n.o.t.e.s
2004-10-29, 11:23 a.m.
I was learning from birds language of fish, from fish singing of birds, from mother working as hard as man, from father crying as long as woman, from the best friend the best hate, from the biggest enemy the biggest friendship, from the sun rain from the rain rainbow, from the music silent from the silent noise.
Twenty seven years later I've opened my eyes again.

Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-09-30, 11:27 p.m.
[I miss a river. Water has dried.]

Inside every story is another story. That's why you never get thruth of life. Too many stories and too many lies.

She was looking in his eyes deeply and softly, touching his hand slowly and gently, moving her face under restriction of sun. Everything begins from spring. Everything ends in ocean.
This story ends in river. Suddenly.

In W. she didnt want to touch a water. She was afraid of cold and people. Floating between past and future she wasnt thirsty of present. However one day she got drunk. She got stuck in void. The air sucked freedom. Then she opened her eyes. She opened her mouth. She opened her hands. And she drowned. In half a way between the begining and the end.

I miss a river. Water has dried.
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-08-21, 10:26 p.m.
Danilo Kis, montenegrin jewish, was born in 1935 and died in 1989. In the end of 80's he wrote 'The Dept'. It was his will. At the beginning of 80's he wrote 'A Tomb for Boris Davidovic'. It was his past. In the middle of 90's he visited me in one dream and scared me from toes to pate. It was his revenge.

When I grow up I'll write the book. One page to god because he came and gone, one page to devil because he's gone and came, seven pages to my mother because she has never gone and never came, and because she is going to be, one page to Kamila Marjak becase she has gone and she is coming back, one page to Iza Smolarek, because she has never gone and she is not coming back,one page to Janek because he wasnt, one page to Kasia Nawrocka because she was, three pages to father because he was, wasnt, he has gone and is not coming back and is not going to be, one page to josiph brodski because he is going to be for ever, and one page to czeslaw milosz because he is going to be never, one page to lady with blue eyes, black her, flat belly, long legs and short stature, because she might be, seven pages to Julita Karabin because of button which one day rescued my life, one page to Jasia Boczyluk, because she was, and she was going to me as air to lungs without ticket three hundred fifty kilometers with open mouth, five pages to Stachura Edward because he stole half of my life but gave me back another half, has never gone and is not going to, one page to Stefan Batruch, because he read my little books and still is reading and he is, one page to Kazik from Wislna street in Krakow who taught me to play homeless, one page to sister, because she's gone but she is, and she'll never come back, because she is not going, and she is going to be, one page to Halina Bortnowska, because she survivaled the age and she is, and she is not going back, and...

When I grow up, maybe, I'll get off myself back.

[Two years later]
When I grow up I'll make the movie. One shot to...
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-08-21, 8:50 p.m.
Sometimes I've got a block about everything. I'm looking for right words, right feelings, right thoughts, right metaphores, right steps in right life, and right life in right time, sometimes I bring everything out like old, fully alcoholic person with fully drunken head, stomach and heart.

People are passing by, even dont turn around,

Only dog is whining. He's found a friend.

I've found the truth.
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-08-18, 8:21 p.m.
.lost piece of paper founded. [23/06/03-18/08/04]

.about world. about word. about you. nothing to say. only drunken man inside the bus is singing strongly 'alleluja'. nothing to tell. you need sleep. nothing to dream. you need die.

.people are talking about. never mind.

.bbc radio three. hungry hungry hungry. as me as you. can't cry must die. i'm twenty six. can't die must cry.

drink drink drink. and why. your world is going round. don't shout!

. sign out.
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-22, 9:07 p.m.

When I was child I used to wipe each book out, I draw on the pages funny pictures, made notes and also I was adding some swearing as continuation of published story. Afterwards my mother hided all books to cupboard and took the key out. One day I was trying to break into it, but cupboard overturned and I had quite painful thrashing then. I felt my bottom whole week but after that mother gave me as a gift 'Kajtus Magician' book by Janusz Korczak and I started to be happy again.

still remember the smell
ages ago
they were making a tea
herbal aroma sank into corridor
rooms and kitchen of course


without kitchen
house didn't exist

History of poetry begins from a point which is also the point of human beigns. Life is the most suitable inspiration for poetry. Poetry dosnt exist without author. Death is the begining of resurrection.
When I was for I saw car accident. There was blood on the street and died human,there were lot of people they was shouting but I didnt understand them, I understood red color of blood on the street as much as I could remember this for ages.
Some of critics selected my poems as case of existencialism. In my life I wrote more optimistic poems then many of optimist.

Some people used to call me 'poet', 'writer', 'novelist', but they were wrong.
The most amazing writers, poets, novelists live on the street, they work in factories and they had never thought of poetry. But poetry is inside them. Because everything is poetry- I believe it.
Text is a part of essay 'poetry as grain of white mustard' translated from Polish by Author
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-22, 9:53 a.m.
[My parents had immigrated to the U.S. from Iceland in 1976, the year before my sister was born.(...)Because my parents were poor, and because they were immigrants and they now lived in the United States, where health care ignores the poor, when my mother discovered she was pregnant, she made arrangements to fly back home to Iceland to give birth to my sister (where health care if free). My father stayed behind.
from diary Rosaline Bleeds*]
It was spring in 1947. My grandmother decided to plant some new onion at garden. She planned to have 10 acrs onion more because she didnt plant so much garlic this year. But at evening fat polish officer wearing official army jacket visited her and instruct her to leave the house and the garden, the neighbors and the village where jews and polish and ukrainian used to live together. She was afraid of fat polish officer wearing official army jacket so she started to pack as soon as she could. She put on the cart (because nobody had own car there)some clothes, ten kilos of potatos, kilo of sugar, three kilos of flour, old pictures, sewing-machine, glasses, dog, and big icon of christ very old but very mysterious.
In very smelly train, together with thousand of others people she travelled maybe 48 hours along south, west, and north polish border. Some people were with children, there was only one good thing of this travel. children. they were smiling, they didnt know what happened. They were right.It was nothing happen.

My grandmother moved to old former german house, without doors and windows. Floor was very dirty, on table someone left can of fish. all house stunk of fish. it was horrible. one day ceiling swooped down on floor. my grand ma moved again.

there is something amazing in people life- there is happiness and unhapiness, care and mistakes, there is time which never stops, but always runs, there is story of paradise and hell.

i grown up in poor family, my mother finished primary school. Afterwards she started to work on the field, because my grandfather died of cancer and someone needed to replace his doing job. i grown up in ailing family because my father was alcoholic and hit my mother and was shouting very often, and my mother didnt accept this and i didnt accept this.
But I cant say I was not happy, becuse I was.
There is something magnificent and gloroius in everybody's life. *I strongly recommend author as very sensitive and clever writer
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-21, 10:31 p.m.

['maybe I should remember this war but I dont']

anita on the pictures- drinking red wine from ormoz, cuting the band in dobrava- her family's village, walking in New Mills, working in office and giving the food away to homeless people in Manchester.

The war started on 27 of June 1991 when Yugoslav People Army lounched attacks against TORS (Territorial Defence Republic of Slovenia) and Slovenian Police. Anita heard air-raid alarm at afternoon, althought she didnt realize this was a real alarm and real war. She was fifteen she had everything ahead of her. Long happy bloody life.

anita dosnt remember war. anita dosnt remember tanks, people who died, crying and desperate or houses which were destoyed by bombs, shells, missiles. anita remember teste of aple which she ate inside shelter, anita remember news from local newspaper two days later, anita remember independence day, memorable 7th of July when all people had been happy.

in april anita graudated in Slovenian University in Lubliana, she went to chroatia for holiday, she came back ten days later and she started to look for job. she lives in big house with lot of flowers on balcony and there is a different view on world.

Shelter straggled.

anita on the pictures- with brother and his wife all happy, playing snooker and smoking english ciggarete. There is no way to another war.

[there is no shame anita didnt remember the war]

Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-20, 10:08 p.m.
[There is not only english custom- talking about people behind their back]

There is no excuse for my english language demanding improvement, there is no excuse for my bold head, there is no excuse for having a strong character, there is no excuse for my laziness, there is no excuse for my unreliability, there is no excuse, lord, for sunlight inside me, radiant.

There is no excuse to you, my friend, reading this notes and griting yout teeth,

My back is hot, red and heavy because you cant shut up.

But there in no excuse.
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-20, 7:38 p.m.
[When I was very young I used to write the diary. It was very special diary and it had enormous meaning in my life. There were notes written by inlegible handwriting, hundred of strange pictures, discriptions of orgasms, faces and interesting places, local phone numbers, events and dates of birth. I used to write the diary at late evening, before I went to bed, before I pray the pray, before I overslept. Writing the diary was a routine of the day.]

There is several notes from present time. There is not even reminescent mention of events, dates of birth, phone numbers, discriptions of orgasm or interesting places, There is not even single strange picture. There are blank pages with dates only or unfinished titles. As snow with dirty prints on or as nonentity with trial of explenation. It is twenty's of july, rainy day, loneliness is coming up and is receding, voices of people are floundering into my head and cause a pain. Pain couses a cry. Cry causes a tear. Tear causes a river. River is flowing to ocean. Ocean is flooding a world. World has disappeared. On small piece of paper I'm writing the story of beginning and end of world. The story is short. Like life. Life is beautiful, dont forget, my friend. There is something what is common to human- deficiency. There is something more- brutality. There is no exception. Any. Nobody can tell me differently. Even the will try I will dont believe them. Because they are liars. Because I'm liar.
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-19, 10:49 p.m.
[Everybody knows that myth creates philosophy]

Once human decided to form God, but God cut his hand off

I was looking around. There were people. They were wearing masks. They were dancing around small places which was located in the middle of forest. They were singing pious songs. They werent looking at me. They were blind.

Later Maria Isabel touched my hand and I noticed she was crying. She sniffed. She asked me why she couldnt be model.

But P. said she could.

God gave me rights to remain silence.

There is a lot of ways which are created by human mind to praise the God, but there is no God who created that ways.

[Everybody knows that philosophy composed a myth]
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-19, 1:59 p.m.
I heard death knocking to my door. The sound was deaf, blunt but mysterious. I smelt her feet coming slowly to my bed, I felt wind striking my face. I thought this was a dream, but it wasn't. I pinched myself but death didn't disappeared. I choked by my own breath. I don't remember what was happen later.

I was born in winter but I opened my eyes in spring. Mother told me that she blacked out when I was born. She came around two days later. She opened her eyes in spring. As me.

Next to my old house in small village where I and my parents used to live was located quite big cementery. There were a lot of old graves, often in very bad condition. I was walking around this place, I was looking at inscriptions. I wasn't afraid of death people laying there. I've had never thought they will visit me in my dreams but they did. They said I was dead. And I believed them.

I had so many luck in my life. I won several times in local and wide literary competitions, I was able to travel a lot, visiting beautiful countrysides and meeting nice people. I made many friends and people generally liked me. I was laughing so many times even without real reason. I was happy.

When my father hit my mother first time I was crying. When my father hit my mother second time I hit him back. When my father hit my mother third time I hit myself. Doctors in hospital were trying to resuscitate me to life. They won.

Death was laying on me trying to kiss. She smelt like my grandmother, but I had never smelt my grandmother. Death was young, very young. She excited me, I was like in trans. Her hands, her legs, her face fully wore me. It was late evening, I was dying.

It was seven years ago when I disposed of devil. He was screaming through me and laughing through me and he was trying to strangle me. But seven years ago I disposed of devil. Then was holiday and celebrity. I was born again.

I saw light inside big room. I could recognise walls and two chairs. One chair was empty. The second chair was occupated by strange creature. I wasn't able to see his face. But suddenly creature moved from chair to me. And I saw him. I saw myself.

I was alive.

I heard death knocking to my door. The sound was deaf, blunt but mysterious. I smelt her feet coming slowly to my bed, I felt wind striking my face. I thought this was a dream, but it wasn't. I pinched myself but death didn't disappeared. I choked by my own breath. I don't remember what was happen later.
Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz

n.o.t.e.s
2004-07-19, 11:52 a.m.
Everything started when I borrowed from the local library the first Stachura’s book . It was few years ago and I knew about author nothing. My first impression was bad. I had problem with understanding author’s philosophy. I needed couple of years to know how his philosophy is my own one. The fascination of idol is typical for teenager’s age. But few years ago I was 21 or 22 and this period was over then. So we can’t speak about teenager’s fascination. We also can’t speak about fascination of idols. I’ve never had posters on my walls, I’ve never love my favourite poets or musicians as I used to love God, my parents or girlfriend. Stachura and him poetry or prose was build on specific elements, especially it was love to life. On the over hand Stachura is the tragic person. He suicided, he wasn’t able to fight with difficulties in him life. It is something against to him. In my opinion also this tragic step wasn’t beautiful in his history. It is trapping of weakness, but it is the streak of human, isn’t it?

In my writing you can also see the special Stachura’s influence. We are similar, but he had different literary and life’s experiences then I have. Everyone is different but we have got also inside our personality something from everyone. It’s not just my philosophy. It’s philosophy of many people who live around you.

In my English notes I’m going to write about my life’s observation, something from life other people. It’ll be also literary diary and personal notebook. I would like to show you me as well as I can but also as truly as I am. It’s very easy to modificate itself for good impression. It’s not my aim. Because the truth is always over.

So I wish you pleasant reading. Have a good time then. (Stachura in English)

Copyright by Bogdan Miklusz