In the Valley of Moonlit Shadows — Mystery of Andrzej Mazur’s poetry
In the silent hush of Portlaoise night, I tread upon the shadowed path of Andrzej Mazur’s verse, “Lily from the Deep, Mountain-Enclosed Valley,” where each step is like a brush against the veils of time, uncovering hidden realms of thought and feeling. This poem unfurls not merely as written word but as a journey — a pilgrimage through the soul’s most secret gardens. Here, as in the works of Eliot and Whitman, the fleeting moment becomes eternal, each transient whisper forged into a monument of contemplation. Yet, within Mazur’s voice, one hears the timeless echoes of Kavanagh’s Irish musings, where the modest, rural life is imbued with the grandeur of ancient myth.
Andrzej Mazur, whose poetic journey began in 1977 with a debut in KAMENA, stands as a towering figure in the realm of contemporary poetry. His early years were shaped by the profound influence of the great Jerzy Grotowski, with whom he delved into the mystic arts of paratheatre — an experience that infused his work with a sense of the theatrical and the metaphysical. From the sacred stages of Wrocław to the quiet lanes of Lublin, where he both directed and performed, Mazur’s life has been a ceaseless quest for artistic truth. His career, marked by innovation, includes pioneering efforts in Networking Poetry, where he has woven the threads of tradition and modernity into a rich tapestry of verse. As both mentor and guide, Mazur’s wisdom has illuminated my own path, his insights a torch guiding me through the labyrinthine corridors of the poetic soul.
Lily from the Deep, Mountain-Enclosed Valley
On the late night sky, almost without clouds
almost without clouds
the Moon shines
the Moon entwines
navy blue that sky, whitish those clouds, whitish apple blossoms
on lawns, on sidewalks
The Illusionist weaves tales of these night climates intricately, Anoushka
Tomorrow I’m going to pick up the laundry: all nylon jackets: yellow like its glow, red like part of its essence,
it reflects the Sun, without saying anything, but yet we see: we see this mystery, we admire,
not knowing why. And these Two Beings invisibly overlaid
manifest their existence
As if a fan, the most wondrous one, made of slippery silk, the silkworm
produced threads from the mulberry tree, those nourished by the Sun, and rested in that almost cloudless Moon,
On lands in a warm climate where one can walk all day in the sun,
and all night as long as it’s
almost without clouds
the Moon shines
the Moon entwines
there religions were born: mystical if the proximity and distance were in the mountains, ascetic
if avoiding danger and disease was on the plains,
only then unique and original philosophies, having many twists on a single thread
and many scents of flowers
naked, white-edged, veined, arched, suffused with purple
were formulated
Since then, many millions of years have passed
In Mazur’s poetry, the world itself is a stage upon which the dance of light and shadow unfolds, where the lily blooms not merely in soil but in the fertile ground of the imagination. The valley, encircled by towering mountains, is at once a haven and a prison — a sanctuary where beauty is preserved in its most delicate form, yet remains isolated from the world’s harsh realities. The very title, “Lily from the Deep, Mountain-Enclosed Valley,” conjures an image of a flower protected by nature’s formidable defenses, yearning, perhaps, for the warm touch of the sun.
Mazur’s language is a finely tuned instrument, each word resonating with the depth of a struck chord. The interplay between “shines” and “entwines” is a masterstroke, capturing the dual nature of human existence — caught betwixt the light of understanding and the shadows of doubt. The Moon, that eternal witness to the world’s nocturnal mysteries, casts its light not to reveal but to weave a medley of half-seen truths and whispered secrets. The refrain “almost without clouds” serves as a subtle reminder that clarity is but a fleeting illusion, ever elusive, ever just beyond our reach.
Mazur’s work bears a striking kinship to the poetry of Patrick Kavanagh, particularly in the way both poets discover the divine within the mundane. In Kavanagh’s “The Great Hunger,” he writes, “The birds sing as the birds have always sung; / The land is what it always was.” This unchanging landscape mirrors the constancy of nature in Mazur’s line, “the Moon shines / the Moon entwines,” where the celestial and the earthly converge in a dance as old as time itself. In “Inniskeen Road: July Evening,” Kavanagh transforms a simple country road into a “mile of kingdom,” much like Mazur elevates the lily, growing in its secluded valley, to a symbol of life’s hidden truths.
As I contemplate Mazur’s place in the pantheon of modern poetry, I am reminded of the timeless struggle to find meaning in a world that often appears indifferent to our search. Like T.S. Eliot, Mazur’s work is steeped in the mystery of the human condition, where every revelation is tinged with uncertainty. And yet, like Walt Whitman, there is in Mazur’s verse a deep reverence for the interconnectedness of all things, a recognition that the smallest flower is part of the grandest design. In this, he shares a lineage with Kavanagh, whose poetry also seeks to uncover the sacred in the everyday, to find the extraordinary in the ordinary.
As I close my eyes, absorbing the final lines of the poem, I sense that I am leaving behind not mere words but ephemeral visions — glimpses of a reality that lies just beyond the veil of perception. Mazur’s poetry lingers, like the Moon’s fading glow, casting a gentle, introspective light upon the landscapes of my soul. The valley, with its solitary lily, transcends the poem, becoming a sacred space within myself — a hidden garden where light and shadow dance, and where truth remains perpetually “almost without clouds.”
In the end, “Lily from the Deep, Mountain-Enclosed Valley” transcends the bounds of mere poetry; it is an invitation to explore the deepest recesses of the human spirit, to seek out the beauty that lies hidden within the shadows, and to embrace the mysteries that surround us. As I step back into the world, I carry with me the knowledge that, like the Moon’s light, the truth is always “almost without clouds” — forever within reach, yet forever just beyond my grasp.
