love both.
Really, really good.
poeticgrin
May 16, 2009 at 8:56 pm
Meant to add that I’m curious as to other’s interpretations of this poem.
Thanks for the introduction to more wonderful poets.
poeticgrin
May 16, 2009 at 8:57 pm