Sample of the limited edition, large-format version of the 1st bilingual anthology from OFF_Press. Layout, artworking and typesetting done by Samuel Taradash
6. Contents
Spis rzeczy
Introduction vii
Wprowadzenie ix
Doing Two Things at Once 1 Phil
Robiąc dwie rzeczy 3 Boiarski
w tym samym czasie
Under a Sky 7 Agnieszka
Pod niebem 17 Czachor
Walrus Man 27 Marta
Człowiek-Mors 41 Górska
Comma 53 Farhan
Przecinek 57 Jamalvy
At the Border 61 Maria
Na granicy 65 Jastrzebska
Subtenant 69
Cake 71 Marcin
Sublokator 73 Jurzysta
Ciasto 75
Prequel Manifesto 77 Piotr
Prequel Manifesto 85 Makowski
T for Two 91 Paul
T jak T 97 McGuire
7. Ten Prose Poems 103 Tomasz
Prozy poetyckie 107 Ososiński
Soup Bowls 111 Barbara
Talerze do zupy 121 Zaragoza
Authors 133
Autorzy 137
Acknowledgements / Podziękowania 141
Contact / Kontakt 143
vi
8. Introduction
Marek Kazmierski
D ear Reader,
We set up OFF_ as an on-line bi-lingual literary magazine in
February, launched OFF_Lit’Comp ‘09 in April, and published this,
the ten best entries in dual-translation, a few months later. From what
people in the book trade tell us, an adventurous schedule.
But then OFF_ itself is an adventure... in literary collaborations that
don’t end in feuds, in using the Web in ways that work, in exploring
the possibilities offered by translations, in using multimedia to our ad-
vantage – the people behind OFF_ not only write, but design, perform,
film and so on and so understand the future of publishing is all about
cross-genre interaction.
Thanks to everyone we owe can be found at the back. Most of all,
huge thanks to the writers who contributed to this anthology – from
England, New Zealand, Pakistan, Poland and the US, the response, in
quality and quantity, has made all the mad effort worth it.
For now, enjoy the tales, explore the translations and, all that done,
stick with OFF_.
vii
10. Wprowadzenie
Paweł Gawroński
O d redakcji.
OFF_Magazine narodził się w lutym bieżącego roku i od
pierwszego dnia swojego istnienia zaczął rozwijać się bardzo szybko,
zwracając uwagę wielu osób ze środowiska wydawniczego. Chcieliśmy
przy wykorzystaniu najnowocześniejszych technik multimedialnych
promować dobrą literaturę, dlatego najpierw znaleźliśmy swoje mie-
jsce w internecie, potem ogłosiliśmy Międzynarodowy Konkurs Liter-
acki, by wreszcie dziesięć tych najlepszych tekstów mogło zaistnieć na
papierze.
Tak więc, z olbrzymią satysfakcją możemy Państwu życzyć
przyjemnej lektury. Nasza rola jeżeli chodzi o ten projekt powoli się
kończy, nadeszła chwila, kiedy trzeba poszukać nowych wyzwań, kole-
jnych talentów. Na pewno będziemy pamiętać długie godziny spędzone
na otoczonym agregatami pięknym balkonie Północnego Londynu,
który musieliśmy przerobić na potrzeby redakcji. Gdy patrzyliśmy na
liczne, ciekawe teksty napływające z całego świata, z Anglii, Nowej Ze-
landii, Pakistanu, Polski, czy USA już wiedzieliśmy, że było warto.
ix
11.
12. Doing Two Things at Once
Phil Boiarski
Prism of my cracked wind shield refracts
Across the pages, a slash of colored light
Layered like spilled fruit juices
watemellontangerinelemonsugarmellonblues.
I turn the wheel and it disappears.
A red rabbit blurs by.
Sun glares intensely on the
Rear window of the white car ahead,
I can’t make out the driver.
Moving snake of ink tracks
Across the page, making a road,
Where time stops thought;
Pours content like concrete
Into the void of the page.
I accelerate to 60,
While writing sumac, locust,
The bony white body of a sycamore
As they loom up then zoom
Peripherally, like roads going off
Like the road my hood is eating, all part
Of the blur of blooming that retreats to
The black at the back of my head.
The splash of light is back, quite
By accident, the road winding to the right.
I am now doing 52, behind a white-haired man
In an old white car. Here are two black men
In a big blue car. A black couple in a silver
One. They have all lived on the road while
I scrawled words at the wheel.
1
13. Doing Two Things at Once
Boats across the green median, pulled by blue
Pick ups and in the sky; a red-tailed hawk floating
In another time. A canoe overturned on the roof
Of a green Barracuda strains against its bonds.
The prism flickers on the back of my hand,
Moves up to cuff my wrist, crawls up my arm
Into the shadow of the visor and is gone.
Suddenly slowing, the traffic grows so thick for a time
I have to close the tablet and put the pen down.
Hay in cylindrical bales, fields of soy beans yellowing.
It is easier to write at 55. Not to mention the savings.
I notice that I mistook the white-haired woman in the white
Car for a man. Distracted, I suppose. Lost focus.
The prism lies quiescent on the journal.
I pass the woman again and come up to
The couple in the silver sedan. They have
Two children who wave. I wave back and
Pull around them, accelerating. The prism fades.
Black and white cows in an open green field,
Car-high corn fields, green blades fluttering,
Traffic closing in and braking down, 40, 30, 15,
A wreck burns on its back, a red rabbit in flames.
2
14. Robiąc dwie rzeczy w tym
samym czasie
Phil Boiarski
pęknięcie jakby na przedniej szybie auta
na bielusieńkiej kartce tnące kolorowe światło
albo rozlany owocowy sok
arbuzmelonmandarynkajabłkopomarańcza
kręcę kierownicą i to wszystko znika
czerwone zwierzę przemyka poboczem
słońce razi tak mocno ocierając się
o samochód jadący przede mną
że nie mogę rozszyfrować już kierowcy
prowadzącego długimi zygzakami atramentu
tworząc drogę wzdłuż stronicy
wylewa zawartość jak cement
na pojemną przecież kartę
pisząc o cisach i szarańczy
przyspieszam do sześćdziesięciu
a kościste białe ciała przydrożnych drzew
pojawiają się potem zbliżają błyskawicznie
jakbym właściwie stracił kurs
albo maska mojego samochodu pożerała asfalt
błysk rozkwitu co powraca w mej pamięci
plama światła już tu jest
szosa zwija się ku prawej
jadę pięćdziesiątką tuż za siwowłosym facetem
w starym białym samochodzie dwaj murzyni
w niebieskiej limuzynie i podobna para
w srebrnej
oni wszyscy przecież żyli na tej drodze
w czasie gdy ja bazgrałem słowa za kółkiem
3
15. Robiąc dwie rzeczy w tym samym czasie
łodzie na zielonym równiku ciągnięte
przez niebieskie ciężarówki a na niebie
gdzieś daleko płynie jastrząb
kajak przewrócony do góry nogami na dachu
zielonej Barrakudy walczy z własnymi słabościami
światło przebiega wzdłuż mojej ręki
mankiet nadgarstek ramię
znikam pod dachem samochodu
albo to ono się skrywa
ruch uliczny znowu gęstnieje zwalniam
wyłączam komputer odkładam długopis
ułożone już bele siana żółknie fasola
i to wszystko działo się tuż obok
kiedy ja bazgrałem za kółkiem
łodzie na zielonym równiku ciągnięte
przez niebieskie ciężarówki a na niebie
gdzieś daleko płynie jastrząb
kajak przewrócony do góry nogami na dachu
zielonej Barrakudy walczy z własnymi słabościami
a światło przebiega wzdłuż mojej ręki
mankiet nadgarstek ramię
znikam pod dachem samochodu
albo to ono się skrywa
gęstnieje ruch uliczny zwalniam
zamykam komputer odkładam długopis
łatwiej się pisze przy pięćdziesięciu ekonomiczniej
pomyliłem siwego mężczyznę ze staruszką
biały samochód z człowiekiem
przypuszczam że rozproszony
umknął na chwilę cel
światło układa się spokojnie na pamiętniku
4
16. Phil Boiarski
wyprzedzam kobietę i dystans do pary
w srebrnym sedanie pozdrawia mnie dwójka dzieci
macham przyśpieszam zostają w tyle
robi się ciemno
spokojne jak zawsze krowy kukurydza
wspina się na wysokość samochodów
zielone źdźbła drżą
korek znów się zwiększa takie czasy
trzydzieści czterdzieści piętnaście
jakiś wrak niszczeje na poboczu
czerwone zwierzę w płomieniach
5
17.
18. Under a Sky
Agnieszka Czachor
E izas was sitting on the veranda. Through the stains on the window
he watched the courtyard. The sandy earth around the stables and
under the walnut tree shimmered in gold fragments. The sun spread its
arms over the crowns of the woods, shooting its myriad beams across
the estate. The field and all living things surrounding it slowly shep-
herded by fire and bumblebees. Horses trotted along the fence. The
man giggled. Well – he muttered – go, Old Girl, jump! Almost simul-
taneously, as if responding to his word. First the largest, grey mare,
followed by others, the braver, leapt the barrier separating them from
the stables. Eizas clapped his hands. But the stable gates were shut.
The grey mare stopped before the veranda and fixed her gaze on his
form. A moment later, she whinnied, quiet at first, pleading. Then loud,
aroused, as if displeased. Eizas rubbed his hands. Gulping his beer
slowly. You fiends – he mumbled – you just hang on there, learn you a
little resilience.
He matched the mare’s gaze a while, then rose and crouched by
the glass wall. Rested his outspread fingers against it. Sighed. Stud-
ied both his hands. Chose. Which would be best. Decided the right for
today. Unpeeled the left from the glass, leaving a wet imprint. Chose
again. First bent the thumb, then the fore and the index fingers. Hesi-
tated a while between the middle and the pinkie, but this did not last
long. Quickly bent the middle. Used the pinkie as a brush. Decided.
He went outside. The windows rang. The horses turned their elon-
gated heads toward him. Whinnied. Turning on the spot, they kicked
up a storm of dust. Bumblebees were everywhere. Cutting the animals’
hides until they bled. Eizas didn’t so much as look. His back turned, he
begun a new masterpiece.
7
19. Under a Sky
The moist finger smudged dust from the glass. Leaving lines which
became entities. Apparitions. They did not frighten. Grotesque, rather.
Each of the figures had at least one human body part. The rest came
from dreams.
When he closed his eyes, he desired sleep. Then a fever flared
within him and he screamed. They approached and studied his face.
He opened his eyes. But did not turn on the lights. Soaked in sweat, he
waited for the red scar of sky, desiring once again to confirm that dawn
would come. They were in his head. When it got light, their forms fad-
ed, though the sense of their presence remained.
Painting them onto the windows stripped them of power, which
at night disarmed him. Stripped them of life. Later on, a storm would
come, or maybe just a rain shower and they would vanish. The window
panes glistened for a few days and then once again started gathering
dust. Quickly enough to accept new etchings. He could not remember
if the figures were different, or the same as before.
He was now finishing a dragon, which instead of eyes had the heads
of children. With long hair, unsmiling. Then in the window he saw the
face of a woman. Froze. Wiped his hands on his trousers, rose slowly
and, without hurrying, turned on his right leg to stand face to face with
Ihwar. Squinted. Stood against the sun.
Not a muscle twitched in either of their faces. Eyes which had mo-
mentarily glistened turned dull. – What now? – he murmured. – Noth-
ing – she shrugged. Turned past him. Walked a few steps behind the
house, entering the shadow of a huge yew. She rested her hands against
the trunk. Her head spun. A light wind twisted the air. An acute–dull
smell settled on her nostrils. She couldn’t quite decide if it was acute,
or dull. Resting her forehead against the trunk, she felt the rough bark
line her skin. Then raised her head. Stared at her own fingers. They
were long and white. She heard his voice. – Friend of foe? – he asked,
standing behind her. With effort, she pulled back her hands. – Surprise
– she whispered.
8
20. Agnieszka Czachor
Eizas lived in the middle of a forest. Among horses. The herd num-
bered twenty, among them several foals. He was fifty years old; cheeks
lined with wrinkles, sunken, dark eyes and yellow scleras. He ate next
to nothing. Drank all the time instead. The animals ate often. Or so he
said. They were covered in straw and shit. Tangled manes rolled up in
round folds. His dream had come true. He had built his stables, dug
a heart–shaped pond, fenced in two hectares of meadow and let the
horses loose.
– You have come to collect – he straightened, and raised his head,
without squinting – I knew you would crawl back here one day. She
watched the movement of his lips carefully. Unconsciously, she hunched
her shoulders, blinked and quickly dropped her gaze, burying it in the
blades of grass stretching their necks between their feet. – No – she
whispered, choking on something heavy near the solar plexus – It’s not
like that. – I have nothing – he said proudly – I’ve changed nothing in
myself, none of my self-loathing. He looked down to her slim shoulders
and walked away. She heard him close the door of the veranda. Felt her
eyes sting. Moved towards the herd.
She climbed between the fence beams and found herself out on the
pasture. The grass-covered space reached as far as the woods, dark
crowns low over the bright green baize. Fiery beams bit hungrily into
these two elemental greens.
She whistled. And nothing. Whistled again. The horses were out to
pasture, lifted their heads with interest. Seeing nothing frightening in
her movements, they ignored her and continued to nibble on the grass-
es. She walked in among them slowly. Didn’t know any of the animals.
She touched the foal, which jumped away in fear. The rest followed.
She returned to the courtyard. Searching. Feeling her head pulsing.
Old passions waking. Clutching her throat, she cut off the air supply,
hammering the centre of her forehead, sending sweat flying. She im-
agined she had a thousand hearts, beating simultaneously. Free from
thought, she felt pure waves of emotion exploding around her. I have to
be somewhere, she mumbled. Opened the doors to stable after stable,
9
21. Under a Sky
ran from room to room. Wiped moist hands on her trousers. Sensing
sand beginning to cover her wet feet. She tried to shake it off from be-
tween the straps of her sandals, but it was futile. The gentle grind of
tiny stones accompanied each step. When she stopped in the centre
of the courtyard to catch her breath, her eyes fell on a narrow window
tainted with bird droppings.
She ran. With a loud crack, she opened the barred doors. And froze.
The mare rested the whole of her right side against the wall. Started to
sweat instantly. – Hey, beautiful – she reached out her hand, felt grains
of sand at the back of her throat. The red hide reminded her of sandpa-
per, stuck together with dirt and sweat, sticking up along the spine and
belly. The faded, thick mane took on the colour of dust. – She’s mad
– the words fell on her shoulders – loves it when you stroke her face, a
certain little girl taught her, but now she won’t let you near. – Why do
you not let her out with the other horses – she turned with fury towards
Eizas. – She’s trapped, like me. – It’s only an animal. – Just like me – he
muttered.
She tried to exit too rapidly and tripped over the doorstep, hitting
the ground, scratching her elbow. Then jumped up just as quickly and
ran on.
At night, she could not sleep. The moon raised its golden face and
scattered all clouds. It ran the room through like a searchlight. For the
first time in a decade, she thought about her childhood. About the ma-
ple by the river, conifers and the foal whose bone marrow strengthened
the conifer’s roots. She looked down at her hands once again; slim fin-
gers topped with nails the shape of almonds. They were shaking.
That night had had a similar face.
The moon gold, and vast, shining for itself. Travelling low, as if it
wanted her to touch it. To have her long, white fingers caress its per-
fectly round cheeks and forehead. The Eye of God. She spoke softly.
Eizas burst out laughing. – You are mad! – he shouted. She felt his dis-
gust. More so than ever before. She had found him lying with his legs
10
22. Acknowledgements
Podziękowania
Thanks be to OFF_Team Joanna Czajka, Justyna Daniluk, Ewa Paw-
lak, Kinga Pilich, Marcin Piniak, Kinga Stanczuk, Samuel Taradash,
the Translators (P. Gawronski, M. Kazmierski, J. Malcolm, P. Siwecki),
MINIMAL BOOKS, Polish Cultural Institute in London, Instytut Mick-
iewicza in Poland, PAFT for their kind donation and everyone who has
given us a chance thus far. Couldn’thavedonewithoutya.
Dziękujemy: grupie OFF_ Joannie Czajce, Justynie Daniluk, Ewie
Pawlak, Kindze Pilich, Marcinowi Piniakowi, Kindze Stańczuk,
Samowi Taradashi, tłumaczom (P. Gawroński, M. Kazmierski, J. Mal-
colm, P. Siwecki) MINIMAL BOOKS, Instytutowi Kultury Polskiej w
Londynie, Instytutowi Adama Mickiewicza i PAFT-owi. Bez Was nie
byłoby tej książki.
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