Wednesday, September 1, 2021





Stratford. Henley Street


Renaissance jester in a comical pirouette

is a visiting card of place that gave birth to Bard.

Spear of Shakespeare’s crest is shining with the sunset

above heads. Just a moment ago open pizza

places and shrines of temping souvenirs

are now shut. The wind starts to do the cleaning.

Courtain of dusk falls down. The show is nearly over.

The stage of Henley Street dies down until tomorrow.

House in his solitary moment feels authentic.

Shadow of the crib within the space located by

thespian intuition of actor David Garrick.

I reject though that everything was reconstructed.

     Specially as London bridge reflected in the waves

     of Middle Ages still does not deny any myths.


 Translated By Ewa Sherman, England 


Midsummer Day’s Dream. 2014


To be or not? For the special birthday jubilee

of Midsummer Night’s Dream’s creator. I was before

in multilingual crowd like in dream… Like in dream

hence to be. Just several emotional hours.


Red-winged banner floats above the heads in harmony

with the clouds. And the words as if taken from the song:

four hundred and fifty years still young. Do believe me.

In the everlasting works. And we – equally young.


Commercial – oh, that’s nothing, magic works anyway –

Bard’s ghost white just like the swan in the waves of Avon

or resembling lightsome elves from the Arden Forest,


dreaming in a paused gesture and stillness of body,

which gets set in motion as soon as a coin in thrown

towards his feet… His touch… Changing direction of time…


Translated By Ewa Sherman, England 


With Herbert In Italy. Rovigo


Mid places not losing colour though others faded   

Rovigo exists like a sharp stone at the crossroads.

You cannot fail to trip it up when choosing a path

from Venice tot he south. From the sea to Padua.


And it became a longing. Unattainable dream

for the one who knows the cryptic secrets of the word

and he said – little will remain of the poetry

of this crazy period. He – the poetry’s shaman.


Between Vistula and Leta, Adige and Po

at quagmire of time where I gather these verses

not an issue that I will not be granted a chance


to embark at the train station of that Rovigo.

Yet I am unable to resist not to lean on

this unequalled poem which is still pursuing me.


Translated By Ewa Sherman, England          



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 achievement’s 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.

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