The morning coffee smells like orange trees in the Doña Elvira square in Seville, although it is mystical gray outside the window. I am sitting on the sofa as on a small tiled bench. Instead of the sounds of water in the fountain, I hear the washing machine. Notebook based on corduroy legs. I can’t turn off poetry because it is my life.
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I am reading a book that is like ordinary life, very simple and charming at the same time. Slow rhythm of stories and mindfulness calm us.
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A January morning on the northeast coast of the Atlantic is getting longer. Galway’s roofs shine white, not rain. I make coffee and I open a special book that my friend sent me for Christmas.
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One afternoon, Destined / Namienionô – a bilingual poetry book by Małgorzata Wątor fell through the letter slot in the blue door of my apartment in Galway, Ireland. A first poem called to me in the corridor yet.
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For women who doubt the worth and power of their story
detication from the book
Today, I can present you with prose that is like a multidimensional journey. “The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart “ – is Holly Ringland’s debut novel. 415 pages that I read almost in one breath, over exactly two afternoons.
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“Glimpses” / “Mgnienia” / by Daria Danuta Lisiecka take me to various places.
First I get off at the railway station in A. – Aleksandrów Kujawski, darling stop of a provincial town in Poland, my friend and poet waits for me there.
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He is a painter, his job is to paint. For himself, for painting, because that is his vocation, because he would not be able to not transform what he sees into the painting works.
– wrote Henri Perruchot in the book “Cézanne”.
This is one of my favourite publications. It made me want to go to Aix-de-Provence, a small town in France, where a boy was born, who at the age of five scribbled with charcoal on the walls of what surrounding him, and people were surprised how realistic it was.
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In the Galway University Hospital framed POEMS hanging for years.
Once, when we went to the Emergency Department with my husband, we were sitting in this waiting room with poetry around. And I remember that this little help of poems broke away us from the tension of fears.
At the moment we could cross the borders without moving.
So I strongly believe, that POETRY can be caring for us during a pandemic.
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I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams.
W.B. Yeats
There is charming bookshop in Sibiu – HUMANITAS.
It is a very local place but also international. You can find there thousands of books, even in the sinks in the bathroom. People come here to take a moment for themselves, to read a book , to write something, to dream, or have a chat with somebody, who sits at the next table, and have a really good coffee.
In the basment, which has brick walls and arches is a sizeable space for coffee shop among bookshelves.
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