Those men, so powerful, always shown
somewhat from below by crouching cameramen, who lift
a heavy foot to crush me, no, to climb
the steps of the plane, who raise a hand
to strike me, no, to greet the crowds…
In 1978-79 (as readers of this column may remember) we were in Warsaw, Poland, which was still in what most people thought was the death grip of Communism. It was gripped, all right, but the Polish people weren’t dying. Far from it.
For one thing, Polish poetry (though censored and banned) was flourishing. Samizdat events — clandestine evening poetry readings — were wide-spread. This was not done lightly; it was dangerous, and severe penalties — beatings, multiple years in a labor camp — were commonplace. During these sessions, the shades were pulled, and a lookout would remain downstairs (almost everyone lived in apartments) to warn the readers and listeners of approaching police.
An odd side of Poland’s brand of Communism: it was virtually crime-free. In a city of about two million people, we’d let Tim and Gretchen, our two young teenagers, out at night to go to the filmy, or a disco klub with friends, riding the bus. Basically, all the crime was done by the policja. When lost, we were advised, never stop for directions from a policeman — he’ll ask to see your papers and find something wrong.
That summer I was invited to join a group of professors teaching in a program for bright students in Poznan, an old university town in west-central Poland. As soon as I announced this to my Warsaw students they were excited: that’s where one of Poland’s favorite poets, Stanilaw Baranczak, was being held under house arrest. (Another favorite, Czeslaw Milosz, who was about to win the 1980 Nobel Prize, had defected in 1951 and was living in exile in California.) Baranczak’s poems had to be smuggled out of Poland, published in Paris, and smuggled back. Because my students were afraid to write to him — the Party watched everything — they gave me letters to bring: “Americans won’t get in trouble!”
In Poznan, we eventually contacted Baranczak (whose wife was a dentist) and one day another American poet, Paul Vangelisti, and I set out with some books, a bagful of letters, and a bottle of American whiskey I bought at the U.S. Embassy store.
In a dark, somewhat drab but comfortable apartment, crammed with books, the three of us sat, and sipped and talked. Paul and I told him how much we admired him, and how sorry we were that he was unable to publish, work (he had been a professor), or even move around in his country. How undeservedly lucky we were, able to write, publish and travel anywhere in complete freedom.
Baranczak nodded, but then smiled. “Look,” he said, “it’s not so bad. What’s the problem all writers have?”
We knew the answer: Time, not enough time.
“Well, I have all the time I need.”
He sat back, and we all sipped our whiskey.
“Not only that,” he continued, “people take big chances getting my poetry out of the country to publish it, and big chances smuggling my books back in. So I feel that my little poems are important.
“And even more important,” he added, smiling, and leaning forward, “I have an enemy!”
Thus it was that Paul and I looked at each other, two free American poets whose poems disappear into the wide open spaces of America like dust motes in the Grand Canyon, and realized we were jealous.
…always
you were so afraid of them,
you were so small
compared to them, who always stood above
you, on steps, rostrums, platforms,
and yet it is enough for just one instant to stop
being afraid, or let’s say
begin being afraid a little less,
to become convinced that they are the ones,
that they are the ones who are most afraid.
—from “Those Men, So Powerful,” by Stanislaw Baranczak (b. 1946)
This article appears in Jan 19-25, 2012.