KRYSTYNA KONECKA

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

NOSTALGIA AND WIND

O, golden fire. Sad fire of Roms.

You throw sparks like fiery tears.

And burn the trace of new house

in every place where the Gypsy camp went.

O, black rain. Sad Gypsy’s dream

broken like the forest after the storm.

Will the new sun gleam tomorrow?

For the Gypsy camps and free routes?

Where are those roads? Where is the forest wilderness?

Where is the time of clouds, stars and dreams?...

No more fires. Only in the heart there is fire

and scraps of forgotten words.

When the last cart goes to heaven,

the rain will wash down irretrievable trace.

Only in the hearts – like in the songs of India –

there will always be nostalgia. And the wind.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

FROM THE WILDERNESS

Patiently balancing above the grassland

I enter the wild forest where dusk ripens like old wine

and moss greedily climbs up to the knees.

Where a fragile chick trembles on the black sunny alder-tree.

Silence after burial mounds. After the hunters’ houses.

The set of irreparable trees and kings’ names.

The mouldy curtain of roots, trunks and branches.

Sudden explosions of tiny-leafed lime shoots.

My primal moment, archetype of impressions.

God of forest in gold and green stained glass.

Forest with a blue eye above the white glade

like a set of icons in an Orthodox church shiny like porcelain.

Here I am grass, ivy, a spectre and pine.

Me – a tiny specimen of fauna from a big city spring.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

THERE

From the continent’s comfort forgotten for a while.

From the landscapes full of blooms and the soaring forests -

trusting the magical power – behind the curve of

fortune I fall into Icelandic time reversal.

This stunning madness of rock formations appearing

from all sides. Glittering glacier from the horizon.

By the lava edge a sign banning herding of rams

and  sheep warns against perils on the gravel highway.

Yet, on the other hand, us – the creatures with two legs –

in a tenacious four-wheel drive car we take the risk.

To touch with our own eyes the menacing expanse.

Just for the sake of climbing up towards the crater.

Let it burn with seething saga of those still eras.

Let it kindle with thirst for fire. Before we fade…

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

KRYSTYNA KONECKA is a poet, journalist and photographer. She lives in Poland (Bialystok). She has a MA degree in Polish Philology (Warsaw University) and she completed postgraduate studies of Culture and Education (Silesian University). She has been working in journalism  and contributed articles to many magazines published in Warsaw. She has been working as photographer for a number of years and her numerous photographs have been published in magazines and presented at various exhibitions. Krystyna Konecka is a member of The Polish Writers’ Union (Warsaw branch). In poetry she favours sonnets. She is an author of nearly twenty books of poetry and reportages. Her poems have been published in Polish and foreign periodicals and anthologies. For her achievements poetry and journalism (reportages on social issues, literary and theatrical criticism, articles on the culture) Krystyna Konecka has received literary awards and was highly regarded by critics. She attends the international literary meetings.