May the darkness within you recognize
there’s hope for clarity paths ahead
from 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.
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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.
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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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Think you are escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
James Joyce
My town has eyes as deep as the Atlantic. When the sun sometimes blinks, the eyes of the town turn into chestnut doggies, running and enjoying the streets without rain.
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Many people like to eat porridge for breakfast, and I do it too. Oatmeal was reportedly popular as early as the Bronze Age. But do you have your own story with porridge? Mine is very simple and lives in my heart.
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Who knows where it is:
the constant dogs, auroras, and wild gardens?
It is very, very, very close from here
It is there, where losing, no one wins
There is the lake and the peak in parallel
and I dance, I swim over, to the void - for nothing.
-sings Mela Koteluk.
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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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This year, the White Locomotive / “Biała Lokomotywa”/ – cozy literary festival from Łazieniec, in Poland organized by Daria Lisiecka, sat at my table in Galway, in Ireland. Locomotive whistled LIVE through the monitor window. For me it was an awesome experience, truly intense, but different if I could sit under a tree in the front of Edward Stachura’s house. However, digitally the White Locomotive had the same power to take me to the meadow.
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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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The morning has the taste of dates
nostalgic and quite rough.
The rain is dripping into the coffee
– a friend who listens
my morning poem
I have one regular ritual in the morning for two or even three years. I sit down on a plush sofa with a cup of coffee, with nice porridge (today full of dates), and sometimes with fresh orange juice and a cat on my knees (depending on cat).
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