HawkPunk . Poems by Henry Kanabus

When Vassals Can Build Castles When you first enter the church you think of a whitewashed barn. You see pastor Debbie grinning a satisfied smile eyes atwinkle behind her glasses. she is behind a small synthesizer she refers to as an organ Her chubby husband stands near her holding a cheap acoustic guitar his red hair thinning and streaked with gray his face permanently flushed red Guitar picks litter the area like Easter colored wafers  As he picks his way through Leaning on the Grace of the Lord You don’t think of Eric Clapton.

There were bellows fastened by shipyard rope controlled by a foot pedal The fire was writhing . blazing Held by tongs a rail of iron glowed red made pliant for the anvil Hammered into a horseshoe then dropped in a bucket of water It sizzled and steamed And the horses were hitched to a length of timber tossing their manes In the grass by the river were plowshare and harrows awaiting repair Waves of heat broke over my face at the entrance at my back were white clouds and rain. Czelaw Milosz (1911-2004) Translated by Henry Kanabus

I remember The Days of The Death of My Father My sister and I were in Stanley Funeral Home arranging for the burial of our Father I said:              Why can’t he be buried without the concrete encasement The UnderTaker said it was a Health issue and the law. We picked out a copper tinted casket. He was buried at the Family area family plot (I guess you could say) at Saint Joseph’s Cemetery in Chicago I remember my eldest sister Theresa glaring at my Mother to make her feel guilty But it was nobody’s fault He had fought with a virulent cancer and died is all. We ate somewhere I don’t                 remember that clearly. And we went back to town a small smooth stone in our Autumn hands.

I agree to this landscape which might not exist. The father is holding a violin. Children are licking at the sound. A cold wind brushes a garden of petals. Then the wars . We lose sight of one another. Huddled in full sentences, words are in hiding. An empty room parked in the twilight of an old apartment house. Please leave a message , says Jaina. Reworked from NIKT © 2003, Ewa Lipska From: Ja Publisher: Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow, 2003

This strange thing must have crept Right out of hell. It resembles a bird’s foot Worn around the cannibal’s neck. As you hold it in your hand, As you stab with it into a piece of meat, It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird: Its head which like your fist Is large, bald, beakless, and blind.     © Charles Simic From: Selected Early Poems Publisher: George Braziller, Inc.

The Church persists that corpses be buried explaining that Christ himself wanted to be buried. Sure, I was going to be resurrected, and not be reborn from ashes like a phoenix, says Christ, but it doesn’t mean that others can’t be reborn from ashes like a phoenix, says Christ and He’s really pissed off at this stupid Church. Like a phoenix. In four hours I’ll see you, whatever happens, I’ll see you in three hours.   © Justyna Bargielska From: Bach for my baby Publisher: Biuro Literackie, Wroclaw, 2013