Krystyna Konecka

Green Poem

Only the silence of the forest can protect me.

My arms are fainting. I nestle up to the birch tree

like moss. Through the branches sunrise like conflagration

envelops my green room with affectionate radiance.

Failing to tremble at his beauty would be tactless

over sensitive dew so conductive to ambience.

Awakened ferns alders and pines no longer asleep

climb into firmament resembling soaring acts.

If it has been written that in here at this moment.

That me. And that emptiness with whisper-quiet owl.

And that far away from shouts. So you know what you do

when I think of what I think  while adoring silence.

When deciding on the words under your dictation

I am writing a green poem on the outstretched cloud.

Translated by Ewa Sherman, England

The Ocean

… And no sooner I stood at the bottom of the ocean

longing to tame the armoured spine of a living shell,

than I rushed like light towards the land. To escape

the chase of the rise with the snout full of foam.

I only just stopped above the precipice of myths

where the oceans live from eternally alive springs,

when this primal landscape with gale in heathery fields

and a Celtic cross, was taken away from me.

With each step immersing into the mysteries’ darkness,

with every glance into the past of mouldy antiques

where the space like a locket in a drop on the stone,

with each moment of astonishment – like a moment passing

I return to my world. With a handful of sky and pebbles.

Farewell, Cornwall…

Translated by Ewa Sherman, England

In The Fog

… And listen how quietly the autumn hangs about the fogs

in the infinity of silver night under the dawn’s splendour.

Uncertain  colour of smoke above the scalding.

The expanse diluted by the milky shade of cloud.

And look. How the nimble sails of mountains crowns.

Like light flotilla plough the ocean of vapours

vanishing in the depths of fading veil.

And his intangibility protected by the dawn.

And we. Unreal in the topography of illusions.

Mirage of glitter like an oasis ring

through wet muslin in silence by the river.

In a moment the real sun will awaken.

Before the ground dries, still hungry for the impressions

You want to hear the fog’s departure. You will not hear…

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.