Thursday, September 1, 2016

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

Krystyna Konecka


TRACES ON THE LAKES. XI

Nothing came to life for us in the nest of beavers
we who peeled silence with our sigh by the water
merely a distant moon through its refined sparkle
emphasized that image with an excess of beauty.

Morasses and electrocardiogram of the trees
ethereal cloud of mosquitoes trailers of weather
discoveries of wild strawberries bleeding splinters
of the sun wandering towards the daily sunset.

I humbly bow my head I fall on my knees onto
warm undergrowth where asylum, freedom and haven
where I will sleep dazed with nectar of wild strowberries.

Me, the civilized – what have I done to deserve that
the wilderness revealed luminous clearing to me
and wealth of grasses in my hands close to my eyesight.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND









TRACES ON THE LAKES. XIV

I will arrive – a little roach – to my marina
exactly like this maneuvering frenetic shoal
of fish shadows. Slightly suspect we want with  current
to smuggle ourselves among roaches to target.

Sudden craters dramatical dancing of the drops
like multiple cutting made by the silver lightning.
We do not know  if it is neurotic fish’s despair
or great joy of life on the proscenium of the stream.

Our float balances in the shadowy abyss.
I know that in hour of sun and in month of snow
before time absorbs the anchor and tear up the ropes

all of us will be waiting for our own marlin.
There is still a hazy outline of the final shore.
There is still deceptive azure in the furrowed clouds.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND









IN THE SUNLIGHT

There will always be a crack  in the clouds for the sun.
Let the spring look out, and in the pearly water
stretched on the waves round hands of leafs
lull the drops of glow – hot cowslips. In summer

the ray pervades the gloom of primeval forest.
Blindly looks for a spot in the heart of the backwoods,
where – like the wine matured in moss goblet –
a decrepit lake dazzles with the new garment.

Together with dragonfly and bird I dance in the golden dust.
On the tall branch a trembling chickling of glitter
and as many colours in the space as much life around.

In the meadow happy butterflies bossom in flowers.
But already – breeze of frost. The sun like in a trap
and my dancing bird will fade away at twilight.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND
Krystyna Konecka
BIALYSTOK, POLAND




No comments :

Post a Comment