Bogumil Hausman
The Gathered Moments
(1991-2021)
English translation: URIBA PUBLISHING
Cover design: Bogumil Hausman
Copyright © by Bogumil Hausman, 2025
URIBA PUBLISHING
(bogumil.hausman@uribajapan.com)
ISBN 978-91-986862-7-2
Table of Contents
*** (shrouded in the predatory)
*** (enshrouded in black lace)
*** (the castle at Chenonceaux)
*** (queens of Africa and Asia)
*** (I wait for another chance)
*** (in a crouched olive grove)
*** (flowers plucked at night)
*** (when I lose the contours)
*** (war blurred into the abstraction)
Instead of an Introduction
Poetry is a cracked mirror of our hungry soul. It emerges when "with flesh, blood and word we bless the transient prose of life".
Bogumil Hausman
January 2025
***
her voice
abandoned the hues and tremors
you once knew by heart
her eyes
lost their former glow
to the color of necessary lies
Autumn 1991
Stockholm, Sweden
***
shrouded in the predatory
solitude of walls
I count rosy drops
dripping patiently
into the pale sand
of my guts
sometimes
huddled beds
are pecked apart
by flocks of
white crows
January 1991
hospital, Stockholm, Sweden
***
the Swedish
conscience of the world
hid in its hands
a bullet-pierced face
twisted in sudden astonishment
that the world is not a stage
where one can hand out
written roles
and pretend
that everyone has
innocent blue eyes
November 1991
Stockholm, Sweden
hometown
prematurely aged faces
from the small big town
chase blurred traces of youth
slicing life like bread
for meal, work, and sleep
December 1991
Koszalin, Poland
***
I will be sad
I made a promise to the Karelian forests
as they were swathed in soft mist
bowed to the river, awaiting dawn
you will be sad
whispered the brown icons
their soft hum weaving
stories of departed saints
at daybreak
seeing anxious eyes
in somehow friendly faces
I was sad
July 1992
Karelia, Russia
***
the day has passed—God go with it
explained to me over ashen beer
a gray butterfly of security
will not give up
will not leave
will not betray
covered in clotted dust
he mumbled in rough beauty
of Russian roulette
July 1992
St. Petersburg, Russia
to my mother
what kind of Pole are you?
asked Vladimir
wrenching from his throat
his fragile lineage
exiled with his grandfather
from Krakow
shrouded in a drunken haze
he failed to see the little girl
who led me by the hand
through the Siberian pines
to the fresh graves
of the loved ones
July 1992
Karelia, Russia
***
life past thirty
winked knowingly
through the eye of the television
while somewhere deep within
I longed for an open landscape
of gray, weary faces
dissolved into yet another day
steeped in the scent of sweat
July 1992
Stockholm, Sweden
***
enshrouded in black lace
of Venetian melancholy
I tried on lifeless masks
dripping with gold
I spied on the tireless gondolas
carrying Giacomo
to yet another isle
of red-lipped dolls
I sighed on the bridge
sat in the prison
and sought the raptures
of the hungry, lonely youth
when wrapped in darkness
I slept at the station
waiting for dawn
and I did not find it
August 1992
Venice, Italy
procession
I met the soldiers
carried on shoulders
of the applause
from the mourning crowd
to the tolling rhythm of bells
from the leaning tower
wrapped in the banners
of their uniform
I bid them farewell
as one says goodbye to boys
from your own street
not remembering the faces
September 1992
Pisa, Italy
***
the castle at Chenonceaux
with the taut string of the gallery
wailed with the moans of the wounded
from wars long past
it rang with the metal of conspirators
who with a burning forehead
broke through the invisible
wall of fear
greedily swallowing
the soft glow of the floor
I sought my own passage
to the other side
September 1992
Chenonceaux, France
unkept vows
we build our new home
dragging from the ruins
charred beams
of burned-out thoughts
and rusted spikes
of the coming dawn
tear at our hands
November 1992
Stockholm, Sweden
fatherland
in moments of despair
I toss aside the bones
of chewed-up news
and in a hat adorned
with patriotic plume
I watch my empty face
without the golden mask
of never lost wars
November 1992
Stockholm, Sweden
***
beneath a sunlit sky
in the flames of hatred
children perished
cradled in their mother’s scream
at the nearby graveyard
someone exposed at night
stone underbellies
of David’s ancient graves
clad in the fluffy armor of fairy tales
armed with the sword of adulthood
I wait by my little son’s bedside
for the dragon that devours dreams
November 1992
Stockholm, Sweden
freedom fighters
pale with romantic longing
of courageous memories
you tally the hours
encased in reverence
by a gloomy warden
without the drug of struggle
you laboriously learn
the hardships
of hungry freedom
December 1992
Stockholm, Sweden
***
sellers of poetry
cast cards of passion
onto the stained
green of life
trembling shadows
rose from the floor
of those who chose
the freedom of madness
beautiful women
mourning their marriages
discovered
the rainbow of flesh
I drifted through the crowd
seeking an open
window of face
we bade farewell to another year
in desperate longing
for eternity
January 1993
Stockholm, Sweden
farewells
the loudest echoed
in my temples
the thrown
clods of farewell
fused into pulsing
circle of mourners
I watched the glazed
horizon of events
flutter with shreds
of pale human faces
and we could feel
how through
the needle’s eye of death
we glimpsed infinity
January 1993
Nottingham, UK
***
why do you greet with tears
the beauty of altars
veiled in the smoke of prayers
of triumphs and captivity
and hear the wails
of trembling windows
through which bloody banners
of bodies were hung
why are the altars
heavy with the sighs
of slaves of another God
May 1993
Toledo Cathedral, Spain
***
inside the cage
of a train compartment
that always captivates
with the secrecy
of confession
an old woman
shrouded in fatigue
showed the open wounds
of her husband's
terminal illness
I listened
heavy with sorrow
realizing
she resembled
my mother
July 1993
train Gdansk-Koszalin, Poland
***
little red devils
swarmed my eyelids
twisting in their hands
a congealed clump
of tar-black blood
the tubes of plastic veins
throbbed to the rhythm
of deceptive ecstasies
lovers with hollow faces
an awakened imagination
I was filling up
like a cracked jug
ensnared in the net
of the obvious necessity
of counting the days to come
November 1993
the third ward of some hospital
***
I seek the meaning of the world
in a puddle of everyday life
asking silly, naïve questions
that are left unanswered
sometimes
the traces of tiny feet
offer a faint hope
November 1993
Stockholm, Sweden
Montezuma castle
where did you go
travelers of time
leaving behind
the empty
frozen in waiting
eyes of caves
veiled
by stone walls
why did you
so suddenly
with burdens of hope
vanish
into the misty horizon
gazing into the distance
until my eyes burn
I struggle to cry out
against
the creeping dusk
March 1994
Arizona, USA
to my lover
it was you
leading me
through the inferno
of jealousy
love
and pride
I will miss
your distant
beautiful
mystery
with sorrowful
brown eyes
March 1994
Stockholm, Sweden
***
my soul aches
in the tight underwear
of daily greetings
to another well-behaved hour
sometimes
when no one sees
I carve with a sharp nail
the smooth surface
of my imagination
April 1994
Stockholm, Sweden
***
why do you need
quiet sighs of desire
in the crammed marketplace
of hollow faces
you should know
that fern flowers
are not sown
by the wind
April 1994
Stockholm, Sweden
***
queens of Africa and Asia
at the red-light stalls
display the moist roundness
of their bodies
in the damp canals
float tin wreaths
of plastic flowers
mimicking the freshness
of just bloomed
red roses
August 1994
Amsterdam, Netherlands
to Leonardo
on long nights
heavy with scent
of bared muscles
their nakedness
remembered
by yellowed paper
you spied
on divine secrets
written down
under dictation
of mirrors
your Icarus
never flew
your machines
stood still
burdened
by an old dreamer
whose sorrowful eyes
gaze at me
with the madness
of solitude
worthy of Leonardo
June 1994
Amboise, France
***
I sat in a forest
of cold hands
stiffened by life
reaching for warmth
we blew on the icy
embers of childhood
April 1995
Stockholm, Sweden
***
the canopy of ceiling
painted gates of paradise
shielded from sunlight
the balding heads
of venetian masks
predatory chandeliers
exploding in glass
lit old banners
embroidered with prophecy
from a dogma of faith
from the tree of wisdom
one ought not to pluck
its ripe apples
May 1995
Venice, Italy
***
it reeked of corpses
perhaps gnawed by beasts
in the arena with pillars
of mute gladiators
nothing is sacred
without the moans of prophets
bathed in the blood
of a necessary baptism of faith
June 1995
catacombs, Rome, Italy
***
an enormous square
soaked with blood
was surrounded
by green uniforms
of peasant faces
the floors
in rooms for dying
were stained
by the powerless
youth
June 1995,
Beijing, China
***
I wait for another chance
to speak with God
about the last
three minutes
that the wise of this world
so patiently
explain
to the masses
October 1995
Gdansk airport, Poland
***
blooming roses
exude the humid warmth
of summer rain
and even the pierced
tenderness of fingers
cannot touch
their beauty
August 1996
Stockholm, Sweden
***
misers of memory
who have forgotten
the joy of breathing
casting out
moldy bread
of empty hours
addicted
to the roar of war
they warm
their white
bones
August 1996
Stockholm, Sweden
***
sometimes I descend
into the underworld
of my unconscious mind
where winged by breath
I fly the gray blue sky
of the pain
of my previous
souls
November 1996
Stockholm, Sweden
***
a forsaken shopgirl
with battered hands
became a fairytale princess
in a colorful episode
of another life
May 1997
Koszalin, Poland
***
in a crouched
olive grove
where trees perished
in a fiery bow
the lame Hephaestus
offered water
in exchange
for a moment
of shared solitude
July 1997
Greece
***
we touch our children
with the collected wisdom
of our long
ignorance
July 1997
Greece
***
welcome
you born
with flowers
in your hair
every morning
old women
bake crusty
bread of tradition
July 1997
Greece
***
each day at the table
we gather single crumbs
for the postmortem mound
our whole life
we go into the horizon
of people who love us
October 1997
Stockholm, Sweden
***
sometimes
angels
with lips
bleached by prayer
walk beside us
for a while
in silence
October 1997
Geneva, Switzerland
***
flowers
plucked at night
tremble always
with the parting
of morning
February 1998
Stockholm, Sweden
***
I felt the warmth
of an unknown woman
she sat beside me
at the theater
we loved silently
without touch
without even
a glance
our chairs
held hands
embarrassed
by words
left unspoken
April 1998
Stockholm, Sweden
***
when I lose
the contours
of my body
blurred
by a torrent
of thoughts
I sink
into a temple
of fire
water
and gale
where naked
and bloodstained
I am being born
again
May 1998
Boston, USA
***
we fade
we leave
tearing up
moments of bliss
like cobblestones
from the street
May 1998
Stockholm, Sweden
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About the author
Bogumil Hausman (b. 1956, Poland) is a Swedish diplomat, computer scientist, poet, and writer. His life journey—from Poland to Sweden, Japan, and now Spain—has been both geographical and spiritual. In Japan, he embraced Buddhism and began practicing shamanism, paths that continue to shape his creative vision.
He made his publishing poetic debut in 1998 with the Polish-language collection The Gathered Moments (1991–1997). His work was later featured in Polish Poetry: A Millennium Anthology (IBIS, Warsaw, 1998), placing him within the broader tradition of contemporary Polish literature.
This English-language edition, The Gathered Moments (1991–2021), offers a contemplative arc across thirty years. Deeply influenced by Zen and the spirit of haiku, Hausman's poetry captures quiet epiphanies—brief, luminous reflections on time, presence, and inner transformation.