Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019

O scarecrow, dressed elegantly
- in worn-out shoes, ragged old hat,
on which black crow sits in dignity
and stares off into this distance where forest sad

- you certainly dream about traveling
into these wheat fields, grasses adorned with flowers
that you could lose your scarecrow's soul
running happily towards the horizon...

But you stand here, alas, forever lost in thoughts,
unable to understand where the restriction comes from,
with your straw heart always split
between both powerlessness and want.

Funny thing, my dear scarecrow - to have
so much on your own and not to.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/01/2008
Only poems that I've ever tried to write myself come from a time when I was 22 or 23 years old and there are only a few of them. Enjoy!
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/20/2018

Kneeling before you,
I bow my head low,
confessing the truths
due to the Motherland:

it's you who taught me
to see beauty with a word,
and when I entrusted
my soul to you,
you made the bed
with mirror thought
- looking-glass' reflection -
dressed in pensive ponderings.

I love you, Poland,
when you are blooming in spring.
Your fertile fields
of gold wheat and barley.

I love,
when in summer,
in the aroma of linden trees,
adorned with flowers,
you lure with cool shade.

I love in autumn:
saddened,
rainy.

I love with pure and
unchanging love,
full of joy
of sins remission:
of Christmas Eve
examination of conscience.

I love, from south to north,
in February cold
and in hot July.

Your steel statues
of the Carpathian peaks.
Your streams, when rumbling
they carry the March ice floes.
Your beautiful sparkling willow greens
of Masurian waters,
when the sun is chasing
dancing rays
-with emerald's spark
of silver-plated steel,
before they'll disappear
with colors of the rainbow
in the hazy distance.

Your ancient castles,
standing proudly since the times of Piasts.

Your dunes, tamed with dwarf pine,
your country homesteads on the Bug and Prosna.

Polish wolves', eager for blood,
fearful thundering voices.
The heroic fate of the brave Polish armies.
Golden wheat ears of liberation
in the coat of arms of the Nation.

At the sources of the Vistula
I love you with reverie:
And over transparent waters
further reaches
I sob.

You'll hug me,
Mother!
Your son,
when you'll tuck me in
as my only Ma
-buried,
with eternal... loving.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/9/2001
Friends, I am asking for your understanding, because all my translations must be proofread and corrected. Poems are hard to translate (even in free verse translations). The original is rhymed. Regards

The Carpathian Mountains or Carpathians are a mountain range system forming an arc roughly 1,500 km (932 mi) long across Central and Eastern Europe, making them the second-longest mountain range in Europe (after the Scandinavian Mountains) .

Masuria - is a region in northern Poland famous for its 2,000 lakes. Before the end of World War II, it was mostly inhabited by Polish-speaking Lutheran Masurians and constituted a part of East Prussia. Masuria occupies much of the Masurian Lake District. Its biggest city is Ełk, often regarded as its capital.

The Piast dynasty was the first historical ruling dynasty of Poland. The first documented Polish monarch was Prince Mieszko I (c.930-992)

The Bug River (Polish: Bug) is a major river mostly located in Eastern Europe, which flows through three countries with a total length of 774 kilometres.

The Prosna is a river in central Poland, a tributary of the Warta river (near Pyzdry) , with a length of 227 kilometres.

The Vistula (Polish: Wisła) is the longest and largest river in Poland and the 9th longest river in Europe, at 1,047 kilometres (651 miles) in length.
Mark Sep 25
I've got the rhythm, but don't look anythang like a Nashvillian soul    
Been living on the streets, so I ain't been on any **** census role    
I'm not my mother's natural birth child, without any apology    
But I’m god’s chosen and gifted, finger picking, guitar prodigy    
   
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time    
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime    
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways    
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways    
   
My Mama once said, just do your music or do something else    
So, I'm legally insane and uncomfortable to be with, I guess    
I don't actually see myself living anywhere forever    
But, how'd ya know, that you've actually arrived, wherever    
   
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time    
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime    
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways    
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways    
   
If they don't ever remember the month or day, since leaving    
Families gettin' together, telling lies, now police intervening    
I sometimes have to forget that I wrote it, to be able to like it    
As long as fans think dope of it, why bother to disable the ****    
Hoed fresh corn all day, everyday, been up since the crack of dawn    
Pretty plenty of backyard swamp talkin' catfish, have since been born    
   
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time    
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime    
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways    
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways    
   
He'd hit a rabbit a sittin' and killed it with the barrel of his gun    
While the dang hammer was a peckin' a wild hog to death    
Like gettin' outta control and hardly takin' a shot of breath    
Or being a drunken redneck, during a hillbillies whiskey run.
I wrote this for Sunny War. She is a great guitar picker , originally from Nashville, but since the age of 13, she has been living on the streets of LA, USA.
Mitch Prax Sep 10
we can just travel
from country to country and
we can disappear

9:40 PM
10/9/19
Amanda Sep 10
You are a co-worker I will truly miss
So I thought and decided to write you this
Working by your side has always been great
Even on days you clocked in a little late
I am glad your acquaintance I got the chance to know
Have a great life no matter where you go
Have a safe trip back to your own country
Now you'll always have these words to remember me
To my Bulgarian co-worker... today is his last day.
Grey Sep 3
In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues

In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought

I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard

When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name
I can spend the biggest part of my life
In Nashville Tennessee
Drinking whiskey
Dancing country
Feeling the hot American sun in my skin
Enjoying the beloved American summertime
In Nashville Tennessee
Thinking of the good old Johnny
I can get old in Nashville Tennessee
I won’t care of anything
Unless there’s no whiskey left
“Yes, another one, neat.”
I can go from town to town
Through the Volunteer State
Say hi to some pals on my way
We can also have a beer on the way
Tell each other our old stories
And all meet together again in Nashville Tennessee
I can live this simple life
In Nashville Tennessee
So get your boots on and come on have a drink honey
07.17.19
kiran goswami Aug 15
I tried to write about the tricolour today,
I lifted the pen and spilt the ink on the paper,
the paper was white, white as in the tricolour
the spilt ink was navy blue, navy blue as in the tricolour's wheel.
I then dripped my hands in it,
my hands too became navy blue as I wrote the word 'INDEPENDENCE'
But that word did not belong to me, not to us, not as yet.
The 'Independence' I proudly talked of,
the sacrifices I mentioned,
were all foreign.
they were all spoken and written not in my language but in somebody else's.
I took two seconds to write 'INDEPENDENCE'
and eight seconds to write on my own.
I then realised we're caged and perhaps this time we don't wish to free ourselves anymore.
Two 'teardrops' fell and it became 'DEPENDENCE'.
well, even the tears were foreign and so was the mind.
I crushed the paper that looked foreign too,
and sat on my desk reading about my language.
So that next time when
I try to write about the tricolour,
I write in my own tongue.
If I was lucky and had a  choice to leave the UK
I go tomorrow for this country hold no hope
or future for the
poor
Swamped by the rich of this country who get
richer by the day on the sweat and tears of the families who are paid
peanuts
They punish people out of work when they no In truth there are too few jobs to go around kids going hungry while they live lives of luxury
spoiled
They've labelled the poor disabled vulnerable as scroungers like a which hunt when It's they who fiddle expensive
rip people
off
And they want my vote to
forget about It this used to be a great country but this present government has turned It back to Victorian
days kid begging on the street
I have to ask myself have do they have no shame evidently not no feelings do they have this country Is finished all but for the
rich I have
feelings
and would rather be poor than to live the life of these pompous spoiled brates who call themselves government most of
whom where
born
with a silver spoons In there mouths all I say Is God help us all the poor disabled
the vulnerable and most of all our poor starving children of our once great
country
Next page