One of the most important living poets of the Polish language has written what is at once a collection of exquisitely composed love poems and a perverse statement on history as a type of discourse.

To say that Darek Foks’s The She-Patriot is a collection of love poems seems both misleading and absolutely true: they are blunt, even vulgar in their eroticism, but still each and every time just undoubtedly pretty. Why, then, is it both misleading and true? Because as usual with Foks, to figure out what the author is really, actually talking about – through a series of tropes, allegories and mediations – is the main challenge in front of the reader. It cannot be avoided or postponed, but at the same time it offers, as a reward, plenty of readerly satisfaction and much, much more. The stakes are undoubtedly high, as the actual subject turns out to be (as is often the case with Foks) a certain set of issues and problems linked to contemporary discourses of collective historical memory and collective identities. Specific techniques, concepts and narrative devices employed by Foks all contribute to this overarching commentary. The male protagonist, for instance, is consistently portrayed as confident, even overconfident, and possessive; he’s always performing a certain type of avarice, using cultural conventions both high- and lowbrow. His behaviour and gestures, however, are supposed to tell us something not about the situation as such, but about their ultimate roots. In this context it seems significant that the fundamental technique employed by Foks in The She-Patriot is a reversal, understood in a variety of ways: the poems in the book are often symmetrical or bracketed, contain their own mirror images, or unexpectedly turn any given scenario around.

Foks’s new book might ultimately touch on the issues of history, collectivity and convention; however, it is also – and crucially – precisely what it seems to be at first glance: a collection of exceptionally well-written, formally precise, and yes, sometimes vulgar love poems.

Marta Koronkiewicz

Translated by Paweł Kaczmarski

Nothing you can do about it

Under your gaze,

I see myself as the one

who sits in front of you

and allows the gaze,

so I take my chair,

put it a bit closer,

even more in front of you,

so I can still more clearly

under your gaze

see myself as the one

who sits in front of you

and allows the gaze.

Black and white

I imagined

that I turned around

and pressed you

against the wall in an empty room,

where, apart from us,

there was only the ticket lady,

looking ahead

into nothing, motionless,

the tape was still running,

and you, motionless as well,

were watching a film about me

over my shoulder.

I imagined

that you turned around

and you pressed me

against the wall in an empty room,

where, apart from us,

there was only the ticket guy,

looking ahead

into nothing, motionless,

the tape was still running,

and I, motionless as well,

was watching a film about you

over your shoulder.

Natural and tireless

You showed me the tip of your tongue

and I pulled you off the chair

onto the floor and tried

to undress you. Not showing any

particular resistance, you told me

to tell you something.

I pressed your hips

to the floor and said something.

You smiled with moist

lips. You told me to

say it again.

I said it again.

You put the tip of your tongue out,

and I gently slipped it in,

certain that you were just about to show it to me.

The sonic breakthrough

In eighth grade, I tried

to learn about love;

there was nothing about it in school,

so I went to the cinema,

where I bought a ticket to a film

that was swarming with women.

It gave me some knowledge about love,

but I couldn’t apply it

effectively, so the next one

was about war; that’s when

I heard your voice,

and it was definitely your voice.

Love

I lift my gaze

to a tall building

where the light is

on, it goes out,

I look at the clock

to make sure

midnight

has arrived, it passes,

I close my eyes,

when they are closed

sleep comes

faster, it has come,

you sit astride

on my lap,

in a moment the story

will start, it is budging,

I ask the questions

that this night

will be answered with moisture

by delight, it whispers,

I search for a tongue

with your tongue,

to immobilise the

body, it falls silent.

Translated by Paweł Kaczmarski