Oh, my life changes every day in every possible way – The Cranberries sings, and I could notice a young shamrock emerging from the darkness. I see these little boutonnières pinned to hoodies and waterproof jackets. Because today Saint Patrick is cleaning up on the island after winter.
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On Saturday morning, the rain drips into my short Americano, which was made for me by a great barista at Jungle Cafe. The grey beginning of March still keeps me in suspense. Can I finally enjoy my way home?
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Blue wings sprout from my shoulders when I start to write. Then on Saturday morning, I fly for a coffee, even though a hailstorm rages on the streets of Galway. In the Portishead hoody and with the sketches of the texts under the cap, I feel like myself and I know that this time nothing will stop me. Because here I am at the dream reportage course led by Polish journalist Marcin Kącki.
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The end of summer lights up inside me like lamps on the ceiling in The Secret Garden, where we write poems with Martyna sipping strawberry-lavender tea. Galway plays the double bass, winks, and introduces itself to us again. Because when guests come to visit me, I also become a tourist for a moment.
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– Can I get oranges?
-Madame, now is the season for apricots and cherries. In Spain, oranges are not harvested until September. At the moment you will only find old oranges.
-Ok, so then I would like apricots. They have an orange hue, too.
It does not matter that today is Sunday, we have to get up early, because two cats are waiting for us, and we mind of them over the weekend. The seagulls scream from five in the morning as if their white, and sea-scented feathers are being stripped off. But in the cat garden, petunias and bluebells wake up calmly.
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A woman over 40 s puts on sunny sneakers with a dress in raindrops. And a coat in the color of a Lisbon tenement house. Helena the hairdresser woke silver and copper paths on her head. One of them leads to the River Corrib.
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Where are they today, on what side, my favorite earrings? - The fire begins to die out, the poor girl wants to cry. And they don't know where and how - a great wind sprang up (…) And they don't know where and how - the oak leaves just fall, on the girls' lap leaf by leaf has fallen Girls will make aureate earrings from them. from the poem of Papusza "Leaf earings".
I was already very frustrated with my daily gallop due to the difficult experiences, and besides that, war broke out, and we can feel its exhalation also in distant Galway. I wanted to cry like the girl from the poem by Papusza because cloudy thoughts convinced me that I had lost something beautiful in my life. It was then that I signed up for the poetry workshop Snop of shadows led by the poet and prose writer Jacek Bierut. There was a winter poetry series online, a few one-day meetings. And I found myself in the last March class.
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To Ukraine
There is lead dawn at the Gate of the House. I wake up in Ukraine, the wind tickles the leaves and bends the beige grasses.
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The sun a sullen distant heatless disc – wrote Colm Keegan Irish poet in his “January Train”. Because dull, voiceless, gray, heavy, gloomy, lethargic – they are the words which can describe January in Ireland. And I was already preparing a text about dark days and my blue mood. Meanwhile, the sun woke up and brightened up our local world, though not for all days.
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