Studio Michała Łapińskiego
The Antipodes
we arrived at the antipodes
it was hot
and no one around
only a strange bird choir
in the morning
when we couldn’t sleep
the sun stayed up in the sky
for the whole day
dry aromas spread through the air
blue leaves of contorted trees
trembled
a spider visited
it had a red strip on his back
it sat and sat
on the corrugated hot fence
it was in no hurry
in the dry grass
lizards were rustling
or perhaps
they were the souls
of lost children
the director welcomed us
with a slab of beer
we listened to the story
how his house in the hills
had burnt on Ash Wednesday
at night there was a cool breeze
from the other side of the world
southern crosses cast a shadow
of a big head
in the empty backyard
then there was Sunday
there was nothing to do
big steaks were fried
on the hot sand
until a shark appeared
everyone was running away
we followed
high up the red hills
the earth was burnt
it was tired of living
the feet hurt on the stony grass
the eyes were dry
Ten wiersz przerodził się w projekt zrealizowany wspólnie
z moją córką Gosią Łapińską. Obejmował:
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dwujęzyczna książeczkę zawierającą obrazy-grafiki Gosi oraz powyższy wiersz, Antypody, który je zainspirował
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wystawę jej obrazów w połączeniu z tekstem wiersza (w Hawthorn Arts Centrę w Melbourne w lutym 2024)
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stroną internetową, zaprojektowaną przez Gosię, zawierającą cały projekt, informacje i linki, gdzie można rownież nabyć książeczkę i obrazy
Akwarela: Gosia Łapińska
In the land of spirits
I travelled the world like Conrad
I thought I was a captain
of a splendid ship
and when I landed on a Pacific island
I would be proclaimed king.
I came to a land of ghosts and spirits
mango trees were heavy with fruit
but the wells were poisoned
with the tears of the dispossessed.
There were festivals to go to
but you had to travel a thousand miles
through the parched and empty
heart of the land.
You would stop at the ruins
of the long abandoned house
with only one chimney left standing.
The wind would blow strange words.
What did they say
when you were trying to get to sleep?
I was invited to a ceremony
to join a tribe of dancers and elves
to dance the dance of initiation
and disappearance.
I was captivated
and felt honoured
but I thought I’d rather wait
and see
and hear
and understand.
birds almost fall
from the frozen sky
the ice-cream has melted
in the cone
as a little girl dropped it
she wore a blue woollen scarf
the winds from the Antarctic
bring cries of penguins
which cannot find their young
blown away by the blizzard
the city buildings point to the bleak sky
which outstretches
into the grey pool of the bay
sweeping aside seagulls
holding onto the wind
Winter on the Bay
Ruins and ashes
When my house burnt down
I wasn’t there,
we had already left
expelled from our city
while it was being turned
to rubble
Men in the uniforms stood by
and watched us pass.
We carried one suitcase each.
Mine was very small
as was I
Now when the smoke from the hills
spreads over horizon
my eyes and throat get dry.
Only later when I see ruins and ashes
of the burnt houses
I weep
The Antipodes forever
We arrived in the Antipodes
a century ago or more
the world around us kept changing
in the whirlwind of time
spinning faster and faster
but we have stayed put
in the eye of that cyclone,
remaining strangely the same.
Our dear little girl
and our sweet little boy
are still with us
wide-open-eyed
curious, scared and delighted
they are dipping into the waves
or rolling in the sand
while we are waiting in the beach tent
with towels, ham sandwiches
and orange juice
prepared for a sudden weather change
so when the cold wind has blows
we can huddle together.
We continue to be amazed afresh
by the vastness and rough beauty
of the now familiar but nevertheless
always strange and uncharted landscape
of rolling hills, red earth and blue-green bush
full of spicy aromas.
We admire, as we did at first
the lovely ugly streets of quasi towns
and all-worldly flowers in ever-green gardens
with dutiful lemon trees at the back.
The trade wind of fate did not blow us away
we managed to catch it in our sails
and, supported by a lot of good will,
we navigated into a quiet safe harbour
where we put down an anchor
for a century or more.
We watch our old country
from ten thousand miles away
the white eagle is flapping its wings
in anguish and confusion.
Will its nest be overcome
by the dark toxic fog
or will it finally free itself from it,
like we did when we escaped
a century ago or more?
Does anything ever change?
So we all stay huddled together
and will carry on, sing on, love on
until the end of the millennium
then sadly there will come the time
to let go and leave
for the other Antipodes…