Poetry Monday :: Family

Every Monday is Poetry Monday. Mimi of Messymimi's Meanderings and I have taken over the hosting duties, mostly the supplying of the prompts - only temporarily we hope - while Diane at On the Border is taking a break for health reasons.

  I have something to ask of you: If you read this and the poetry of others via the links, would you please leave a comment.
  Half - if not more - the fun of these challenges is receiving the responses of others.

Today's topic is Family. But no, I'm not going to write a poem about Family in the normal meaning of the word, what about a work-family instead?

This poem needs a long preamble and some explanation ... bear with me.

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Saturday I went shopping as almost every day. In Helsinge we have a Polish bakery, and many years ago MotherOwl studied Polish at the University of Copenhagen.

I do not speak Polish any more, much to my frustration, because, bugger it, I still understand almost every word the baker and his customers say whenever they speak Polish. 

... well, back to the story and the poem. Saturday, as I entered the bakery, I smiled broadly, and pulled out my phone - I had forgotten my camera at home, double bugger, as the camera in my pone is lousy beyond measure.

Lousy photo - gets no better

... Anyway, as I shot a picture of the bags that had made me laugh, the baker said: "They contain bread crumbs."

I answered: "Yes, I know."

As the poor baker looked totally confused, I gave him a longish explanation, in Danish, English and a little Polish, the gist of which was:

Many years ago, as I studied Polish, we read a poem about six female cooks. The sixth was sour like a lemon (Danish and Polish both use vinegar here), and always scolded the other five.

I did not remember all the matters she went on about, but the fifth cook had trouble because of bułka tarta - exactly what was written on those bags.

Back in those days when I studied Polish, the internet was not a thing, so, not understanding bułka tarta I grasped my large dictionary:
Bułka was easy enough: It simply means Bun.
But tarta? I found out it was the passive adjectival participle of the imperfective verb "trzeć" (yes I did understand those fancy words - still do) which means "to make into small pieces, grate or shred". Anyhow, I was still mystified, Whatever happened to that poor bun, and why?

Of course I was given this exact sentence to read aloud and translate the next day.

I interpreted this expression as if the bun got pulled into small pieces by cook # 5 and 6. The other students and the teacher laughed at me, and told me that I should have gone for the "grated" meaning, and gone from grated bun to breadcrumbs. Totally obvious - only not to me 🙂

As I told all this to the baker, he laughed as well, and I promised to bring him the poem, which he did not know.

I have published the poem about the six cooks on my blog before (here), but only with a Danish translation. This time I try my luck in English.

Sześć kucharek
Wanda Chotomska

Było sobie sześć kucharek:
Jedna chuda jak sucharek,
jak bułeczka pulchna druga,
trzecia jak makaron długa,
czwarta miała mleczną cerę
i lubiła kluski z serem,
piąta niby pączek tłusta
i jak ocet kwaśna szósta.
Pięć kucharek w mlecznym barze
miało przez nią kwaśne twarze,
bo nic nigdy nie robiła,
tylko ciągle się kłóciła:
z tą najpierwszą o kakao,
co na blachę wykipiało,
a z tą drugą - o talerze
i o każdą dziurkę w serze,
o ryż - z trzecią, o sól - z czwartą,
z piątą zaś - o bułkę tartą...

My best try in English

Once upon a time there were six cooks,
The first one dry, thin as a rusk,
the second one as plump as any bun,
and the third like a spaghetti long.
The fourth one had a milky face,
and ate her food with cheeses mixed.
The fifth was sweet like doughnut glaze,
but sour as vinegar the sixth.
The five cooks in the milk bar old,
because of her had sour looks,
for never did she ever cook,
and always did she brawl and scold.
With the first one over the cocoa,
which was spilled onto the stove,
With the second over the plates
and every hole in all the cheese,
with the third over rice, with the fourth over salt,
With the fifth however over breadcrumbs ...

Not a very brilliant poem, I used my artistic freedom here and there, but I still could not make those last lines to my liking, sorry.

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Next Monday for Intention I have every intention of doing better ;)