FOREWORD. TO THE SEASONS- THE BOOK OF POETRY BY DARIUSZ PACAK*. Stefan Mrowiński 
 

Who reads poetry nowadays? What is poetry in the age of post-modernism, a time of downfall for moral authorities, hollow esthetics lost in castle ruins, salons charcoaled in their tastes, laws and customs. Finally, who ‘cultivates’ in our present day tilled with the plough of poetry, the earth, one from poisoned sources of water? These questions occupied my thoughts when I was asked to pen a few words in respect to the new book of poems by Dariusz Pacak, presently living in Vienna.

Returning to the above questions, thrown to the lions as it were, bearer the potential reader in mind, we cannot escape the impression that the scent of death grows large around us. For some, this is the end to the meaning of our life’s journey, for others, the start to making the climb towards absolute freedom, direct contact with the Abstract Absolute. To put it simply, the Materialisation of Spirit in the process of Dematerialisation of man’s physical sheath [body and biology].

As for the first question ‘Who reads poetry nowadays?’, we are faced with the closed gates of everyday uncertainty, fear, mistrust of man towards his ‘Other I’ [alter ego]and the world of reality in the existence we know, one surrounding and increasingly tightening its grip on us.

In making my acquaintance with this latest book of poems by Dariusz Pacak I was overtaken by a strong sensation of surprise. The point in issue being that his creative oeuvre as poet is not merely a record on the canvas of the medium known as paper, nor is it in the common meaning of this word the writing of verse in the formula of a literary testament. Even the less careful of readers will notice that the arrangement in its dramaturgy for these poems as set out by Pacak and Reisner, is composed of four parts – four paths running in a steep line towards the peak, ‘The Seasons’.
Moreover, the protagonist in the poetic storyline [most often hidden at the embankment foot of these paths] climbs along the steep inclines of his weaknesses and fragile but at the same time dogged strength, with great difficulty. This steep trek towards ‘The Seasons’, the act of internal fulfillment as far as the discovery of the purity and depth of the source of his own humanity [identity], is characterised in this poetry by an unusually sunny ray of truth about his own self. At the same time, there are sudden interruptions of breath in this journey to the peak, even dangerous attacks of asthma that do not allow in certain accounts, for a complete poetic line. Maybe therefore, I would venture that this book, one where the passage through time has taken such a visible toll on the poet, represents an emotional and intellectual ‘duel’ for the potential reader.

The answer to the second question ‘What is poetry for man in the post-modernist era’, is found in the poems of Dariusz Pacak in the sphere of a sudden, painful silence, as far as the boundaries of meditation, to the departure from the real world, into crystalline physicality. The reader will sense this in particular when taking the path [climbing]along the third and fourth season where the silence thickens, turns in fact into a dangerous, white fog – a deadly foe to mountain climbers. Here the breath of Non-Existence creeps under our collar.

At this juncture a startling comparison comes to mind when the lyrical protagonist of the poetry in question is compared to the mountain climber who, whilst attempting to gain the summit of the world’s tallest mountain, has the complete and remorseless awareness of the impending Dematerialisation of his own physical self for that of The Ultimate Inspiration. The finale to this process this season proved to be 15 alpinists who perished across the globe, attempting to climb Mt Everest and the incredible Materialisation, return to life of the Australian alpinist, Lincoln Hall, who miraculously survived the passage through the white tunnel of The Last Judgement. Perhaps it could be ventured that ‘Only the holy can cross the river’.

This poetry opens before us a courageous unveiling of man in the search for the naked truth, not only in terms of himself but of us all – locked in the cage of the world as we know it, this particular world. I have the impression that Dariusz Pacak has made an epic journey in his own probing, search for his own humanity and the meaning of ‘what it means to be a human being’. He has sustained injuries that have left their mark in this process of experience, in the search for the sun’s elixir and liberation. As a result, we notice many icons such as the wind, sun, stone and water, ones of cult, predecessors of prototypical pagan sources and religious beliefs formed through the ages. Equally, we find the four elements made large that are beyond the reach of mortal man – mountains, oceans, deserts and … the all-powerful affirmation of God in this journey for the ultimate Grail [faith].
It is in fact in the terrifying silence of mountains where the presence of God is most felt that this poetry has to wade through human detritus, fear and weakness in the attempt to reach the peak, God Mother Earth.

The last poem from this collection, ‘The Seasons’, on this vertical wall of weeping, exclamation and verging on madness tinged with laughter, we behold a person Without Earth, lying ambushed for this moment in some place, somewhere in Europe, in some Vienna. A poet, human, who thanks to his own humble experience of life and at the same time rebelling from within, relates to everything that in the colloquial sense of this word signifies ‘human achievement’.

The moment when we reach the target of His journey, led by the protagonist, most likely we expect a joyous ‘Praise be the Lord’. Instead, from the lips now turned to ash from exertion, a whisper reaches us, ‘I know/at which door shall I knock loud/break blow burn and/ be made anew’.

There is no shadow of a doubt that this, latest book of poems by Dariusz Pacak is an attempt to strike up a mature dialogue with another human being – an attempt to reach the basic aim of life, to foster good, to conquer evil. Albeit the poet here rather often turns to icons that are radiant, such as the sun, rays, brightness of flowers, it is the moon’s reflection that plays the leading role, the silver of Ashes and Hope. In one word, the total consummation of the physical self and faith in the Grace of almighty Loving.

And one more matter, dear reader who happens to leaf through these poems. I am tempted to suggest that those who read and create poetry are those that believe that Poetry is, in spite of everything, a pinch of Paradise on our planet. This book therefore appeals to me – crafted painstakingly and strung together in a modern Polish vernacular, completed as it were, in a splendid translation into English by Ryszard Reisner, Australian translator with Polish roots who decided that the land of his early childhood would once again be where he settles.

The author of the English version, known in Poland mainly for his masterly translations of Ewa Lipska and the poetry of common folk by Jan Twardowski, has also succeeded in bringing Herbert, Miłosz and even Norwid [a fragment of which can be found in this book]to the English reader’s notice. Moreover, Ryszard Reisner has demonstrated a highly tuned sensitivity and phenomenal ear for the poetry of Bolesław Leśmian. It is this sensitivity, eye for the uncompromising value of language as a creative medium, which has borne fruit and which is responsible for the fact that crossing paths with the poetic world of Dariusz Pacak was not, and is not, a matter of coincidence.

This meeting of minds and hearts, on the steep paths of the real world as experienced from without by the poet, simply had to happen. The fruits of their collaboration and internal ear in common has produced a completely mature work in its poetic and emotive-map as a structure.

This is perhaps the most interesting of poetry books published in recent years, one ‘minted’ by a poet from Poland living beyond the borders of Mother Polish. Finally, it should be noted that ‘The Seasons’ as the English title is a formidable rendition of the Polish, giving us a crystalline sense of the above mentioned mountain treks along the passages of life.

There is no doubt that Dariusz Pacak will not take his place at the table or by his bed to ‘write’ a new collection of poetry. He will set out for the mountains, to the desert, maybe to China or find the depths in a still wave of a mighty ocean – to paraphrase Stanisław Wyspanski ‘wherever he looks, poetry will be seen, one full of life, cursed, holy/ and in this he will be happy’.

Stefan Mrowiński, Melbourne June 2006

*Dariusz Pacak, poet of the world:
http://www.poetasdelmundo.com/verInfo_europa.asp?ID=1097