Może Boże

It has been a long time since I read poetry that is so devoid of illusions. In these poems, there is no distinction between the internal and external landscapes; emotions, words, and people move across the same barren wasteland, stirred gently by faint emotions and shaped by indistinct words. Floating over this consistent—or rather, deviant—landscape is a revealing, cruel idea of God, alongside something striving to be a poetic burst of meanings, yet it merely becomes a fleeting attempt at expression. Before it fades, it shapes a perfect poem. The influence of Beckett is unmistakable. In this world, emotions cling tightly to people, as if they fear disappearing into a depersonalized universe. The depiction of the father, highlighted by the poet, does not so much possess feelings but serves as the last possible "object" for emotions to latch onto, preventing them from dissipating into the "nothingness" whistling between the beginning and the end of the world.

At the boundary of these poems stands death, yet it is not an all-encompassing abyss. Instead, it blurs the lines between people, objects, and landscapes, dissolving them into indistinctness. However, I would not label Konrad Wojtyła's poetry as nihilistic or helpless. His brief compositions are compact, with precisely directed word energy. There is an alluring virtuosity in this craft that encourages one to be shaped within its cold structures willingly. Emotionally tense rhythms of meanings support what might otherwise collapse and turn to rubble. The more despair present, the more mastery is found. It might be too simplistic to say that mastery overcomes depression, yet there is some truth to it. - Piotr Matywiecki