KRYSTYNA KONECKA

KRYSTYNA KONECKA

SHE AND BOOKS

Even for this scallop from the rocky atol in

the gulf of blue sea , cut by erosion, she had to

fight… In order to write and write by the candle on

the table. To create inconceivable  cosmos

of desires and imagination. We are on

her home fragile as a bird feeder. Through the window

sky landscape in contrast with wave tugging steep edges.

Close to milky lampshade. With no electricity.

Do the artist need much? Some focus and late summer.

O, the lucky ones! Tomorrow someone will stay here.

Oh, rules, prime ministers, presidents of the world,

and ministers of the deep abyss, storms and delights –

treat each artist to the smallest uninhabited

island in the high seas. Let them create.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

SHE AND POETRY

So when I flee from here I do not think I will sob.

But before wings grow I probably won’t fly away.

This rain weeps for me today. And on the highest string

the wind is lamenting. Hence such a rumpled stanza.

Maybe I should endeavour the blank verse? The poets

more beautiful in new era will not forgive rhymes.

They calculate my thirteen syllables and tercets

despising rigors of the classical sonet form.

In the meantime, I do my bit. When the rain on earth

bonds the rhythm of heaven, time and space into one

minding that two thesis do not turn into octoline.

Or maybe in mid poem I will light a fire.

The page in half of a metaphor will shine in flames

and I will burn all traces of the burned bridges.

TRANSLATED BY EWA SHERMAN, ENGLAND

SHE AND HORSES

Irrational horses between the moon and the sun

thistles on memory of freedom in their red manes

on the bridge built of timber the hooves of year before

have become rusty sparingly towards the pursuit.

Still horizon of the ridge in greeting the blades

and bridle of patience put on velvety nostrils

before a small seed of joy appears in the hot heads

before the temples of straight up poplars become grey.

Underneath a bough of the cloud drooping towards me

in the oratory’s blood I count my our crops

of secondary ennoblements of ash phoenixes

stylish craze of legend shadow of apocalypse

liturgy of contestation world’s antinomies.

Day has plowed itself to death in the whip’s monologue.

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.