Anteroom Poetry by Adam Lizakowski and Neal Warren

Review by Vincent Francone 

“The poet should be a DOG who pokes his nose in the garbage can smells the roses in the emperor’s garden barks and howls at the moon even if it ignores him.”  - Adam Lizakowski.

So begins Anteroom Poetry, a chapbook of poems split between Neal M. Warren and Adam Lizakowski.  As someone who has tried to write poems, and has at times renounced the writing and reading of them, I find these opening words to be nothing short of inspiring.  The poet’s job is not to seek glory but to write without it, in spite of all obstacles, to be the dog seeking and howling, with or without acknowledgment. 

The poets present different styles on different themes; Warren’s poems speak of war, the inhumanity of it and the struggle of those who fight, both on the battlefield and after returning home.  Lizakowski’s work bounces from culture clashing with American poets to the erotic ruminations and many points in between.  The collection is tight enough to contain nothing but stunners and offers a glimpse into a friendship and collaboration through poetry. 

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(Vincent lives in Chicago and has been published in Spectrum, Rhino, The Oklahoma Review, the Jet Fuel Review, and other journals.  He writes reviews for Three Percent and won the 2009 Illinois Emerging Writer award for his long poem, "Chicago.")

Anteroom Poetry by Neal M. Warren and Adam Lizakowski was published by Outskirts Press, 2013.  It is available at Amazon.  Click here.

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Two of Adam Lizakowski's poems from Anteroom Poetry

American Poets

American poets known to me

are reminiscent of a prehistoric bird

that still retains talons and scales

is too heavy to fly far

or sit on a branch

but stubbornly looks up

and stares at the stars

American poets know to me

like to listen music from the sixties and seventies

bob dylan, beatles, stones, Joplin,

hendrix, led zeppelin,

smoke grass, drink beer

write poems about Vietnam

during the 66-68 period

complain about politicians

and are displeased with new wave music

American poets know to me

cannot tell me why

there is no poetry –none

in newsweek, time, people, new york tiems,

washington post, san franscisco examiner,

penthose, usa today, hustler

American poets known to me

still read verses of 19^th  century French poets

and dostoevesky and albert camus

whitman, poe, ginsberg

letters to a young poet by rilke

blake, eliot…

American poets known to me

cannot tell me why

none of their pictures

appear on first pages, any page

of the above-named newspapers

but there are pictures

of the politicians, presidents, pope

 naked women, ports stars, spies, astronauts

rock and movie stars, communists, murderers

pepsi cola and hamburgers.

American poets known to me

live in San Francisco

a city where there’s 4.5 poets per square yard,

who paint their faces in bright colors

wear leather, carry mace

and go hunting:

the poetry  that they seek is a wild animal

neither fed or touch

which has been living in America

since the end of the third ice-age.

The Cherry Bandits

          I

The copper moon

hung in the ink-black sky

sky above the cherry-tree peaks

peaks above the blond heads

of three twelve-year-old boys

from the same street-

connoisseurs of amazing cherries.

(In the darkness by moonlight

cherries are not cherries

but precious stones from royal crowns-

exotic, expensive jewels stolen

by pirates-stashed

in the dark caves of mysterious islands.)

Hidden amid branches, devouring the cherries

each races to cram his mouth with more.

They-their heart-leaves shook by the cherry-trees-

eagerly grab what’s not theirs

boldly drawing the soft branches nearer

dancing like birds among the leaves, singing as they munch

passionate in the moment.

They spit out the cherry-pits, look down

and a vision lighter than a May-bug’s wings rises

above the tips of grass-

in the distance chimneys deeply inhale and exhale

for the last time

dozing after a moment, stretching out in exhaustion,

sleepy windows blinking their shuttered eyelids . . .

it is quiet-the crickets sing in chorus

and night, the bell-smith, slowly, precisely

casts the delicate bells of dew

on the lead tenor.

Between the three

and the cherry-tree and the night

love is born-between the heart and cherries

between leaves and moonlight-

there runs a feeling so evasive

that no one can put a finger on it,

let alone express it.

Boys beautiful and innocent, joined by sweet cherries.

          II

Stuffing the labyrinth of their stomachs

they put their guard, Vigilance, to sleep.

Their treasures hidden under their shirts

they had little chance for escape.

The cherry-orchard owner, Mr Michalski, promised

that if they ate the stolen cherries on the spot

he’d forget the whole thing.

But he didn’t keep his word,

led them back to their parents

who boxed the boys’ ears as a lesson.

          III

Twelve years later the three cherry bandits

stopped at the camp gates in Traiskirchen, Austria.

They hadn’t eaten in two days,

slept in three nights, bathed in four days-

it was November, arch-foe of dreamers, of carefree men.

          IV

If you don’t find happiness in your own country

it won’t be found elsewhere.

Fresh are the mornings for those rising at dawn

to milk the cows, feed the animals,

fasten the grapevines.

But not to those slaving for their naps

at the gates of the camp in Traiskirchen.

Trains, roaring like waterfalls, roll

into the Viennese station-the river of people rushes

to the ocean of freedom.

The port of freedom is the administration building-

painfully its grim exterior pricks

the tired eyes of the refugees.

The regimental barracks of Joseph the Friar

one-time school for the Nazi’s bravest cadets

and current garrison of the brave Red Army

now-ironically-give hope of a better life

not happier, just better-

for these Eastern Europeans, traitors to their countries.

          V

Million-copy print-runs, poetic  honors,

front-page newspaper photos,

the most beautiful women, fame, money

dreams of distant and sunny California.

Reality is otherwise,

the eyes open wider

reluctant-everyone was reluctant

against their ears hummed the ocean waves

which they’d demanded with so much greed,

more patient now they wait in kilometer-long lines

in their hands tin receptacles for dinner-

answer the more and less

idiotic questions of the officers,

photos, fingerprints,

signatures, endless signatures,

decisions weighed,

numerous decisions, the selection of countries, of cities,

of sponsoring organizations,

brief friendships, sometimes but a moment,

tears, letters sent, glances back-

there’s Poland like a dog

jumping at you, tugging its chain,

baring its teeth,

Jaruzelski’s martial law in a fury-

what’ll happen to the prisoners

will they shoot them-

not my family I hope-

fatigue, distraction, apathy, depression,

lines to the stores, to the beds, the toilets,

interrogations everywhere,

          hundreds, thousands of people.

Communism

on their lips, in their skulls, dreams

communism

source of the people’s tragedy

communism

and its prophets damned to their cores

communism

stretched, coaxed, paired, spit upon

communism

mud’s synonym, soiling even the best men-

though the few gored most by communism’s

devil-horns

(or those with the most imagination)

were the first to fly away on angel’s wings.

          VI

Squabbles with the Albanians,

Hungarians cursing the Romanians,

the Czechs and Slovaks,

the Yugoslavians dominating everyone,

knife-fights, drunken brawls,

drawn-out disturbing howls.

Sex is at a high price-

though there’s few women,

Polish hookers the cheapest

but unwilling with the Polish men;

a golden age for homosexuals;

a floor up there’s a brothel run

like the best American supermarkets.

Thank God you survived another day,

pray for a quiet night-

many are sleeping in bunk beds,

in the hallways,

keep your papers under the pillows,

sleep with your eyes open.

The blankets a purgatorial curtain-

border between

being a beggar-slave of the commune

or humble servant of capitalism.

Of the thousands of refugees only a few will return.

Then day arrives, the smartest men, the earliest risers

(there might be a bread-shortage at breakfast)

dash to the toilets,

dash to the bulletin-boards and scan the lists-

no, not today,

though their wings are growing

rustling in their dreams:

Angles-creatures so delicate

God gave them wings.

          VII

The good-hearted people published a book

in Polish and English,

A Handbook for Polish refugees, prepared and presented

by the International Catholic Migration,

Geneva, Switzerland.

The Americans bathe daily

keep their money in banks,

there’s a hundred pennies in each dollar,

packages are mailed at the post office

letters go in the boxes painted blue,

in an emergency dial 911,

in the USA

the British measurement system is standard,

in a few days you’ll understand:

cars are the most popular form of transportation,

fruit is cheapest in season,

meat comes in packages

kept in the freezers of the big stores. . . .

America is a country of immigrants

and immigrants are America’s wealth.

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Adam Lizakowski writes the blog Polish Arts and Poetry Asoociation of Chicago.  http://polishartsandpoetryassociation.blogspot.com/