Thursday, December 1, 2022



On The Road


With the accompanying coincidence on this

road just like myself despising of all comforts,

five seconds of a life as full as infinity

I have brought to the perimeter of the water.

Therefore, I am kneeling over the shore’s quietness

and I allow the sharp waves with avaricious hands

to keep ascending the folds and creases of my dress.

A lifeless shell is shining bleached white at the temples.

As steep as a flap of despair. Into the thick sky

seagulls burst in a manner of a rebellious flock.

Sand is scooped by the obliteration of the tide.

An imprinted trace is remaining without a trace.

      A burning scar. A salty shadow left on the face.

      My little seed sleeps in the depression of the beach....


Translated By Ewa Sherman, England


Wild Rose


This she knows. That she has sprung from her ancestral bush

being thrown on the deep-seated sands. A salty dune

watches over her beauty. Over allergy. And

her ego fragile as shell. Tamed only yesterday.

Above her gulls’ cries. Human noise behind a safe grate.

Above, the stars - handful of sand flung into the sky.

In a dreamlike capsule of the planetary glow

she hears sound of waves. Or rumble. She guesses it’s sea.

There and then in the opposite direction wanders

in summer a stream of bare feet. Why? Through wireframed

weaves a greedy hand reaches for the terrified rose.

She has thorns for defence. But is not aware of that.

      She scribbles a question mark with a twig on the sand.

      Is she being imprisoned? Or are they being trapped....


Translated By Ewa Sherman, England




As soon as they go away, the world goes away. All

his logical utility, though he doesn’t know it.

Sleep without sleep in the sheets like a stone by the shore

Styx. Along with perishing from longing. With longing.

What a wilderness of despair one must navigate.

Traverse through the countless labyrinths of silence that

are entwined with the night. When shouting means nothing as

there is no one to call on and nothing to lean on.

And here to catch your breath long before morning dawn shows.

Be silent. Suddenly that figure in the distance.

Because in a field blossoming with silent blue flax

in a heart blinded for long time a spark ignited…

      Let’s not ask about the meanings. Let’s simply believe:

      you can find such awakenings. Returns from the darkness.


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 over 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.



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