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.
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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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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.
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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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