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.
There is a graphite filter outside the window, but it is fresh air and not raining yet. I eat a yummy tart with the last strawberries. The smell of a cinnamon candle is in the kitchen, sunflower petals on the tablecloth, and autumn socks with hedgehogs, squirrels, leaves, and forest mushrooms on the sofa. I haven’t published anything on the blog for a long time, although I consistently write in my journal, if necessary, even at 5 am. But there are just scraps of feelings, fears, little joys, or gray clouds that cover the light, sometimes. Because in October, a time of change is hitting the blue door of my current port.
Not everything that is possible can be understood by humanS.Lem “Eden”
I’ve always found machines soulless. However, life surprised me with another poetic detail in a place that is supposed to be non-poetic. But how Edward Stachura used to say: Everything is poetry.
At magical Kenneys Bookshop & Art Gallery, I had no idea I was walking over to a bookshelf with poetry. I realized it when I pulled a thin publication from the shelf with the interesting title The Elephant in the Corner. The poems it contained reminded me of the taste of every morning coffee I drunk on a graphite sofa or in completely unfamiliar chairs. Aoife Mannix – an Irish poet born in Sweden knows the smell of rented furniture and she does not afraid to present emotions that I am sometimes scared to admit, although they live with me.
The blue outside seems Portuguese, although it will come Irish rain in an hour. The first sips of my coffee taste of the waves, and I feel the slight swaying like on a boat. Where to go today? I try to revive hope by painting my nails cherry red. Himalayan salt twists my hair as princess Merida has in Brave. I follow my voice.
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.
Today is Paddy’s Day – the biggest Irish holiday which the whole world like to celebrate. If you have ever been to Ireland, even in the worst weather, you will leave thrilled. Well, what exactly happened? What is the phenomenon of this small island where the wind ruffles your hair every day, and the rain drips on your face? I asked different people. Irish who live here or abroad, and people of other nationalities to whom Ireland became home.
May the darkness within you recognize
there’s hope for clarity paths aheadfrom the Imbolc blessing
Heavy clouds hug the beginning of February, the rain does want to stop. And the lockdown in Ireland will be until March. The crisis is perching on the windowsill along with green mold. Therefore, instead of looking out the window, I stare at Instagram, and I recognize a familiar symbol in the photo – a square cross made of rushes.
Recently, I have been translating the poems of my favorite poet Michelle O’Sullivan into Polish again. The first piece from the book The blue end of stars is preceded by an interesting quote from the Czech poet and scientist Miroslav Holub. In surprise I find the answer that I have been looking for so many years.
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.