Teksty Ryszarda Białego nigdy nie były przetłumaczone na język polski. Tak więc niech pozostaną w wersji oryginalnej przekazane tym fanom Richardo - jak jest nazywany - którzy znają wspaniałą pracę translantacyjną Rico. Życzliwość Richarda dla kolegów miała swój największy finał w czasie akcji krwiodawczej dla Małgorzaty Bochenskiej. Po kilku latach nieobecności Richard, nagle ujawnił sie jako niezawodny krew - niak.
THE TELL-TALE RAVEN’S TAIL
Richard Bialy
My tale of raven sets up as all curriculum vitae should
Born among pinewych of forest and savage wood.
In one moment, without which would not the tale be told,
I looked to the mountain two black figures to behold
Traverse a high sky, shoulder by shoulder.
Peered back an avionic eye much bolder
For its transmigrations from the unimaginable,
Trawling the gusts for shores unknown, ineffable
To cast a glamour on me, poor being of the ground,
From under which was freedom never found.
Charm lasted, as the phenomenon came repeated.
Soon was reheard in mind’s crevices heated
from aged relative, a romantic biddy
That setting down of ancestral ditty:
”Which burgeoning storm drove you here, blackwing?
Where from this sun-gold orb and bonewhite clasping?
You belong to the beloved, in my heart tight clasped,
Herald of disaster, may the message to be passed
Be rather less sombre than your raiment
Or else make this your last attainment.”
When became these wild aves my first passion,
Then were the windows always open fashion
So feathered guests in great rotation could exist,
Recovered fly to independence missed
To disappear in general for ever and ever.
There now, some came never to sever.
Recruitment of nature’s wonders never waned
More often were then nestlings trained
To take from outright hand the crumb,
Repurchasing boyish passions dumb.
Life consisted so that in asylum one cannot keep,
Afterwards knowing a few warm words to weep,
Over that ravenous most handsome male
With plumage dark on shimmering tail.
He was then creature not only decorously dressed,
But also truly intelligible, prudent and blessed,
In contact and contrast with man, subtle and reliable
A facility one might say both felicitous and viable.
Without pedagogical pressure, by several moons
Could he assimilate me in almost human tunes.
Callings whistled and songs sizzled, juicy variations
Of sound that amazed all passersby, all nations
From tree's corolla a capricious child's voice mocking
While my unattainable winged dreams came flocking.
Raven roused ambitions I could never alleviate,
That most intelligent, rumours advocate, to ever aviate.
I growed and grew up, but for long after that feat
He just another legend I was doomed to repeat.
It happens that the young falls from nest,
Thrust by parental desperation or aerial test,
But in ravens such a rarity, nary a caw to be heard.
And so I spended years in woods and visions blurred,
Then quite a lot of hours befriending ravens,
‘Neath leafy wings of free spaces, woody havens,
The more to realise their cobalt-black gleam
And to this day my mind’s continual dream.
INCONSOLATE
Richard Bialy
Prowling inconsolate, whipped by a scirocco of conscience, each single grain a fractal shriek, a miniature image of the whole unison of dolour, the question ever begging, unremitting: what pride now you lonely love-lost fool to have stood so steadfast for what you stand for, which amounts to nothing unless she is beside you, under you, watching over you, looking through you, conscientious, perspicacious, ever solicitous, half of the two of us.
If love is labour pain in time of expectation, then love that's lost is amputation. We are damaged goods, no longer touched by love, but tainted. The student slings his book, the workman downs his tools, the cardsharp jacks it in and pilots lose their bearings. Though our motor skills are failing and all conviction is abandoned, attempts are made to go through the motions, tend the daily inconsequentials, delve into the city, shuffle beneath a personal column of almost visible despair, from which one looks out on a shifting pantomine of ridiculous activities that fail like all else to divert the mind from that one unfailing sear of torment.
She's gone!
Chattanooga
Richard Bialy
Chattanoogan, Chattanoogan,
ride your train through the night of confusion
Choo Choos the train,
But ch' choose wisely,
the subject to chew on
As you gaze out idly.
Roll on down the valleys and glens
While another Glen's on your eye's inner lens
Here's a little brown jug full of beer called Coors
Though Miller's the name on which your mind soars.
Pardon me sir, you must excuse my unction,
but I believe your stop’s Tuxedo Junction