This post is also available in: polski (Polish)

(…) my memory

if I don’t keep you in it

we will disappear forever

from song “disappearing”

In the Tigh Neachtain Bar in Galway, a girl is stoking the fireplace. Posters on the russet walls recall the Galway Arts Festival from 1978, 1983, or 1990. On my table are newspaper clippings about “pibroch”—the “big music” of Scotland, which maens the art of bagpiping. People have been walking on this floor since the 19th century.

And I open Daria Danuta Lisiecka’s poetry book: “Nobody’s Songs/Leaps to the sky” and read in them, or rather feel, the magic of memory. Daria dedicated nineteen songs to the late Malgorzata Starowieyska (Mao Star)—Polish artist, dancer, and perforator with whom she was friends.

The songs are a record of this friendship and, at the same time, they are a journey, a dance, a movement that begins with a rediscovery of oneself.

But first, they were vocal improvisations. Daria spoke them like ancient Greek poiesis, summoning something into being. The songs were transcribed from spoken text, maintaining the same rhythm. That’s why the book comes with a CD.

In a pub, by the fireplace, the orange light, I turn the pages. I stop in Paris, in Berlin, in a dream, in Cracow, in wild strawberries, in some café. This movement cannot be stopped.

Memories, footsteps, sometimes ache, blur, then scream, dance, carried by the wind. One thing is certain: they breathe within the author and within us. And memory and literature are magic. They bring to life those who have passed away.

“Nobody’s Songs/Leaps to the Sky” thus lights up the same and yet new stars in the sky, carves corridors in our minds, motivates us to search, evokes scents, as well as the Israeli charismatic poet Yona Wallach, whose poems Daria and Małgorzata shared fascination with.

I feel the intensity in it all. Around me are the sounds of chats, glasses, and guitar. A Friday afternoon in a windy late February, far across the sea…

I open the book to a photo of Malgorzata Starowieyska. And then she sits down for a moment with me. Daria is carrying three pints of Guinness for us. I think we’ll sit here for a while. I’ll sit. The pulse of reality from my city mixes with what I read.

I think each of these songs is worth reading and listing to many times. Then they will tell us not only about the friendship between two extraordinary women, but also reveal something about ourselves.

In the moonlight, she finds a small square

perfect for pirouettes

to practice invisible dances

-this is my favorite fragments from best-loved song “Parisian”.

It inspires me not to postpone my ideas. That’s why I decided to write a review of this poetry book in old, stunning Tigh Neachtains, where I’ll take Daria Danuta Lisiecka someday.

People come here willingly, because everyday life here can wake up memories. Dusty whiskey bottles, a copper figurine of a musician, a poster for a literature festival. It’s getting more and more crowded. I give the table by the fireplace to two other women. I open the stained-glass door and step outside. It’s still bright. A street bard sings. Daria and Malgorzata walk with me.