APOTIC APPEL IN THE YEAR OF THE VOLINA SURVEILLANCE
date:12 June 2021 Editor: Anna
Soon the anniversary of the Volyn massacre - 11 July. We callback the appeal:
Ladies and gentlemen! Dear Friends!
Theatre No Now he has returned to viewers. We travel in Poland and present our performances as we have been doing for many years. present I'd like to see how much poesy is in us. The word "poetry", here cited as a metaphor of Polishness and national identity, take it very seriously. And specified "poetic" reasoning about what is around is the reason for this Letter and inviting you to participate in something extraordinary. Well: (...) We would like to invitation Polish artists, especially artists of the art of the word, but besides all who realize the meaning of this action, to read poesy dedicated to or inspired by the past of the Holocaust, which Ukrainian Nazis, allies of the Nazi 3rd Reich prepared for Poles in the 1940s.
Tomasz A. Żak, manager of the Theatre Not Now
Below is the full content of the Letter and the poetic annex.
We remember! - Poles on the 78th anniversary of the Volyn massacre -
If you don't call yourself a tree, a lamp, and a man, then the planet should go underground. All the standards of the planet come down to surviving by the truth. If we were to live a lie, what would the planet be worth?
– these are the words of the author Stanisław Srokowski, the author of the screenplay of the movie “Volyn”, but besides the author of a volume of poems, whose title became the calling slogan of our project-apple. This large Polish end creator devoted the most crucial of his works to genocide, which was made by Ukrainian nationalists in Poles, frequently their neighbours. This is the reason for this artistic choice:
I gotta talk about it. due to the fact that you gotta shout the planet of evil. Poles have never survived specified genocide. We can't let stupid people amputate our national memory. Only 20 percent of Poles know what happened in the Borderlands. possibly that's why I survived to scream and cry out for those who can't talk about it anymore. due to the fact that any fresh lie about genocide is another blow to the victims. It's like a fresh death.
Based on this knowing of fact and its priceless creation for human sensitivity through various artistic activities, Theatre Now 10 years ago he created a performance "Ballad about Volyn", the first effort in Polish theatre to tell what the survivors of the Holocaust for years did not let to talk with fear and fear mouth. Traveling around the country with this performance has made us realize that talking about this tragedy is inactive plastered by inhuman political correctness and educational ignorance.
July 11, 1943 is 1 of the most crucial dates in modern history. It was a day of alleged bloody Sunday, erstwhile at the same time in about 100 towns in Volyn there was a planned wave of murders in Poles, which frequently took place in churches erstwhile the faithful gathered at Mass.
We would like to invitation Polish artists, especially artists of the art of word, but besides all who realize the meaning of this action, to read poesy dedicated or inspired by the past of the Holocaust, which Ukrainian Nazis, allies of the Nazi 3rd Reich prepared for Poles in the 1940s.
Let our action sound loud and clear on Sunday 11 July 2021 on the National Day of the Memorial of the Victims of Genocide. This day (or in neighbouring days) let us read poems that will be sent to as many recipients as possible in a peculiar package. We propose you read at least 3 tracks from the proposed package. We hope that the recipients will not only want to engage in this artistic task themselves, but will inspire others. We are counting on the cooperation of the school and scout community, with which we have already started cooperation. We encourage to participate in this task besides Polish communities located outside the country.
The proposed lyrics are a cry from behind the wall of oblivion, a voice of opposition to intolerance and barbarism, which are inactive present in the modern world. This reading is simply a peculiar lesson in humanity.
Every “reading” can be accompanied by viewers – it would be very beautiful, especially if young Poles were among the recipients. However, let us make certain that each of these presentations is recorded in the form of sound and image (by telephone or otherwise) and sent to the address below. Then let's put this video on the social media profiles of the entities active in this action on 11 July and let our poetic message of memory be available at least until the end of July.
The Institute of National Memory is simply a co-founder of the project. And to the email address IPN: [email protected] , delight study your accession to this artistic patriotic initiative. The recordings of recited texts (or links to them) will be sent, which will let them to be disseminated further through the communicators of the Institute of National Memory and the Theatre No Now.
Maskenice / Warsaw 11 June 2021
Tomasz Antoni Żak Dr Jarosław Szarek
Director of Theatre No Now President
SON OF THE VOLLIAN household OF THE NATIONAL REMEMBER INSTITUTION
We remember! - Poles on the 78th anniversary of the Volyn massacre -
TEXTS
Zdzisław Bernacki
He was born in 1957 in Grodków, Opole. A postgraduate of LO in Brzeg. In the 1980s, after the pilgrimage of John Paul II to Poland, he joined the works of the PAX Young Team. Later he was an activist of the “Solidarity” of Individual Farmers. Founder and associate of the alleged singing band in Michałów – meetings of opposition-oriented youth. The organiser of material aid to opposition people, released “War Signals” and distributed underground solidarity publications, editor of the underground magazine “Pokłosie”. He organised anniversaries and Masses for his homeland. Arrested in Opole.
He runs a farm in Michałów close Brzeg (Opolskie). He was the chief of the village of Michałów. In 1989, a associate of the run KO “S” in Brzeg, co-organiser of meetings with candidates, associate of the “S” Farmers' legislature in Warsaw . He was the president of the Board of the Municipal Board of “S” Farmers and a associate of the Bureau of the Provincial Council. In 2002, he was appointed Vice-President of the Audit Committee and Olshanka Municipal Council.
He released memories of his imprisonment in the state of war entitled “Case. diary of the Suspect” (2007). He is besides a singer; he was honored with 2 awards at the Festival of Patriotic Songs “You Polish” in Olsztyn.
Volyn
Volyn calls us
Near and Far
by the whisper of the stream
What's in the river?
hen after the eagle cross
through chaotic field clouds
and sleep torn
blood dying out
Like a blind thent
Drunk horse fog
through extinguished graves
and by memory
About them
Oak Table Fairy Tale
(particles)
(I) Prologue
I'm a table, man. I can swear:
I'm about 5 100 years old, or a 1000 years old –
But unwavering like a strong man
I stand on my legs strong blocks,
still with the breath of his arrogant
They weren't utilized for coffins!
Too old, besides dense and besides big,
no longer functional to serve,
I fill my attic with darkness,
Where time is wasting, and the beetle eats me.
I've had quite a few appearances,
tedious and dirty, uninteresting –
But I've got any bad advice:
trip to memory – through the drawer...
Bend your ears to the old man!
May the fairy tale of the way guide you –
for mountains, forests, rivers, pits,
in the ancient planet – in far Volyn...
...
(VIII)
A Song of Red Night
They say where the 2 battles will rise,
there will be benefits... – third.
...................................................................................................
In the fraternal and indigenous tribe
The wolf’s name spread,
What hungry dogs connect in flocks,
to pursuit the victim—and to catch up—
and bite a 100 times—and, though alive,
To rip and tore him out...
But the wolf kills only from hunger—
Why a nation to a nation
Is hatred so cruel?
where its origin, its source
poisoned by venom,
who is the most monstrous reptile
makes a man, destroying dignity,
sensitivity, sensitivity and mildness –
And so the nation's heart breaks,
I feel 1 rage from my feelings
and no longer has humanity—
And there's no limit to cruelty...
................................................................................................................................................
You can't see the stars from behind the dust clouds,
Mars just catches a bloody eye.
A trident horde with a sign in the emblem
to the sleeping village crawls under the ground –
like a dragon would be stifled in a soot –
to burn and cut a 100 times,
as weeds grew into fertile soil,
hated siblings.
The flame of the first home licks
And steam like a foal,
which in the fire with a twinkle of a horse...
...................................................
..... . The time of the Apocalypse has come!!!
................................................................................................
Dreams like moths fly for the last time
into the light – in the red mat...
................................................................................................................................................
The night breaks with the cries of the awake
from dream land — caught in claws
the blood of the hungry beast, the fangs of the horns
three teeth and sacred knives...
..................................................................................................
The second home and the third!
Mother in the arms of the children,
Half-naked, moving into the grain...
Father wants to fight, but can not—
With pitchforks in his chest in the fire he sinks...
Dogs howling... Cattle roaring, burning...
...................................................................................................
Already the 4th home trembles in dragon claws
and like a horse from the wounds of a weeping horse –
And from the smokey bowels emerges
like an angel girl – and like a hind
immerse in the darkness the thicket – and falls
In a network of filthy reptiles...
...................................................................................................
O, it is easier to bear death in the fire,
than chasing darkness – for destiny is terrible
He cooks the fugitives a stature dragon,
By inflicting specified terrible torments,
that the song of words is not for pronunciation,
It's just quiet... - Or how!
...................................................................................................................................
And these are the youths from further homes,
With his help, he brings help:
a series of bullets to the attackers,
forces retreat, hurts several...
The thugs from the crime scene get scared,
They're missing the chain of chat derivatives,
to lick your wounds under the forest –
But they'll be back soon... And the village in the meantime
gathers his wounded and killed...
Someone breaks the chain from the gate of the sanctuary:
– injured, women with children, old people –
This is where they'll take shelter; adequate space...
Let them pray at the altar—
And let men have full guard...
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
There was a second attack this morning;
a more empty place in mute huts
The attacker to the temple is walking...
Then the death ringing will environment him!
– They're guerrillas, forest boys,
A small native, a small alien;
they have guns – and they can shoot!...
...................................................................................................
The enemy's destiny was poor:
snarling, spitting his heart out,
Until the souls sank him into hell.
The dead of their volunteers a few
It took a car in the steam spell...
...................................................................................................
Where is the triumph of the glories on the foreheads
winners?...................................................................
................................... – They enter the church,
They pray in silence... – until the Commander
He says: “I feel sorry for you...
In the ellipse death, pain, wounds, villages burn;
War goes on forever...
Today, each of us is her soldier!
I have orders: – Let the population gather.
in the convenient place of the page
and will make a fort of self-defense...’
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
Twilight in an abandoned village came.
The wind through the church door,
Someone didn't close them. Blood puddles,
lost, grown dusty;
No one's dog sniffed them and licked them.
The spider in his net on the cross was low
The rosary of silence............
...
Krzysztof Kołtun
He was born 9.XI.1958 in Chełma in a household from Lubomla, Volyn.
He is simply a associate of the Association of Polish Writers in Krakow and the literary Brotherhood of the White Shepherd. Inventor and organizer of respective editions of Chełmian poesy competitions: “Mother”, “Children’s Poems” and the ever-running since 1988 “On the Edges”. A passionate and passionate ethnographer, an end collector, a spiritual guide to the Edges. Author of many volumes of poems.
Founder of the Society of Kresowe Families (1988), the Nadbuzhany Cultural Society (1999) and the Kresowa Zespół “Sokoliki” (2004) in Chełma. Laureate of the Literary Award of A. Patkowski (Sandomierz 1999), Literary Award of KAJA Kazimierz Andrzej Jaworski (Chełm 2005), Literary Award of W. Hasior Association of “Ars Populi” (Kraków-Zakopane 2005), many poesy competitions. He's a guest of the radio line, a journalist, an antique dealer.
Age light
Pure gold burns rape
– honey smells
until you part
behind the cross from the German war.
The boulders are silent.
– burnt village to chimney,
ashes.
Cross way
– it did not grow, it shines
With a pen with your shoes on.
You won't burn human souls
No fire.
They will come to the Polish village
Ukrainian children.
They'll say what they want.
but they cry – besides with tears.
6 VII 2001 under Zatorcami (Volyn)
Flaming Volyn
It lit the sun in the east
village.
He's on fire, he's screaming in Ukrainian.
Young storks fell from the linden
– tiny children are trampled by banners.
Mothers under fences in moaning
– the complications of the end of the world,
They refuse to fear souls.
Earth – from the heat breaks,
Church on fire.
There are no towers anymore,
fell on the black roof.
Kill, burn, rob
cattle, horses – shoes and goats.
At noon – worries the road,
naked chimneys will emergence
– they left with murderous singing,
hooves trampling grain.
It'll blow, it'll blow,
blacken
with burnt name
– village under Vladimir.
The weak emergence from the pits
– they run to Bug, for the road,
They will ask:
Don't come back, people!
There, death...
10 VII 2012
Memory of Crosses
I support broken crosses
from Volyn cemetery,
places where following the Belt
- the nails that were drilled,
relic pearls.
I kiss and hug.
Grew with moss and grass,
trampled by silence
– full of sweet names
and Polish love.
I take the words into my arms,
which Christ spoke
“He who sows in tears,
He will reap in joy."
27 VI 1998 Chelm
Irena Lamprycht
She was born in Milanovich, St. Kowel in the legionary family, a military settler. In February 1940, with her parents, she drove a lashe to the “inhuman land” of Jozma in the Piniga area of Archangelsk. Then, with the formation of the Polish Army, General Władysław Anders went to the south of the USSR, transports to Iran. Later, through India, East Africa and England, she reached Canada in 1952. In 1999, she published a volume of poems “Vołyński Nieforminajki”.
She died in December 2002 in Toronto.
Shadow of the White Eagle
Kirami of the memories of Volyn
In my heart I dream of freedom
wrapped in a fog of time where the reflection lives,
He stares into the face of a cruel past.
Among the tartars where the wetlands and the depths,
among dense beds and birch where peat bogs
The stray spirits of the children of Volyn murdered
They're looking for their bodies thrown into the watermelons.
O unfortunate Earth of Volyn,
The blood of the innocent has sunk into your dirt
You gave birth to me, I loved you
You have grown into my heart and memory forever.
You live in me present the memory of your landscapes
from the sea I hear your sighs,
Fate has separated us.
My voice gets to me erstwhile I perceive in silence.
I know you're not dead, I know you're never gonna die,
You of the blood of my brethren, who have sunk into your soil, fertilizing you
When the time comes again
The Shadow of the White Eagle will see you erstwhile in the sky.
And if I don't see this happy moment
I'm not like you.
Remember, my spirit will find you.
I'm your child, you gave me life.
1997.
Lech Makowiecki
Born in 1954 in Rypina – poet, songwriter, composer, musician, screenwriter and columnist. postgraduate of master's degree in ship building at the Gdańsk University of Technology.
He began his music career in 1978 in the well-known country-rock band "Grandmother". He was a singer, guitarist and mandolinist. In 1985, with this band he won the Golden ringing (the main prize) at the Kołobrzeg Soldiers' Song Festival. In 1986, he and his wife Bożena (vocalist) founded the band “Zayazd”, which inactive exists today.
He composes and records songs entering the stream of singing poesy of the bard genre. The content is focused on the patriotic subject and past of Poland from the Second planet War period, with a strong incarnation in modern times. The album was released, among others: “Katyń 1940. Last letter of Ballady Lech Makowiecki” (2010), “Patriotism” (2011), “Wake up, Poland” (2014), “I am staying here” (2015), “Independent. Poetry’ (2018).
Volyn 1943
Do You Remember God
Over Volyn, a bloody luna
And that scream from the burning hut
Murdered by neighbors.
I think you were at that time.
Somewhere else in the world,
'Cause you'd most likely be upset.
And he stopped and cried...
Have you heard the Lord's prayer,
Father's eyes, do you remember,
When they dishonored his daughter
Badgers like animals...
He was crucified on the door
He begged “Have mercy on us!”
The oppressors took pity
They had bayonet eyes...
Have you seen Holy Father?
Looking from above through the firmament
Children as beautiful as angels
The knuckles are stuck...
Who will lead them now?
To meet you, God,
They're so small.
They're going to get lost alone in these skies...
Will you remember, Lord of the World,
The martyrs of Volyn,
They died reasoning about Tej,
Which will never go missing.
Poland has forgotten them,
She vanished in the distance,
Sometimes a trembling hand of an old man
He'll light a candle here.
They grow with weeds of dust,
graves drown in lush grass,
Tomorrow no 1 will be there
Put the candles behind them.
Tadeusz Różewicz
Country face
Homeland is simply a country of childhood
place of birth
That's the small 1 closest.
country
town town town village
street home courtyard
First love
forest on the horizon
graves
As a child, you meet
flowers of cereals
animals
meadow fields
words of fruit
Motherland laughs
at the beginning of the homeland
It's close.
at your fingertips
Only later does it grow
bleeding
It hurts.
Zygmunt Jan Rumel
He was born on 22 February 1915 in Petrograd. It's called "Baczyński Kresów".
His father, Władysław Rumel during planet War I fought in the Tsar army, and after 1918 in the Polish Army, among others in the Polish-bolshevik War. He was a bachelor of the Order of Virtuti Militari. As part of the military settlement, he received land in Volyn, close Wiśniwiec. In the Szymieniecki territory he was a well-known activist and social activist. Sigismund's mother, Janina of Tymiński, besides performed socially, among others, in the works of the People's University in Różyna, where she taught art classes. She besides wrote poems under Lilian's nickname.
He was a postgraduate of Siliconiecki advanced School. He belonged to the Scouts, besides to the Volynian Union of agrarian Youth, which brought together both Polish and Ukrainian youth. After graduating in 1935, Rumel moved to Warsaw, where he took a Polish degree at the University of Warsaw.
Military service was conducted on a divisional course of the subjects in Włodzimierz Wołyński. In the 1939 defensive war, he participated as a artillery lieutenant. Later, he took conspiracy action. Already in the beginning of 1940, he became the manager of the communication point and warehouse of the Peasants Battalions at Narutowicza Street in Warsaw. In the fall of 1941, Rumel, at the command of the BCh Headquarters, went to Volyn to measure the possibilities of conspiracy action. This led to the establishment of the VIII territory of the Peasants Battalions (Volyn). His commanding officer was Lieutenant Rumel. The group besides took propaganda actions among the Ukrainian population, which was a reaction to UPA crimes.
Lt. Rumel and his wife lived in the village of Wólka Sadowska in Horochów County. From there he set out in the summertime of 1943 with 2 comrades – Lieutenant Krzysztof Markiewicz and the guide Witold Dobrowolski, as an emissary of the Peasants' Battalions, to conduct talks with the UPA commander to halt mass slaughters of the Polish population. All of them, on July 10, were brutally murdered, most likely torn by horses and buried in a common grave.
Two mothers
I've got 2 Mother-Fathers hounding my head -
One amber comb brushed her hair
A second reef of porohs washing corals
She failed on liras with a pit of blind - fate...
One eye danced with a goldlit belt,
The another one's neck was pounding - drunk as a bumblebee -
One barefoot took sadness behind the blue -
The second hen of hers drank a rebellious scythe
Two Mother-Fathers taught me how to talk -
In a braid of blood woven with berries ros -
To break my heart with pain in 2 halves -
To make the heart divided like a voice...
(July 1941)
To you, Ewka - a musom
Maybe next day in an unknown hour.
which confesses the seasons of the future beginning -
Maybe a sign over the forehead that was floating
maybe a cold far cape -
Maybe a story of murmuring distances.
Or a lute vocalist of a stray -
♪ possibly I'll light a hand ♪
on columns increasing above me -
The meanings of silver hidden by a smile
Or lava like transparent glass -
Maybe a small thirst for breath
Maybe the bells with a collegiate melody -
Maybe just 1 sigh
Maybe I'll just be named--
(1941)
Inn
The armed forces arrived at court at night -
The hatchets knocked out the gate...
Painted - painted gate -
What a dam creaked at the logs...
The shredders are in and out...
The scream's ringing... The bell!
They fell in the splinters of the skree -
Under the ax, like a kri...
They've fallen from splinters -
He fell into the shadow - he fell into the court of the sounders a crack!
They sow in the court - shadow in the shadow - second court -
Break the hay! Take the shadow! Knock it off!
The shadow has already fallen - court 2 - chamber three!
Blood trail... There's a scream! Sparks!
A window in the orchard! Save me! Mord! Come on.
The armed forces arrived outside the court at night...
(September 1939)
Leader
The cuckoo of Zosula was cuckooing
The grey dawn through the green leaf,
black woodpecker after bark bore –
You can go – you can go – you can go...
♪ Knocked the window, banged the door ♪
she broke out of the blue cloud of dawn,
dawn in the sky scattered roses white
quote – wait – wait – quote –
Knocked, banged more loudly –
she has come from a blue cloud of roses,
There, under the forest, a lush rye grows
You will pass through the city – I am narrow among the cereals...
♪ Knocked, banged, banged ♪
next to the chair –
Steps I hear – Steps I hear – Steps I hear –
He doesn't sleep in separate ways.
She banged, she banged me again...
They passed, they disappeared – now go – lead God!
Cuckoo, zozulin, be healthy –
My river is already here – cold Bug.
(June 1941)
Stanisław Srokowski
Born June 29, 1936 in Hnilcz, Podolu – writer, poet, prozaik, playwright, literary critic, translator, academic teacher and publicist.
He made his debut as a poet and prosaik in 1958 in Opole. In 1960 he graduated from Polish philology at the Higher Pedagogical School in Opole.
From 1970 to 1981 he was a writer of the cultural department of the weekly "News", where he founded NSZZ "Solidarity". For a time he was besides editor-in-chief of the Lower Silesian Culture. He advised the Independent Local Trade Union “Solidarity” of Individual Farmers in Wrocław. He was besides a spokesperson for this union. He was released from work in the state of war and remained unemployed for nearly 2 years. Since 1982, he has been active in Fighting Solidarity. From 1990 to 1993 he taught at the University of Wrocław.
In his novels Ukrainian lover (2008) and Betrayal (2009) and the collection of stories Hatred (2006) refers to the events of 1943, erstwhile the east lands of the Second Republic took over the largest wave of genocide by Ukrainian nationalists in Poles. The movie “Wołyń” directed by Wojciech Smarzowski was created in 2016.
Co-organizer of Creative Unions and technological Associations in Wrocław, president of the club “Rebirth”. Co-founder of the Polish-Ukrainian Cultural Cooperation Association "White Bird". The creator and first president of the Polish-Greek Society in Wrocław. Co-founder of the Vincent Witos Institute. president of the Society of Kresowa Culture Lovers. He publishes, among others, in “Warsaw Gazeta”, “Magna Polonia”. He is simply a associate of the Association of Polish Translators.
In 2021, he published a volume of poems entitled “Silence! talk pain!’
Silence mouth
On the doorstep of the home she sat
cluster of green lamps
And lit her light face
Grandpa Peter switched
into a roadside stone.
An empty chamber flashed
With dead eyes.
Mutilated sentences were dying
And the lips of silence were tightened.
The Last Flames of Language
Shining from the ashes of the village.
After a burnt branch of speech
The black dawn ran.
Mother of Prayer
Her lips were floating like a boat
The steep edges of words.
The Rosary thinks like a catch
a drop of silence in a valley of sleeping rivers.
They were leaking through the edge of the evening
deaf wall sighs
And you heard a dark whine of windows.
Fear was spreading through the fields of ladles,
And the parent weaving out of her breath the scarf of love
And she wrapped my fears.
The vipers were sobbing in the bushes of a abroad speech
And he'd get into innocent bodies.
Iron trizub.
Clouds burned and the earth trembled.
Stanisława Wind – Partyka
She was born in Bad.
In her résumé there is 1 date that cannot be missed - on April 13, 1940. On that day Ostashkov (as part of the alleged Katyń list) was signed a death conviction on her Father. On the same day, a transport took place carrying her parent and small Stasta to Siberia. She spent her childhood in exile in northern Kazakhstan. That's where she started writing poems. After returning to Poland, she settled in Tarnów within her fresh borders. All her professional life, she was a teacher. At the Center for Legislative Education she founded the band "Sybiracy" and for them she removed her poems from the drawers. She worked for years in the Siberian Union. She spent a fewer volumes of poetry. In 2014, she was awarded the Józef Mackiewicz Literary Prize for the volume "Ballada about lost home".
On Volyn
Kresovians of Volyn
It won't be a song about a abroad land:
Your great-grandfather lived on this land.
He was happy, he was among his own,
A dream about Poland, a wonderful dream.
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
There are events that are hard to believe,
The fact is, but it was trampled.
The wrongs are never measured,
There are memories that hurt like a wound.
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
♪ 'Cause it's not my birthday tree ♪
And no of the roads are there anymore
There is no village – there is no trace of less.
Where the graves – only God knows...
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
I won't light you, Mom, there's nothing there.
I'm not putting a bunch on my grave.
Where the household was home – silence screams
And the communicative is inactive silent about you.
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
Tarnów 2007
Ipn.gov.pl
We remember! - Poles on the 78th anniversary of the Volyn massacre -
If you don't call yourself a tree, a lamp, and a man, then the planet should go underground. All the standards of the planet come down to surviving by the truth. If we were to live a lie, what would the planet be worth?
– these are the words of the author Stanisław Srokowski, the author of the screenplay of the movie “Volyn”, but besides the author of a volume of poems, whose title became the calling slogan of our project-apple. This large Polish end creator devoted the most crucial of his works to genocide, which was made by Ukrainian nationalists in Poles, frequently their neighbours. This is the reason for this artistic choice:
I gotta talk about it. due to the fact that you gotta shout the planet of evil. Poles have never survived specified genocide. We can't let stupid people amputate our national memory. Only 20 percent of Poles know what happened in the Borderlands. possibly that's why I survived to scream and cry out for those who can't talk about it anymore. due to the fact that any fresh lie about genocide is another blow to the victims. It's like a fresh death.
Based on this knowing of fact and its priceless creation for human sensitivity through various artistic activities, Theatre Now 10 years ago he created a performance "Ballad about Volyn", the first effort in Polish theatre to tell what the survivors of the Holocaust for years did not let to talk with fear and fear mouth. Traveling around the country with this performance has made us realize that talking about this tragedy is inactive plastered by inhuman political correctness and educational ignorance.
July 11, 1943 is 1 of the most crucial dates in modern history. It was a day of alleged bloody Sunday, erstwhile at the same time in about 100 towns in Volyn there was a planned wave of murders in Poles, which frequently took place in churches erstwhile the faithful gathered at Mass.
We would like to invitation Polish artists, especially artists of the art of word, but besides all who realize the meaning of this action, to read poesy dedicated or inspired by the past of the Holocaust, which Ukrainian Nazis, allies of the Nazi 3rd Reich prepared for Poles in the 1940s.
Let our action sound loud and clear on Sunday 11 July 2021 on the National Day of the Memorial of the Victims of Genocide. This day (or in neighbouring days) let us read poems that will be sent to as many recipients as possible in a peculiar package. We propose you read at least 3 tracks from the proposed package. We hope that the recipients will not only want to engage in this artistic task themselves, but will inspire others. We are counting on the cooperation of the school and scout community, with which we have already started cooperation. We encourage to participate in this task besides Polish communities located outside the country.
The proposed lyrics are a cry from behind the wall of oblivion, a voice of opposition to intolerance and barbarism, which are inactive present in the modern world. This reading is simply a peculiar lesson in humanity.
Every “reading” can be accompanied by viewers – it would be very beautiful, especially if young Poles were among the recipients. However, let us make certain that each of these presentations is recorded in the form of sound and image (by telephone or otherwise) and sent to the address below. Then let's put this video on the social media profiles of the entities active in this action on 11 July and let our poetic message of memory be available at least until the end of July.
The Institute of National Memory is simply a co-founder of the project. And to the email address IPN: [email protected] , delight study your accession to this artistic patriotic initiative. The recordings of recited texts (or links to them) will be sent, which will let them to be disseminated further through the communicators of the Institute of National Memory and the Theatre No Now.
Maskenice / Warsaw 11 June 2021
Tomasz Antoni Żak Dr Jarosław Szarek
Director of Theatre No Now President
SON OF THE VOLLIAN household OF THE NATIONAL REMEMBER INSTITUTION
We remember! - Poles on the 78th anniversary of the Volyn massacre -
TEXTS
Zdzisław Bernacki
He was born in 1957 in Grodków, Opole. A postgraduate of LO in Brzeg. In the 1980s, after the pilgrimage of John Paul II to Poland, he joined the works of the PAX Young Team. Later he was an activist of the “Solidarity” of Individual Farmers. Founder and associate of the alleged singing band in Michałów – meetings of opposition-oriented youth. The organiser of material aid to opposition people, released “War Signals” and distributed underground solidarity publications, editor of the underground magazine “Pokłosie”. He organised anniversaries and Masses for his homeland. Arrested in Opole.
He runs a farm in Michałów close Brzeg (Opolskie). He was the chief of the village of Michałów. In 1989, a associate of the run KO “S” in Brzeg, co-organiser of meetings with candidates, associate of the “S” Farmers' legislature in Warsaw . He was the president of the Board of the Municipal Board of “S” Farmers and a associate of the Bureau of the Provincial Council. In 2002, he was appointed Vice-President of the Audit Committee and Olshanka Municipal Council.
He released memories of his imprisonment in the state of war entitled “Case. diary of the Suspect” (2007). He is besides a singer; he was honored with 2 awards at the Festival of Patriotic Songs “You Polish” in Olsztyn.
Volyn
Volyn calls us
Near and Far
by the whisper of the stream
What's in the river?
hen after the eagle cross
through chaotic field clouds
and sleep torn
blood dying out
Like a blind thent
Drunk horse fog
through extinguished graves
and by memory
About them
Oak Table Fairy Tale
(particles)
(I) Prologue
I'm a table, man. I can swear:
I'm about 5 100 years old, or a 1000 years old –
But unwavering like a strong man
I stand on my legs strong blocks,
still with the breath of his arrogant
They weren't utilized for coffins!
Too old, besides dense and besides big,
no longer functional to serve,
I fill my attic with darkness,
Where time is wasting, and the beetle eats me.
I've had quite a few appearances,
tedious and dirty, uninteresting –
But I've got any bad advice:
trip to memory – through the drawer...
Bend your ears to the old man!
May the fairy tale of the way guide you –
for mountains, forests, rivers, pits,
in the ancient planet – in far Volyn...
...
(VIII)
A Song of Red Night
They say where the 2 battles will rise,
there will be benefits... – third.
...................................................................................................
In the fraternal and indigenous tribe
The wolf’s name spread,
What hungry dogs connect in flocks,
to pursuit the victim—and to catch up—
and bite a 100 times—and, though alive,
To rip and tore him out...
But the wolf kills only from hunger—
Why a nation to a nation
Is hatred so cruel?
where its origin, its source
poisoned by venom,
who is the most monstrous reptile
makes a man, destroying dignity,
sensitivity, sensitivity and mildness –
And so the nation's heart breaks,
I feel 1 rage from my feelings
and no longer has humanity—
And there's no limit to cruelty...
................................................................................................................................................
You can't see the stars from behind the dust clouds,
Mars just catches a bloody eye.
A trident horde with a sign in the emblem
to the sleeping village crawls under the ground –
like a dragon would be stifled in a soot –
to burn and cut a 100 times,
as weeds grew into fertile soil,
hated siblings.
The flame of the first home licks
And steam like a foal,
which in the fire with a twinkle of a horse...
...................................................
..... . The time of the Apocalypse has come!!!
................................................................................................
Dreams like moths fly for the last time
into the light – in the red mat...
................................................................................................................................................
The night breaks with the cries of the awake
from dream land — caught in claws
the blood of the hungry beast, the fangs of the horns
three teeth and sacred knives...
..................................................................................................
The second home and the third!
Mother in the arms of the children,
Half-naked, moving into the grain...
Father wants to fight, but can not—
With pitchforks in his chest in the fire he sinks...
Dogs howling... Cattle roaring, burning...
...................................................................................................
Already the 4th home trembles in dragon claws
and like a horse from the wounds of a weeping horse –
And from the smokey bowels emerges
like an angel girl – and like a hind
immerse in the darkness the thicket – and falls
In a network of filthy reptiles...
...................................................................................................
O, it is easier to bear death in the fire,
than chasing darkness – for destiny is terrible
He cooks the fugitives a stature dragon,
By inflicting specified terrible torments,
that the song of words is not for pronunciation,
It's just quiet... - Or how!
...................................................................................................................................
And these are the youths from further homes,
With his help, he brings help:
a series of bullets to the attackers,
forces retreat, hurts several...
The thugs from the crime scene get scared,
They're missing the chain of chat derivatives,
to lick your wounds under the forest –
But they'll be back soon... And the village in the meantime
gathers his wounded and killed...
Someone breaks the chain from the gate of the sanctuary:
– injured, women with children, old people –
This is where they'll take shelter; adequate space...
Let them pray at the altar—
And let men have full guard...
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
There was a second attack this morning;
a more empty place in mute huts
The attacker to the temple is walking...
Then the death ringing will environment him!
– They're guerrillas, forest boys,
A small native, a small alien;
they have guns – and they can shoot!...
...................................................................................................
The enemy's destiny was poor:
snarling, spitting his heart out,
Until the souls sank him into hell.
The dead of their volunteers a few
It took a car in the steam spell...
...................................................................................................
Where is the triumph of the glories on the foreheads
winners?...................................................................
................................... – They enter the church,
They pray in silence... – until the Commander
He says: “I feel sorry for you...
In the ellipse death, pain, wounds, villages burn;
War goes on forever...
Today, each of us is her soldier!
I have orders: – Let the population gather.
in the convenient place of the page
and will make a fort of self-defense...’
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
Twilight in an abandoned village came.
The wind through the church door,
Someone didn't close them. Blood puddles,
lost, grown dusty;
No one's dog sniffed them and licked them.
The spider in his net on the cross was low
The rosary of silence............
...
Krzysztof Kołtun
He was born 9.XI.1958 in Chełma in a household from Lubomla, Volyn.
He is simply a associate of the Association of Polish Writers in Krakow and the literary Brotherhood of the White Shepherd. Inventor and organizer of respective editions of Chełmian poesy competitions: “Mother”, “Children’s Poems” and the ever-running since 1988 “On the Edges”. A passionate and passionate ethnographer, an end collector, a spiritual guide to the Edges. Author of many volumes of poems.
Founder of the Society of Kresowe Families (1988), the Nadbuzhany Cultural Society (1999) and the Kresowa Zespół “Sokoliki” (2004) in Chełma. Laureate of the Literary Award of A. Patkowski (Sandomierz 1999), Literary Award of KAJA Kazimierz Andrzej Jaworski (Chełm 2005), Literary Award of W. Hasior Association of “Ars Populi” (Kraków-Zakopane 2005), many poesy competitions. He's a guest of the radio line, a journalist, an antique dealer.
Age light
Pure gold burns rape
– honey smells
until you part
behind the cross from the German war.
The boulders are silent.
– burnt village to chimney,
ashes.
Cross way
– it did not grow, it shines
With a pen with your shoes on.
You won't burn human souls
No fire.
They will come to the Polish village
Ukrainian children.
They'll say what they want.
but they cry – besides with tears.
6 VII 2001 under Zatorcami (Volyn)
Flaming Volyn
It lit the sun in the east
village.
He's on fire, he's screaming in Ukrainian.
Young storks fell from the linden
– tiny children are trampled by banners.
Mothers under fences in moaning
– the complications of the end of the world,
They refuse to fear souls.
Earth – from the heat breaks,
Church on fire.
There are no towers anymore,
fell on the black roof.
Kill, burn, rob
cattle, horses – shoes and goats.
At noon – worries the road,
naked chimneys will emergence
– they left with murderous singing,
hooves trampling grain.
It'll blow, it'll blow,
blacken
with burnt name
– village under Vladimir.
The weak emergence from the pits
– they run to Bug, for the road,
They will ask:
Don't come back, people!
There, death...
10 VII 2012
Memory of Crosses
I support broken crosses
from Volyn cemetery,
places where following the Belt
- the nails that were drilled,
relic pearls.
I kiss and hug.
Grew with moss and grass,
trampled by silence
– full of sweet names
and Polish love.
I take the words into my arms,
which Christ spoke
“He who sows in tears,
He will reap in joy."
27 VI 1998 Chelm
Irena Lamprycht
She was born in Milanovich, St. Kowel in the legionary family, a military settler. In February 1940, with her parents, she drove a lashe to the “inhuman land” of Jozma in the Piniga area of Archangelsk. Then, with the formation of the Polish Army, General Władysław Anders went to the south of the USSR, transports to Iran. Later, through India, East Africa and England, she reached Canada in 1952. In 1999, she published a volume of poems “Vołyński Nieforminajki”.
She died in December 2002 in Toronto.
Shadow of the White Eagle
Kirami of the memories of Volyn
In my heart I dream of freedom
wrapped in a fog of time where the reflection lives,
He stares into the face of a cruel past.
Among the tartars where the wetlands and the depths,
among dense beds and birch where peat bogs
The stray spirits of the children of Volyn murdered
They're looking for their bodies thrown into the watermelons.
O unfortunate Earth of Volyn,
The blood of the innocent has sunk into your dirt
You gave birth to me, I loved you
You have grown into my heart and memory forever.
You live in me present the memory of your landscapes
from the sea I hear your sighs,
Fate has separated us.
My voice gets to me erstwhile I perceive in silence.
I know you're not dead, I know you're never gonna die,
You of the blood of my brethren, who have sunk into your soil, fertilizing you
When the time comes again
The Shadow of the White Eagle will see you erstwhile in the sky.
And if I don't see this happy moment
I'm not like you.
Remember, my spirit will find you.
I'm your child, you gave me life.
1997.
Lech Makowiecki
Born in 1954 in Rypina – poet, songwriter, composer, musician, screenwriter and columnist. postgraduate of master's degree in ship building at the Gdańsk University of Technology.
He began his music career in 1978 in the well-known country-rock band "Grandmother". He was a singer, guitarist and mandolinist. In 1985, with this band he won the Golden ringing (the main prize) at the Kołobrzeg Soldiers' Song Festival. In 1986, he and his wife Bożena (vocalist) founded the band “Zayazd”, which inactive exists today.
He composes and records songs entering the stream of singing poesy of the bard genre. The content is focused on the patriotic subject and past of Poland from the Second planet War period, with a strong incarnation in modern times. The album was released, among others: “Katyń 1940. Last letter of Ballady Lech Makowiecki” (2010), “Patriotism” (2011), “Wake up, Poland” (2014), “I am staying here” (2015), “Independent. Poetry’ (2018).
Volyn 1943
Do You Remember God
Over Volyn, a bloody luna
And that scream from the burning hut
Murdered by neighbors.
I think you were at that time.
Somewhere else in the world,
'Cause you'd most likely be upset.
And he stopped and cried...
Have you heard the Lord's prayer,
Father's eyes, do you remember,
When they dishonored his daughter
Badgers like animals...
He was crucified on the door
He begged “Have mercy on us!”
The oppressors took pity
They had bayonet eyes...
Have you seen Holy Father?
Looking from above through the firmament
Children as beautiful as angels
The knuckles are stuck...
Who will lead them now?
To meet you, God,
They're so small.
They're going to get lost alone in these skies...
Will you remember, Lord of the World,
The martyrs of Volyn,
They died reasoning about Tej,
Which will never go missing.
Poland has forgotten them,
She vanished in the distance,
Sometimes a trembling hand of an old man
He'll light a candle here.
They grow with weeds of dust,
graves drown in lush grass,
Tomorrow no 1 will be there
Put the candles behind them.
Tadeusz Różewicz
Country face
Homeland is simply a country of childhood
place of birth
That's the small 1 closest.
country
town town town village
street home courtyard
First love
forest on the horizon
graves
As a child, you meet
flowers of cereals
animals
meadow fields
words of fruit
Motherland laughs
at the beginning of the homeland
It's close.
at your fingertips
Only later does it grow
bleeding
It hurts.
Zygmunt Jan Rumel
He was born on 22 February 1915 in Petrograd. It's called "Baczyński Kresów".
His father, Władysław Rumel during planet War I fought in the Tsar army, and after 1918 in the Polish Army, among others in the Polish-bolshevik War. He was a bachelor of the Order of Virtuti Militari. As part of the military settlement, he received land in Volyn, close Wiśniwiec. In the Szymieniecki territory he was a well-known activist and social activist. Sigismund's mother, Janina of Tymiński, besides performed socially, among others, in the works of the People's University in Różyna, where she taught art classes. She besides wrote poems under Lilian's nickname.
He was a postgraduate of Siliconiecki advanced School. He belonged to the Scouts, besides to the Volynian Union of agrarian Youth, which brought together both Polish and Ukrainian youth. After graduating in 1935, Rumel moved to Warsaw, where he took a Polish degree at the University of Warsaw.
Military service was conducted on a divisional course of the subjects in Włodzimierz Wołyński. In the 1939 defensive war, he participated as a artillery lieutenant. Later, he took conspiracy action. Already in the beginning of 1940, he became the manager of the communication point and warehouse of the Peasants Battalions at Narutowicza Street in Warsaw. In the fall of 1941, Rumel, at the command of the BCh Headquarters, went to Volyn to measure the possibilities of conspiracy action. This led to the establishment of the VIII territory of the Peasants Battalions (Volyn). His commanding officer was Lieutenant Rumel. The group besides took propaganda actions among the Ukrainian population, which was a reaction to UPA crimes.
Lt. Rumel and his wife lived in the village of Wólka Sadowska in Horochów County. From there he set out in the summertime of 1943 with 2 comrades – Lieutenant Krzysztof Markiewicz and the guide Witold Dobrowolski, as an emissary of the Peasants' Battalions, to conduct talks with the UPA commander to halt mass slaughters of the Polish population. All of them, on July 10, were brutally murdered, most likely torn by horses and buried in a common grave.
Two mothers
I've got 2 Mother-Fathers hounding my head -
One amber comb brushed her hair
A second reef of porohs washing corals
She failed on liras with a pit of blind - fate...
One eye danced with a goldlit belt,
The another one's neck was pounding - drunk as a bumblebee -
One barefoot took sadness behind the blue -
The second hen of hers drank a rebellious scythe
Two Mother-Fathers taught me how to talk -
In a braid of blood woven with berries ros -
To break my heart with pain in 2 halves -
To make the heart divided like a voice...
(July 1941)
To you, Ewka - a musom
Maybe next day in an unknown hour.
which confesses the seasons of the future beginning -
Maybe a sign over the forehead that was floating
maybe a cold far cape -
Maybe a story of murmuring distances.
Or a lute vocalist of a stray -
♪ possibly I'll light a hand ♪
on columns increasing above me -
The meanings of silver hidden by a smile
Or lava like transparent glass -
Maybe a small thirst for breath
Maybe the bells with a collegiate melody -
Maybe just 1 sigh
Maybe I'll just be named--
(1941)
Inn
The armed forces arrived at court at night -
The hatchets knocked out the gate...
Painted - painted gate -
What a dam creaked at the logs...
The shredders are in and out...
The scream's ringing... The bell!
They fell in the splinters of the skree -
Under the ax, like a kri...
They've fallen from splinters -
He fell into the shadow - he fell into the court of the sounders a crack!
They sow in the court - shadow in the shadow - second court -
Break the hay! Take the shadow! Knock it off!
The shadow has already fallen - court 2 - chamber three!
Blood trail... There's a scream! Sparks!
A window in the orchard! Save me! Mord! Come on.
The armed forces arrived outside the court at night...
(September 1939)
Leader
The cuckoo of Zosula was cuckooing
The grey dawn through the green leaf,
black woodpecker after bark bore –
You can go – you can go – you can go...
♪ Knocked the window, banged the door ♪
she broke out of the blue cloud of dawn,
dawn in the sky scattered roses white
quote – wait – wait – quote –
Knocked, banged more loudly –
she has come from a blue cloud of roses,
There, under the forest, a lush rye grows
You will pass through the city – I am narrow among the cereals...
♪ Knocked, banged, banged ♪
next to the chair –
Steps I hear – Steps I hear – Steps I hear –
He doesn't sleep in separate ways.
She banged, she banged me again...
They passed, they disappeared – now go – lead God!
Cuckoo, zozulin, be healthy –
My river is already here – cold Bug.
(June 1941)
Stanisław Srokowski
Born June 29, 1936 in Hnilcz, Podolu – writer, poet, prozaik, playwright, literary critic, translator, academic teacher and publicist.
He made his debut as a poet and prosaik in 1958 in Opole. In 1960 he graduated from Polish philology at the Higher Pedagogical School in Opole.
From 1970 to 1981 he was a writer of the cultural department of the weekly "News", where he founded NSZZ "Solidarity". For a time he was besides editor-in-chief of the Lower Silesian Culture. He advised the Independent Local Trade Union “Solidarity” of Individual Farmers in Wrocław. He was besides a spokesperson for this union. He was released from work in the state of war and remained unemployed for nearly 2 years. Since 1982, he has been active in Fighting Solidarity. From 1990 to 1993 he taught at the University of Wrocław.
In his novels Ukrainian lover (2008) and Betrayal (2009) and the collection of stories Hatred (2006) refers to the events of 1943, erstwhile the east lands of the Second Republic took over the largest wave of genocide by Ukrainian nationalists in Poles. The movie “Wołyń” directed by Wojciech Smarzowski was created in 2016.
Co-organizer of Creative Unions and technological Associations in Wrocław, president of the club “Rebirth”. Co-founder of the Polish-Ukrainian Cultural Cooperation Association "White Bird". The creator and first president of the Polish-Greek Society in Wrocław. Co-founder of the Vincent Witos Institute. president of the Society of Kresowa Culture Lovers. He publishes, among others, in “Warsaw Gazeta”, “Magna Polonia”. He is simply a associate of the Association of Polish Translators.
In 2021, he published a volume of poems entitled “Silence! talk pain!’
Silence mouth
On the doorstep of the home she sat
cluster of green lamps
And lit her light face
Grandpa Peter switched
into a roadside stone.
An empty chamber flashed
With dead eyes.
Mutilated sentences were dying
And the lips of silence were tightened.
The Last Flames of Language
Shining from the ashes of the village.
After a burnt branch of speech
The black dawn ran.
Mother of Prayer
Her lips were floating like a boat
The steep edges of words.
The Rosary thinks like a catch
a drop of silence in a valley of sleeping rivers.
They were leaking through the edge of the evening
deaf wall sighs
And you heard a dark whine of windows.
Fear was spreading through the fields of ladles,
And the parent weaving out of her breath the scarf of love
And she wrapped my fears.
The vipers were sobbing in the bushes of a abroad speech
And he'd get into innocent bodies.
Iron trizub.
Clouds burned and the earth trembled.
Stanisława Wind – Partyka
She was born in Bad.
In her résumé there is 1 date that cannot be missed - on April 13, 1940. On that day Ostashkov (as part of the alleged Katyń list) was signed a death conviction on her Father. On the same day, a transport took place carrying her parent and small Stasta to Siberia. She spent her childhood in exile in northern Kazakhstan. That's where she started writing poems. After returning to Poland, she settled in Tarnów within her fresh borders. All her professional life, she was a teacher. At the Center for Legislative Education she founded the band "Sybiracy" and for them she removed her poems from the drawers. She worked for years in the Siberian Union. She spent a fewer volumes of poetry. In 2014, she was awarded the Józef Mackiewicz Literary Prize for the volume "Ballada about lost home".
On Volyn
Kresovians of Volyn
It won't be a song about a abroad land:
Your great-grandfather lived on this land.
He was happy, he was among his own,
A dream about Poland, a wonderful dream.
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
There are events that are hard to believe,
The fact is, but it was trampled.
The wrongs are never measured,
There are memories that hurt like a wound.
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
♪ 'Cause it's not my birthday tree ♪
And no of the roads are there anymore
There is no village – there is no trace of less.
Where the graves – only God knows...
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
I won't light you, Mom, there's nothing there.
I'm not putting a bunch on my grave.
Where the household was home – silence screams
And the communicative is inactive silent about you.
On Volyn
The golden sun is wandering...
Volyn
A honey beehive, a golden hive...
On Volyn
The falcon in the clouds is soaring,
The orchards bloom
The orchards bloom, but I'm not there...
Tarnów 2007
Ipn.gov.pl
