KRYSTYNA KONECKA

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

REQUIEM FOR EMBROIDRESS

While she lasted on the edge of the fate

her fairy world lasted. Without a word

everyday she embroidered her sweet land

anew into the twittering spring times

in her black head kerchief on wintry hair.

When she bent her head above the drawing

by the golden flame of kerosene lamp

unusual and simple roses sparkled.

Why would granny need electricity…

At night she created the fantastic

garden until rainy storm had reached her.

From the light bulb. Through her hand. To the heart.

And a white spark blossomed out with the black

embroidery of death. Redder than rose.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

IN A WHISPER

With her heart busy with sleep and anxiety, she

could have not noticed at once in wedding amok,

that from that moment in had sparkled in general’s

eye. He was famous for love conquests in any case.

How many small leaves had fallen in the gardens

concealing clandestine kissing of the hands, until

eventually  - she did not shut porte-fenetre... Darlings -

that is only the imagination of author of sonnet.

A sigh amidst the coral walls – so it is like that…

Who cares for a French romance… So that’s what has been

missing in my life. A clever moon had left his guard

discretely. In the darkness a soundless whisper hung.

‘What if, God forbid, the court had discovered?!’

‘It will not… Let’s them find out! Isabelle, mon amour…’

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

KLOVHARUN

But that I am treading on the ground – the ground? – the rock

defenceless in the deep. But all of it had happened.

No palm trees... Yet it was here that she was coming back

to welcome the birds. And work. And storms. And love.

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

like her biography. Through spherical of the sea

accumulation as in a glass ball – opaque shore.

She created her magical planet in this space.

Universality of women’s fate in her books.

In the gap by her doorstep I hide crumb of my heart

for the firm trace in my life. For the word craftsmanship.

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.