KRYSTYNA KONECKA

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

FROM SHAKESPEARE’S GARDENS

For Thachom Poyil Rajeevan

Leaving the spaces of lyrical exultation

with eternal bees’ concerto on the rainbow string,

I can see “Midsummer Night’s Dream” – from spring till autumn

enamoured with thyme and wormwood.

“Twelfth Night, or What You Will” at any season

in a scent of mint, lavender, savory and carnations,

and “Love’s Labour’s Lost” in sensual buttercups.

“The Tempest” in brooms and embraces of vetch.

Procession of kings at the gate. “King John” in golden lilies,

a group of “Henrys” in Lancaster and York Roses.

“Richard II” like a smouldered butterfly above rue,

and tired “King Lear” fell asleep under the burdock.

And us in the wealth of words and meanings like in the grden.

You do not return here. You never leave this place.

SILENCE. XI

I am writing a green poem on the outstretched cloud.
There is also room for prose. Simple calculation
I will fit in the margin. Besides, the first notes of
lullabies. And all the letters that not have been sent.

Cloud is carried around by gust of wind in the sky.
It is late. Ever more the addressee is unknown.
So many of us and yet. Only the empty frames
and that I am able to count. Simply on myself.

For a lullaby bent over and lowered above

cradle abandoned long ago words die on own lips.
Together with child it has missed out on time to leave.

When did it all come about? And irrevocably?
Soon I will write good letters. Although in the window
the sunset is discreetly turning into darkness.

WITH VIRGINIA WOOLF’S SHADOW

…The sea like as in a glass ball – opaque shore.

Sailing away from stony threshold by the water.

Magnetic illusion of the safety of harbour.

We do not know what awaits at the adventure’s end…

A handful of trembling chamomiles, heathers on the

fissures in the skin of stone. Jagged chasms appearing like

scars of the island’s  struggles with the glacier’s nature

or the unreadable runes mysterious exactly.

Repetition of longing… Regardless of the waves

Virginia Woolf, that little one from the island, we –

with impunity sunk in dreams, sailing steadly

on a string of light we head towards the sea beacon.

Boat passes the elapsed time, heading off other way.

Space remains in my eyes. No one will take it away.

Bialystok. Poland k-konecka@wp.pl

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

Free translation of sonnets

by Ewa Sherman, England