Michal Lapinski Studio
LETTERS FROM MY FATHER
Collection
Letters from my Father
letters from my father
there were not many
but there was a lot of crammed characters
on crumpled sheets of the copy paper
he used his old typewriter
the letters stumbled, fell on each other
bits were missing
they were restored with pencil markings
with an effort
letters from my father
they were coming too late
by 20 days
or 20 years
one was written before the war
about a son whose mother had died
before he could be born
his father took over
and made for him a lie
to live
letters from my father
arrived unannounced
when I was working
or deep in thought
they demanded standing to attention
he was to be saluted
when he led the army of words
to yet another futile assault
on the paper enemy of truth
the troops were blown away
they were cut out of a carton box
of soap
letters to my father
they aren’t too many
there are many drafts I have not completed
there are unfinished sentences hanging on the wall
and some pictures which are smudged
I have always wanted to write
in a language we both could speak
but I was mumbling in mine
and his was only Fatherish
as a second language
Inheritance
I inherited from my mother
her reading glasses
her love for Conrad
and her wish to kill herself
rather than to get old and ugly
My father left me his sarcasm and wit
his ribbons and medals
and his wish to live longer
than anyone else
no matter what
My grandfathers believed in me
one wanted me to be a Paderewski
the other, my analyst,
- just myself
They gave me their kindness
I hope I have not wasted it
while I was trying to succeed
in living
The capsule
I found a capsule in the box of things
my Father had left.
He died young, killed in the uprising
no one really needed.
There was also a field-cap with the eagle,
some unreadable letters
and the faded photographs -
of an older woman gently smiling
and of a girl with the ribbons in her pleats.
The capsule was in an old matchbox
carefully wrapped in cotton wool
it was no bigger that my thumbnail
the liquid in it looked enticing.
I though it was a time capsule
that might reveal memories and secrets -
when broken it would release a ghost
which would embrace me
and lead me by the hand
to our home
where Mum would be waiting with dinner.
The man in the laboratory said
that he saw something like that
in the museum of the dead and fallen:
the capsule when broken
with fear, greed or impatience
would release bitter fumes
that kill instantly.
You will never be captured
You will never take another breath.
Originality
When my origins
have no father worth mentioning
my mind creates itself
in a frutiless coupling
of a lame ape and an ant.
I steer clear of becoming,
rushing through numerous ravines
and find my way out
through a rabbit hole
which leads nowhere.
Some would say it’s fine
it’s pretty interesting
good luck.
But they don’t see
how empty is the vessel
I drink from.
It is different when
with my hands on the steering wheel
I drive through the night
singing and swearing
while the parents
make love
on the back seat.
It could be me
A miraculously preserved picture
from the Warsaw uprising
shot as if by chance:
a woman with a little boy
holding him by the hand
It could be me
The houses are in ruins,
some on fire, walls collapsing
are they fleeing or lost
aesperate, blinded and defeated ?
Who will get buried under the rubble with hundreds others
when bombs fall from the Prussian blue sky?
It could be me
Free archives
But we survived, my mother
and grandparents,
even father raised from the dead
we sailed away from the ruined city
in a blue-white boat with a siren
at the bow
guiding us
and the captain standing at the helm
magnificent escaping unburied
held the rudder firmly
It could have been me
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