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