Monday, November 1, 2021





At The Seaside


Here flood of waters of colour. Black. Navy blue and green.

Fiery sparks of dawn in the cobalt depth.

Boiling lead of the storm. And it reaches for the sky

the watercolour incomprehensive by itself.


The Earth ends in a place where the waves come from.

As much – as the ebb. Less with every tide.

No concessions even for the price of gold amber

although the Earth-Sea dialogue goes on for milions of years.


Let it last. And let a wise sea in arabesques of foam

for me in the west, like at one time for the poet,

still „pours out the beaming rainbow of glitters”.


And for the boats painted by horizon’s tempest

let moon’s trembling bridge shine in the graphite,

leading them to the emerald and safe harbour.


Translated By Ewa Sherman, England


The Waves


The waves’ philosophy. On the shore frightened branches

when on water the cloud safely drowns with wind.

The pines shaky like masts, when waves embrace

unsinkable boards of cane and rushes.


Still present. Eternal. With the sun. With the green.

And when the tree loses gold scales of leaves.

And when they see off with parting splash

the birds that fly away into hazy spaces.


Their silver melancholy about the lapse of time.

Rustles of their moon. Glossy whispers

and this certainty that ancient might happen again.


From the most remote lake a tender wave of memories

will run in the days of return. And the stardust’s

game satiating its sight – will open the landscapes of childhood.


Translated By Ewa Sherman, England 


Autumn By The Lake


The summer is gone. The noon in the fading green.

In the coolness the lake coagulated by sapphire trembling.

In the thicket it’s time of cinnabar and yellow. Yet still

the impermanent kingdom of next autumn goes on.


How quiet it is by the water. How solemnly.

In the air something of the mood of final parting.

Black boughs in the sky. Dramatic shape

of the trees abandoned by its careless leaves.


Slim shaking birch trees gild in the wind. With rustle

they lose their dresses. And – before they stand naked –

in pure gold they pay water for its mirror.


Flock of wild geese or cranes cut through the air.

It takes off with the ragged sail of the cloud

before it returns on the wings of the spring.


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 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.

No comments :

Post a Comment