October
2006
Dzia-dzia
The scent from his final bottle of cologne
Rises between the bars of an outdoor drain;
Rises and clings to the side of the house
He so loved to paint,
Every sweltering summer.
Dzia-dzia,
Short for Dziadek,
Polish for Grandfather.
Giant, hairy hands,
Hiding a lolly or a packet of sherbet,
Lead me home from primary school.
We were probably closest then,
Uncomplicated by language.
Now, I can see his stocky, stooping frame –
Furrowed brow and kindly face –
For the shell it was,
And fill it:
Monte Cassino,
Pulling civilian bodies from the rubble of the abbey.
Later, another monastery,
Isolated; no roof to sleep under,
No medical care, no food,
Just the night-time sobs and choking screams of once-fellow prisoners.
Dzia-dzia,
Mój Dzia-dzia.
As vapours leave their mark upon towering walls,
Too late one of us found the words
To create you for me.
4 Responses to “Dzia-dzia”
I really love this poem. I saw it being read at the reading last week and i have to say i honestly think it’s beautiful.
Wow, the last few lines really got to me. You’ve given me a new appreciation for poetry… and for Dziadzio too 
Like very much the fragment of Polish language’s way of making him so specific and the containment of real emotion here.
Fantastic! Now I know how to spell Dzia-dzia! Mine’s died before I could write.