he asked with a smile
what I meant to imply
by the word
katyush

I responded with a smile
that it’s like
a drop of fire
derived from the melting
of plastic

Could it be—he asked with a smile—
that a typo slipped in
since for instance
katyusha
is a Soviet rocket launcher
also known as
the Organs of Stalin

I answered with a smile—
no way

what a strange situation, I thought

how in a poem
of love
between the description of you
and my declaration
the word katyush appeared

did that love
have anything in common
with war or collapse
or devastation

walking back
I thought quite long about the word
but I couldn’t find any
other
to replace it

I walked a long while

I remembered the way

but everything in that poem
made sense after all



Author’s commentary:
Gdańsk, back in 2006. It was winter and cold as hell. From the shitty neighborhood Dolny Wrzeszcz, I arrived in the Old Town and pretty soon I was walking down the steps to one of the underground restaurants they have over there.

I felt awkward. I wasn’t a peasant, but I had never met anyone in a restaurant to talk about poetry either. However, a well-known poet—Antoni Pawlak—had invited me for drinks. That didn’t feel normal, either. I mean, once before he’d invited me to his house to talk over a bottle of whisky. That sounded nice, and I accepted. At the end of that meeting, he decided that my poetry should be seen. And so, I published my first group of poems in Migotania, Przejasnienia (Flickering, brightening).

Back to the restaurant. It was still that wonderful period when you were able to smoke inside, so we greeted each other, sat down, and lit up. Antoni began to look through the poems I had sent him earlier by email. The waiter brought us whiskey and beer. I was feeling confident—a young punk like me, I had a publication to my credit!

Antoni looked through the new work and at one point he paused. “It’s a great piece about love but are you sure there isn’t a typo with that katyush?” he asked.

And I replied, “No.”

Author’s commentary:
The poem is pretty self-evident. Let readers take it in and figure out what’s going on. But beneath what’s universal in it, there’s something more prosaic and individual. When, for a long period, I was unable to finish a book of poems, another poet encouraged me—since I had a fellowship to Berlin—to work on poetry there instead of prose. I had always believed that poems come when they want to, but this time it was a matter of attitude, of making a habit of observing reality. In a month’s time, I had more than a dozen poems, including this one, and that Berlin notebook filled out my collection Najdziwniejsze (The strangest).